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John's body tenses into stillness in the hallway of 221b. Someone is in their flat who is not Sherlock. He shifts the bag of shopping to his right arm and ascends the steps. He doesn't know who he'd been expecting, but it wasn't her.
“What are you doing here?” Doesn't bother asking her why she's alive, how she's alive, as he knows the questions are a waste of time. Time she could spend getting out of their flat.
“Nice to see you too, John.” John shuts the door behind him, hating the way she used his name. Nothing The Woman does is accidental, and she's tried to perfectly mimic Sherlock's intonation. He sets his bag down on a bit of free counter, and she stands from the couch.
“What are you doing here?” John asks again, decides keeping it simple and giving her very little is his best plan of attack. Or defense. He's not really sure which he's playing with her.
“I thought you were improving him. Your deplorable manners speak to the contrary, John.” She's joined him in the small kitchen now, watching as he puts away the milk and jam. He doesn't answer her. “Well, right to the point then? I do like a direct man.” The last statement oozes out of her like honey, and John shivers. He turns to look at her, and is faintly surprised to find her inches from him, looking up at him with an angry hunger.
“I think you'd better leave, Ms. Adler.” John closes the refrigerator door without turning around. Irene's glare hadn't wavered.
“Polite now?” Her thin arm extends quickly and wraps around his back, her leg hooking behind his own, and she begins to move. John lets out a quick huff of air as she slides her petite body up and down his own, noting the increased pressure in the region of his hips. He focuses on not reacting to her obvious tactic. “Relax John. I'm not going to hurt you.” She smiles fiercely at him, and he can't help but laugh.
“You're a liar. You're here to do nothing but, and I won't stand for whatever you're trying to do to Sherlock, through me. Don't pretend for a second that you don't have a reason for this visit.” John pries her thin frame off his body and walks into the sitting room. Her flashing eyes were approving.
“Oh yes, I do see why he likes you so.” The Woman stalks him into the next room, and John lets out a sigh of frustration. He is so tired of that tune. He turns to look at her and coughs; she's shed her dress in a matter of three steps, and had been wearing nothing under it. “You're overdressed, Dr. Watson.”
“I'm wearing exactly the correct amount of clothing for sitting in my own flat.” He tries to look away as she leans over his chair, parting her legs to sit on his lap.
“Why are you so resistant? You know I'm going to get what I want, John.” She licks the side of his neck while pushing her hips into his. John hisses and grabs her bodily, placing her upright on the floor.
“Leave, now.” She throws her head back and laughs.
“I love your strength, quite the fire in you, John. I like getting burned.” She leans in as she speaks, inhaling in the vicinity of his neck. She rocks back on her bare heels then smacks him, hard as she can, across the cheek. John lets out a riveting sound of anger, shock, and frustration and grabs her upper arms.
“You- Leave, leave now.” John tries to control his breathing, for he knows this woman sees nearly as much as his brilliant flatmate. She is smiling, looking positively triumphant, and quite a lot like a feral cat. He shivers and gives her shoulders a small shake. “You don't get to do this, not after what you put him through.” Her eyes reveal a questing concern, then she tilts her head at him.
“Please, let's do this, for him.” She thrusts her hips forward into John's, and he can't hold back the moan it triggers. “I know he wants to watch, don't you Sherlock?” John's head jerks to the door, where Sherlock is indeed standing, captivated, his keys barely in his fingers as if he's forgotten to hold them.
“Sherlock-”
“Yes.” It is quiet enough that John's not fully convinced, until he hears the next hiss from his friend. “Please.” Their eyes meet across the room, and John reads the want there, the honest plea. He turns back to the tiny woman in his arms, so different from the man he'd just been regarding, yet also so similar. She is smiling again, perhaps genuinely.
“Well then, whose room do you prefer, Doctor?” She runs a hand down his front, lingering over his trapped flesh beneath trousers.
“I haven't agreed.” John hisses out a breath as she unhooks his belt. He watches Irene look to Sherlock. Whatever she sees there makes her eyes unguarded for a tiny second before she steels them again to look at John.
“Don't be ridiculous, we all know you don't ever deny him.” She looks almost sad, then it turns warm, as if John is a lamb she's coaxing.
“No.” John hears Sherlock's release of air, obscenely loud in the tense room. “No, I don't.” He hears keys placed on a table, and thinks this should perhaps have been the occasion to say 'no'. He's heard what these kind of games can do to relationships, and he has avoided engaging in them. Not that what he and Sherlock have is a relationship of the romantic kind, but if John is honest, it is more important than any of those he's ever had. He tilts his head to look at Irene, but she is already walking into Sherlock's bedroom. He feels exposed, despite being fully clothed, and his eyes meet Sherlock's across the room.
“Are you sure?” It was his friend's most quiet voice, the one he used when he admitted failure, or when he knew John was disappointed in him.
“Are you?” John asks as he slides his unbuckled belt out of the loops on his trousers, and watches with interest as Sherlock's eyes leave his face to watch his hands. His breathing is slightly faster than usual, and he doesn't take his eyes from John's waist as he answers.
“Yes.” John waits for the pale eyes to meet his, and then he nods gently, but firmly. He walks through to the woman in his flatmate's bedroom.
He arrives to find a chair arranged facing the bed, and Irene is standing behind it, waiting. He hasn't been in Sherlock's room that much, but enough to know it feels entirely foreign now, with this woman in it. He feels Sherlock enter behind him, and the inhale of breath tells John that he feels it too. He turns to look at Sherlock, who has shed his coat in the other room, and the elegant, frustrating man rushes past him to sit in the chair that so pointedly faces the bed. Irene claps her hands together above Sherlock, making him jump a bit.
“Any requests, boys?” John chokes on his breath, and Sherlock's piercing eyes meet his, then scan his body intensely. John squirms under the scrutiny. He'd always assumed this roving gaze was the detective assessing his well being. Checking in, as it were. A small flare of doubt is growing though, as that gaze takes him in now, as to whether it was always something more. John tries to speak.
“I-”
“-No.” Sherlock answers for him, for them both, and John decides that's just fine. Whatever needs to happen for this to be okay, especially as his motivations are some confusing mess of all things Sherlock.
“Right. Poor lost little lambs, aren't you?” John snarls in response to Irene's taunt, before he takes in the two sets of eyes fixed on him. He's not used to such scrutiny, for one, but more heady are the emotions behind the glares. He swallows audibly and Sherlock's eyes dart to his throat and his nostrils flare. “That's enough thinking, don't you agree, Sherlock?” The dark head of curls makes some motion between a negative and a positive response, and Irene laughs. “Honestly, how you two function...”
“Yes, alright. Enough, now.” John can't help the protectiveness that rises in him towards Sherlock. If they're doing this for him, he wants it done right. He realizes Irene has been watching him, and whatever she's seen has her brimming with pride. John sighs as he realizes he's going to be more analyzed than a crime scene very soon, by two people, in the most intimate of ways. He thinks about having second thoughts, but looks again at Sherlock, whose nervous energy has him twitching and trying to control his breathing. No other convincing is really necessary.
He puts a hand out towards Irene. She mocks shock at his gentlemanly behavior then places her delicate fingers in his rougher palm. John jerks her toward his chest, catching her off guard, and kisses her fiercely. John has never been accused of doing anything without fully committing to the task at hand. She moans into his mouth and tries to control the kiss, but John is firmer, more demanding, and just plain stronger. She pulls back, breathless, and regards him.
“I had no idea.” Her eyes search his face before she reaches for his horrible jumper.
“Yes. Well.” He's being quickly stripped now, and she runs her fingers over his chest when she's done. She reaches down to grasp his full erection, and they both turn as a loud gasp rises from the chair. They both quirk an eyebrow at Sherlock, who tries to respond and fails spectacularly.
“Um, I...” John laughs and the tension is momentarily broken as the others join in. When it ceases, Irene throws him onto the bed with more fire in her eyes than before. He feels his cock jump, hot and heavy, as Irene slithers down his body and runs her tongue down the length of it. He doesn't try to hold back his moan as she licks lower, her hand holding his erection now as she mouths the soft skin of his balls. He bites his lip and tries not to let out a string of obscenities. For some reason he feels they would judge him.
“Relax, John. Stop thinking so much.” Irene is terrifyingly perceptive, and his brain makes the horrifying jump to wondering what Sherlock would be like in bed. If he'd be just as brilliant at this as everything else. She swallows him in one motion, startling the breath out of him in a loud exhale.
“Fucking hell. Oh God, that's..yes...” He doesn't try to hold back now, knowing that Irene has done this to break through his hesitancy. He also vaguely thinks that when someone is watching you have sex perhaps you should give it your all. He drops a hand to her head as she moves up and down on him. He hears a low rumble that likely came from Sherlock, but it wouldn't surprise him if Irene made a noise like that. He grabs her hair and lifts her head off of him, and she does indeed growl at him.
“Who said you were in charge, Doctor?” Her tone is unbelievably commanding, even frightening, but the effect is somewhat diminished by the saliva glistening on her chin. He realizes with a start that he wants her. Wants to take this woman while Sherlock watches. Wants to show them both what he's made of. He doesn't think words are necessary to answer her question, and he simply grabs her and flips them on the bed. He holds her wrists at her sides and uses his shoulders to ensure her legs are out of his way as he begins to work on her. He sets a punishing pace with his tongue, occasionally applying brutal suction or a sharp bite, and she's writhing beneath him, her eyes wide. She begins to pant as he sucks her entire clit into his mouth and doesn't let go. “Ah! John, John, no no, I don't want to come like this!” He smiles as he releases her sensitive skin, and pushes his tongue as far into her as he can. Her body goes rigid then she shakes again, turning her head side to side.
“Ask me for what you want.” John hears Sherlock gasp to his left, and Irene glares daggers at him. John isn't fool enough to think he's actually placing Irene in a subordinate position, but he certainly appreciates the illusion. Women like Irene are rarely not in charge, whether they top or bottom. She throws her head back in frustration and mumbles something unintelligible. “Louder.” John commands, and her hips thrust up towards his face. He pulls back, not allowing her into contact with him.
“Fuck me.” John shivers in response. Oh she's good. She may want it as much as he does, but she knows how to perfectly wrap a command, a request, a plea, and genuine desire into two words. He stretches his back as he kneels before her, releasing her wrists. She flies forward and starts stroking his heavy cock, causing John to moan as well as Sherlock. John looks over at his flatmate, and nearly loses it. Dark curls are slightly damp and the usually bright eyes are hazy. He hasn't undone any clothing, but he's obviously hard and he's pressing a palm to his crotch as if he wants it to go away. Not stroking, not pleasuring himself, but restraining himself. It's possibly the hottest thing he's seen in quite some time. John tears his eyes away and back down to Irene, who is definitely wearing an uninhibited smile.
“Condom?” John hates to have to ask, to break the moment, but he doubts very much that there are any in Sherlock's nightstand. Irene's eyes spark with amusement.
“I gave it to Sherlock to hold.” She strokes him harder as she answers, causing John to moan as he looks at his friend. Sherlock extends a small packet slowly towards John. Of course their fingers can't help but meet as he takes it, but the sensation is still amazingly more charged than he expected it to be. The reaction it sends through him is unbelievable, something the girls in high school read in those romance novels they passed around. He drops his arms to the bed, shaking, trying to regain his composure. Irene is smiling wickedly at him and stops stroking him.
“Fucking hell. Just a minute, yes?” He hears a breath from Sherlock, no doubt that terrifying brain making connections and cataloging all this new data. He shivers again at the thought of it being put to use sometime. Irene takes the condom from him, making him lift a bit so she can pull it out from his fist clenched tightly against the bed. She tears it open as both men watch, and pushes John to regain his kneeling position. Her delicate, manicured hands roll it onto John, and John looks at Sherlock. His eyes are riveted, fixed only on what Irene is doing, and when she's finished and leaning back down to the bed he finally looks up at John.
“Ahem. Today, please, John.” Her tone is light, almost mocking, and makes John wonder how long he and Sherlock had been looking at each other. He inches closer to her on his knees, and then literally knocks the breath out of her with his entry. He's proud he didn't misjudge, her response is pure arousal, and she keens and grips the headboard. “Yes...” She hisses at him and he finally stops trying to think so much. He fucks her brutally, punishingly, letting the anger come for everything she did to Sherlock, and he sees the acceptance, the encouragement in her eyes. He moans as he slows the pace. She angles her hips to meet his a few times, and his rhythm falters.
“No, no not yet.” John gasps as Sherlock's words register. He stills to keep himself from finishing. “Please, don't come yet.” John lets out a high whine and grips the base of his erection as Sherlock's voice washes over him. He'd been so silent for so long, the shock is almost too much to bear. He risks a glance at his flatmate. Sherlock is sitting forward in his chair, as if he wants to leave it but doesn't have permission. Perhaps he doesn't. He looks down at Irene. John tries to breathe through the arousal sparking all over his body in response to Sherlock's obvious interest.
“Sherlock, it's not nice. Let him do as he likes.” Irene's laughing voice penetrates John's addled brain and he lets out a growl. They still talk about him like he can't hear them. He thrusts hard into Irene and she lets out something close to a scream. John checks quickly to see if he hurt her, his eyes boring into hers, and she glares back at him. “I'm fine, Doctor. You?” She spits the word 'doctor' at him, and he doesn't want to think anymore. He resumes his earlier pace and hears gasps and moans from everyone in the room. It's a heady combination of physical and mental stimulation, almost as if he's fucking both of them, and he struggles to keep his composure. “Don't stop him again, Sherlock.”
John lets out a groan, and looks down at Irene. She's sweaty and panting, and he'd never thought of her looking so undone. He glances at Sherlock, knowing that it will likely be the end for him, but not caring. Sure enough, long white fingers are wrapped around the fabric of his trousers, and his hips are moving in time with John's. John lets out a rough howl and closes his eyes as he comes. He twitches into Irene and has a fleeting moment of concern that she didn't come first, but as he opens his eyes he realizes she's taken care of too. She smiles up at him languidly, and rubs her hand down his arm.
He wants to collapse, fall asleep even, but doesn't think she'd appreciate that. She pulls herself up the bed, letting John slide out of her, and he falls to his side as she rolls away. He takes care of the condom as he watches Irene stretch her arms and back. “That was nice. Been awhile.” John just glares at Irene in response, angry that she wants to talk now, and he's not about to ask her to elaborate. He looks over at Sherlock, and his breath catches in his throat. The pale eyes are regarding him, assessing, seeing everything, and John wants to cover up. He forces himself to keep looking back at that calculating gaze. “I think I'm done here boys. Thank you for a lovely time Dr. Watson.” She walks from the room without a glance back at them, and John sighs.
Sherlock carefully lifts himself from the edge of the chair and kneels on the bed. John looks up at him, curious and not entirely unafraid. Not a bit of clothing has been removed, and Sherlock looks all the more obscene for it. John's own nakedness makes him feel something very much past vulnerable as his unpredictable flatmate regards him.
“John.” Sherlock's voice is possibly the lowest he's ever heard it, and a shiver racks his still-sensitive body.
“Sherlock.” John's startled by the overwhelming desire to reach for this man, this strong, shy, brilliant idiot, and tries hard to overcome the urge. He wants to stay still for him, let him do what he needs to do for his own conclusion of this experiment. Sherlock reaches out a hand, delicate like Irene's but completely different, and nudges John's shoulder to make him lie on his back.
“Thank you.” Sherlock looks down at John, meets his eyes, and John's more startled by what he sees there than by the thanks he'd expressed.
“You're welcome.” John answers, because really, what else can he say?
“I mean, for-”
“-I know what you mean.” John cuts him off. They stare at each other for another minute, Sherlock finally reaching out to break the tension as he runs a hand along John's scarred shoulder. John hasn't thought about this with Sherlock, honestly hasn't, because when could he have time? It's criminals and hounds and Moriarty, and why would those things added together with Sherlock Holmes be the recipe for a straight man to think about his flatmate like this? It doesn't stop him now, and he hopes that Sherlock likes what his questing fingers find. He predicted the interest in his scar tissue, but the other hand stroking his hipbone surprises him slightly. It must have showed, because Sherlock stops to stare at him.
“John.” He looks up at Sherlock in question, assuming that his face will tell him what he needs to know. He doesn't feel like talking much, doesn't want to over-analyze. Sherlock must have found permission, or confirmation, or whatever else he was looking for, because he seems to resume his exploration. “I never slept with her.” John starts a bit before he answers.
“I know.” They both sigh as long fingers wrap around John's relaxed cock. John shivers as Sherlock collects the dot of fluid from his tip and holds up his fingers to examine it. He rubs it between the tips of his fingers and John's breathing begins to quicken. He imagines what Sherlock will do next, but it doesn't prepare him for the sight of those beautiful fingers disappearing into those ridiculous lips. Sherlock's eyes flare wide and lock with John's, and he licks his fingers as he pulls them out of his mouth. John is practically panting now. He's not hard yet, might not be for a few minutes still, but he's suddenly very aware of and intrigued by Sherlock's body. He tries to sit up, but Sherlock stops him with hands firmly on both his shoulders. John sighs out a mixture of release and frustration as he lies down again beneath Sherlock.
Long arms bend and move, and the fine shirt Sherlock had on is thrown to the floor. John feels like his heart is going to hammer out of his chest. He didn't expect this, not really. Imagined Sherlock watching him and Irene, then going off to quietly write notes about it, or something equally unsocial. Sherlock's chest is heaving too, and the pale skin looks endless. He unbuttons his trousers, and stands up to finish the job. John's frozen, feels like he may as well be tied to the bed. Sherlock is beautiful, there is no other word for him, and John can only spare a fleeting thought about the fact that he's reacting this way to another man. Pants come off now, and he can't look anywhere but there, at the proof of Sherlock's maleness, and the interest it's displaying in the proceedings.
“Sherlock, are you sure? Are you...” John starts and is stopped when long legs settle on either side of his hips, erection pressing against his stomach.
“Do I appear to be acting without certainty?” John can't help but laugh in response, of course this is still Sherlock, and why should he be different now? Sherlock rubs his hands across John's jaw, his neck, down his collarbones to his chest. John's body is dying to flip them over, to overwhelm Sherlock and make him gasp and moan, as he heard him do earlier. He tries to press himself into the bed to avert the strong desire. Sherlock regards him carefully. What may be a smirk appears on those sculpted lips, and he leans down toward John. He can feel their breath mingling, the dark curls inches from his forehead, and long fingers curl around his hips. He barely feels them as he focuses on Sherlock's eyes. He's practically overwhelmed now, and he tries to sit up again. He only succeeds in leaning in as Sherlock kisses him, and he gasps in response. Sherlock pulls back and his eyes search John's face frantically.
“Yes, Sherlock. Yes, to whatever.” John wonders if he will regret that, because it appears the floodgates have been opened. Sherlock is suddenly frantic, hands touching every bit of John, lips diving back to kiss him again. He doesn't know if Sherlock has done this before, isn't about to stop him and ask, but the kiss is just fine, and John slides his tongue into Sherlock's mouth. A slight gasp tells John that maybe he hasn't done that before, but it only takes a second before he feels Sherlock try it on him. The determination in the kiss is powerful, and John reels back from it. He finally lets himself take control, satisfied that whatever data gathering needed to occur has been enough, and that Sherlock is probably comfortable with him.
John grabs the thinner body by the arms and turns, thumping Sherlock down beneath him. He feels their erections meet as Sherlock thrusts up into him, throws his head back and moans. John regards the heavy breathing, the lost, confused, hungry expression that meets his, and knows to keep trusting his instincts. John leans in and licks the long neck below him, and Sherlock squirms. He kisses him again, and then bites at his shoulders. He can feel fingers grabbing at him, his back, legs, whatever they can reach, and he smiles down at Sherlock. He leans in very close to Sherlock's ear.
“As me for what you want.” John tries to imitate his inflection from earlier and knows he's succeeded by Sherlock's reaction. He inhales sharply and then moans, grabbing John down to him and grinding them together. “Tell me, Sherlock.”
“John, John, please. I want to orgasm, please, I don't care how. Just touch me, please.” Sherlock looks lost, a little scared, and John wants to reassure him even as his arousal spikes slightly from the helpless desire he sees in the other man's face.
“I'm going to use my hand, Sherlock. You're going to look at my eyes or at my hand on you, understand?” Sherlock looks up at John and nods in response, trying to wrap his legs around John's waist. John begins to work on Sherlock, and it isn't so different from masturbation. He'd always enjoyed giving pleasure, and that grounds him when his brain tries to remind him that this is another man. He looks into Sherlock's eyes, sees the emotion there, and increases his strokes. He likes seeing Sherlock like this. His breath catches at the thought of doing more, of seeing what Sherlock would look like beneath him as he entered him for the first time.
“Oh, John. Oh god, you're thinking about fucking me, aren't you?” John increases the speed of his hand on Sherlock and smiles.
“Turn. Your. Brain. Off.” John uses his other hand to grab at the tight balls below Sherlock's length, and smiles as it earns him a keening noise, rather higher than John would have imagined. “But yes, I was.” John grabs both their erections and starts to thrust as if he were fucking the warm body below him, and Sherlock begins to lose it. The pants turn to moans and he starts muttering low and breathy. John isn't sure what he's saying, but he likes his voice so much that it doesn't matter.
“John-John I think...”
“I know, Christ, don't you think I know you're close? You're beautiful Sherlock, come for me.” John pulls hard on Sherlock, fast strokes joining together so he can barely register the movements as distinct, and feels a sudden hot wetness spread over his hand. He quickly looks at Sherlock's face, and is rewarded by the most uninhibited and raw expression he's ever seen. He is further stunned when Sherlock lets out something like a low scream of pain, and grabs at John's back, pulling his weight fully onto him and biting his neck. John lets out a loud grunt at the possessive action and strokes himself a few more times, coming himself as he rocks back to look at Sherlock again. Sherlock is totally absorbed in watching John orgasm, watching as it joins the evidence of his own still between them. They're a sweaty, sticky mess, and Sherlock pushes John off of him with some effort. “Sherlock, what...”
John stops mid-sentence as he watches fingers play in the moisture on their chests and stomachs, no doubt mixing it all together before he hungrily licks some from his fingers. John groans as he watches. He dips his own fingers into the white fluid and puts them to Sherlock's lips. He's terrified he will never look at those lips again without hiding an erection as Sherlock pulls John's fingers in like he's starving for them. John breathes out sharply through his nose as an agile tongue coats every millimeter of his flesh inside that hot mouth. He pulls his fingers out as Sherlock's eyes lock onto his and the suction on his fingers increases. They pull out with a loud pop that makes John flinch.
He drops down next to Sherlock on the bed, utterly exhausted. Their breathing is loud in the room, and they hear the street sounds below. A phone rings in the other room, and neither of them move. John turns on his side to regard his flatmate. Sherlock is looking at him.
“Thank you.” He says very sincerely as he closes his eyes. John can't help but kiss him in response.