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Paris, 2001
Sherlock doesn’t normally look like the type to frequent bars, but in the dim light of Victor’s favourite place, Sherlock almost fits right in. What’s a tad too posh in broad daylight becomes aristocratic in the dark. Victor has always liked the dramatic type. Tall, dark hair, pale skin and light eyes – a foolproof way to make him swoon like a Victorian maiden. In private at least. And, good God, those cheekbones.
Sherlock has the eccentric attitude to go with the looks: slightly over the top and guaranteed to turn your head. His mind and tongue are sharp as razors and unfortunately, he has no qualms about using them on those around him. Victor would have liked to clock him one more than once ever since he’s met him, but Victor’s too nice for that. Also, he can’t shake the idea that Sherlock could be worth getting to know better. The ice princess act he employs seems at least part facade.
One of the most notable things about Sherlock is his art skills: Sherlock’s talent is extraordinary, the man can draw and paint well enough to make Victor look like an amateur. Just yesterday, Victor let Sherlock use his tattoo machine on a piece of pig to make a first attempt at a tattoo. A cherry blossom - the same one that Justine set him as a task two years ago - and Victor still wants to weep in a corner that Sherlock’s first try looked better than Victor’s blossom after three months of training. And he’s won a shelf full of newcomer and apprentice awards from magazines and conventions by now. Heaven knows what trophies Sherlock will collect in the future if he sticks with the job.
He’s certainly bothered Justine long enough to take him on. She hadn’t wanted to at first, wary of Sherlock’s attitude, but had agreed in the end after Sherlock swore not to question her unless there was a very good reason. Victor was in favour of giving him a chance; after the sessions on Sherlock’s arm, Victor was convinced Sherlock had a keen interest in tattooing and the talent to match it. And he respected Victor’s work, didn’t change the design for the tattoo, even though he certainly could have. Some of the artistic types were awful clients, always attempting to insert changes, whether they could be realised or not. Sherlock simply said he wouldn’t let Victor work on him if he wasn’t sure of a satisfactory outcome.
And now, a couple of weeks into Sherlock’s apprenticeship, they’ve become rather close. In the limited sense that one could become close to Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock turned out not to be half as bad as Victor and Justine feared. He may be bossy, with the occasional shit attitude especially to customers, but they’ve seen worse. There’s still hope Sherlock will learn how to behave around clients.
Against his better judgement, Victor has flirted relentlessly with Sherlock after he’d gotten out of him that Sherlock has no girlfriend and isn’t interested in acquiring one. Which isn’t exactly a confirmation that he’s gay, but Victor takes what he can get because Sherlock seems to be obtuse when it comes to flirtation. He can’t even say whether Sherlock’s registered anything Victor’s been doing, but then at other times, he seems to be flirting back. It’s confusing as hell.
Victor intended today to be a date, but has no idea whether Sherlock got that. He should have asked explicitly for a date instead of saying he wants to take Sherlock out for the day, because so far, it hasn’t felt like a date. Victor showed him the parts of Montmartre the tourists never saw, where real artistic gems were hiding. Small galleries and ateliers, old painters on benches in front of their white-chalked houses and students selling drawings and sculptures from their living room windows. Sherlock was delighted and spent hours scouring the streets, even purchasing a couple of items. With the ease he doled out francs, Victor is sure Sherlock comes from money. Maybe not country manor upper class, but at least enough to enable him to buy shirts and jeans from Dolce & Gabbana. The shit pay Victor gets barely affords him a handful of band shirts and whatever jeans are on sale. And he earns more than Sherlock.
Afterwards, Victor showed Sherlock ‘les catacombes’ and Sherlock was absolutely thrilled by the millions of skeletons stacked along the walls, skulls occasionally forming morbid patterns such as hearts in the wall of bones. Twice, Victor had to stop Sherlock from trying to break through the barriers that sectioned off the parts of the catacombs not open to the public. Sherlock was so enchanted, he asked Victor to add the phrase above the entrance to his sleeve: ‘Arrête! C’est ici l’empire de la mort.’.
During the whole day, Victor has attempted to establish contact with Sherlock, veering into his personal space, touching him more than usual. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind, but didn’t encourage or reciprocate it either. Victor has just about given up, even before he asked Sherlock to join him at his favourite pub. A small pub, tucked into an alley in Montmartre; it deserves a five-star-rating alone because it doesn’t play bloody chansons in the background. It has a real vintage jukebox stocked with blues, classic and modern rock. And every other Thursday, some musician or band’s allowed to take the small stage and entertain the guests for half hour each sets. The patrons are largely artists, from classic painters to fashion designers and a couple of tattoo artists like Victor himself. Sherlock only agreed to accompany him after Victor told him about the artistic clientele.
And now, Sherlock is sipping on a glass of red wine and questioning a fashion student who’s recently taken to working with old Japanese yukatas or some such. Victor’s renewed overtures went unnoticed again, and much to his embarrassment, even the barman has thrown Victor a pitiful smile in the face of Sherlock’s obtuseness. He considers drowning himself in his beer with Johnny Cash singing sad songs in the background. It seems appropriate.
Well, he guesses that settles his chances of getting anywhere with Sherlock. The man either isn’t interested in him or not interested in general, given how steadfastly he’s ignored Victor. Sherlock isn’t the type to keep quiet if he doesn’t like something, so he figures he hasn’t gone too far with his advances. Of course it would be just his luck that a guy like Sherlock isn’t into him. And the entire day (and weeks, really) of pretty much flinging himself at Sherlock only managed to give him a severe case of blue balls.
God, maybe he should just look for someone else to take home tonight and at least vent a bit of the frustration.
Just as he lets his gaze wander around the room, scanning for potential targets –Sherlock is still debating indigo dye on kimonos with the student– a familiar face enters the pub.
Carole Joseph, wrapped in a light coat and carrying a too large handbag, is still her tall blonde self. She runs a small café in the 8ième Arrondissement where they met a year ago – and started a rather casual affair that lasted three months and ended amicably when Carole met a doctor she wanted to get serious with. Last time he met her, she was single again. Not that serious after all.
She spots him immediately and strides over, a brilliant smile illuminating her face.
“Victor,” she trills, leaning down to kiss him on both cheeks. “How lovely to see you, it’s been too long!”
“Still looking as gorgeous as ever, I see,” Victor says by way of greeting and returns the kisses. Sherlock glances over to look at the new arrival, but doesn’t say anything.
“Oh, you charmer,” Carole chuckles and swats at him.
“Nothing but the truth,” Victor smiles back. Carole is indeed pretty, if more in the traditional sense. She’s got a wonderful smile, though and a sense of humour that charmed Victor straight away.
Carole drops into the seat next to him, sliding her bag to the floor. Victor suspects she always carries enough to leave the country on a whim. In the meantime, Sherlock has gone back to his conversation with the designer. The barman walks over, taking Carole’s order of a glass of dry white wine.
“Put it on my tab, David.” Victor says.
“Oh, thank you,” Carole beams at him. “The next one is on me then.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Victor remembers Carole likes being invited; she’s a bit into the idea of gentlemanly behaviour. At least he can afford to pay the occasional drink now.
“So, what brings you here? Still your usual hang-out?” she asks and sips on her wine.
“Yes, I spend more time here than in my flat. But my flat’s a shitty place, so anywhere’s better than there. Though today, I brought my new colleague Sherlock round. He’s just moved to Paris. Showed him around a bit.” Victor gestures in Sherlock’s direction who’s wearing a near scowl on his face. Great. Not only does he not have a chance at getting in Sherlock’s pants, now he has to hope Sherlock won’t scare Carole off with his attitude. He doesn’t even say hello, just nods. “Sherlock, this is Carole. We went out for a couple of weeks last year.”
“Went out… You ate the leftovers from the café and then we had great sex in exchange is more like it,” Carole laughs and puts her hand on Victor’s thigh, squeezing lightly. Oh, very good. Maybe he will get lucky after all. When she’s seeking out contact like this, she’s looking for something more often than not. He’ll see how the evening develops.
Sherlock’s eyes had narrowed dangerously when Victor said he went out with Carole but now he looks positively murderous. Where’d that come from all of a sudden? Sherlock looks downright jealous and is Victor imagining things or is Sherlock scooting closer?
“Let’s see… Café owner, good business, no substantial debts. You have enough money to allow for small luxuries like manicures or the Chanel No. 5 you’re wearing.”
Oh God, he’s doing it again.
“You’ve been single for three to five months, not looking for anyone to settle down with right now. Except maybe company for a night or two. That’s why you came here – you look for the rugged, alternative types, the ‘exciting ones’. For the serious relationships, you want lawyers and doctors and professors. How dull. And you’ve set your sights on Victor now because it’s convenient. You’ve done this before, the intercourse will be satisfactory and you don’t have to worry about your safety because you trust him well enough. Victor is rather the natural flirt, but you hope he might be looking for something, too. Which is only partially right: he’s hoping for intercourse, but he isn’t looking since he’s already on a date.”
Sherlock has just spat this at Carole in rapid condescending French Victor had trouble following. Victor finds himself impersonation an owl, blinking at the two oft them. It’s the only thing he can think of doing because he must have stepped into an alternate dimension without noticing.
Not a minute ago, Victor was under the impression that Sherlock isn’t interested. Now he’s witnessing Sherlock hissing like a territorial cat.
Victor has to admire that Carole hasn’t slapped Sherlock. Yet. She looks shocked, her eyes darting between Victor and Sherlock. It’s not news to her that Victor bats for both teams, as he’d been fortright about his sexuality when they met. Her bewilderment must be more as to why Victor is out on a date with a brat like Sherlock. Victor’s been wondering about, too.
“Oh… I – I’m sorry, I had no idea,” she stammers, still processing that Sherlock just rattled off her life story like that. “I didn’t want to intrude. It – it was lovely seeing you again, Victor. Uhm… Have fun on your – date.”
With that she slides off the chair, grabs her bag and hurries off before Victor can even say a word. After he watches her slip through the door, he turns back to Sherlock, who’s still scowling.
“What,” he asks, “was that?”
“A deduction,” Sherlock answers and takes a sip of his wine. Even the design student has scrambled – probably afraid he could be the next victim of Sherlock’s wrath. Sherlock can be truly terrifying when he sets his mind to it.
“Yeah, I could see that.”
“Or to use the current vernacular: I told her to back off,” Sherlock says and shrugs, flicking a peanut from a bowl on the bar into his mouth.
“So you knew this was supposed to be a date?”
“It seemed to be your intention. A date is two people who like each other going out together and having fun, isn’t it?”
“What magazine did you get that from?” Victor asks and raises his left eyebrow.
“...Voici,” Sherlock grumbles and goes back to his wine.
Victor breaks into laughter because that’s just too funny to resist. “You read that shit?”
“Somebody left it at the studio,” Sherlock murmurs, now with an intense interest in shelling more peanuts than he could eat unassisted.
“Sure,” Victor grins. “So, if you knew, why did I get the idea you weren’t interested at all? Because I sure flung myself at you, short of touching your butt, I don’t know how I could have made my intentions any clearer.”
“We went out and had fun; I certainly don’t spend a day with someone whose company I find intolerable. And I didn’t smoke a single cigarette all day because I’ve been informed non-smokers find the taste unpleasant. You carry two condoms on you; new ones, the receipt is still in your wallet. So you were at least hoping for a sexual component to the evening and you’re usually not the type who plans to pick up a partner when on a social call. You’d find it rude, especially if you were showing somebody new around. Your attempts just now were out of frustration and a subconscious effort to make me jealous.”
Victor is back to speechlessness. He should get used to feeling run over when in the presence of Sherlock Holmes. His deductions are still surprising, even if he witnesses them rather often now. Sherlock likes to turn them on the clients to assess what tattoo they want – with surprising accuracy.
“I’m not sure what I find more ridiculous: you rifling through my pockets or the fact that you seem to think that not smoking is a broad hint you’re interested.”
Sherlock scowls at him, trying to ascertain whether Victor is being serious or not. Actually, this is hilarious. The extent of Sherlock’s social tone-deafness is baffling. And cute in a way. He can’t believe he’s thinking this, he must be completely besotted already. So if Sherlock is interested…
“You may have already deduced it, but a dash of possessiveness is my secret turn-on.”
“There was a good chance of you enjoying it because of the way you–” Sherlock says, but Victor decides to talk over him.
“And because of that, I’d really like to kiss you now.”
There, he said it. It will either work and Sherlock says yes or it won’t and Sherlock will rebuff him. But he’ll need to be blunt with him to get anywhere – that much Victor has learnt now.
“I.... That would be acceptable,” Sherlock murmurs, going a bit pink in the face and averting his eyes. Victor is going to be on a sugar high before the night is out if Sherlock keeps on being like this. It’s a nice change from all the scowling.
“Excellent,” Victor says with a smirk and leans in, giving Sherlock a moment to withdraw in case he changed his mind. But then Sherlock turns out to be the one to close the small gap, pressing his lips with the freshly healed vertical labret to Victor’s mouth.
Sherlock is hesitant, so Victor – who’s fantasised about kissing Sherlock for a while now – takes the initiative, sliding an arm around Sherlock’s waist and drawing him closer. He nips at Sherlock’s mouth, prompting him to deepen the kiss. Good god the man knows how to kiss, Victor thinks as Sherlock engages his tongue in a torturously slow dance. He tastes of wine and peanuts, thankfully not of cigarettes. If he weren’t sitting already, his knees would have weakened, because it’s a hundred times better than what he imagined. Sherlock’s hands are on Victor’s thighs, loosely gripping the fabric of Victor’s jeans.
A couple of tables away, some people start hooting and whistling in amusement. Victor smirks and extends his middle finger in their general direction. He knows the voices, other regulars he sometimes has a beer with and complains to about his love life. It doesn’t look so bad now, does it?
“I suggest a change of location,” Sherlock mutters against his lips, trailing his hand higher on Victor’s thigh.
“Agreed,” Victor replies and reluctantly draws back.
He pulls his wallet from his back pocket and counts out some bills throwing them on the counter while Sherlock shrugs on his jacket. Once Victor’s pulled on his Nile hoodie, he takes Sherlock by the hand and drags him out of the pub into the crisp air of Parisian spring.
When they reach the street corner, Victor hauls Sherlock against the nearest wall and kisses him again. Sherlock yelps in surprise, but responds with eagerness, digging his fingers into Victor’s biceps and pulling him close.
Victor is already in the early stages of an inconvenient erection. Guilty wanks over an imaginary Sherlock haven’t done much to disperse the effect the real Sherlock has on him. Hopefully, Sherlock won’t find him overeager (and he can imagine more pleasant things than showing off a bulge in the middle of Paris). But bloody hell, the man is intoxicating.
“Your flat is closer than mine by seventeen minutes,” Sherlock gasps between bites to Victor’s lower lip. God, yes.
“You calculated that? When?”
“Does it matter?” Sherlock asks with a smirk, dipping his fingers under Victor’s waistband for one moment.
“Not even a little,” Victor says, pulling Sherlock closer again. “We need to hurry if we want to catch the last Metro.” Walking takes forever and he isn’t sure he’ll be able to have a leisurely stroll through Paris now that Sherlock has pretty much agreed to a shag.
“Get a cab, I’ll pay. Takes half the time.”
Victor kisses him again, Sherlock deserves a snogging for that brilliant idea alone. “You’re a genius.”
“I know,” Sherlock says -dead serious- and pushes Victor away from him. “Get that cab.”
At the next street corner, Victor manages to flag down a passing taxi on the third try, which is above average for him. He doesn’t look like money, so the drivers often like to pass him over in favour of someone in a suit, but late at night, the drivers aren’t as picky anymore.
Victor names his address and leans back, trying to keep himself in check. He’s antsy and wants to get back to kissing Sherlock, who’s currently pressed against his side, practically vibrating. Making out in a cab isn’t what Victor would call good manners though, and you never knew if the driver would appreciate a free show particularly between two men. Paris is pretty laid back about these things in general but he doesn’t want to risk it.
It’s the longest cab drive in the history of recorded time, Victor is sure of that. Next to him, Sherlock fidgets with the cuffs of his jacket, looking out of the window. About halfway through, Victor sneaks his hand on Sherlock’s knee, out of the driver’s sight. Sherlock’s breath hitches for a moment and he places his hand on top of Victor’s. Neither of them speak a word, too distracted for attempts at chitchat. Not that Sherlock ever ever indulges in small talk, but for once Victor doesn’t feel the compulsion to fill the silence.
Victor’s block of flats is a study in tristesse; a concrete grey monstrosity from the ‘60s containing aging flats the size of shoe boxes, but it’s the only thing he could afford without living at the arse end of nowhere and dishing out ginormous amounts of francs for transport. He’s saving for a decent place, but it will take some more time before he can even start thinking about moving.
Victor unlocks the entrance, rattling the door until it springs free from its jammed lock. Sherlock studies the doorframe while passing through, Victor holding the door open for him.
“Three attempts at break-ins in the last six months, and some from before that as well,” he says and looks around the hall bathed in harsh neon lights, two of which flicker occasionally. Someone has also attempted bad graffiti in the hallway.
“Fortunately, it usually stops at ‘attempt’,” Victor answers with a shrug, moving towards the stairs. “And anyway, I live on the fifteenth floor, burglars either take the first couple of floors or the uppermost. Come on, the lift is crap. I don’t fancy getting stuck in there even though I haven’t crossed off ‘sex in a lift’ from my bucket list yet.”
Sherlock doesn’t bemoan the fact that he has to climb stairs, he’s fit enough to keep up with Victor’s quick pace. On the third floor, the Algerian couple with the small child are shouting at each other again. They rarely do anything else since the baby was born and if they’re loud enough, the baby joins the shouting. Victor is always glad he doesn’t live next to or above them. One of his immediate neighbours is a French bus driver and almost always works the night shift, so Victor rarely sees or hears anything of him. The man is his favourite type of neighbour, absent. On his other side dwells a Canadian woman named Sara who has a part-time job at a kiosk and a fondness for 80s glam rock that makes Victor’s hair stand on end. He prays she’s not in to blast them with Poison or Cinderella through the thin walls.
Once they arrive at his front door, he can’t detect any signs of Bret Michaels shrill voice – thank God. Listening to that might have killed his libido.
"Before I let you in, you should know that there's already a lady in my life. I hope you two will get along," Victor says with a solemn face as he unlocks his door, trying hard not to giggle when he sees Sherlock’s eyebrows shoot up.
Sherlock looks equal parts indignant and suspicious; it’s hilarious. Victor chews on his tongue and pushes open the door to his flat, flicking on the light switch to his left. The whole room is illuminated by a single light bulb over which Victor has hung a paper lantern to diffuse the harsh glow.
“Alright, welcome to my mansion – don’t get lost,” Victor says and gestures to his left where he possesses a whole yard of kitchen counter. It fits a single hob, his microwave/oven, tiny sink and coffee maker. “Bathroom’s through the kitchen, now let me show you the parlour where I usually receive my guests.”
Sherlock still has a scowl on his face as he steps through the miniscule hall into the single room painted in white Victor calls home: It houses a total of a wardrobe, a large red sofa bed (Victor gave up the space for a real bed to fit his desk under the window) he saved from the bulk rubbish and re-cushioned himself, the coffee table made from scrap wood and a whole wall he fitted with a shelving unit for his collection of books, vinyls, CDs, DVDs, the TV and on the far right the terrarium.
“Meet Mikey, Sherlock. The most important woman in my life, but don’t tell my mum or my sisters,” he chuckles and shows Sherlock to the glass case where Mikey is currently chewing on a tomato.
“... A tortoise?”
“Yeah, I thought she might liven up the place a bit,” Victor says with a grin, amused by Sherlock’s facial expression: the man looks appalled at having fallen for Victor’s joke. “I hope you’re not shy about undressing in the presence of a lady.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes and takes off his jacket, throwing it over the back of Victor’s desk chair.
“Come here,” Victor says and tugs Sherlock forward by his belt buckle, pulling him flush against Victor’s chest.
Victor sneaks both hands into the back pockets of Sherlock’s jeans, kneading the arse cheeks under his palms. It feels as good as it looks and Victor can’t wait to get his hands on Sherlock’s naked arse. He hopes he’s not going too fast for Sherlock’s liking.
“I release you from all duties you feel you need to observe as a host, they are all social rubbish anyway. I’ve had a drink, I’m not interested in small talk, and I have already deduced all there is to know about your music collection. Let’s proceed to the sex, shall we?,” Sherlock queries (bloody mind reader) and waves the condoms from Victor’s wallet in front of their noses. Did he just get pickpocketed without noticing?
“I see you’re not a complete idiot and got latex-free condoms,” Sherlock says as he studies the wrappers.
“If you can’t wear latex gloves at work because you’re allergic,” Victor mutters. “Surely you don’t want any latex near your dick. Or mine, for that matter.” He’s become used to Sherlock’s backhanded compliments (probably they’re really just insults). “I’m sure I should be offended that you think I’d forget that.”
“Don’t be; it’s terribly dull watching you sulk.”
“You know what? Shut up,” Victor snorts and captures Sherlock’s mouth in a kiss, occupying Sherlock’s sharp tongue with something other than speaking.
Fortunately, Sherlock for once doesn’t seem interested in having the last word and keeps kissing Victor instead, pulling at the hoodie until he can get his fingers on Victor’s skin. It is electrifying, and not just because Victor is a bit ticklish. Good to know Sherlock is as eager as he is. They start peeling clothes off each other, prompting Victor to once again curse the existence of buttons, laces and belts. Their inventors can’t ever have been in a hurry to get laid.
Once they’re down to their pants, Victor steers Sherlock to the bed and gently pushes him down, congratulating himself on being too lazy to convert the bed back into a sofa this morning. He really wouldn’t have the patience to unfold the mattress and get the sheets out now. Next time he speaks to his mum, he should tell her good things do happen when you don’t make your bed.
Sherlock scoots back on the mattress, opening his legs in invitation for Victor to lie between them.
Not that Victor needed an invitation, but it’s all the nicer to have one. Sherlock gasps when their groins make contact, half-hard pricks rubbing together through the cotton of their boxer briefs. (Or silk, in Sherlock’s case. His taste in underwear is as expensive as his shirts) Victor presses his forehead to Sherlock’s shoulder because the feeling is incredible – he hasn’t been this eager for somebody for God knows how long.
Victor traces his fingers along Sherlock’s collarbone and over his pectoral and nipple. Sherlock sucks in a sharp breath when Victor starts teasing the nipple and tightens his fingers on Victor’s back. Has Sherlock ever entertained a piercing there? Victor loves playing with them and it would look good on Sherlock; though Victor would only ever get something out of it if Sherlock is interested in a repeat performance. And in the piercing. But Sherlock has been showing a keen interest in sticking metal through various body parts since he’s started. Victor allows himself a sliver of hope to see them in a non-professional setting.
Victor feels Sherlock gripping him by the shoulders and a second later, he’s flipped on his back, Sherlock straddling his hips. Damn, the kid is stronger than he looks.
“You were taking too long,” Sherlock smirks.
His cheeks are flushed and the careful arrangement of curls has come a bit undone. It looks so tempting, Victor wants to eat him up. For the moment, Sherlock is the one doing the feasting, because he begins attacking Victor’s pants, dragging them down and off. Somehow, without having to get up. Neat trick, that.
“Oh, I hadn’t deduced that one,” Sherlock says and traces the outline of the mandala inspired tattoo on Victor’s groin with curious fingers.
Victor bites his tongue to keep the rather undignified sounds forming in his throat at bay. The area is sensitive and the closer Sherlock gets to his hipbones, the more he wants to throw Sherlock on his back and ravish him. His rapidly hardening cock is a bit of a giveaway though. If Sherlock would just wander a little lower…
“Who did it? It’s not quite–”
“God, not now,” Victor groans. “Ask anything after we’ve finished, but right now I have too little blood left in my brain to discuss this stuff.”
“Fine,” Sherlock sighs like a man long suffering, and fishes the condoms from somewhere next to Victor’s head.
Sherlock rips open a packet and extracts the condom. For a second, Victor wonders what Sherlock has in mind because they haven’t discussed anything. His mind is thrown back to a primitive state when Sherlock rolls the condom down Victor’s shaft and slithers down to the foot of the bed until his face is level with Victor’s prick.
He hopes Sherlock is planning what Victor thinks he’s planning.
The answer is an overwhelming ‘yes’ as Sherlock’s lips close around the head, sinking down about halfway and pulling back up. Victor breathes a quiet “oh yes” before he sees Sherlock’s scrunched up face.
“What is it?”
“I hate the taste of condoms,” Sherlock says and sticks out his tongue as if to rid himself of the texture of rubber.
“Sorry, couldn’t find any flavoured ones that were also latex-free,” Victor says with a small smile. The small drugstore down the street only carries the one type and any other condoms Victor had lying around weren’t latex-free. He doesn’t like the taste either, but better safe than sorry.
Sherlock makes a noncommittal sound and eyes Victor’s prick for a second as if in the middle of making a decision. Victor is just about to suggest alternatives when Sherlock dives back in, enveloping Victor’s erection in wet heat.
Victor drops his head back in the pillow and closes his eyes, enjoying the tight push and pull of Sherlock’s mouth on him. Jesus, the kid’s got talent. There are only a few things Victor appreciates more than a good blow job, and this one is very good indeed.
Sherlock is creative, using tongue and teeth to tease the sensitive skin of Victor’s shaft. When in bed, Victor is usually quiet, but even he can’t contain occasional moans and gasps when Sherlock is doing something particularly clever. It doesn’t take very long for a pleasurable tingling in his groin to appear.
The buzz in Victor’s head goes to hell when Sherlock takes him in further than before, far enough that Victor can feel his cock hitting the back of Sherlock’s throat. Victor wants to tell Sherlock to take it easy, but exactly at that moment, Sherlock rams himself down on Victor’s prick those last few centimetres, taking him all the way to the root.
“Oh fuck,” Victor groans, feeling thrown back into a very primitive stage of evolution. Can protozoa groan? Because that’s sure what he feels like.
It’s unbelievably tight and the constriction of Sherlock’s throat is almost enough to make Victor come right then and there. He fists the sheet under him and arches his back, trying to hold on while Sherlock pulls up again for oxygen.
“Jesus Christ,” Victor curses once more when Sherlock sinks down again and Victor feels himself sliding down the tight passage.
Sherlock bloody Holmes can deepthroat. Really fucking well. Victor has never slept with anyone before who could do that – he was sure it only ever happens in porn. And here he is, on the receiving end on one of his wet dreams.
Holding on is a futile effort; it only takes a couple more slides of Sherlock’s mouth on him and climax slams through Victor. It’s too tight, too hot, too wet to keep himself under control. He’s pretty sure he whites out for a second when Sherlock pins down Victor’s hip to keep Victor from choking him.
When Victor comes back to earth he feels like he’s run a marathon. His heart races a mile a minute and it feels as though he’s trying to suck all the oxygen from the room. His bones have liquefied sometime during the last thirty seconds. Or have been swapped out for jelly.
He groans once more when Sherlock peels the condom from Victor’s rapidly flagging erection and hears Sherlock dump it in what is hopefully the bin.
“Come ‘ere,” Victor murmurs and drags Sherlock forward by his forearm, capturing his lips in a lazy kiss. “Fuck… Where did you learn to do that?” he asks once Sherlock’s pulled back.
“I went to public school,” Sherlock says by way of explanation and smirks. His voice is a bit rough from the strain on his throat and it might just be the sexiest thing Victor ever heard.
“Of course you did, you posh tit.” Victor smiles and presses a kiss to Sherlock’s jaw.
Sherlock’s erection is poking Victor in the thigh. He should do something about that. For that blow job, he’d do almost anything in return.
“What do you want?” he breathes against the skin of Sherlock’s neck, lips barely connecting with it. “Hands, mouth, feet? Free choice.”
“Feet?” Sherlock asks, incredulous.
“Well, there are people with a foot fetish…” Victor grins while Sherlock’s eyebrows disappear in his fringe. “Okay, really what can I do for you?”
Sherlock looks thoughtful for a moment. “Hands,” he says and licks his lips.
Victor grasps Sherlock by the wrist and pulls them both into an upright position, searching for a box under his coffee table where he hides his lube. Bottle and the second condom in one hand, he takes Sherlock’s with the other and scoots back until his back hits the backrest. He settles against it and Sherlock catches on, climbing onto his lap, thighs splayed over Victor’s.
Sherlock tilts his head down for a kiss, biting and licking at Victor’s lips until Victor forgets what he’s supposed to be doing and circles his arms around Sherlock’s hips, pulling him against Victor’s chest. Victor slides his hands lower, cupping Sherlock’s frankly gorgeous buttocks and gently massaging them until Sherlock is gasping, small jerks of his hips communicating his need to finally get off.
With a last firm squeeze to Sherlock’s arse, Victor takes his hands away from it and tugs at the hem of Sherlock’s tented pants. Sherlock helps getting them down and off, his erection finally springing free.
“Circumcised?” Victor asks with a smirk, staring at the uncovered, flushed glans of Sherlock’s prick.
“Phimosis in my youth. Medical necessity, but I rather like the look of it,” Sherlock says and nips at Victor’s jaw as he gets back into his position in Victor’s lap.
“I agree,” Victor says with a grin and tears open the condom packet, rolling it down Sherlock’s shaft. A condom for a handjob might be a little over the top, but Victor would really prefer to avoid any mess – these are his last clean sheets. Sherlock’s cheeks are flushed red and he seems to be chewing the inside of his cheek while Victor pumps a liberal amount of lube on his palm, spreading it across his hands.
When he closes his fingers around Sherlock’s prick, Sherlock breathes out sharply, fingers pressing into Victor’s shoulders. He drags his hand slowly along the length, establishing a luxurious pace. Above him, quiet moans spill from Sherlock’s mouth, growing louder when Victor brings in his second hand, teasing Sherlock’s bollocks and perineum.
Once his fingers ghost over Sherlock’s hole, his hips jerk forwards and he moans louder, biting his lips afterwards.
“Good?” Victor rasps, savouring every second of seeing Sherlock come undone at his hands.
Sherlock nods, speech eluding him for once. Victor keeps his movements on Sherlock’s prick slow, almost to the point of torture and teases Sherlock’s entrance with more focus, dragging his slicked fingers along the rim. Sherlock’s breath stutters whenever Victor probes or circles the anus with his fingertip. He tries to push against Victor’s fingers and makes frustrated noises whenever Victor draws his hand away. He just has to tease Sherlock a bit.
“Victor,” Sherlock snaps at him, trying for a sharp look, but Victor thinks that the ruffled hair and pink cheeks rather diminish the effect.
“Sorry,” Victor smirks and presses a kiss to Sherlock’s jaw just as he slips one finger inside Sherlock.
“Oh,” Sherlock gasps and rocks back against Victor’s finger.
Victor keeps stroking Sherlock’s cock with his other hand, trying to keep a steady rhythm, which is near impossible with Sherlock squirming in his lap. If he weren’t so spent, this alone would be enough to make Victor go again. Sherlock looks delicious.
When his one finger goes in and out easy enough, Victor adds a second, earning him a loud groan from Sherlock. If Sherlock keeps up likes this, the neighbours will definitely know what he’s up to. Not that he minds, he has to listen to the couple upstairs, too. He angles his fingers, trying to find Sherlock’s prostate and knows he’s found it when Sherlock nearly topples over with a keening noise. Sherlock tries to thrust into Victor’s fist and rock back against his fingers at the same time, chasing the sensation.
“Fuck, you look gorgeous,” Victor mutters and bites gently into Sherlock’s neck.
He speeds up his strokes and thrusts, rewarded by Sherlock’s loud moans and sharp intakes of breath. His eyes have fluttered shut and his brow furrows as if in deep concentration. Suddenly, Sherlock goes rigid in his arms and comes with a deep groan, splattering the inside of the condom under Victor’s heated gaze.
When the last shiver subsides, Sherlock slumps against Victor, all tension gone from his body. Victor nuzzles Sherlock’s sweat-dampened brow and carefully removes his fingers from Sherlock, taking the condom with him and tying it off.
“Let me get something to clean up,” Victor mutters and Sherlock rolls off him sinking into one of the pillows.
With some effort, Victor gets up from the low mattress and disposes of the condom. He still feels the pleasant buzz of the spectacular orgasm in his knees and pads over to his bathroom, nearly walking into the doorframe. In the dim light of the bathroom, he can’t help but grin at his debauched self in the mirror. It’s been a while since he’s been this high on endorphins.
From the cupboard under the sink he fishes a clean washcloth and holds it under warm water, wiping himself down before rinsing it and walking back into the room where Sherlock doesn’t seem to have moved a muscle. He’s got an arm flung over his eyes and looks as ravished as Victor could have ever imagined him. God, he could ravish him again.
“Here,” Victor mutters and dangles the washcloth in front of Sherlock who needs another couple of seconds to peek out from under his arm and take the cloth.
He gives himself a cursory wipe down and then dumps it next to the bed, judging by the clanking sound it probably landed in the empty cornflakes bowl from this morning. Good, it can stay there. Victor has no intention of getting up again to get rid of the cloth.
“Get under the covers,” Victor says, trying to tug the sheets away from under Sherlock. He’s getting cold.
Sherlock grumbles something incomprehensible, but wiggles around until Victor manages to get hold of the sheet, drawing it over them both before he fishes for the duvet that has fallen off the bed during their romp. Much better. For good measure, he punches his pillow twice to get it back into shape and buries himself under the covers. Paris can be bloody cold at night (and the shit insulation doesn’t help with that either).
“Are you going to stay over there the whole night?” Victor asks and reaches for Sherlock, who’s definitely too far away.
“I was here first,” Sherlock grumbles, voice muffled by the duvet.
“Lazy bugger,” Victor chuckles and scoots over, slinging an arm around Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock doesn’t protest, even places a hand on Victor’s forearm and keeps it in a loose grip.
This is nice, Victor thinks, slowly being lulled to sleep by the boneless pleasure in his system.
Several hours later, he wakes to a spot of unforgiving morning sunlight right in his face. He must’ve forgotten to close the blinds last night. When he opens his eyes, they feel itchy and dry. Great, he fell asleep with his contact lenses in. Irritated, he rubs at his eyes, which he knows is useless because the only thing that can help him now is get them out, use some eye drops and wear his glasses today. Still rubbing his eyes, Victor sits up and looks over to the lump of blankets and duvet next to him – Sherlock has apparently tried to become a burrito overnight; only his nose, eyes and mop of hair are visible.
It looks adorable.
Dear God, is he getting soppy now? Victor figures he’s allowed to be a bit soppy over the best blowjob of his life, but no need to start writing sonnets just yet.
Victor cracks his spine and looks at the radio clock to his right. 7:08 AM – an ungodly hour in his opinion, but he needs a shower and some relief for his eyes. And coffee. Because as much as he’d like to avoid it, he needs to talk to Sherlock about how to proceed from here. Usually, he’s happy to wait and see what happens but he can’t afford to make things awkward with Sherlock. They’ll still have to work together for the foreseeable future and for that, they have to be on the same page.
With a sigh, he crawls out of the tangle of sheets and cracks his spine once more as he pads over to the bathroom, turning on the coffee maker when he passes by. He always prepares the machine in advance so he only has to turn it on in the morning – there’s no way he can measure coffee and press more than one button without caffeine in his system.
Twenty minutes later, he’s back in the kitchen freshly showered, shaved, and in a pair of boxers and an old Guns ‘n Roses shirt that’s more grey than black from all the washing. With his glasses on and eyes back to function, he feels like a human being again. The smell of hot coffee that’s wafting through his flat is enticing as usual (the upside to a tiny flat: coffee aroma gets everywhere) and Victor grabs his favourite mug from the sink. He fills it almost to the rim with coffee, leaving just enough space to add some milk and then walks over to his desk trying to be quiet about it. Sherlock appears to still be sleeping and it’s early enough that Victor doesn’t have to wake him yet. They don’t have to be at work until eleven.
Victor settles in his chair and proceeds to watch Sherlock while he sips his coffee. Sherlock’s unwrapped himself from his blanket roll a bit, he’s now flat on his back, skin from the chest up visible. Victor wouldn’t mind nibbling at Sherlock’s collarbone some more. Or his neck. Sherlock looks downright pretty when he’s not scowling or trying to cut you down with his gaze. Victor is tempted to call it cute the way Sherlock is sleeping in his bed.
Christ, he is being soppy.
“Do you plan to keep on staring at me?” Sherlock mumbles suddenly and Victor nearly dumps scalding coffee in his lap.
“Jesus Christ,” Victor says, heart rate spiking. Sherlock appeared sound asleep five seconds ago. “Do you always pretend to be asleep and then scare the living daylights out of people?”
“Not usually,” Sherlock replies, cracking open an eye.
“Oh good,” Victor snorts and rolls his eyes, pretending not to notice how adorable Sherlock looks when still half asleep. He raises his mug and asks, “Coffee?”
“Black, two sugars.”
“I know,” Victor says and gets up again, ignoring Sherlock’s complete lack of manners. Sherlock can’t be bothered with them at the best of times, what else could he expect when it's not even eight in the morning?
He returns from the kitchen with a steaming mug for Sherlock who’s sat up against the backrest of the sofa, sheets pooling around his hips in a way that gets Victor’s blood boiling again. But they need to address this, whether Sherlock is naked or not. And God is he naked.
“We need to talk,” he says without much preamble as he hands over the mug and settles back into his chair. Best just get it over with.
“Must we?” Sherlock sighs and takes a sip of coffee, looking not at all pleased that Victor has decided to bring up the topic.
“Look, I’m not the type to discuss feelings either, but we’re colleagues, which already makes shit complicated, so we need to sort it out.” Victor should have known it would be hard to get Sherlock to cooperate in this conversation and the man already looks like Victor just suggested something vile. Well then, into battle: “Where are we standing on this?”
“I don’t do relationships,” Sherlock blurts out and only he could manage to say the word ‘relationship’ with equal amounts disgust and ridicule.
There might be a small twinge in Victor’s chest, but he firmly clamps down on it, shoving it far away into a dusty corner of his mind. He’s actually rubbish at relationships and much better at casual arrangements. Victor should be relieved that Sherlock isn’t about to propose dating. Not to mention that dating a coworker is always complicated, even more so when you’re actually supposed to mentor them, not seduce them. And what would they do if they split up? It would make things awkward. Never mind Justine throttling him if he brought relationship drama into the studio.
“Okay, that’s fair,” Victor says, watching Sherlock’s scowl easen up a little. “So, was this an one-off thing?”
If that were the case, it would be a crying shame though, because Victor can’t remember the last time he’s had sex this good. Not that shagging a colleague now and then is a much better idea, but Victor knows he wouldn’t be able to resist if Sherlock offered a repeat.
“You would prefer if it weren’t?” Sherlock asks over the rim of his mug and Victor internally cringes at being read this easily again. The supposedly casual tone didn’t even convince Victor himself, how could he expect it to pass over Sherlock’s head?
“I just…” Victor starts, wondering how to proceed without sounding creepy. God, he hates this stuff. “I definitely had a good time last night and wouldn’t mind doing it again.”
There, that sounded okay, right?
“Is that advisable among colleagues? That seemed to be your main concern five minutes ago.”
“Probably not,” Victor admits. But he can’t be reasonable all the time, can he? Not when there’s more naked Sherlock to be had.
“I wouldn’t object to having sex occasionally. It helps with creativity sometimes, and last night was rather successful. I have at least six new ideas,” Sherlock says in the way one proposes a business agreement. Which, in a way, this is. “Finding a new bed partner is tedious. A casual arrangement between us would eliminate the process.”
Victor thinks he should probably be offended that Sherlock primarily wants to sleep with him again because he’s too lazy to pull a new guy every time he wants sex, but it gets him what he wants, so why bother complaining?
“Aren’t you charming? You always know what a guy wants to hear,” he says with an amused smirk but Sherlock only rolls his eyes in response. “Alright, casual sex, no strings attached. Fine by me.”
It’s better this way. There’s less chance of mucking it all up and affecting their jobs. A relationship with Sherlock would be high maintenance anyway, given the way that they both are. Victor is already bad at relationships with more or less regular people, how could he expect it to work with someone like Sherlock, who’s half arctic glacier and half subtropic volcano? Victor can barely commit to taking care of a turtle, nevermind a person that would demand as much attention as Sherlock would.
“We have to keep it out of the shop. The maréchal would kick both our arses if she found us making out in the backyard,” Victor adds.
He doesn’t even want to imagine Justine’s look of disapproval (before she’d beat both of them around the head with a heavy book) if she knew Victor was shagging the new apprentice. She’s not thrilled when Victor goes out with customers, and throws in snide comments about him using the shop as some sort of dating agency. When Victor flirted with one of the guest artists at the studio a while back, she threatened to poison his coffee if she found him with so much as a hand on the other’s butt. Victor’s never quite trusted his coffee at work since. Because she’d do it and no one would ever find his body. Justine is scary like that.
“Obviously,” Sherlock scoffs. “I won’t have anything interfering with my work.”
“Glad we have that sorted,” Victor says and drains the rest of the coffee. “Speaking of work: we have another couple of hours before we need to leave. How much do you like lazy morning sex when neither party is fully awake yet?”
“I’ve never had any,” Sherlock replies with a glint in his eyes, putting his mug aside.
A mischievous grin spreads across Victor’s face.
“We'll have to change that.”