Fic: Blind Date (John/Sherlock, Explicit)
Jun. 23rd, 2013 09:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
swissmargTitle: Blind Date
Author:
swissmarg
Rating: Explicit
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Word count: 6,424
Warnings: None
Summary: Uni AU. Mike sets John up on a blind date, but she never shows up. Instead, there's this mysterious stranger...
Disclaimer: Sherlock is a BBC production created by Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. This is a transformative fanwork with no copyright infringement intended.
Notes: Written for
mistyzeo's prompt 'stood up' for the flash 24-hour porn challenge on ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
come_at_once. My original submission can be found over there, but I have rewritten the ending now. This has not been beta read or Britpicked. Although Sherlock and John are younger than in the TV series, I'm setting this in the current time so I don't have to worry about technological anachronisms. Despite potential appearances, this does not contain any genderswap. And although the contrary may be hinted at in places, this is not meant to contain underage. I intended for both Sherlock and John to be over 18. Finally, I know what's mentioned with the university classes could never actually work in the U.K. but let's just pretend it's more like the U.S. system of education where pre-med students may have classes with other majors, kay? Kay. Just remember, it's all about the smut. The rest is just transport.
(Read on AO3)
John checked his watch again. Twenty-three minutes. How much longer should he give her? He swept the pub again from his vantage point at the bar. It wasn't very crowded, just the usual early Tuesday evening bunch of students getting together to relax a bit after classes before going on to the serious clubs and parties later, or returning home or to the library to study.
John would normally be one of the latter - he couldn't afford to mess up now, in his last year of med school - but Mike had been after him to meet this 'amazing' girl for a couple of weeks, and he'd finally caved in, if only so he'd leave him alone about it. It sounded too good to be true, but Mike insisted John would like her, and Mike was generally helpful, down-to-earth, and had sound advice, so John was curious and cautiously optimistic. Plus, it had been longer than he cared to admit since he'd gotten a leg over, or even just gone out and let go for a night. Even if it didn't work out with this girl, it would do him good to have a break.
The woman's name was Etain, and she was, according to Mike, tall and slender but with 'two pert, perfect handfuls, if you know what I mean' (Mike had accompanied the comment by cupping both his hands suggestively) and the 'most intense' eyes. And gorgeous, of course, with thick, dark curls. Not to mention 'more brains than she knew what to do with', although that wasn't going to help John spot her.
Most of the women there were around John's height or only slightly taller, certainly not the 'good head' taller Mike had described. John didn't have a problem with dating a taller woman, although he'd never actually gone out with one who had that much of a height advantage. Well, if it didn't bother her, it certainly wouldn't bother him. It became immaterial once they were horizontal, after all.
He could also see several brunettes, including one with very tight curls that John would love to get his fingers twisted in, but that was obviously her boyfriend with her, and the others were either on the plump side, or short, or their hair was too straight for John to charitably even acknowledge a wave.
John took another small sip of the pint he was nursing. He was going to have to get another one soon. Twenty-five minutes. Maybe something had happened. As a doctor-in-training, he couldn't help coming up with several unhappy scenarios. If only Mike had given John her number, he could have at least texted to make sure she was all right. On the other hand, maybe she'd already been in, spotted John and jumped ship. Well, what he didn't know-
"I wouldn't give her more than half an hour," a male voice advised.
John started and turned to see a young man leaning casually against the bar next to him; he definitely hadn't been there five seconds earlier.
"Sorry, what?" John asked in confusion.
"Your blind date. Or should I say, the one who got away." The man sounded bored as he gazed around the room.
John took the opportunity to look at him more closely. He couldn't have been any older than John; in fact, more likely a few years younger. Possibly not even old enough to be there. He held himself confidently, although who wouldn't, John considered, with those looks and that wardrobe: thick, dark waves of hair slicked back from his face, emphasizing the sharp angles and bright, pale eyes that seemed to be taking in everything at a glance; a dark shirt in an undefinable gray-green-blue, the top two buttons undone far enough to give a glimpse of fair skin spattered with several intriguing freckles and moles, and tight enough everywhere else to leave no doubt that the man was toned and possessed of a whipcord strength; dark trousers that clung to his hips and thighs without being indecent about it. Definitely one of the clubbers just hanging out until the hot spots opened later.
"I'm not waiting-" John began defensively, because it was embarrassing enough being stood up without a stranger rubbing it in.
"Oh please," the man said, now giving John a once-over that felt like being x-rayed. "Clean shirt, clean trousers, even that jacket's been freshly dry-cleaned, and with you a med student living off ramen you're not going to go to that much expense much less have time to do your laundry unless you're trying to make a good first impression. So, first date. You've been examining the women in here with particular care, so either you're in training to be a plastic surgeon and amusing yourself with speculating what work you'd do on them given the chance, or you've never seen the woman you're waiting for before. Blind date, obvious." He gave a little derisive sniff.
Something started creeping up the back of John's skull and his heart rate kicked up a notch. He set his drink down so he could give all his attention to this - stalker? Mind-reader? He should probably be put off by the man's intrusiveness, but all he felt was a magnetic kind of fascination. "Who are you?" he asked.
"Sherlock Holmes. Not that that answers your actual question, which is how I knew all that."
"John. John Watson." John held out his hand to shake Sherlock's. "And yes, all right. How did you know I'm a med student?"
"Student part's obvious, this is a student pub and you fit the age and socio-economic demographic. Carefully trimmed nails, meticulously clean, say you do something where hygiene is important. Could be you're working in food service to put yourself through school, but you look much too intelligent not to have been able to find better employment. So, something medical."
"I could just be a neat freak," John pointed out, pleased at the compliment about his intelligence.
"Have you seen your hair? And, you missed a spot shaving, just-" Sherlock reached in and flicked his finger against John's neck. "-there."
John grinned and jerked back reflexively. The spot Sherlock had touched tickled, and he rubbed his hand over it.
"That's amazing," John said.
Sherlock grunted and looked away again, as if the praise made him uncomfortable.
"No really, it's fantastic," John insisted. "And how about you?"
"What about me?" Sherlock asked suspiciously.
"What are you studying? Sorry, I can't exactly read it from your-" John made a gesture encompassing Sherlock. "Finance or business, I'd guess."
Sherlock smirked and leaned in, one elbow on the bar. "What makes you think I'm a student at all?"
Now John felt smug. "You said it yourself: student pub, you're the right age." And what else was a posh toff like him going to be doing? He'd be enrolled for appearance's sake, if nothing else.
Sherlock tossed his head, conceding the point. "Officially, I'm reading chemistry, but I'm not planning on finishing."
Of course not, John thought with a twinge of resentfulness. Probably had a position waiting for him at his father's company. All he said, though, was: "Why not?"
"Better things to do," Sherlock answered vaguely. "Like now." He gave John another once-over, this one more heated. The tingle crept over his scalp again, but this time it continued down into his chest and even further south.
"Yeah?" John said, his voice surprising him with its gruffness. His tongue swiped over his bottom lip and he reached for his drink again.
"Bottoms up. It's time we be on our way," Sherlock said impatiently.
John frowned over the edge of his glass.
"You're coming with me," Sherlock explained in answer to John's unasked question, as if this were all arranged. "Back to mine, I should think, as you'll have flatmates who aren't reliably absent."
John nearly inhaled the rest of his drink. Through his coughing fit, he gasped, "You- You want me to go back to your flat, a total stranger, for what- to revise chemistry?"
Sherlock held out a paper serviette with a look of distaste. "For sex, John, really, you can't be that obtuse."
John coughed a few more times into the serviette for good measure, then said, "I'm not gay." He wasn't, not exactly, had never pursued a man before, but he definitely saw the appeal of the one in front of him now.
"No, but I've made you curious. And, you came here tonight hoping to find a sexual partner, and I don't see anyone else clamouring for a chance."
"You seem awfully sure of yourself."
"I haven't heard you say no yet."
Sherlock's flat was... not what John expected. Yes, it was in a great area, but it was filthy, and cramped, and so full of clutter he had to literally shove piles of - were those enema bags? - aside with his foot in order to follow Sherlock through the living room and kitchen and down a short hall, unable to comfortably reach the spaces cleared like stepping-stones amongst the jumble.
"Toilet's in there," Sherlock said, gesturing at a door as he passed it. "Don't worry, though, you can top. I'm clean."
John couldn't really think of an answer to that, so he didn't. He did stop at the door Sherlock had indicated, though, because it seemed to be expected.
"I'll just be in here then when you're ready," Sherlock said as he opened another door. He looked oddly young and vulnerable all of a sudden, his eyes big in his narrow face. But it was probably a trick of the lighting.
"Right, I'll-" John gestured at the bathroom.
"Oh!" Sherlock exclaimed, as if he'd just thought of something. "Do you want something to drink? I should offer you a drink or something, shouldn't I?" He gestured back toward the kitchen.
John weighed the odds of anything in the flat being safe for consumption, given the glimpse he'd had of the extensive chemistry set spread out on the kitchen table and the permeating odor of decomposing plant matter. "I'll just... Water will be fine. I'll take some from the tap." He'd only had the one beer, so he wasn't anywhere near impaired or in danger of having a hangover, but his mouth was feeling rather dry all of a sudden.
Sherlock appeared to consider that seriously. "Yes, that's probably safe," he finally agreed, and, ducking his head, disappeared into the other room.
John closed the bathroom door behind him and leaned back against it, feeling slightly sick and even more excited. What the hell was he doing? He knew better than this. Sherlock (if that was in fact his real name) could be some deranged killer, or HIV-positive, or a blackmailer who was at this very minute setting up a camera to record their encounter or livestream it on some gay porn site.
Right. He went to the sink and splashed cold water on his face and neck, found some mouthwash in the medicine cabinet to rinse out his mouth, and relieved his bladder. He'd showered before going out, hoping for something similar to this, although with a woman - with Etain, fuck! He'd forgotten completely about her! He hoped she had actually stood him up so he wouldn't have any explaining to do to either her or Mike tomorrow. And of course he fervently hoped there was going to be a tomorrow. Although he felt fairly confident he could take Sherlock on in a purely physical confrontation, there probably wasn't much he could do if Sherlock was lying in wait with a needle to drug him, or a weapon to otherwise incapacitate him. The prospect probably shouldn't excite him as much as it did; not in a sexual way, specifically, but just the fact of not knowing, the possibility of something happening that might even be dangerous, got his adrenaline pumping like nothing else.
So as not to feel that he was being completely stupid, though, he sent a quick text to Mike:
Sorry, missed Etain. Met a friend, staying over. 221b Baker Street.
At least the police would know where to look for his body.
As for the rest, he wasn't so much bothered by the prospect of having his naked body publicly broadcast while engaged in sexual acts, if that's what Sherlock was up to. He wasn't embarrassed by his body; sure, he was a bit soft, but it was all serviceable and in good working order. There wouldn't be any legal repercussions (not for him, anyway), he wasn't cheating on anyone, he didn't have a job that he could be fired from, and really, none of his mates would care. He didn't tend to keep company with anyone who was homophobic - couldn't afford to, really, with his sister being gay. Sure, Sherlock should be up front about it if those were his intentions, and John wouldn't actually have agreed to it if asked, but if his face and dick did turn up online somewhere, it wasn't going to ruin his life.
Regarding the potential for disease, however, John was much more cautious and sober. Despite Sherlock's flippant offer, John was adamant to himself that no penetration was going to happen, and he was going to have that condom in his pocket on as soon as he was hard enough. Which, he'd be interested to see how long that took.
Taking a deep breath, he went back out into the hall and opened the door Sherlock had disappeared behind.
"Toilet's all yours if you- Oh." John stopped just inside the door to what he now saw must be Sherlock's bedroom. It was slightly neater than what he'd seen of the rest of the flat, although there were still piles of books and papers overflowing from the desk, dresser, and both visible chairs. But at least the bed - a double - was clear, as was the floor - mostly, aside from a box full of some undefinable metal bits and bobs positioned just right for tripping over painfully should one have to get up in the middle of the night.
But that wasn't what gave him pause. It was the sight of Sherlock, stripped to his pants, standing at the open window smoking a cigarette. The only light was coming from a reading lamp on the night stand next to the bed, and while most of Sherlock's body was cast in soft shadows, his upper chest and face were bottom-lighted in sharp relief. John didn't see any of the youth he'd glimpsed in the hall and, briefly, at the pub. Here was a full-grown man, broad-shouldered with a dark line of hair leading from his navel down into his pants; chest, arms and thighs with fully defined muscles and a thick, rounded swelling between his legs. John couldn't tell whether he was in the first stages of arousal or just big, but he realised with a jolt that he was about to find out.
Sherlock blew a lungful of smoke in a thin stream out the window, tossed the half-smoked butt after it, and closed the window.
"You might want to take some of those off," Sherlock suggested, nodding at John as he crawled onto the bed and settled in the middle to watch. His legs were casually spread, the dark triangle of his pants emphasising the size of his groin, and he had one arm up behind his head, showing an armpit full of dark hair.
At some level, John thought that should have put him off: he was used to - and attracted to - smooth, hairless skin, soft curves, and involuted genitals, not this obvious display of masculinity, but he couldn't deny his interest, not with the way his heart was racing and his stomach was tingling. And, yes, there it was, the distant pull of tissues expanding and blood flow being redirected. Oh God, he was getting sexually aroused by looking at a half-naked man. A gorgeous, charismatic, enigmatic, half-naked man. Soon to be fully naked. Oh, God.
Sherlock shifted, taking his arm down. "If you've changed your mind..." he said, sounding slightly less confident than before.
"No!" John blurted out, unaware how long he'd been staring. "No, here-" He all but tore off his jacket while hopping on one foot trying to get his shoes off.
Sherlock sat forward, now with a smug grin. "If you need any help with that..."
"No, I've got it," John said as he finally managed to rid himself of his jacket and started on his shirt. He sat down on the foot of the bed with his back to Sherlock so he wouldn't feel so much like he was putting on a show. "So, um... you have a flatmate?" John asked as the silence became awkward for him.
"Of sorts. Officially, he has the room upstairs, but he lives with his girlfriend, only keeps the address here so his parents don't find out."
"Oh, right. Well, convenient for you, I suppose." He didn't see any convenient place to put his shirt, so he tossed it onto the floor on top of his jacket. His vest followed.
"Yes, except she's given him an ultimatum that he either tell his parents or she's going to break up with him. So that's him gone by the end of the month," Sherlock drawled.
"I shouldn't think you'd have any trouble finding a replacement, not with a location like this," John said as he opened his trousers.
Sherlock made a noncommittal sort of sound, like it really didn't concern him.
"Right, um..." John lifted his hips to pull his trousers down the rest of the way and kicked them away, although not before plucking the condom out of the pocket, then scooted up the bed, ending up sitting next to Sherlock with his back against the headboard. His foot brushed Sherlock's and he moved it away, as if it were an impolite encroachment into Sherlock's space.
Sherlock was watching him with a half cynical, half amused expression. John couldn't recall feeling this nervous with someone since he was sixteen, but even then, the girl he was with had been just as inexperienced as he was. Now, he felt like he was auditioning for a part he didn't even have the script for.
"You uh... You do this often then? Pick up blokes in the pub and bring them home?" John asked, turning the condom package over and over in his hands.
Sherlock stiffened. "No."
"Oh God, no, I didn't mean it like that," John protested, although he had, but not in a bad way. "I just meant I have absolutely no idea how this is supposed to go. I mean..." And then something else occurred to him, given Sherlock's answer and what he suspected was his young age: "You have done this - something like this - before, haven't you?"
"Yes, John, really, do stop being so dull," he chided. "I'm not a virgin, and you've had casual sex before, so I wish you'd stop blushing. I'm also, like you, not a slut or a whore."
John was on the verge of being insulted about the casual sex remark, but he supposed it wasn't such a great leap to conclude that he'd done something like this before as well (although with women), given that he'd followed a complete stranger home on the promise of sex without so much as batting an eye.
"All right," John conceded, "sorry. I didn't want to imply anything. So, should we..." He tapped his foot against Sherlock's.
"It is what you came here for."
"We don't have to," John said quickly, because there was something in Sherlock's voice that gave him pause. "I mean, we could just talk, or something." He thought he'd quite like that too, actually.
"After," Sherlock said. He placed his hand carefully on top of John's where it was resting on his thigh. "I'd like to talk to you." He almost sounded shy, or as if that were news to him too, and John turned his head to look at him in surprise. But he didn't see hesitation there; he saw determination. And then he didn't see much of anything, as Sherlock leaned in and kissed him.
John was distantly surprised at how little being kissed by another man bothered him, but mostly he just thought about how full and soft Sherlock's lips were, how good he smelled, and despite the tobacco flavour mingling with the mediciney mouthwash and the underlying beer how he could taste Sherlock.
As they kissed, they both let their hands roam, tentatively at first, then more boldly, palming shoulders and backs, stroking across chests and abdomens, delicately running a finger over the whorl of an ear or the bend of a knee. John ended up lying half on top of Sherlock, their legs entangled, propping himself up on one elbow. With the thumb of his other hand, he rubbed Sherlock's cheek, bringing it in occasionally to join their kiss, smearing over Sherlock's pouting bottom lip or pressing into his mouth for Sherlock to suck while John dipped down to lick and kiss his neck and collarbones.
When Sherlock made a slightly strangled noise and lifted John's hips to free his trapped erection, John realised he was hard as well. John lifted his eyes to meet Sherlock's, and as if by mutual unspoken agreement, they both shimmied out of their pants.
Sherlock was big. Bigger than John. Not quite equine proportions, but big enough that he'd be well regarded in an adult movie. 'Well hung' was probably the phrase John was looking for.
"It's ... nice," John said, because he thought he should say something, and immediately felt like a complete tit.
Sherlock grinned and pulled John down to kiss him again, at the same time sliding one hand up John's leg and ending with a handful of John's balls. "Yours too," he said against John's mouth.
"Nghngh," John grunted usefully, dropping his legs further apart to give Sherlock better access. Sherlock did something incredible to his perineum. "That feels amazing," John finally managed when he was no longer seeing stars.
"Yes," Sherlock said, studying John's face so intently that he began to think Sherlock was talking about something else altogether. But then Sherlock's fingers strayed dangerously far back, and John remembered the limits he'd set. He reached down to stay Sherlock's hand.
"No penetration," he said.
"Just my fingers," Sherlock assured him. "I promise it will feel good. And you can-" He dipped down to nip at John's chest and nipples. "I won't make you come yet. I still want you to fuck me."
And fuck, if it wasn't just about the hardest thing for John to do, but he still had a modicum of brainpower left. "No, we can't," he said with as much authority as he could muster. "I just- Hands only, okay? And I'm going to put on a condom, and I'd like you to as well."
Sherlock lifted his face, and John thought for a horrible moment that he was going to call the whole thing off, but then he just exhaled in a put-upon manner and twisted awkwardly to fumble with the drawer in the night stand. John had lost track of his own condom at some point, so he sat up and felt around in the sheets until he found it. By the time he got the foil wrapper open and the condom well-seated all the way down to the base of his penis, Sherlock was ready too, and holding a small tube of lubricant in his hand.
"You're not going to let me suck you either, are you?" Sherlock asked, as if that were a great disappointment.
"It's nothing personal, but I'd rather be safe," John explained. "Although if it's any consolation, I'm so hard I can hardly see straight and I'll probably come if you so much as blow on me."
"Not quite a consolation, but flattering," Sherlock acknowledged as he deposited a generous dollop onto his first two fingers.
"Should I-" John started to turn around, but Sherlock stopped him with a hand on his hip.
"No, on your back. Just put your knees up. More, pull them back more." Sherlock directed and prodded at John until he felt more and more like he was about to undergo a medical procedure. Finally, though, Sherlock was satisfied and settled in with John's arse cradled in the V between his open thighs. He waited until John was watching him, until their eyes were holding each other. "Now relax," Sherlock said, and placed his slicked-up fingers just behind John's testicles. "Touch yourself," he directed. "If you'd let me, I'd take you in my mouth now, so imagine it's me. Use the lube." He picked up the tube he'd dropped onto the bed.
Shakily, John got the lid off and squeezed some out into his left hand. He picked up his cock and smeared the lubricant around, then started working himself with long, slow pulls.
Meanwhile, Sherlock rubbed small circles on John's perineum until he was able to release the tension in his pelvic area, then moved further back. He stopped every centimetre or so to give John time to get used to the feeling, until he was rubbing the outer edge of John's anus with firm, soft strokes.
"You look incredible," Sherlock said. He leaned forward, supporting himself with his free arm, to kiss John, softly at first, then with more intent. The tip of one finger pressed into John. John tensed instinctively, even though it didn't hurt, and Sherlock retreated to the gentle, insistent circling. "More lube," he said as he sat back again and held his hand up.
John found the tube - he'd left the cap off, and it was dribbling down onto the sheets - and dripped some more onto Sherlock's fingers, being careful not to let the opening actually come into contact with the fingers.
Sherlock smeared the lube around on John's skin first to warm it up before re-applying himself to opening John up. John felt the liquid running slowly down over his hole and fought the instinct to clench. This time, when Sherlock slid the tip of his finger in, he was able to keep it there, not moving, just waiting for John to get used to it.
"Keep touching yourself," Sherlock reminded him in a low voice. "If you'd let me, I'd have your whole cock in my mouth right now. I'd only come up for air when I couldn't stand it any more, and then I'd swallow you down again. You'd feel my throat convulse around you. It would be hot and tight and wet, just like fucking a woman, but better because I'd use my tongue."
"Oh fuck," John breathed, unable to look away from Sherlock's mouth as he said those filthy things, as he imagined every single word translating into action, every syllable a thousand nerve endings stimulated. His hand moved faster on his cock, sliding easily over the slippery surface of the condom.
Sherlock pushed his finger in just a little bit further. "And then, when you were just about to come, I'd pull off. I wouldn't let you come yet because you know I want you to fuck me. If you'd let me, I'd be ready for you. You could fuck me like this, with me on my back, and you sliding into me. We'd use lots of lube, but it would still be tight, and you'd feel me squeeze you, trap you inside me."
John could imagine it, could feel everything, from both sides, he could feel what it would be like inside Sherlock as he squeezed his cock with his whole hand, tried to simulate that warm sheath, and he could just about imagine what it would feel like to Sherlock, as his finger advanced ever further inside John. It was a little mindblowing because he'd never thought about fucking from both perspectives at once.
"Or you could stay right where you are," Sherlock continued, "and I'd sit up on top of you and lower myself until I had your whole cock inside me. John, that's what I want. You inside me, you'd feel so good." His voice was becoming unsteady, and John saw now that Sherlock was jerking himself off with the hand that he wasn't using on John.
At the same moment, Sherlock's finger brushed against a spot inside John that sent a wave of intense pleasure coursing through him. He groaned and lifted his hips off the bed, thrusting involuntarily.
Sherlock looked away, dropping his chin to his chest and panting, open-mouthed. "Oh God, John, please." His hand on his cock was all but a blur; John's was moving in sympathy. He was close.
"Yes, fuck, Sherlock, yes," he gasped, not even sure what he was agreeing to, but knowing that whatever Sherlock needed he wanted to give it to him.
Sherlock was fucking John directly with his finger now, in and out, teasing and gliding over his prostate with a regularity that had John breathless and writhing.
"Sherlock, come here, please, now, I can't wait," John babbled with his last scraps of coherent speech.
Sherlock leaned forward again to catch John's mouth with his, thrusting his finger up into John once more and pressing against that golden nub, and then John was coming, pulse after pulse emptying him out and sending rolling waves of pleasure through his entire body. He couldn't breathe for a moment, and only distantly registered Sherlock saying something.
"John, you have no idea, no idea how long-" Sherlock cut himself off by kissing John fiercely. John, in the throes of aftershocks, rather agreed with the sentiment, because it had been a long time since he'd been with someone too, and even longer since it had been this intense. In fact, it had probably never been intense in quite this same way. It was all the excitement and anticipation of a first time, but with the knowledge of what he liked and what would feel best.
John could feel Sherlock still jerking at his cock against John's stomach. John reached down and carefully felt for Sherlock's testicles. They were high and tight. He gently manipulated them, rubbing and squeezing the way he himself liked it.
"Yeah, come on, Sherlock, that's gorgeous," he encouraged him around kisses.
Sherlock dropped his head to John's shoulder and hitched his knees up until they were pressed against John's buttocks. "John..."
"Right here, fuck, you're amazing, tell me what to do for you."
"John..." Sherlock all but whined.
John took both of Sherlock's balls in his hand and pulled while pressing his knuckles into Sherlock's perineum.
Sherlock lurched forward and came with a cry, his arm gradually slowing and finally dropping away as the tension leached out of him. He flopped his entire weight to the side, making the bed creak ominously. Then they were both still. John felt the absence of Sherlock's finger. It made him want to curl himself around Sherlock and pull him in close, but he didn't move.
So that was gay sex, John mused. It was... pretty incredible. Although he knew that was mostly down to the man lying sweating next to him trying to catch his breath. Not just the fact that he knew what he was doing and how to do it to John, but there was something else, a connection that went above and beyond the physical act. It wasn't love, not yet, but John recognised that it could turn into it, if given a chance. It was all a bit overwhelming, and he was grateful when Sherlock shifted away and mumbled something about cleaning up.
Once Sherlock had padded off to the toilet, John sat up and peeled the used condom off. He tied the end and had to wander out into the kitchen before finding a bin. He chanced a gulp of water at the tap there, and came back when he heard Sherlock coming out of the bathroom.
"You're not leaving, are you?" Sherlock said, looking startled to find John out of bed. He had a wet flannel in his hand.
"Not just now, no," John said, amused. "They might not let me on the Tube like this."
"Ah, no, I just meant. Well, you can stay." Sherlock thrust the flannel at him. He looked very young again.
John wasn't sure if that was a good idea. He felt like he needed some distance at the moment, quite honestly. To think about what he wanted to do. But at the same time, his heart screamed at the thought of leaving Sherlock behind. So before he could second-guess himself, he said, "Okay," and followed Sherlock back to bed.
It was barely light out when John woke up. He knew immediately where he was. He and Sherlock actually had ended up talking afterwards; Sherlock had a huge range of interests and obsessions, from esoteric things like different varieties of tobacco (John had no idea there were so many) to modern classical music (apparently he played the violin, which didn't surprise John in the least). He also managed to squeeze absolutely every detail of John's life out of him (much of it without John even needing to say a word) while giving practically nothing away about his own. John had no idea how long they'd stayed up, but he'd needed to get up for water and the toilet once, and it had been very late when they'd finally drifted off. John hadn't gotten much actual rest, though, aware of every twitch and sigh from the man lying next to him. And of the ever increasing strength of the longing to touch him and pleasure him and swallow him up. He blinked open his sticky eyes and regarded Sherlock's profile where he lay on his back, still asleep.
Oh my God, John thought with a start and propped himself up his elbow to get a better look. He knew him. Now, with his hair loose of whatever product he'd smeared in it and tumbling over his forehead, the sheet draped across his chest reminiscent of the white cotton t-shirt he generally wore with skinny jeans, John was able to match him up with the fleeting glimpses he'd had around campus.
He'd shown up to exactly one chem lecture in John's first year, argued loudly with the lecturer, declared him an idiot, and stormed off, never to darken that doorway again. He'd been even younger then, of course, just a kid, and that was what had made the scene stick in John's mind, how this skinny kid had stood up and spouted off theories that had been then and frankly probably still were way over John's head like some kind of child prodigy. Which, John realised, he probably had been. If he'd started uni at the same time as John, then he was possibly (hopefully) legal now, which was a relief.
And there were other times too: once in the library, when a tall toff with a posh accent was railing at a librarian over some books he'd apparently never returned; another time when the lift door opened in the bio building to reveal a young man with wild eyes and his hands in his hair ranting at no one about diseased livers.
John had never really paid attention to him, focused as he was on his own business. He'd merely brushed him off as either an eccentric philosophy student or a pothead, but now he wondered, if he'd taken a second look back then, would he have seen something behind those striking slanted eyes and sharp cheekbones? Might they have talked, struck up a friendship? Quite honestly, he thought it unlikely. They ran in different circles, had different interests, different goals... and none of that had changed, John reminded himself harshly. One intense sexual experience and a couple of hours of rambling chatter didn't mean anything. John wasn't even sure he could really say they were friends now. But he did know (actually had known since the moment he'd agreed to stay the night) that he didn't want to walk away from this and write it off as a youthful experiment, no matter how successful.
Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up at John hovering over him, as if he'd been awake this whole time. Which he probably had. Probably also knew what John was thinking.
"Ah," Sherlock said after a moment. "Figured it out then." He set his jaw, as if he was going to have to defend himself.
"You... I'm not sure. I've seen you before. Here and there. Didn't make the connection until now."
"That memorable, am I?" There was something bitter and self-deprecating in the twist of his mouth. It made John want to smooth his thumb over its generous curve until it softened and resolved into a smile meant just for him.
Instead, John shook his head slightly. "You were different. Before. And the way you looked last night... I mean, you don't usually hang about the quads looking like you stepped out of the pages of GQ. Nothing forgettable about that. Or any of the rest," he added, his mouth going dry and his hands cold. He was afraid he was going too far. Because now, in the cold light of day, surely Sherlock would want nothing more to do with John. It was a one-night stand, that's all. It had been fun, and they'd make some vague promises to meet up for coffee some time, and that would be that.
But Sherlock was staring up at John with those pale eyes (even now John couldn't quite determine their colour) as if he were committing his face to memory, as if he were trying to insert something into John's head by sheer force of will alone. "No," he agreed slowly. "Not forgettable at all."
John's heart was pounding so loudly he was sure Sherlock could hear it too. And then he did something he was certain he was going to regret later, because it was utterly insane; he barely knew the man, after all. But John was generally a person who jumped first and looked later, and anyway, what was the worst that could happen? He'd already texted Mike the address.
"You know, I was thinking about the problem with your flatmate," John said, a slow smile spreading across his face. "And I think I may just have a solution."
Author:
Rating: Explicit
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Word count: 6,424
Warnings: None
Summary: Uni AU. Mike sets John up on a blind date, but she never shows up. Instead, there's this mysterious stranger...
Disclaimer: Sherlock is a BBC production created by Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. This is a transformative fanwork with no copyright infringement intended.
Notes: Written for
mistyzeo's prompt 'stood up' for the flash 24-hour porn challenge on come_at_once. My original submission can be found over there, but I have rewritten the ending now. This has not been beta read or Britpicked. Although Sherlock and John are younger than in the TV series, I'm setting this in the current time so I don't have to worry about technological anachronisms. Despite potential appearances, this does not contain any genderswap. And although the contrary may be hinted at in places, this is not meant to contain underage. I intended for both Sherlock and John to be over 18. Finally, I know what's mentioned with the university classes could never actually work in the U.K. but let's just pretend it's more like the U.S. system of education where pre-med students may have classes with other majors, kay? Kay. Just remember, it's all about the smut. The rest is just transport.(Read on AO3)
Blind Date
John checked his watch again. Twenty-three minutes. How much longer should he give her? He swept the pub again from his vantage point at the bar. It wasn't very crowded, just the usual early Tuesday evening bunch of students getting together to relax a bit after classes before going on to the serious clubs and parties later, or returning home or to the library to study.
John would normally be one of the latter - he couldn't afford to mess up now, in his last year of med school - but Mike had been after him to meet this 'amazing' girl for a couple of weeks, and he'd finally caved in, if only so he'd leave him alone about it. It sounded too good to be true, but Mike insisted John would like her, and Mike was generally helpful, down-to-earth, and had sound advice, so John was curious and cautiously optimistic. Plus, it had been longer than he cared to admit since he'd gotten a leg over, or even just gone out and let go for a night. Even if it didn't work out with this girl, it would do him good to have a break.
The woman's name was Etain, and she was, according to Mike, tall and slender but with 'two pert, perfect handfuls, if you know what I mean' (Mike had accompanied the comment by cupping both his hands suggestively) and the 'most intense' eyes. And gorgeous, of course, with thick, dark curls. Not to mention 'more brains than she knew what to do with', although that wasn't going to help John spot her.
Most of the women there were around John's height or only slightly taller, certainly not the 'good head' taller Mike had described. John didn't have a problem with dating a taller woman, although he'd never actually gone out with one who had that much of a height advantage. Well, if it didn't bother her, it certainly wouldn't bother him. It became immaterial once they were horizontal, after all.
He could also see several brunettes, including one with very tight curls that John would love to get his fingers twisted in, but that was obviously her boyfriend with her, and the others were either on the plump side, or short, or their hair was too straight for John to charitably even acknowledge a wave.
John took another small sip of the pint he was nursing. He was going to have to get another one soon. Twenty-five minutes. Maybe something had happened. As a doctor-in-training, he couldn't help coming up with several unhappy scenarios. If only Mike had given John her number, he could have at least texted to make sure she was all right. On the other hand, maybe she'd already been in, spotted John and jumped ship. Well, what he didn't know-
"I wouldn't give her more than half an hour," a male voice advised.
John started and turned to see a young man leaning casually against the bar next to him; he definitely hadn't been there five seconds earlier.
"Sorry, what?" John asked in confusion.
"Your blind date. Or should I say, the one who got away." The man sounded bored as he gazed around the room.
John took the opportunity to look at him more closely. He couldn't have been any older than John; in fact, more likely a few years younger. Possibly not even old enough to be there. He held himself confidently, although who wouldn't, John considered, with those looks and that wardrobe: thick, dark waves of hair slicked back from his face, emphasizing the sharp angles and bright, pale eyes that seemed to be taking in everything at a glance; a dark shirt in an undefinable gray-green-blue, the top two buttons undone far enough to give a glimpse of fair skin spattered with several intriguing freckles and moles, and tight enough everywhere else to leave no doubt that the man was toned and possessed of a whipcord strength; dark trousers that clung to his hips and thighs without being indecent about it. Definitely one of the clubbers just hanging out until the hot spots opened later.
"I'm not waiting-" John began defensively, because it was embarrassing enough being stood up without a stranger rubbing it in.
"Oh please," the man said, now giving John a once-over that felt like being x-rayed. "Clean shirt, clean trousers, even that jacket's been freshly dry-cleaned, and with you a med student living off ramen you're not going to go to that much expense much less have time to do your laundry unless you're trying to make a good first impression. So, first date. You've been examining the women in here with particular care, so either you're in training to be a plastic surgeon and amusing yourself with speculating what work you'd do on them given the chance, or you've never seen the woman you're waiting for before. Blind date, obvious." He gave a little derisive sniff.
Something started creeping up the back of John's skull and his heart rate kicked up a notch. He set his drink down so he could give all his attention to this - stalker? Mind-reader? He should probably be put off by the man's intrusiveness, but all he felt was a magnetic kind of fascination. "Who are you?" he asked.
"Sherlock Holmes. Not that that answers your actual question, which is how I knew all that."
"John. John Watson." John held out his hand to shake Sherlock's. "And yes, all right. How did you know I'm a med student?"
"Student part's obvious, this is a student pub and you fit the age and socio-economic demographic. Carefully trimmed nails, meticulously clean, say you do something where hygiene is important. Could be you're working in food service to put yourself through school, but you look much too intelligent not to have been able to find better employment. So, something medical."
"I could just be a neat freak," John pointed out, pleased at the compliment about his intelligence.
"Have you seen your hair? And, you missed a spot shaving, just-" Sherlock reached in and flicked his finger against John's neck. "-there."
John grinned and jerked back reflexively. The spot Sherlock had touched tickled, and he rubbed his hand over it.
"That's amazing," John said.
Sherlock grunted and looked away again, as if the praise made him uncomfortable.
"No really, it's fantastic," John insisted. "And how about you?"
"What about me?" Sherlock asked suspiciously.
"What are you studying? Sorry, I can't exactly read it from your-" John made a gesture encompassing Sherlock. "Finance or business, I'd guess."
Sherlock smirked and leaned in, one elbow on the bar. "What makes you think I'm a student at all?"
Now John felt smug. "You said it yourself: student pub, you're the right age." And what else was a posh toff like him going to be doing? He'd be enrolled for appearance's sake, if nothing else.
Sherlock tossed his head, conceding the point. "Officially, I'm reading chemistry, but I'm not planning on finishing."
Of course not, John thought with a twinge of resentfulness. Probably had a position waiting for him at his father's company. All he said, though, was: "Why not?"
"Better things to do," Sherlock answered vaguely. "Like now." He gave John another once-over, this one more heated. The tingle crept over his scalp again, but this time it continued down into his chest and even further south.
"Yeah?" John said, his voice surprising him with its gruffness. His tongue swiped over his bottom lip and he reached for his drink again.
"Bottoms up. It's time we be on our way," Sherlock said impatiently.
John frowned over the edge of his glass.
"You're coming with me," Sherlock explained in answer to John's unasked question, as if this were all arranged. "Back to mine, I should think, as you'll have flatmates who aren't reliably absent."
John nearly inhaled the rest of his drink. Through his coughing fit, he gasped, "You- You want me to go back to your flat, a total stranger, for what- to revise chemistry?"
Sherlock held out a paper serviette with a look of distaste. "For sex, John, really, you can't be that obtuse."
John coughed a few more times into the serviette for good measure, then said, "I'm not gay." He wasn't, not exactly, had never pursued a man before, but he definitely saw the appeal of the one in front of him now.
"No, but I've made you curious. And, you came here tonight hoping to find a sexual partner, and I don't see anyone else clamouring for a chance."
"You seem awfully sure of yourself."
"I haven't heard you say no yet."
%%%%%%
Sherlock's flat was... not what John expected. Yes, it was in a great area, but it was filthy, and cramped, and so full of clutter he had to literally shove piles of - were those enema bags? - aside with his foot in order to follow Sherlock through the living room and kitchen and down a short hall, unable to comfortably reach the spaces cleared like stepping-stones amongst the jumble.
"Toilet's in there," Sherlock said, gesturing at a door as he passed it. "Don't worry, though, you can top. I'm clean."
John couldn't really think of an answer to that, so he didn't. He did stop at the door Sherlock had indicated, though, because it seemed to be expected.
"I'll just be in here then when you're ready," Sherlock said as he opened another door. He looked oddly young and vulnerable all of a sudden, his eyes big in his narrow face. But it was probably a trick of the lighting.
"Right, I'll-" John gestured at the bathroom.
"Oh!" Sherlock exclaimed, as if he'd just thought of something. "Do you want something to drink? I should offer you a drink or something, shouldn't I?" He gestured back toward the kitchen.
John weighed the odds of anything in the flat being safe for consumption, given the glimpse he'd had of the extensive chemistry set spread out on the kitchen table and the permeating odor of decomposing plant matter. "I'll just... Water will be fine. I'll take some from the tap." He'd only had the one beer, so he wasn't anywhere near impaired or in danger of having a hangover, but his mouth was feeling rather dry all of a sudden.
Sherlock appeared to consider that seriously. "Yes, that's probably safe," he finally agreed, and, ducking his head, disappeared into the other room.
John closed the bathroom door behind him and leaned back against it, feeling slightly sick and even more excited. What the hell was he doing? He knew better than this. Sherlock (if that was in fact his real name) could be some deranged killer, or HIV-positive, or a blackmailer who was at this very minute setting up a camera to record their encounter or livestream it on some gay porn site.
Right. He went to the sink and splashed cold water on his face and neck, found some mouthwash in the medicine cabinet to rinse out his mouth, and relieved his bladder. He'd showered before going out, hoping for something similar to this, although with a woman - with Etain, fuck! He'd forgotten completely about her! He hoped she had actually stood him up so he wouldn't have any explaining to do to either her or Mike tomorrow. And of course he fervently hoped there was going to be a tomorrow. Although he felt fairly confident he could take Sherlock on in a purely physical confrontation, there probably wasn't much he could do if Sherlock was lying in wait with a needle to drug him, or a weapon to otherwise incapacitate him. The prospect probably shouldn't excite him as much as it did; not in a sexual way, specifically, but just the fact of not knowing, the possibility of something happening that might even be dangerous, got his adrenaline pumping like nothing else.
So as not to feel that he was being completely stupid, though, he sent a quick text to Mike:
Sorry, missed Etain. Met a friend, staying over. 221b Baker Street.
At least the police would know where to look for his body.
As for the rest, he wasn't so much bothered by the prospect of having his naked body publicly broadcast while engaged in sexual acts, if that's what Sherlock was up to. He wasn't embarrassed by his body; sure, he was a bit soft, but it was all serviceable and in good working order. There wouldn't be any legal repercussions (not for him, anyway), he wasn't cheating on anyone, he didn't have a job that he could be fired from, and really, none of his mates would care. He didn't tend to keep company with anyone who was homophobic - couldn't afford to, really, with his sister being gay. Sure, Sherlock should be up front about it if those were his intentions, and John wouldn't actually have agreed to it if asked, but if his face and dick did turn up online somewhere, it wasn't going to ruin his life.
Regarding the potential for disease, however, John was much more cautious and sober. Despite Sherlock's flippant offer, John was adamant to himself that no penetration was going to happen, and he was going to have that condom in his pocket on as soon as he was hard enough. Which, he'd be interested to see how long that took.
Taking a deep breath, he went back out into the hall and opened the door Sherlock had disappeared behind.
"Toilet's all yours if you- Oh." John stopped just inside the door to what he now saw must be Sherlock's bedroom. It was slightly neater than what he'd seen of the rest of the flat, although there were still piles of books and papers overflowing from the desk, dresser, and both visible chairs. But at least the bed - a double - was clear, as was the floor - mostly, aside from a box full of some undefinable metal bits and bobs positioned just right for tripping over painfully should one have to get up in the middle of the night.
But that wasn't what gave him pause. It was the sight of Sherlock, stripped to his pants, standing at the open window smoking a cigarette. The only light was coming from a reading lamp on the night stand next to the bed, and while most of Sherlock's body was cast in soft shadows, his upper chest and face were bottom-lighted in sharp relief. John didn't see any of the youth he'd glimpsed in the hall and, briefly, at the pub. Here was a full-grown man, broad-shouldered with a dark line of hair leading from his navel down into his pants; chest, arms and thighs with fully defined muscles and a thick, rounded swelling between his legs. John couldn't tell whether he was in the first stages of arousal or just big, but he realised with a jolt that he was about to find out.
Sherlock blew a lungful of smoke in a thin stream out the window, tossed the half-smoked butt after it, and closed the window.
"You might want to take some of those off," Sherlock suggested, nodding at John as he crawled onto the bed and settled in the middle to watch. His legs were casually spread, the dark triangle of his pants emphasising the size of his groin, and he had one arm up behind his head, showing an armpit full of dark hair.
At some level, John thought that should have put him off: he was used to - and attracted to - smooth, hairless skin, soft curves, and involuted genitals, not this obvious display of masculinity, but he couldn't deny his interest, not with the way his heart was racing and his stomach was tingling. And, yes, there it was, the distant pull of tissues expanding and blood flow being redirected. Oh God, he was getting sexually aroused by looking at a half-naked man. A gorgeous, charismatic, enigmatic, half-naked man. Soon to be fully naked. Oh, God.
Sherlock shifted, taking his arm down. "If you've changed your mind..." he said, sounding slightly less confident than before.
"No!" John blurted out, unaware how long he'd been staring. "No, here-" He all but tore off his jacket while hopping on one foot trying to get his shoes off.
Sherlock sat forward, now with a smug grin. "If you need any help with that..."
"No, I've got it," John said as he finally managed to rid himself of his jacket and started on his shirt. He sat down on the foot of the bed with his back to Sherlock so he wouldn't feel so much like he was putting on a show. "So, um... you have a flatmate?" John asked as the silence became awkward for him.
"Of sorts. Officially, he has the room upstairs, but he lives with his girlfriend, only keeps the address here so his parents don't find out."
"Oh, right. Well, convenient for you, I suppose." He didn't see any convenient place to put his shirt, so he tossed it onto the floor on top of his jacket. His vest followed.
"Yes, except she's given him an ultimatum that he either tell his parents or she's going to break up with him. So that's him gone by the end of the month," Sherlock drawled.
"I shouldn't think you'd have any trouble finding a replacement, not with a location like this," John said as he opened his trousers.
Sherlock made a noncommittal sort of sound, like it really didn't concern him.
"Right, um..." John lifted his hips to pull his trousers down the rest of the way and kicked them away, although not before plucking the condom out of the pocket, then scooted up the bed, ending up sitting next to Sherlock with his back against the headboard. His foot brushed Sherlock's and he moved it away, as if it were an impolite encroachment into Sherlock's space.
Sherlock was watching him with a half cynical, half amused expression. John couldn't recall feeling this nervous with someone since he was sixteen, but even then, the girl he was with had been just as inexperienced as he was. Now, he felt like he was auditioning for a part he didn't even have the script for.
"You uh... You do this often then? Pick up blokes in the pub and bring them home?" John asked, turning the condom package over and over in his hands.
Sherlock stiffened. "No."
"Oh God, no, I didn't mean it like that," John protested, although he had, but not in a bad way. "I just meant I have absolutely no idea how this is supposed to go. I mean..." And then something else occurred to him, given Sherlock's answer and what he suspected was his young age: "You have done this - something like this - before, haven't you?"
"Yes, John, really, do stop being so dull," he chided. "I'm not a virgin, and you've had casual sex before, so I wish you'd stop blushing. I'm also, like you, not a slut or a whore."
John was on the verge of being insulted about the casual sex remark, but he supposed it wasn't such a great leap to conclude that he'd done something like this before as well (although with women), given that he'd followed a complete stranger home on the promise of sex without so much as batting an eye.
"All right," John conceded, "sorry. I didn't want to imply anything. So, should we..." He tapped his foot against Sherlock's.
"It is what you came here for."
"We don't have to," John said quickly, because there was something in Sherlock's voice that gave him pause. "I mean, we could just talk, or something." He thought he'd quite like that too, actually.
"After," Sherlock said. He placed his hand carefully on top of John's where it was resting on his thigh. "I'd like to talk to you." He almost sounded shy, or as if that were news to him too, and John turned his head to look at him in surprise. But he didn't see hesitation there; he saw determination. And then he didn't see much of anything, as Sherlock leaned in and kissed him.
John was distantly surprised at how little being kissed by another man bothered him, but mostly he just thought about how full and soft Sherlock's lips were, how good he smelled, and despite the tobacco flavour mingling with the mediciney mouthwash and the underlying beer how he could taste Sherlock.
As they kissed, they both let their hands roam, tentatively at first, then more boldly, palming shoulders and backs, stroking across chests and abdomens, delicately running a finger over the whorl of an ear or the bend of a knee. John ended up lying half on top of Sherlock, their legs entangled, propping himself up on one elbow. With the thumb of his other hand, he rubbed Sherlock's cheek, bringing it in occasionally to join their kiss, smearing over Sherlock's pouting bottom lip or pressing into his mouth for Sherlock to suck while John dipped down to lick and kiss his neck and collarbones.
When Sherlock made a slightly strangled noise and lifted John's hips to free his trapped erection, John realised he was hard as well. John lifted his eyes to meet Sherlock's, and as if by mutual unspoken agreement, they both shimmied out of their pants.
Sherlock was big. Bigger than John. Not quite equine proportions, but big enough that he'd be well regarded in an adult movie. 'Well hung' was probably the phrase John was looking for.
"It's ... nice," John said, because he thought he should say something, and immediately felt like a complete tit.
Sherlock grinned and pulled John down to kiss him again, at the same time sliding one hand up John's leg and ending with a handful of John's balls. "Yours too," he said against John's mouth.
"Nghngh," John grunted usefully, dropping his legs further apart to give Sherlock better access. Sherlock did something incredible to his perineum. "That feels amazing," John finally managed when he was no longer seeing stars.
"Yes," Sherlock said, studying John's face so intently that he began to think Sherlock was talking about something else altogether. But then Sherlock's fingers strayed dangerously far back, and John remembered the limits he'd set. He reached down to stay Sherlock's hand.
"No penetration," he said.
"Just my fingers," Sherlock assured him. "I promise it will feel good. And you can-" He dipped down to nip at John's chest and nipples. "I won't make you come yet. I still want you to fuck me."
And fuck, if it wasn't just about the hardest thing for John to do, but he still had a modicum of brainpower left. "No, we can't," he said with as much authority as he could muster. "I just- Hands only, okay? And I'm going to put on a condom, and I'd like you to as well."
Sherlock lifted his face, and John thought for a horrible moment that he was going to call the whole thing off, but then he just exhaled in a put-upon manner and twisted awkwardly to fumble with the drawer in the night stand. John had lost track of his own condom at some point, so he sat up and felt around in the sheets until he found it. By the time he got the foil wrapper open and the condom well-seated all the way down to the base of his penis, Sherlock was ready too, and holding a small tube of lubricant in his hand.
"You're not going to let me suck you either, are you?" Sherlock asked, as if that were a great disappointment.
"It's nothing personal, but I'd rather be safe," John explained. "Although if it's any consolation, I'm so hard I can hardly see straight and I'll probably come if you so much as blow on me."
"Not quite a consolation, but flattering," Sherlock acknowledged as he deposited a generous dollop onto his first two fingers.
"Should I-" John started to turn around, but Sherlock stopped him with a hand on his hip.
"No, on your back. Just put your knees up. More, pull them back more." Sherlock directed and prodded at John until he felt more and more like he was about to undergo a medical procedure. Finally, though, Sherlock was satisfied and settled in with John's arse cradled in the V between his open thighs. He waited until John was watching him, until their eyes were holding each other. "Now relax," Sherlock said, and placed his slicked-up fingers just behind John's testicles. "Touch yourself," he directed. "If you'd let me, I'd take you in my mouth now, so imagine it's me. Use the lube." He picked up the tube he'd dropped onto the bed.
Shakily, John got the lid off and squeezed some out into his left hand. He picked up his cock and smeared the lubricant around, then started working himself with long, slow pulls.
Meanwhile, Sherlock rubbed small circles on John's perineum until he was able to release the tension in his pelvic area, then moved further back. He stopped every centimetre or so to give John time to get used to the feeling, until he was rubbing the outer edge of John's anus with firm, soft strokes.
"You look incredible," Sherlock said. He leaned forward, supporting himself with his free arm, to kiss John, softly at first, then with more intent. The tip of one finger pressed into John. John tensed instinctively, even though it didn't hurt, and Sherlock retreated to the gentle, insistent circling. "More lube," he said as he sat back again and held his hand up.
John found the tube - he'd left the cap off, and it was dribbling down onto the sheets - and dripped some more onto Sherlock's fingers, being careful not to let the opening actually come into contact with the fingers.
Sherlock smeared the lube around on John's skin first to warm it up before re-applying himself to opening John up. John felt the liquid running slowly down over his hole and fought the instinct to clench. This time, when Sherlock slid the tip of his finger in, he was able to keep it there, not moving, just waiting for John to get used to it.
"Keep touching yourself," Sherlock reminded him in a low voice. "If you'd let me, I'd have your whole cock in my mouth right now. I'd only come up for air when I couldn't stand it any more, and then I'd swallow you down again. You'd feel my throat convulse around you. It would be hot and tight and wet, just like fucking a woman, but better because I'd use my tongue."
"Oh fuck," John breathed, unable to look away from Sherlock's mouth as he said those filthy things, as he imagined every single word translating into action, every syllable a thousand nerve endings stimulated. His hand moved faster on his cock, sliding easily over the slippery surface of the condom.
Sherlock pushed his finger in just a little bit further. "And then, when you were just about to come, I'd pull off. I wouldn't let you come yet because you know I want you to fuck me. If you'd let me, I'd be ready for you. You could fuck me like this, with me on my back, and you sliding into me. We'd use lots of lube, but it would still be tight, and you'd feel me squeeze you, trap you inside me."
John could imagine it, could feel everything, from both sides, he could feel what it would be like inside Sherlock as he squeezed his cock with his whole hand, tried to simulate that warm sheath, and he could just about imagine what it would feel like to Sherlock, as his finger advanced ever further inside John. It was a little mindblowing because he'd never thought about fucking from both perspectives at once.
"Or you could stay right where you are," Sherlock continued, "and I'd sit up on top of you and lower myself until I had your whole cock inside me. John, that's what I want. You inside me, you'd feel so good." His voice was becoming unsteady, and John saw now that Sherlock was jerking himself off with the hand that he wasn't using on John.
At the same moment, Sherlock's finger brushed against a spot inside John that sent a wave of intense pleasure coursing through him. He groaned and lifted his hips off the bed, thrusting involuntarily.
Sherlock looked away, dropping his chin to his chest and panting, open-mouthed. "Oh God, John, please." His hand on his cock was all but a blur; John's was moving in sympathy. He was close.
"Yes, fuck, Sherlock, yes," he gasped, not even sure what he was agreeing to, but knowing that whatever Sherlock needed he wanted to give it to him.
Sherlock was fucking John directly with his finger now, in and out, teasing and gliding over his prostate with a regularity that had John breathless and writhing.
"Sherlock, come here, please, now, I can't wait," John babbled with his last scraps of coherent speech.
Sherlock leaned forward again to catch John's mouth with his, thrusting his finger up into John once more and pressing against that golden nub, and then John was coming, pulse after pulse emptying him out and sending rolling waves of pleasure through his entire body. He couldn't breathe for a moment, and only distantly registered Sherlock saying something.
"John, you have no idea, no idea how long-" Sherlock cut himself off by kissing John fiercely. John, in the throes of aftershocks, rather agreed with the sentiment, because it had been a long time since he'd been with someone too, and even longer since it had been this intense. In fact, it had probably never been intense in quite this same way. It was all the excitement and anticipation of a first time, but with the knowledge of what he liked and what would feel best.
John could feel Sherlock still jerking at his cock against John's stomach. John reached down and carefully felt for Sherlock's testicles. They were high and tight. He gently manipulated them, rubbing and squeezing the way he himself liked it.
"Yeah, come on, Sherlock, that's gorgeous," he encouraged him around kisses.
Sherlock dropped his head to John's shoulder and hitched his knees up until they were pressed against John's buttocks. "John..."
"Right here, fuck, you're amazing, tell me what to do for you."
"John..." Sherlock all but whined.
John took both of Sherlock's balls in his hand and pulled while pressing his knuckles into Sherlock's perineum.
Sherlock lurched forward and came with a cry, his arm gradually slowing and finally dropping away as the tension leached out of him. He flopped his entire weight to the side, making the bed creak ominously. Then they were both still. John felt the absence of Sherlock's finger. It made him want to curl himself around Sherlock and pull him in close, but he didn't move.
So that was gay sex, John mused. It was... pretty incredible. Although he knew that was mostly down to the man lying sweating next to him trying to catch his breath. Not just the fact that he knew what he was doing and how to do it to John, but there was something else, a connection that went above and beyond the physical act. It wasn't love, not yet, but John recognised that it could turn into it, if given a chance. It was all a bit overwhelming, and he was grateful when Sherlock shifted away and mumbled something about cleaning up.
Once Sherlock had padded off to the toilet, John sat up and peeled the used condom off. He tied the end and had to wander out into the kitchen before finding a bin. He chanced a gulp of water at the tap there, and came back when he heard Sherlock coming out of the bathroom.
"You're not leaving, are you?" Sherlock said, looking startled to find John out of bed. He had a wet flannel in his hand.
"Not just now, no," John said, amused. "They might not let me on the Tube like this."
"Ah, no, I just meant. Well, you can stay." Sherlock thrust the flannel at him. He looked very young again.
John wasn't sure if that was a good idea. He felt like he needed some distance at the moment, quite honestly. To think about what he wanted to do. But at the same time, his heart screamed at the thought of leaving Sherlock behind. So before he could second-guess himself, he said, "Okay," and followed Sherlock back to bed.
%%%%%
It was barely light out when John woke up. He knew immediately where he was. He and Sherlock actually had ended up talking afterwards; Sherlock had a huge range of interests and obsessions, from esoteric things like different varieties of tobacco (John had no idea there were so many) to modern classical music (apparently he played the violin, which didn't surprise John in the least). He also managed to squeeze absolutely every detail of John's life out of him (much of it without John even needing to say a word) while giving practically nothing away about his own. John had no idea how long they'd stayed up, but he'd needed to get up for water and the toilet once, and it had been very late when they'd finally drifted off. John hadn't gotten much actual rest, though, aware of every twitch and sigh from the man lying next to him. And of the ever increasing strength of the longing to touch him and pleasure him and swallow him up. He blinked open his sticky eyes and regarded Sherlock's profile where he lay on his back, still asleep.
Oh my God, John thought with a start and propped himself up his elbow to get a better look. He knew him. Now, with his hair loose of whatever product he'd smeared in it and tumbling over his forehead, the sheet draped across his chest reminiscent of the white cotton t-shirt he generally wore with skinny jeans, John was able to match him up with the fleeting glimpses he'd had around campus.
He'd shown up to exactly one chem lecture in John's first year, argued loudly with the lecturer, declared him an idiot, and stormed off, never to darken that doorway again. He'd been even younger then, of course, just a kid, and that was what had made the scene stick in John's mind, how this skinny kid had stood up and spouted off theories that had been then and frankly probably still were way over John's head like some kind of child prodigy. Which, John realised, he probably had been. If he'd started uni at the same time as John, then he was possibly (hopefully) legal now, which was a relief.
And there were other times too: once in the library, when a tall toff with a posh accent was railing at a librarian over some books he'd apparently never returned; another time when the lift door opened in the bio building to reveal a young man with wild eyes and his hands in his hair ranting at no one about diseased livers.
John had never really paid attention to him, focused as he was on his own business. He'd merely brushed him off as either an eccentric philosophy student or a pothead, but now he wondered, if he'd taken a second look back then, would he have seen something behind those striking slanted eyes and sharp cheekbones? Might they have talked, struck up a friendship? Quite honestly, he thought it unlikely. They ran in different circles, had different interests, different goals... and none of that had changed, John reminded himself harshly. One intense sexual experience and a couple of hours of rambling chatter didn't mean anything. John wasn't even sure he could really say they were friends now. But he did know (actually had known since the moment he'd agreed to stay the night) that he didn't want to walk away from this and write it off as a youthful experiment, no matter how successful.
Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up at John hovering over him, as if he'd been awake this whole time. Which he probably had. Probably also knew what John was thinking.
"Ah," Sherlock said after a moment. "Figured it out then." He set his jaw, as if he was going to have to defend himself.
"You... I'm not sure. I've seen you before. Here and there. Didn't make the connection until now."
"That memorable, am I?" There was something bitter and self-deprecating in the twist of his mouth. It made John want to smooth his thumb over its generous curve until it softened and resolved into a smile meant just for him.
Instead, John shook his head slightly. "You were different. Before. And the way you looked last night... I mean, you don't usually hang about the quads looking like you stepped out of the pages of GQ. Nothing forgettable about that. Or any of the rest," he added, his mouth going dry and his hands cold. He was afraid he was going too far. Because now, in the cold light of day, surely Sherlock would want nothing more to do with John. It was a one-night stand, that's all. It had been fun, and they'd make some vague promises to meet up for coffee some time, and that would be that.
But Sherlock was staring up at John with those pale eyes (even now John couldn't quite determine their colour) as if he were committing his face to memory, as if he were trying to insert something into John's head by sheer force of will alone. "No," he agreed slowly. "Not forgettable at all."
John's heart was pounding so loudly he was sure Sherlock could hear it too. And then he did something he was certain he was going to regret later, because it was utterly insane; he barely knew the man, after all. But John was generally a person who jumped first and looked later, and anyway, what was the worst that could happen? He'd already texted Mike the address.
"You know, I was thinking about the problem with your flatmate," John said, a slow smile spreading across his face. "And I think I may just have a solution."
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no subject
Date: 2013-06-24 08:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-24 08:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-24 08:30 pm (UTC)Oh that was lovely! Great that John took a chance and is now discovering a side of himself he's always denied!
I liked the bit about Sherlock's eye colour - it really is impossible to catalogue since they're at once blue, green, grey, ice, eau-de-nil . . . Oh but they're beautiful and I hope John enjoyed losing himself in them!
no subject
Date: 2013-06-25 05:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-25 08:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-25 08:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-03 10:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-03 10:41 am (UTC)Round 2 COMPLETE!
Date: 2013-07-08 01:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-09-10 01:45 pm (UTC)Meant to friend you a while ago but never got around to it, so am doing it now. I hope that's okay. :)
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Date: 2013-09-10 02:36 pm (UTC)And yes, friending is great!
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Date: 2014-01-18 04:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-01-18 07:04 am (UTC)