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46 hours and 27 minutes.
That’s how long it takes Sherlock to solve this one. 46 hours and 27 minutes running all over London, hiding in darkened alleyways - I’m still pissed at him for shoving me into that bloody skip! , and just doing all I can to keep his arrogant arse from getting shot at, once again. It’s nights like this that I wonder why I keep putting myself through this shit; day after day, night after night. My shoulder is sore and my knees are killing me. I should be tired, but it’s hard to let myself relax too much with Sherlock not five feet away from me, spouting off about incompetencies left and right.
With a heavy sigh, I lean my head back against one of the columns of the Lyceum Theatre; waiting for Sherlock to finish his monologue of insults directed at each and every soul unfortunate enough to be on Lestrade’s team, tonight. The case is over and yet he’s still a live wire. He’s all heat and energy and Jesus Christ he’s still so keyed up…
If I’m honest with myself, it’s doing a number on me. It’s been over a week since I’ve had his hands on me and I just can’t take it anymore. After trying to fight it all night, I let my eyes slide over his body, - he’s donned a disguise for this one - black leather jacket, tight black t-shirt clinging to his chest and torso as if I’d painted it on him myself. He looks like sex on legs and, fucking hell , his legs! He’s been parading around all over London in those damnable dark wash jeans and they’re ripped at the knees with more strategically placed rips further up his thighs. The image isn’t helped by the calf-high leather boots he’s wearing that seem to have more buckles and straps than my old army rucksack and, God, if I haven’t been dying to get my hands on him. The longer I allow myself to stare, the more I can feel my irritation with him begin to ebb away, leaving me with my desire to touch and claim and be claimed. It’s too much and not enough all at once and I’ve got to get Sherlock out of here before I embarrass myself.
He’s yelling at Anderson as I clear my throat. The onslaught of nasty commentary concerning the man’s failed affair and groveling for his estranged wife to take him back comes to a halt and Sherlock turns those pale green eyes on me. At first, he’s offended. I’ve interrupted his brilliance and for what? But then, something changes.
He narrows his eyes and the deep furrow between his brows surfaces and he aims to pin me to the column again with that stare. Deducing me, then. I stand my ground and set my jaw. It’s a clear signal that he isn’t to argue with me. There’s a question in his gaze, but he lets it go for the time being. I can’t let him distract me, because he’ll try. He’ll try to wheedle it out of me if I give him the chance, but I don’t.
I stride up to stand beside Sherlock and stretch my neck to work the stiffness out. Something tells me I may be glad I did, later. I throw an apologetic smile in Lestrade’s direction as Sherlock let’s him know we have to be off. I wave and utter a goodbye, as well as a promise for a more detailed report later, as I turn away, but Sherlock’s already brushed passed me and is hailing a cab.
The black car practically materialises at the kerb as they always seem to do for him the moment he throws his hand up. It’s ridiculous really, but tonight, I don’t mind as much. He’s climbing into the backseat and barking our Baker Street address to the cabbie as I slide in beside him. He doesn’t say a word after that; just locks his eyes on mine and stares. I can’t let him see. He’ll do something extremely risky and get us both in a mess…
I raise my eyebrows as if to ask him if everything’s okay, but he only bites his lip and turns to look out the window. London is passing by and the street lights are casting shadows over those sharp cheekbones and I feel a sudden urge to run my tongue along the edge, to taste the lingering sweat left over from the chase.
We had tailed the suspected murderer all the way through Covent Garden before he took any notice of us. By then, though, Sherlock had already deduced his next target and had taken off after him at a dead run. Not knowing if the man had been armed or not, I quickly drew my gun and sprinted off after them both. These things are what usually piss me off the most; those moments where he barrels off into danger without ever thinking of the consequences. To be the cleverest man in the world, he sure doesn’t think like he should when he’s hyped up on adrenaline like a drug-riddled squirrel. He throws himself into the path of oncoming traffic, jumps from one rooftop to another, and throws himself at dangerous criminals all without ever batting an eye. And for what? The work? The rush?
I huff out a breath and Sherlock shifts beside me. He doesn’t look at me, - he’s too clever for that - but I know he’s up to something. I slump down in my seat and stare out the small sliver of windscreen I can see, trying to keep the agitation from working itself back up again. A movement out of the corner of my eye catches my attention and I glance over at Sherlock, squinting in the dim light before I’m finally able to realise what he’s doing. I can feel my eyes go wide automatically and I try to keep the groan I’m fighting back from slipping out. I bite down on my lip.
Sherlock’s leaned against the window, still staring casually at the passing scenery, but his hand is on his thigh and his fingers are tracing slow sensual circles over his inseam. Those long, violinist’s fingers are working in a tantalising rhythm, stroking and teasing himself for me. It takes me a moment to realise I’ve licked my lips and my brain skitters offline as Sherlock brushes his fingers over the now evident bulge at his crotch.
I feel the heat rush to my own face as he lets out a soft moan and my trousers have gone tight; my cock thickening with arousal at Sherlock’s little display. Nervously, I glance at the cabbie, but he isn’t paying us any attention. There’s too much traffic and he’s just taken an alternate route to escape the excess of motorists.
My gaze bounces straight back to Sherlock as if tethered to him, only to find that he’s looking at me, now. His eyes are lit with a predatory spark that sends a jolt of desire straight through my cock. I readjust in my seat in an attempt to free up some room in my trousers, but it only spurs the detective further. He knows why I’ve readjusted and his eyes flick down to my crotch for a brief moment. A dangerous smile plays at the corners of those Cupid’s bow lips and he makes a point of running the tip of his tongue over the edge of his top teeth in a way that can only be taken as an invitation.
My next breath comes out in a heavy groan as he strokes his cock through the denim and I have to look away. Before I can stop myself, I’m instructing the cabbie to pull over. I can’t tell where we are at the moment, but I find that I don’t even really care. I have to get us out of this car, away from the cabbie and the quiet of the backseat.
As the car slows to a stop, I fling myself out, relishing the sudden burst of fresh air as it hits my face. I can hear Sherlock behind me as he pays the driver and joins me on the pavement. I don’t even have to look at him to know that he’s smirking at me. It’s evident in the way I can sense him behind me. He draws up close to my back and I feel the tips of his fingers ghost over the nape of my neck, trailing lightly through the thick ends of my hair. I make a mental note to cut it tomorrow evening. It’s much too long if Sherlock can work his fingers through it like that. The sensation sends a shiver down my spine and I twitch just out of his reach; I miss the contact, but I know we can’t stand here on the pavement all night.
As if he’s reading my mind, Sherlock steps around me and hooks his index finger into the cuff of my sleeve. The gesture isn’t demanding, but it’s definitely a sign of control and I know that I’m lost to him. No matter how much my brain tries to tell me I should, I can never say no to him once he gets me like this. Once he hooks me, I’m done for.
My feet move of their own accord as Sherlock tugs me by my jumper in the direction of a large gate. As we draw nearer, I can see that we’re at the entryway to Hyde Park and I can’t stop the myriad of questions and scenarios that rush through my mind. It’s nearly two in the morning and there isn’t a soul in sight, but something in the back of my mind raises a red flag and I find my voice.
“Sherlock, what -?” I try, but he shushes me. The sound is a low rumble in the quiet and the hairs on the back of my neck prickle in anticipation. He hasn’t uttered a single word to me since we left the crime scene and it shows. He knows what his voice does to me and he’s using it sparingly; waiting for the right moment to take me apart.
We slip through the entrance and Sherlock’s head is on a swivel. He’s scanning the area as we walk, taking in God knows how much information; deducing every possible outcome for whatever it is he has in mind… And, God, I can’t think straight. My brain is caught somewhere between desperate panic and intense arousal as my entire body seems to attune itself to the man in front of me. I can’t keep my eyes off of his arse in that tight denim and it makes my mouth water. As if I don’t have enough stimulation already, my brain supplies me with the most excellent memories of the way the lean muscle feels beneath my fingertips as I grip him to pull him closer to me during our usual post case highs.
The images are breathtaking, but something about tonight is so very different from the usual. Sherlock usually displays such excellent control. I’m usually left to try and observe the smaller details of his arousal and doing my best to disguise my own until we can reach the flat, but tonight… Fuck… Tonight, I’m out of my depth. Sherlock is in a rare mood, eyeing me like something he’d much like to devour, and dragging me off the paved pathway. Before I can register what’s happening, he rounds on me. My back hits hard on the trunk of a nearby tree, taking me by surprise and we wrestle together for a moment before Sherlock crushes his lips against mine.
The kiss is hard and fast, all teeth and hunger. I haven’t been kissed like this before and it’s tearing my mental stability apart piece by piece. Sherlock is usually very tentative in our kisses; taking great care and analyzing every last reaction. But this isn’t the same at all. It’s like a switch has been flipped in that gorgeous head of his and sent him spiraling out of control. He’s licking into my mouth before I can get my brain to respond and, when I finally kiss him back, a deep growl leaves my throat. My hands fly into his curls, tugging and pulling him closer to me so that I can get my tongue further down his throat, but, just as I hear him moan, he pulls back hard. My shoulders slam against the tree once again as his hand lands on my chest.
“No,” he growls out, a fierce snarl worked into his features and I can feel my eyebrows retreating into my hairline.
What the fuck is this?
I swallow hard and his steely stare follows it all the way down my throat. When his gaze settles on mine again, I finally catch a glimpse of his eyes. The sight takes my breath away and I can’t seem to control the desire coursing through my body. The look he’s giving me is full of something I can’t quite point out, but it’s definitely heavy and extremely possessive. He looks like he wants to strip me, here and now, and fuck me into the next week and, at this rate, I’d probably let him. I can’t contend with that look. I don’t even want to attempt to try because I know I’ll lose.
He blinks and, a split-second later, his lips are on mine, again; still just as hungry and as hard as before. I can’t help myself. I melt into him and he pushes his body flush against mine as he catches both my wrists and pins them over my head in just one of his hands. The bark of the tree leaves deep scratches in the backs of my hands and wrists; an obvious reminder for tomorrow.
His freehand brushes gently over my cheek before trailing down my body to dig into the thick fabric of my jumper. As he tugs it up my body to expose the softening expanse of my belly and chest, I find myself squirming against him.
He rakes his fingernails down my chest and rib cage HARD as he grinds his formidable erection against my hip. I yelp in response to the pain, but it soon levels out into a desperate groan as his stiff cock presses against me.
As he nips and licks a trail down my neck, I know he’s marking me. For what I don’t know, but he’s staking his claim on me and I’m dying to let him. My own desire to claim and mark is thrust to the back of my mind as he finds the pulse point at my neck and begins sucking a fucking bruise into the sensitive flesh.
“Sherl…. Sherlock,” I pant, not even recognising my own voice. It doesn’t sound like me. It lacks the commanding edge that I pride myself on, but I know it can’t possibly be anyone else. The whimpers and cries of pleasure leaving my lips are too much for me and I swear Sherlock senses it as he kicks my right foot aside, spreading my legs open so that he can drop to his knees between them.
I’m given a brief moment of reprieve and I take advantage of it. I suck air into my lungs as if it’s the last breaths I’ll ever take before Sherlock’s relentless fingers attack my belt. He whips it through my belt loops, pulling it free in seconds and letting it hit the ground before descending on my flies. My cock jerks at the whisper of impending freedom and another low moan escapes my throat.
A rustle in the leaves behind me reminds me that we are very much in public and that we are most definitely getting arrested if we get caught. My hands grip his shoulders and try to pull him back up, but he bats me away with a hiss of annoyance.
Irritation mounts in me and I open my mouth to tell him off. Yet I lose all concentration as he pulls my cock free from my trousers and licks a wide stripe up the underside from root to tip. My vision goes blurry and I swear into the stillness of the night as my thighs begin to shake. His tongue feels amazing as it slicks up my shaft, but there’s something lurking beneath the surface of the encounter. I can feel it building and bubbling up out of Sherlock like molten lava. There’s more to this possessive streak than I thought. His eyes flick up to meet mine and he glares at me as he drags his tongue over my cock.
He pulls off, but his eyes are still boring into me as he digs his fingers into my hip. He pulls me forward and buries his nose in my groin before teasing and nuzzling his way up my belly, following the trail of hair up to my navel. He dips his tongue into the hollow there and I let out a whimper as he traces the outside edge while gripping my cock once again.
“You… Are… MINE, ” he growls out, ducking his head to bite down hard at the juncture between my hip and thigh. I gasp, feeling the sting, and my heart threatens to beat right out of my chest as the pain drags me under. I’ve never seen Sherlock act this way and it’s killing me. His teeth scrape down my thigh and he grips my cock tighter and picks up his pace.
“I’m yours… yes,” I breathe out, moaning in earnest, now; damn it all if I care if anyone sees, now. I just need his mouth on me; sucking me; teasing me; making me come. I have no idea where all of this is coming from, but it’s glorious.
Once again, he’s reading my mind as he nips and teases down my thigh. “I saw you earlier… when we were at Covent Garden. Chatting up that barista,” Sherlock huffs out between the hungry licks and bites he’s administering to my skin. He’s not angry, but he isn’t happy either.
What the hell is he on about?? I can feel his frustration in the fierce pumping of my cock and I fight to keep my brain online long enough to defend myself.
“Sherlock… what the fuck - ? What are you on about?” I ask, doing my best to tug him away from my crotch as I rack my brain for the incident he’s referring to. The only thing that springs to mind is the stop I made in Costas for a caffeine hit where I tried to pick up any extra information I might could find on the - ohhh… the barista… My memories shift and I struggle to keep my focus on building my defense. Had he really seen that little exchange?
Sherlock’s gone back to mouthing at the head of my cock, now - ravenous little licks of torture - and it’s the most wonderful feeling in the world. He’s avoiding my inquiry and I know he’s saving face. He wants me to think this out. He wants me to go back over every minute detail of my interaction with the woman at the coffee shop and take it in as he observed it. He’d rather me work this out on my own than admit to his jealousy.
Was that really it? Was the great Sherlock Holmes actually jealous ?
Sherlock claws at my hip again and swallows my cock further into the wet heat of that sultry mouth before he draws back again; the faintest scrape of his teeth grazes over my shaft, reminding me to focus. Fuck, he can read me like a damn book and it’s so unfair.
I close my eyes and try to refocus my thoughts on the coffee shop; the plain black coffee I’d ordered; then, the perky blonde with the odd name that I can’t seem to recall. My head swims with thoughts of Sherlock’s tongue swirling around the head of my cock, dipping the tip of that talented tongue beneath my foreskin, and I find myself losing sight of the incident once again. My fingers card through his velvet curls and I dig my fingertips into his scalp; a silent plea.
“Sherlock, Love, I…. I didn’t-“
He silences me by hollowing his cheeks and sucking greedily for a few moments before sliding my cock out of his mouth with a wet ‘pop’. His fist pumps in a steady rhythm, still, as he wipes his mouth on the back of his other hand and the look he’s giving me makes me feel completely exposed.
“You didn’t what, John?” Sherlock asks, the words a definite challenge but there’s no bite in them; only honest curiosity. “You didn’t flirt with her? You didn’t hold her hand? You didn’t try to charm your way into her bed?”
Fuck me… how can he really think that after the last three months?
My breaths are coming in shuddering gasps and it’s taking all of my energy to keep my brain from melting into my skull as I try to gather enough of my wits about me to respond. “Wha-?” I choke out, clearing my throat before trying again. “Sherlock, I… I don’t understand… Do you really think I was coming on to her?” I ask, keeping my voice level and resisting the urge to let my frustration show. It won’t do for me to appear irritated with him no matter how ridiculous the situation is. He’ll only shut down and shut me out.
He’s still kneeling between my legs, staring up at me with a look of pure possession; my flushed cock still in his hand. His eyes are clouded with jealousy and his gaze bores into mine as if he’s daring me to look deeper. The message he’s sending is clear: It doesn’t matter to him if I was coming on to her or not. The intent behind my actions is secondary to watching me openly flirt with someone else. Seeing my hands on another, hearing the words I spoke to her, watching me use my body and my charm to seduce her into telling me more about our suspect knowing full well that all of me belongs to the brilliant detective at my feet… In Sherlock’s eyes, it’s his greatest fear come to life. It’s betrayal in technicolor. No matter how big of an act it had been, it’s betrayal nonetheless. Just the slightest insinuation of me ever leaving him for another - especially a woman - is enough to rock Sherlock’s entire world and it’s absolutely beautiful. He’s giving me access to his greatest insecurities and trusting me not to break him. It’s madness and heaven all at once and I’m so gone on him that I know there is no way in Hell that I’d ever be able to settle for anything less than the chaos Sherlock promises.
I can feel my heart breaking in my chest, shattering me to the core, and my hand comes up to cup the side of Sherlock’s face. My eyes soften as he instinctively leans into my touch, knowing now that I understand, but he isn’t backing down from his intended mission. He presses a lingering kiss to the palm of my hand; his eyes never leaving mine as they blaze with conviction. I am no longer on trial, but my sentence has been issued regardless. He’s going to take me apart, leave me aching and raw for the sole purpose of being the one to put me back together again once he’s finished, and I’m hungry for it.
Sherlock’s kisses a trail down the length of my arm until he reaches the bend in my elbow. My eyelids flutter with heavy arousal and he licks at the sensitive skin, delicately, before sucking the pulse point at my ulnar artery hard enough to bruise. My next breath comes out in a desperate groan as his teeth scrape over my skin and I’m taken by surprise when a series of sloppy kisses and nips assault my right hip bone.
My hands tremble as I thread my fingers through his unruly hair as I try to push his head further down my body. With an amused hum, Sherlock grants my request and licks and sucks his way down the vee of my leg before nosing against my bollocks. The hand on my cock begins stroking in long, languid motions and it’s almost more than I can take. I want to nudge the tip of my cock against his lips, but I don’t press my luck. I know he only humoured me a moment ago because it suited his plan for me and I loathe to think what he may do to me if I get overconfident in my part in all of this. I am not an active participant in this scenario; I am merely a piece of playground equipment built for Sherlock’s entertainment and it is the most erotic thing I have ever experienced in my life.
When he finally mouths at my cock again, it’s with such fucking torturous precision that I can hardly keep my knees from going out. The tip of his tongue dips into my leaking slit, savoring the precome there and causing me to writhe beneath his administrations. It’s ungodly what he is doing to me as he finally takes the head of my cock between his lips and my breath hitches in my chest. He’s swirling his tongue and lapping hungrily as his hand tightens around my shaft, setting a furious pace that threatens to be the death of me. I can feel my release building and surging up through my body as I tug hard on Sherlock’s curls in warning.
“Sher… Fuck! Sherlock! I’m gonna come, love! I’m gonna come!”
Sherlock hollows his throat and takes me as deep as he can, swallowing hungrily as the first pulses of my orgasm rip through me. The edges of my vision are swimming in a black haze as he pulls back just far enough to catch the rest of my release on his tongue, savoring it as he glances up at me beneath his dark lashes. Fuck… he’s beautiful… and he’s mine and I am his and how the fuck did I ever get this lucky in life?
I can feel my knees giving out as the last of my energy drains out through my cock and I sink to my knees in front of my amazing detective the moment he releases me. My eyes find his as my brain stutters back to life and the lust that I see there is downright terrifying. I should feel self-conscious with my pants and trousers still shoved down to my knees and my semi-stiff cock dripping onto my thigh, but my gaze drops to his lips instead; the remains of my release lingering over his plush bottom lip. Leaning forward, I brush my lips tentatively against his and allow my tongue to lap longingly at my own sticky release. Sherlock hums in approval and something in his demeanour shifts to something even more predatory than I had once thought possible.
“Like that, do you?” he growls out; his velvety baritone a deep purr as he raises a finger to trace the shape of my jawline.
I nod eagerly in response as I press more desperate kisses to his lips; not even caring if they are being returned. Something is going on in that marvelous brain of his and I’m aching to be a part of it. I want him to use me. I want him to bend me to his will and I want to love it.
Sherlock’s smile is wicked and fierce against my lips and he places a hand on my shoulder to brace himself as he pushes himself back up to standing. The tell-tale bulge in the front of his jeans hovers in front of me and, as much as it pains me, I fight the urge to scrub my face against it. There are so many things I want to do to him, but it isn’t up to me. Not this time. This is about Sherlock and what he needs from me.
No matter the reason, it’s impossible for me not to watch as his fingers make quick work of his flies. Not one to waste time when he knows what he wants, Sherlock frees his own throbbing cock from the black silk boxers he’s wearing and I feel my mouth water, instantly. As much as I want to take him in my mouth, I wait. Something tells me that isn’t on the agenda this time around. Still, I lick my lips out of habit and, as he chuckles darkly above me, I know that he’s seen. As I glance up at him, he grabs a fistful of my hair with his left hand and tilts my chin even further up, almost as if he’s looking me over.
“Stay just like this,” he commands; his voice low and authoritative, “It won’t take long, John,”.
I swallow thickly, trying hard to hold his gaze, as his right hand drifts to his cock. He sets a steady pace and I can’t keep myself from watching as he jerks himself off. Jesus fucking Christ, he’s sexy… I can’t help but feel that I pale in comparrision as I watch a bead of precome drip down his shaft. It quickly disappears as Sherlock’s foreskin is dragged up and back down again and I can hear the familiar grunts of his arousal above me. He’s right, it truly won’t take him long. He’s too turned on and too keyed up and has been for a while.
He quickens his strokes and his pace falters as I glance up to observe the look of pure ecstasy dancing over his features. His lips part in a breathy moan and he’s whispering a silent mantra to himself almost like a prayer. Words like ‘mine’ and ‘John’ and ‘no one else’ ring in my ears and I know what he’s about to do. His breathing picks up and he’s stroking his cock faster and faster.
“John… Close… so close… John. John. John!”
His orgasm hits and I snap my eyes shut just in time as the first spurts of ejaculate coat my lips and cheek. I can feel each individual pulse over my face and I’m certain a stray shot has found its way into my hair. I’m unable to open my eyes and take in the image of Sherlock in the throes of passion, so I settle for parting my lips and catching the last of his release on my tongue, lapping up as much as I can.
I can’t even begin to imagine what we must look like; Sherlock limp above me, proof of his orgasm splattered all over my face. It’s filthy and it’s perfect and I know I’m a wreck, but I’m too far gone to care. I can’t get enough of it and I know he’s looking me over. I can feel the grip on my hair change as he tugs my head this way and that. Above me, Sherlock lazily hums his approval and I feel a gentle caress against my cheek before I realise that he’s tugged his shirt tails up and is wiping his release from my face. His touch is soft and precise, making sure he cleans me up well, and he presses a chaste kiss to my lips once he’s finished.
I blink open my eyes only to be staring directly into Sherlock’s as he appears to have joined me on his knees. The heat from before is no longer present, replaced with a look that can only be described as reassured contentment. He was never angry with me, but I’ve still been forgiven for the serious bout of insecurity I had unknowingly forced upon him. With a tentative smile, I raise my hand to brush the sweaty curls off of his forehead and he leans into me, burying his face in the crook of my neck. I hold him there and allow him to breathe me in, recommitting me to memory as he always does after sex.
My hand slides to the nape of his neck and I find myself playing with the curls there as I stroke my fingertips up and down the top of his spine. He whispers against my skin and, even though I can’t hear him, I know exactly what he’s said.
“I love you, too, you prat…”