Archive of Our Own ^beta

John feels as though he’s waited his entire life to get to this point.

Strictly speaking, it’s not quite true. Before he met Sherlock, he had never even entertained the thought that he might enjoy having another man in his bed. And even after meeting him, he spent such a long time in denial, trying desperately to convince himself and everyone around him that nothing could have been further from his mind. So much wasted time. If he’d only been honest with himself from the start, he wonders if maybe he could have spared them both the ugliness and the heartbreak of the last few years. The fall and Sherlock’s absence, his own doomed and tragic marriage, and then Sherlock’s self-destructive drug abuse which almost cost him his life.

John will never know whether admitting the truth about his feelings earlier would have altered the courses of their lives for the better, and that's a regret that he will always have to live with. But he does know that everything that's happened, all the death and devastation and misery, has brought them to where they are right now, and John can't think of anywhere in the universe that he’d rather be.

Sherlock is breathtaking beneath him. His hands are cuffed above his head, restricting his movement, and one of his silk ties is wrapped around his eyes as a makeshift blindfold. John had slowly and reverently undressed him before persuading him into this trusting and submissive position, and Sherlock hadn't even hesitated before complying. He’s always known exactly what John needs, and he does his best, within the parameters of his character and the limitations of his social experience, to provide it.

Tonight, he has behaved exceptionally well, especially given the relative newness of the intimate and sexual aspects of their relationship. While the progression feels not only right but also natural, it has not been easy for either of them to completely overcome their reservations about it - Sherlock’s lack of sensitivity to sentiment, and John's feelings about his mid-life sexual identity crisis. Progress has been slow and cautious as they have tested new boundaries and started to understand each other in new ways. Why is why tonight, having Sherlock laid out before him like this, trusting him, feels like such an important milestone, and he’s absolutely determined not to fuck it up.

John is still in his shirt and jeans, although he has at least taken his shoes off. Sherlock almost appears vulnerable by comparison, stretched out and bare, no crisp fabrics or heavy coat to hide behind, to keep John from seeing him. And John takes his time looking. He looks at those sharp cheekbones that won him over from the beginning. He looks at the slightly parted lips and angular jawline. His eyes follow the long column of his neck and the protrusions of his collarbones under his broad shoulders. He watches as his chest moves with slightly erratic breaths and observes the sparse smattering of dark hair around his erect nipples. He follows the line of his straight torso down until his gaze has a chance to linger on his semi-erect dick, heavily resting on his lower tummy. John swallows. He keeps looking, looks down the lengths of his long, muscular legs, all the way down to his weird, wonky toes.

“Sherlock…” he breathes, his voice audibly trembling, intending to express just how beautiful Sherlock is and how deeply affected he is to see him like this, but he finds that none of the words in his vocabulary are adequate for the task. He feels sure that Sherlock will know what he means, regardless.

Sherlock groans quietly in response, fidgeting a little, and John is enthralled by the way his muscles move beneath his skin. His hands tug on their restraints, gently, just testing, as his fingers flex and curl.

John climbs onto the bed too now, one knee either side of Sherlock’s bony hips, and he knows from the tilt of Sherlock’s head that he’s trying to predict him, which is easier said than done without the use of his eyes. John briefly considers making a deliberate effort to surprise him, to keep him guessing, to have this brilliant man on the back foot for a change. He imagines how much it would frustrate Sherlock, being unable to deduce what or where the next touch might be, and he has to admit, the thought has its appeal. But that's not what he wants tonight. Tonight he just wants to show Sherlock how much he treasures and adores him, and he wants to do it instinctively and take his time, and he wants Sherlock to be absolutely ruined by the time he’s finished.

He leans down, takes Sherlock’s face in his hands and strokes his thumbs delicately over those cheekbones. Sherlock sucks in a breath, and John feels it as his hips press up a little. “Not yet, love,” he whispers, and presses a soft, chaste kiss to Sherlock’s lips. He pulls back, just a bit, and slides his hands up to thread through Sherlock’s curls, using his fingertips to massage at his scalp. Another soft groan rises out of Sherlock’s throat, and John has to kiss him again.

This kiss is longer, deeper. John wishes that, somehow, he could show Sherlock exactly how much he means to him by pouring it all into a kiss. Sherlock would probably rebuke the thought, but it doesn't stop John trying. His eyes slide closed as his tongue swipes at Sherlock’s lips, his teeth pressing light, teasing bites to his lower lip as Sherlock opens his mouth to him. He could get lost in this, kissing Sherlock, and he needs the feel of Sherlock’s hair in his hands to anchor him. He tugs, encouraging more of those glorious sounds. He’s addicted. Then Sherlock catches his tongue with his teeth and John is the one whining.

When John breaks away, his breath coming heavily, Sherlock lifts his head as he attempts to follow. An automatic reaction, made difficult by the position he’s in, and John is awed for the millionth time as Sherlock grunts in frustration, wondering what on earth it is that this stunning creature sees in him. But now isn't the time to start getting self-conscious. He presses another short kiss to the corner of Sherlock’s reddened lips, then does the same to the other corner. He kisses along Sherlock’s jaw, up to his temple, kisses the tip of his nose and his forehead. Then he has to kiss his mouth again, and this kiss is no less intense than the last, and John could do this with Sherlock forever.

By the time he breaks away, he’s almost overwhelmed. He presses their foreheads together as they take deep lungfuls of the same air, taking a moment to regain his composure. He becomes aware that his fists have tightened in Sherlock’s hair, and he relaxes his grip a touch.

“John,” Sherlock’s deep, silky voice penetrates through his kiss-induced haze.

“Hmm?”

“Why are you still dressed?”

John chuckles, lifting up enough to look down at Sherlock’s face, his smile maybe a bit more openly affectionate than it might be if Sherlock were able to see him. He removes one hand from Sherlock’s hair and strokes the back of his knuckles down the side of his face, smile widening as Sherlock leans into the touch. “Impatient. Somewhere else you need to be?”

“Nowhere at all.” Sherlock turns his head and presses his lips John's hand. “I just like to be able to feel your skin.”

“You will. You just need to wait a bit.”

John dips his head again, this time dragging his tongue down the side of Sherlock’s neck. He kisses and nips his way back up again, slowly, all the way to the extra sensitive spot he’s discovered exists just below Sherlock’s earlobe, and he sucks gently on the skin there, delighting in the way it makes Sherlock squirm and elicits more of those sounds he loves so much.

He drags down with his teeth this time, pausing a couple of times on the way to sink them in a little deeper. When he reaches the juncture between neck and shoulder, he sucks again, and he drops both hands to grip around Sherlock’s ribs. They protrude a little, and his fingers settle into the grooves. He continues to kiss down, nuzzling when he arrives at Sherlock’s sternum and taking a deep breath of his scent. “You’re perfect,” he murmurs, and he means it. He leans over to take one of Sherlock’s nipples between his teeth, flicking it with his tongue, and Sherlock hisses and arches his back because he’s sensitive there too.

In fact, John can't recall being with anyone who was ever quite as sensitive and responsive as Sherlock is. It’s wonderful, and he’s obsessed with getting as many of those reactions as possible.

He carries on until Sherlock is gasping, then moves across to lavish the same treatment on the other nipple. Sherlock writhes and bites down on his lower lip in an unsuccessful attempt to stifle some of the noises he’s making, a pink flush starting to creep across his cheeks. He’s admitted to John once before that his inability to keep quiet during moments like this is a source of embarrassment for him, and so John has made it his business to reassure him as often as he can. He speaks against Sherlock’s skin, tells him, “Let me hear you. You have no idea how sexy it is that you can't hold it back.” He flicks with his tongue again and Sherlock, obviously empowered by John's words, allows himself to moan a little louder.

John kisses down his stomach, shuffling his body lower and slipping his hands to Sherlock’s hips, but he deliberately avoids touching his straining erection for now. Instead he focuses on the crease at the top of Sherlock’s thigh, mouthing at the soft patch of skin there, then moves to suck on small, sensitive areas of his inner thigh. He can feel Sherlock’s toes curling, and he is trying desperately to press his hips up into friction that isn't there. He moves across to the other side, tracing the path from inner thigh back up to hip with his tongue, all the while rubbing circles with his fingers as he steadies himself against Sherlock’s increasingly insistent wriggles.

“John,” and Sherlock’s voice seems impossibly deeper, and it’s gorgeous, “John, please…”

John isn't merciless. He rests his cheek against Sherlock’s thigh as he carefully releases one hip to take his cock in his hand, squeezing gently. Sherlock’s sigh is one of relief. John strokes him slowly, up and down, brushing his thumb over the head as he reaches it and smearing any small beads of precome that appear. He can feel the throb of Sherlock’s blood flow beneath his skin and he watches with rapt fascination as Sherlock attempts to thrust upward into his hand. He kisses Sherlock’s thigh, maintaining the slow and fluid motions of his hand and wrist, and is distantly aware that Sherlock is pulling considerably harder on the handcuffs now, his mouth hanging open as he tries to get enough air.

He wants to give this man everything.

He rests his hand around the base of his dick as he leans over to take the head in his mouth, and Sherlock cries out, throwing his head back. John doesn't have a vast experience in the area of giving blowjobs, but he’s found that just trying to replicate the things he knows he enjoys seems to have a good effect. As he slides his mouth down, he uses the flat of his tongue, and then he swirls it on the way back up. He sucks on the tip and keeps his cheeks hollowed as he repeats the motions, slipping his free forearm across Sherlock’s pelvic area to keep him from bucking up too violently. Every exhale is a low moan, and every muscle in his body seems to be contracting, and it’s all so genuine that it makes John feel like a god, despite his lack of expertise.

John uses his hand as an extension of his mouth, trying to stimulate the parts of Sherlock that he can't reach with his lips or tongue. He experiments with different amounts of pressure, twisting a little as he turns his mouth in the opposite direction, squeezing a little more firmly as he concentrates on getting Sherlock as deep as he can without triggering his gag reflex. And Sherlock’s responses are getting louder, more desperate; he’s almost thrashing, although clearly still trying to keep himself under some semblance of control. John would grin if he could, because it’s a rare and special thing to see Sherlock losing himself like this.

He continues relentlessly until Sherlock begins to keen, high-pitched noises from the back of his throat, a sign that he’s getting close to the point of no return. It feels like a loss to John's mouth as he slowly pulls off, but he’s not ready for this to end yet. Using just his hand again, simple and slow movements up and down, he watches as Sherlock starts to calm down a little and regain some of his faculties. His throat is working, and his chest is heaving, and his arms are pulling tight against his restraints.

John almost tells him again how perfect he is, but stops himself before he says anything. He doesn't want to overdo it.

He lets go of Sherlock’s cock after one final squeeze, and Sherlock whines immediately at the loss of contact. But John puts his hands under Sherlock’s knees and lifts them, encouraging Sherlock to bring them up to his chest, which he does as best he can without the use of his hands to keep them there. John realises that he won't be able to hold that position for too long, so he wastes no time before leaning back in and swiping his tongue across Sherlock’s now-exposed arsehole.

Sherlock practically sobs. He has virtually no leverage to move with his legs up and his arms cuffed, leaving him utterly at John's mercy. John uses his thumbs to keep Sherlock’s cheeks parted while his tongue works, flicking over and around the sensitive area, and occasionally pushing in, breaching the entrance. It isn't long before Sherlock is begging, his voice gravelly and broken. “This isn't fair, John. Oh, fuck. John, please, I need-” He cuts himself off with a whimper as John sucks.

But John knows what he needs, and he pulls away, allowing Sherlock to lower his legs back down with a shuddering sigh. “Don't go anywhere,” he says, pressing one more kiss to the inside of Sherlock’s thigh before standing up from the bed.

Even in his state, Sherlock manages to scoff. “I don't know where you think I'm supposed to go.”

John smiles and ignores him, rummaging around in their bedside drawer for the lube.

“Besides,” Sherlock continues, “why would I want to go anywhere?”

Lube in hand, John settles himself back between Sherlock’s legs, watching as Sherlock listens intently to his movements. He slicks up his fingers and circles one gently, just teasing, not quite pushing it in, and he doesn't miss the way Sherlock tries to push himself down. It brings him such joy, knowing that Sherlock wants him like this.

Slowly, but in a single, fluid movement, he presses his finger in. Sherlock’s muscles tense around him, reflexively protesting the intrusion, and he uses his free hand to grip around Sherlock’s cock again, an attempt to soothe and distract. It seems to work. Sherlock spasms a little, and he’s gasping again. John gives him time to adjust, keeping his movements small and steady, accompanying every crook of his finger with a squeeze to his dick. Only when Sherlock’s body doesn't feel as though it’s resisting anymore does John cautiously add a second finger the next time he pushes inside.

The muscles clamp down again, and again John gives Sherlock time to ease. The last thing he wants to do is hurt him, but unfortunately a little discomfort is part and parcel of their sex life as long as anal penetration is involved. He keeps working Sherlock’s cock as he stretches him, helping him to prepare for what is coming, and he deliberately brushes his fingertips against Sherlock’s prostate with clinical accuracy. Sherlock’s hips fly up off the bed as his mouth falls open, another one of those delicious wails torn from his throat.

“John…”

“Trust me.”

He scissors his fingers, every now and again angling them just enough to hit Sherlock’s prostate and distract him from his own impatience. When he thinks Sherlock is ready, he slips in a third finger and repeats the careful stretching process again. His other hand never stops moving along Sherlock’s cock, keeping him hard, keeping him in that dizzying area where pleasure and pain mingle together and become sort of indistinguishable.

Soon, Sherlock is rocking down onto his fingers and there's a thin sheen of sweat on his skin. He’s taking deep gulps of air, his breath catching on his near constant moans, and John stills his hands, much to Sherlock’s obvious dismay.

“I’m going to fuck you now, Sherlock,” he tells him, matter-of-fact, as he withdraws his fingers and quickly gets on with the task of getting his own clothes off. “Tell me you want it.”

“I want it,” is Sherlock’s automatic and desperate reply.

John gets back on the bed, grabbing the lube one more time to prepare himself quickly, and isn't quite ready for how worked up he’s become throughout this process. As soon as his hand touches his cock, a bolt of pleasure shoots through his body, and he has to bite his lip as he gets himself as slippery as he can. He’s so affected by Sherlock, by seeing him and touching him, and he almost starts to worry that this is going to end prematurely. He tries to steady his breathing, but it’s shaky, and he knows that Sherlock can tell.

“Hurry up, John,” Sherlock demands, clearly trying to take advantage of John's own arousal, but there's a tremor in his voice that betrays him, and he’s certainly not unaffected either.

John shuffles closer, encouraging Sherlock to lift his legs again, this time arranging his ankles over his shoulders. He knows that Sherlock is flexible enough to handle being bent almost in half like this, and he positions the head of his dick at Sherlock’s entrance. “Ready?”

Sherlock’s response is to attempt to impale himself, so John loses no further time before giving them what they both need.

Sherlock is tight, despite the preparation, but it’s unavoidable and John makes sure he focuses enough to minimise the discomfort as he slowly, slowly presses forward. They're both breathing heavily, Sherlock’s body involuntarily tensing and John pausing his advance after every centimetre of progress. As always, Sherlock’s body feels amazing around him, hot and slick, and it takes every ounce of his self-control not to ram himself straight in to the hilt.

But they get there, eventually, groaning simultaneously when they feel the brush of John's balls against Sherlock’s arse. John stays where he is, makes himself wait for some of Sherlock’s tension to drain, waits for Sherlock to let him know that he’s ready for more. His hands run up and down along Sherlock’s legs. It’s an enormous relief when Sherlock finally gives him the nod, apparently not trusting his voice.

John concentrates, and his movements stay slow. He pulls almost all the way out, then pushes back in. He watches Sherlock carefully, determined to maintain this steady pace until he can both see and feel that Sherlock’s body has relaxed and become more receptive. He turns his head to kiss Sherlock’s ankle, bottoming out on the next push and feeling Sherlock quiver around him.

Then Sherlock huffs out a breath and clears his throat. “Are you waiting for me to die of old age?”

John gives him a look, belatedly remembering that he won't be able to see it. But he does pick up his pace a little and Sherlock starts making more of his noises, fingernails digging down into his own palms. John hooks his hands under Sherlock’s arse, lifting him a little, changing the angle of his thrusts in a way that has Sherlock arching his back and pressing his heels into the backs of John's shoulders. John lets his eyes slide closed as Sherlock floods all his senses, and before long he’s pounding into him with abandon, their moans and the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room around them.

When John opens his eyes again and manages to focus his vision, Sherlock is all he can see, flushed and sweating and absolutely undone. He leans further forward, contorting Sherlock’s body to intensify the angle even more, and he can't bear to keep Sherlock in the dark any longer. He reaches up with a clumsy hand and pushes the tie away from Sherlock’s eyes, letting him see for the first time since they began, and the bright, dazed gaze that meets him threatens to overwhelm him. He chokes on his breath as his hips stutter; he’s utterly consumed by the love he has for this gorgeous, gorgeous man. “Oh, god,” he breathes, attempting to resettle into a rhythm, but he struggles as Sherlock looks up into his eyes and the corners of his lips quirk up in a blissed-out smile.

It’s too much. John drops his head to Sherlock’s chest and gives himself over to feeling, fucking Sherlock hard and loving how he screams his enjoyment. Somehow he has the presence of mine to reach down and take Sherlock’s cock in his hand, pumping him furiously in time with his thrusts, and all the different sources of stimulation for Sherlock quickly render him out if control. His whole body thrashes as he comes, shouting babble having apparently lost the ability to form words at all, unable to do anything but take what John gives him and eventually becoming boneless and pliant in John's arms.

John braces himself against the bed and chases his own release. His thighs are burning from the exertion and he knows that he’s close. Now that Sherlock has come, he fucks him selfishly and maintains a brutal pace until his orgasm hits him like a truck, shooting his load into Sherlock, hands fisted in the sheets and riding the waves of pleasure until they eventually ease. He slows and finally stops his thrusts, resting where he is as he gets his breath back, running his hands along the sides of Sherlock’s torso until he feels himself coming back to the real world.

He lifts his head and kisses Sherlock deeply before pulling out, letting his legs down and collapsing beside him on the bed. They both lie in blissful quiet, although John feels his heart pounding against his ribcage and his blood is roaring in his ears. No matter how many times he does this, he suspects that intimacy with Sherlock will never cease to blow his mind.

He is vaguely aware of Sherlock turning his head to look at him through glassy eyes, and his voice isn't quite steady when he speaks. “I do love you, John.”

A silly grin spreads across John's face. He’s so high on sex and endorphins and Sherlock, and he gropes around to take Sherlock’s hand before remembering that both are still cuffed above his head, so he settles for stroking his fingers across Sherlock’s abdomen instead. His skin is sticky with cooling sweat and semen, and John finds that he couldn't be less bothered. Sherlock shivers under his touch, hypersensitive.

“You are…” he barely recognises his own voice, and he searches his frazzled brain for the right word, but it fails to come to him, “... something.”

“Something good?”

John turns his head, still grinning and quite uncaring about how ridiculous he might look. “Something the best.”