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John crossed his legs over his clinic chair. He ran his fingers over Sherlock’s medical document—copies from Molly—over Sherlock’s condition: Porphyria. It was a rare disease. Sherlock was a rare person. However, John wasn’t too surprised—with Sherlock's persistent intake of obviously the most dangerous and addictive drugs out there, at least one would be responsible for the porphyria’s trigger, in addition to whatever hereditary preconditions and/or mutations he probably already had (the document also listed Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome and Autism Spectrum Disorder, although those two were somewhat comorbid).
It had been roughly a little less than a year since Sherlock’s escapade with death was over, and Moriarty’s case was presumably solved. Their time post-fake-suicide constricted their cases to indoor consults and nighttime chases, lest he developed skin rashes the next day. Thankfully, the English sun was never too harsh, and the bout of rain could last weeks on end. Still, John knew this did poorly for Sherlock’s brain—watching the hunt present to him in the bright outside, where the light would tip its hat to his observational skills. Searching in the dark was less ideal.
Additionally, Sherlock needed to get the biweekly phlebotomy appointment, as morbid as it sounded, to reduce the iron build-up in his bloodstream. John had insisted on drawing the blood for him, but Sherlock refused, insisting back that he knew where his own veins were.
Far be it from John to protest, chalking it up to being a drama queen.
However, the porphyria conditions, as troublesome as they were, were not the problem. John had noticed the warning signs almost immediately. Being the man that he is, his first checkmark was social rather than medical—it was simply that Sherlock hadn’t uttered a word to him that morning. Despite being on a case, despite always doing so even if John wasn’t there, despite the routine morning tea they had. Of course, he very much knew that Sherlock heard every word he said—that he was going to be at the clinic possibly late, that they had dinner plans, even the wave goodbye for the day to Mrs. Hudson based on her trilly voice, and that Sherlock would thaw the chicken in the sink before John got home—even though Sherlock hadn’t replied as so much as a noncommittal hum.
John ran through the possibilities, hoping to reach the same deductional level as his partner and knowing he would fall terribly short. Sherlock’s silence would not be caused by physical pain—God knew how much pain he was constantly in while running through incredible paths of his mind palace. Whether he was stabbed, beaten, punched, spat on—he replied to everything, chasing down the Devil to get his last word in. So, it must be a sensitive topic that John and John-in-Sherlock’s-head were not to be privy to. John would’ve been informed of a lover, whether the case be for leverage or some other odd experiment. Maybe. But John would know like he would walk into a wall. John would know family. John would know colleagues, if they were important.
The one thing that Sherlock did tend to hide was his drug usage, and John suspected he went back to his secret stash of cigarettes. A sad pain sighed out of him. He was never sure how to keep Sherlock’s high at bay. He was not that kind of doctor.
He slid the papers back in their file, tucking it deep in his desk. Not that he didn’t want to see them, but to keep in a place he would know they were there.
His kind of doctor, apparently now known to everyone, was the rush of a soldier. Sherlock’s condition was that instead of a Cold War. It ached and waited, crumbled at your feet until you realized it was your friend stuck in a well—not you.
So, John, playing the game, snuck out his pocket two whopping, unopened packs, and trashed them in his office.
“I know you took them,” pretentious typing could be heard from Sherlock’s laptop.
John faked an expression he knew Sherlock would quickly wave away as a false nicety even when he wasn’t looking. He hung up his coat and closed their door, “Took what?”
“My cigarettes.”
“Is that what it takes to get you to talk to me?”
The typing stopped, “I was talking to you.”
“No, you weren’t. You were as quiet as…”
“As a church mou—”
“As a church mouse. Recently.”
Sherlock hummed committally this time, “I suppose I was talking to you in my head.”
“And you never do that.”
“...The chicken’s in the sink.”
John’s hands uselessly flapped to his sides, unable to reason gesticulatedly at Sherlock’s deflection.
“I didn’t use those ones. They’re just… secret emergency stashes. You don’t get to put me on an allowance.”
“Okay… okay.”
John fiddled with the kitchen tools and was just about to set the oven.
“Would you want to talk about it?”
“I’m afraid it won’t do much,” the sounds of flipping paper crinkled through the air, “You’re not that kind of doctor.”
A sharp blow of the butcher knife, “I’m your friend .”
That seemed to stun Sherlock. John was almost glad, but the guilt lingered in his arm. He sighed, throwing the pre-made set of onions and garlic and whatnot into the tray. He then opened the fridge, feeling for his vegetables, only to find something oddly morbid, but still practically normal in their as-domestic-as-can-be flat.
“Sherlock.” He started, “Why are there blood pints next to my peas.”
Several of them . With your name . They could not have been a client’s or a patient’s or one of the deceased.
“Ah.” Sherlock “realized” in that almost–no, definitely —mocking tone, “They’re mine.”
“You only need to reduce a pint once every two weeks. There’s roughly,” John counted, “ Two-four- Five here. They weren’t here yesterday.”
And written in finely neat letters. This was not Sherlock’s handwriting—and why were bags being labeled with pen and not print?
“New case.”
“ Your case? Sherlock—”
Despite being an army soldier, he heard nothing. Despite being a doctor, he didn’t notice until now.
Sherlock appeared at the table right next to him, pale as ever, a faint sheen of sweat on his temple. Tired eyes, harsh breathing, seemed as though he was nursing a headache—just materialized in nine whole yards of walking.
“You’re getting worse,” John grasped at his torso, trying to hold him up.
“I’m fine.”
John twisted his arm and pulled at the sleeve, showing several, but faint, cigarette burn scars. He looked back up.
“You were saying?”
“Just got a little peckish.”
“Right. For nicotine.”
“It’s a little difficult to explain.”
“Explain what , Sherlock, just tell me!”
“I do call you my second in command, but even you might not go to those lengths of absurdity,” Sherlock leaned in close and grinned, “So, why don’t you tell me the signs, Doctor Watson?”
John rolled his eyes, “If this will make you feel better, fine. You and your riddles.”
He made sure Sherlock kept up with his appointments regularly. His current state of illness may mean a dire lack of a certain nutrient. It could not have been bulimia, as his teeth were nice and pristine. His type of condition caused a build-up in irons in his body and John also snuck in B-12 into his diet. Common anemias could be ruled out. Tobacco from cigarettes usually caused a lack of appetite. Despite this, Sherlock had been eating extremely well and still sported an appetite, which may point toward an insulin—
“I think you’ve thought plenty now, John.”
“What are you—” John paused, taking a closer look at Sherlock’s face. His eyes caught a glimpse of elongated canines. There they were—John took the initiative to pull his lip up with his thumb— Fangs .
“What am I, indeed?” Sherlock retorted, quite a level ruder this time.
John fished a medical flashlight from his shirt pocket, clicking it on and shining it at Sherlock’s eyes. They moved, eerily so. Specs of red pooled at certain parts where they used to be slate grey and sky blue. And John forgot to take one more thing— how could he forget?! —and grabbed Sherlock’s wrist again, pressing two fingers up just below the thumb side of his palm. Barely a pulse. Barely anything.
But he’s been fooled like this before. Sherlock craned his neck as John crept those same fingers up to his carotid. This was a pulse he could not miss.
And yet he did.
“So—then—”
The fingers slid further. A clean scar of two punctures bumped against his skin.
“What? Did you just happen to pocket cigarettes to scare me?”
“Cigarettes can’t scare you,” Sherlock dismissed, flicking away John’s concerns as if he were a fly.
John turned cruelly hurt, “You…You’re a vampire. And the porphyria was… fake?”
“It had close enough symptoms to the real thing.”
“And Molly knew ?”
“She works at the morgue for a reason, you know. Very good with dead folk and the like.”
Sherlock tried to maneuver around John, but he stepped in front, chest clashing with John’s palm.
“Don’t be a jerk. I need you to be serious,” John gripped at his shoulder and shook him. Pulled him close, pathetic and angrily wishful, “You can’t do this to me again.”
Sherlock only responded with silence.
“How long , Sherlock?”
“Moriarty. Up on that roof.”
Moriarty . The name burned as he uttered it, whisping away in devastating trails of smoke. A sorrowful heat billowed underneath the hearth of his heart, threatening to sear the spaces in his ribcage.
“That scummy bastard—all this time? You were…”
The hearth was in flames. His bones felt as though they were crackling with every breath, and the foundations of his skeleton would be near-falling on each intake.
“I suppose that’s how one can ‘fake’ —”
“Tell me. Tell me what you need,” John hissed weakly, “You’re getting worse. And you’re the dead one.”
“I told you,” Sherlock backed down, relaxing his shoulders, though only out of weariness, “I was hungry. There was a blood shortage at the hospital… Molly… gave me leftovers. They’ll last me the next couple months.”
He paused again, reconsidering one last admission. John felt a chill. Not like from a storm, but a silent morning in the winter with no wind to be heard. A natural, heartbroken frigidity.
“I didn’t want you to get hurt.”
John’s gaze flickered up to Sherlock’s lips, skin frayed and flaky from chewing, finding some purchase of sustenance, the scent of tobacco being a staple of his breath.
“Okay…” John nodded, “Okay. Let’s just start by giving you blood.”
Smoking did not cause Sherlock’s so-called porphyria.
“Right. Now if you’ll excuse me,” Sherlock pointed to the fridge, “I have an appointment.”
John started to unbutton his shirt. They both froze at the sound of the first snap. John gestured, watching Sherlock’s eyes follow how his head bobbed to the left side of his neck as he continued downwards. Now, he was in shock. John being injured was one of the only times he got serious.
“No—John—you can’t— I can’t.” Sherlock shook his head, fighting his own instincts.
Sherlock had read a fable as a child, one of a scorpion and a frog, taught to children to learn that vicious people cannot help but hurt others, even if it is against their own interest. The scorpion wishes to cross a river, but cannot swim. Asking a frog to carry it across, it promises not to sting it in the middle of the river, but does so anyway, knowing that it would doom them both, in addition to the frog’s hesitance.
Perhaps for Sherlock, vampire or not, the nature of the scorpion would always prevail, and it would be his own most detested trait. He had always wanted to prove it wrong—that it didn’t always have to be dangerous or hurtful to be around him. John, the frog of his story, would be his unfortunate friend. The longest-lasting test subject to see if it were true.
“You smoked cigarettes to get rid of your appetite around me,” John insisted, “I’m offering.”
“There’s blood in the fridge—”
“From corpses . It won’t do you any good. No wonder you barely function.”
Sherlock didn’t have anything to say to that. John reaffirmed what he said with a forward lean. And all Sherlock could do was aim his head slightly downward to John’s eye level and stare with what were now sad, red irises.
One would say Sherlock’s eyes, in a normal state, were icy. Unyielding. They were those damn eyes that picked apart everything that hit light. Calculated anything at a moment’s notice. Stored information like weaponry. Took a single look to deem anyone unworthy of his attention, and only hunted for the next puzzle to cure his boredom. If you were to ask John, perhaps he’d acquiesce to keep the illusion that Sherlock had a deep disdain for humanity and warmth—thought them useless to his mind palace.
The truth is, however, John was one of the very few people who knew they were eyes that could do nothing but try to avoid pain, for he hurt as intensely as he was cruel.
“It’s going to hurt.”
The way they flickered was only to assess how much.
“Of course, it’s going to hurt. You’re biting into my n—”
“I mean—I mean keeping me alive,” Sherlock articulated these words slowly, “In your life.”
“I know—”
“It’s dangerous.”
John shook his head with a wistful kind of exasperation, an urgency built into the syllables in each word he sent next, “And… I’m still here.”
A pleading type of trust.
“No—John. I know how you work— you like the thrilling, adventurous kind of hurt and danger. Not this.” Cold War.
Suddenly that hearth sparked again, on its last flames to rebuild itself, wind catching the soot that tried their best to cling to John’s lungs.
“But I like you .”
Sherlock was quiet, lost for air he thought he no longer needed. Turns out, human habits die hard. John knew there was a heart there, still beating. Needing something. Someone. He believed scorpions, too, felt lonely. He was the same.
“You’re pretty as a vampire.” John said simply.
“You find me attractive as a monster?”
“Some might say I find you attractive always,” he laughed dismissively, rejectedly.
“By ‘some,’ you mean you.”
“Well, you know how the masses—”
But Sherlock caught him in a slow kiss, and he could feel each instinct of Sherlock’s to dive into his skin, and John himself would release all inhibitions of control to let him just take . But he didn’t. He didn’t know why. And John would’ve been disappointed, if not for the fact that—
“I knew what you meant.”
John worried the skin on his lip, saving the memory of what Sherlock first tasted like, “Good. Saves me the trouble of having to explain myself.”
He took off his shirt fully, craning for Sherlock to get his fill. But Sherlock would once again mouth his lips, for the need of his companionship to be reciprocated killed him faster than his need of real, physical sustenance.
“It’s going to hurt,” Sherlock just barely murmured onto his cheek.
“You already said that.”
“I mean—being with me. Wanting you. Having me.”
“I know.”
“It’ll be painful.”
“Sherlock—stop. Just stop.”
“That’s not a good argument. In fact, that’s not an argument at all.”
“Neither is yours.”
“You can’t tell me it won’t be painful. Loving me,” Sherlock took a breath, backing away and watching John reach for him. Not with just his hands. His heart, “I’m more inhuman than I was before.”
“I think… it’s still human to love something—some one …someone—that brings you pain.”
“Then we’re quite the sadomasochistic couple.”
John could hear the uncertainty in Sherlock’s voice failing to hide its glow of shame despite his attempt at flirting. It was still a good attempt by any measure, especially by Sherlock’s words.
“Are you sure?” Sherlock prompted again.
Still asking and not taking, a reversal of his nature, because for once in his life, he saw something— someone … someone—he could lose again.
“Jesus, yes , Sherlock. I do want you.”
Sherlock hesitated again, “I’m sorry that you want me.”
Although John often responded with very confused and often leaning on perturbed expressions, this he understood, and only creased his eyebrows in sadness.
“You’re punishing yourself.”
“I suppose I can’t underestimate you on the emotional front.”
“You deserve to be happy,” John stared at his lips and let his eyes crawl up to meet Sherlock’s, “But… I’m sorry, too. I just—you didn’t tell me you were alive?”
Sherlock smiled, a brief laugh huffing out of his nose.
John scowled, “Don’t laugh at me.”
“I’m not. I like that about you. That you’re still curious.”
“Of course, I am.” I want to be something that you like.
A sigh rolled long and slow out of Sherlock’s lungs, shoulders sagging just an inch.
“John—you know me as someone who takes very, very calculated risks. Risks in general. Because—you know, I’m dangerous. If you knew that I was” —he awkwardly circled a finger around himself— “then, there was a possibility you would be killed.
John swallowed, biting his tongue for his earlier comment.
“And I couldn’t do that to you. To me. People know you’re important to me, despite… how I might seem. I suppose it was very obvious. I needed you alive,” —he took another long breath, one he didn’t need physically, but psychologically— “You were the one I planned to go back to. And if you were dead, I wouldn’t… I couldn’t…” take that risk.
“Okay… okay.” John nodded softly, hands coming up to settle at Sherlock’s shoulders, “I think that’s… I think that’s enough.”
“No,” Sherlock insisted, “You need to hear it from me this time. If you were killed because of my affections for you, I wouldn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to find out what that felt like. I couldn’t.”
John looked down and took a moment, the confession setting into his brain. He nodded in understanding. He paused, willing himself for the next words he would say, and admitted himself to be deeply captured, once again, by Sherlock’s careful, fearful gaze, “I won’t make you go through that. I promise.”
“You do?”
John slid his hand behind Sherlock’s neck, feeling the curls of hair wrap around his fingers, and pushed Sherlock’s face down to meet him with a kiss. With the assured promise, John felt the tension release from his face.
“Does that answer your question?”
Sherlock nodded once. Slowly. Then, looking up to meet his eyes, excitedly continued to nod, asking for trust.
John’s hands snaked up and down Sherlock’s arms, paying attention to each divot of his button-up. Sherlock’s hands stilled before they awkwardly, but surely, began to be comfortable holding John’s sides. Almost like they were in a slow dance. John nodded, a light smile over his face. He was like water. An aching intimacy whispered over them, coaxing in low tones to let them settle. But there was this thing , an urge in John’s sense of wonder that Sherlock couldn’t ignore—their story as opposites. It was this moment that Sherlock knew what it was like to drown, because John promised to keep him afloat on the basis that he would let John be there with him. In his soul.
A wetness glided dryly on John’s neck. Then it turned faintly numb, similar to a lathering of lidocaine. And John felt Sherlock give a hint of air on it—preparing it—almost as if he were blowing dust off an old book. Goosebumps clawed along his arms.
It stung. Stung before Sherlock’s teeth ever hit his skin. It was only a heartbeat before he realized a piercing pain nagged at the very intimate place on his jugular, and a sweet pull lulled him into a high.
John’s palm came up to grasp at him, a weakness from his knees shaken from relief, fingertips dragging along the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt.
“Sherlock— Sherlock—”
Sherlock kissed the wound, “Am I hurting you?”
“No,” John insisted, pressing Sherlock’s head back against him, “It feels… nice. Eat.”
“You could do with a better diet, yourself,” he teased, licking away the blood staining his pores.
John’s blood pumped faster, clearly agitated by the insinuation, and he knew that Sherlock could tell based on the slight twitch his mouth gave, “I’m the one doing the grocery shopping. Which you consumed and didn’t even need.”
“Proving my point.”
“At least I know how to even shop in a grocery store.”
“Apparently not. I can barely taste any nutrients from you.”
“Like you know what they taste like.”
“Mmh.”
“Don’t ‘Mmnh’ me.”
“What? You told me to eat.”
“Fine—fine. Continue.”
Despite his earlier statement, John knew Sherlock enjoyed the flavor, evidenced by how he had clearly taken more than a pint and was very sensually caressing the small wound with his mouth. In his increased lightheadedness, he smiled aimlessly over Sherlock’s shoulder.
“You’re chuckling to yourself,” Sherlock said, “Probably means I should stop.”
Haziness clouded over his eyes. “Oh. Yeah. Probably.”
“Probably? You’re a doctor,” Sherlock waited for a response, but upon getting none, “A dizzy one, I suppose. My fault.”
John hissed as Sherlock applied an antiseptic (which, apparently he now had?) over the punctures and relaxed as a bandage was sealed on. He took a deep breath, blinking long and slow twice, maybe a third time, for the neurotoxin to clear. A finger wagged in front of his nose.
“...fear I’ve taken a little too much,” Sherlock murmured more to himself than John, “Seems like we’ll have to monitor it.”
“I’m fine, Sherlock—thanks,” John reached out to lower Sherlock’s hand down, intertwining their fingers, “You got your fill?”
“I’ll probably need… regular appointments.” Sherlock’s face came real close. They were centimetres from kissing noses.
“Really? When’s the follow-up?”
“Maybe… now?”
“Not in the kitchen —wait, the chicken—”
“ You can eat later.”
Rude. John turned his head and scowled at him.
“Please?”
John’s smile reappeared, “See? I knew you were a flirt.”
They returned to kissing and grabbing one another, messily dragging themselves to Sherlock’s bedroom down the hall. John let himself be pushed down onto the mattress with Sherlock’s literal inhuman strength, a clean pmf sounding out as he hit the sheets. Although it made him somehow harder than he already was, a pang of dizziness hit his head, and a hand came up to nurse his temple. Sherlock’s cheeks burned pink in guilt, realizing he was the reason for John’s fatigue. Patting John’s thigh to stay, Sherlock zipped to the kitchen and back, presenting him with a glass of orange juice.
We had orange juice?
“You’ll need lots of energy. Because I really want to fuck you.”
Okay yeah we do.
John gulped the juice down and set it away, knowing it won’t really offset the aftereffects of the blood loss as significantly as he’d like, though he appreciated the gesture, “I’ve gathered that. So that’s why you don’t want me to eat.”
“Mmnh. You’ll suck something out of me later.”
John slapped his arm lightly, rolling his eyes, “You shut it.”
He leaned back, letting Sherlock pin the space between his thighs with his knee. John started with Sherlock’s buttons, easing the sides of the fabric apart from the neck down. Sherlock edged his knee forward up into John’s erection, a slight grin flashing on his lips when he felt John’s hands falter on his shirt and those hips ground back in response to chase the friction. Sherlock tested the waters, as a person of his nature would do: he cupped his hand on John’s clothed cock, rubbing his palm into the seams.
“ Sherlock ,” John’s head tilted back with eyes fluttering, “I’m giving you an order. Take your pants off, you tease.”
Sherlock complied, eager. So, so eager. “Not a tease.”
“Prove it.”
He leaned down to kiss John, nearly ripping his belt apart in its furious clinking. John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, and he keened at the slightest tug. Breathless, Sherlock reached over to the drawer, straining his body to keep his mouth on John while also fishing for the lube and failing multiple times in his fervor. On his fourth try, John nudged Sherlock’s face away, to which he whined petulantly.
“You’ve had your mouth on me quite enough,” John chuckled, watching him turn to snatch the bottle.
Sherlock deflected, squirting the lube onto his fingers and rubbing it around. He felt a surge of joy as John shivered against him, lips running down other’s chest with a stuttered breathing.
“You know, I’ve fingered many corpses. Including myself.”
Slowly, a finger inched in.
“So good, Sherlock—keep going.”
“So, despite not being a doctor, it must be—”
John’s hips rutted into his hand, “Oh, God — ”
“—there.”
“Sherlock, move. ”
He complied, pumping his hand at a steady pace, feeling John wriggle all around. Coming up to kiss his neck, he added another digit, a looseness beginning to make its way.
“Anything you want. Anything. I’ll give it to you,” he murmured, pressing against his skin, “Please.”
“Sherlock,” John rasped, “You’re perfect.”
His nails grasped weakly at Sherlock’s skin, not at all enough to leave marks. He scowled, determined, pressing John practically in half and setting in his fingers deep and rubbing them madly against the walls of flesh.
“Fuck , that’s good. Wait—wait, wait— I might—I might—”
Sherlock stopped, and to that, John nearly sobbed.
“You asked for it.”
“ In me .”
Sherlock smiled, looking down at John’s cock. Hard and standing up, curving from its own weight with precum salivating on his stomach. It made Sherlock’s brain practically flail. He took his dick in his hand and gave it a stroke.
“Like I said,” he kissed the side of his mouth, John helping him guide the tip over, “Any–anything. Fuck .”
Wetness. Heat. Slick. Each gasp came from Sherlock, increasingly louder the deeper he pushed himself in.
“You’re doing everything I asked for,” John said, “Because you already know what I want.”
He used his calves to push Sherlock’s body towards him, and he bottomed out in no time. John decided to tease him. Rolled his hips and watched Sherlock lose the strength in his arms.
“John— John .”
“You can do it—just a little faster.”
Sherlock leaned down to touch his forehead on John’s shoulder, panting just from entering. He nearly came right then and there. He was warm and horny with the only one he ever wanted.
“Feels good?” John asked.
Sherlock nodded, unable to speak.
“Look at you… and people call me your pet,” he teased, “Wonder if they could see you now.”
And Sherlock whined , starting to move his hips and hunching over.
“You like this. Being commanded,” John slipped a thumb into Sherlock’s mouth, twisting his chin around to take a good look. And part of Sherlock liked that, in some fucked up way, to be observed in the way he observed other people, other specimens. It justified his reasoning for labeling himself not unlike a machine. Or some odd, inhuman, different thing. It was a psychological comfort to at least pretend to know why he was like this . But John did it differently. John knew him already, and merely looked at him like that to see how the buzz behind his eyes would turn into something incandescent and beautiful.
“But only by me. And I do get a joy out of that,” John continued, rubbing his thumb on Sherlock’s teeth, “Go on. You can have a nibble.”
Sherlock kissed the tip of the finger, struggling to break the skin carefully from how his hips were moving, but loving how messy it was. John swiped across the fang and relished how amazing the vibration of Sherlock’s moan felt on his hand.
“Bet I tasted so good, it took everything in you not to suck me dry. Isn’t that right?”
“Mnh,” Sherlock responded, nosing his way to feel John’s palm on his cheek and letting blood streak over his skin. His low-lidded eyes were drowning in lust.
He fucked into John languidly, hungry, but slow and deep. John’s own cock would bounce between them, spreading stripes of precum on both their stomachs. John felt Sherlock breathe harsh against his ear, half mumbling to John and himself.
“So warm—warm—hot— augh —Johnn,” he whined, “Feels good—Does it feel good? Does it?”
“Feels so lovely, Sherlock,” John kissed him, throwing his arms around his neck and tangling their limbs together. He ran a hand to comb through Sherlock’s curls, “So pretty. You ruin me for everyone else. God, I’m lucky—can’t have anyone but you.”
Sherlock positively groaned onto his lips, bucking faster. Lube and slick pooled at the rim of John’s hole, and he used his fingers to gather the dew to lather on his cock.
“God, you’re wonderful. Filthy,” John cupped Sherlock’s face into his hands, “Did you imagine that, Sherlock, while you were away? Being desperate for me? You wouldn’t go back to anyone else, would you?”
Sherlock shook his head, rutting like a dog. His face was pinker, warmer, unlike the pale complexion he had before. His eyebrows curled up in ecstasy, mouth unsure whether to bite its lip or let a moan fall between its gorgeous fangs. A view of this would certainly make anyone faint, and John’s heart threatened to shoot out of his ribs. He really didn’t know how he was alive.
“Say it properly.”
“Yes—wanted to return to you— ugh —you’re the only one.”
John pressed his lips on the side of his mouth, “And?”
“No. Can’t go to anyone else. No one else out there. Just you. Always you,” Sherlock whimpered, “Not your body. Not your blood. I need you .”
“That’s it. That’s—that’s good,” John praised, losing the grasp on his words, “You can cum. Cum inside me—I want to feel it in.”
The rhythm of the mattress’s bounce stuttered from the “sudden” buckling of Sherlock’s “suddenly” weak knees and elbows.
“I can’t—can’t cum,” he hissed, but still blissed out, “Not enough circulation— mnngh. You cum. I want to watch you spill on me.”
John went red, and though Sherlock didn’t cum, there was an orgasm somewhere in his body. There had to be, with the way he was acting and moving and loving. He felt Sherlock’s cock drive closer and closer to his prostate with every thrust, heat rising at the tip of his dick. It was just so , so obscene . The squelch and the way Sherlock’s hips hit his ass set a greedy flame to his chest and stole his oxygen the way fire would naturally hunger for. Each inhale Sherlock took, he lost the control of his vocal chords and let out dirty, inconceivable sounds, and hearing them alone would probably doom John to hell and back.
“ Sherlock —I’m close,” he gasped, his thighs twitching against Sherlock’s arms, “ Agh , just a little longer—pleasepleaseplease.”
His chest rose and fell madly, when finally, his shoulders tensed and
shots of semen dribbled down the curve of his cock. He watched the tip snag against Sherlock’s skin, the white substance creeping down to fill his belly button.
“Lord have mercy, just look at you,” Sherlock grinned, resisting to continue his pace, though wanting dearly to ravish at the sight of an overstimulated John. He pulled out and bit his tongue at the sight of John laid out and writhing beneath him, all just because he took away his cock.
“I didn’t think you could call his name, given the state you’re in.”
“Mnh. Neither can you,” Sherlock bit his lip, feet twitching around in impatience.
Antsy . “Fair point. But I didn’t say anything about the Lord . Now, what was this about me sucking something out of you?”
Sherlock’s whole body perked at the thought, eyes lighting up and limbs flailing to right themselves so he was sat.
“I take that as a—”
“Please .” Sherlock interrupted, voice low and drunken with libido.
John’s mouth turned to a grin, keeping his eyes on Sherlock’s face as they rearranged themselves with Sherlock leaning back, and John kissing him madly. He trailed down his throat, and his hands rubbed the spaces between his ribs. He gave a corresponding bite to Sherlock’s neck, which would no doubt heal in a matter of a few seconds, but he didn’t doubt Sherlock would moan at it. Further down his torso, all sorts of faded lacerations from what were probably pure silver or iron tools painted his skin like a mosaic. While John’s heart beat with hurt at the idea, the visuals were very very sexy.
“Should I wait a million years for you to admire me? I’ll make sure it’s on my schedule,” Sherlock spoke up.
“Well, now that you can live a million years, we could do that,” John traced a finger along a scar, “Bet I can find an antique dentist. Have them fit some silver ones on me. Then I can give you some proper hickies.”
Sherlock chuckled, “I’d like that.”
John continued down to his v-line, stroking his thumbs at the crease. He kissed his own cum that was tacky from drying on Sherlock’s stomach. One of his hands reached out to take one of Sherlock’s, rubbing against the other’s knuckles. John guided it, with pleading eyes, against his cheek, down to his chin, fixing the fingers to hold his face. At the same time, his other hand ran against Sherlock’s thigh muscles, giving them a good press. For circulation, of course.
“ Fuck , John.”
“Cumming yet?”
“ Please suck me off,” Sherlock caressed a thumb below John’s eye, running the rest of his fingers through his hair, “I can’t—I want it to be enough, but I just can’t. Can’t get enough of you. You know it.”
John angled his head down and cradled the tip on his tongue. Sherlock watched as he slurped, hearing each breath get interrupted by the length clogging his throat. It was outrageous how pornographic it was. He removed his mouth to tease the shaft with a lewd kiss, and oh , right; Sherlock’s hand was still on John’s head. John eyed it, and looked back up at him.
Go on . Pull it . They seemed to say. Use me .
Sherlock threw his head back, brain fuzzy with just the idea . Before he knew it, his hips left all control and bucked up into John’s exquisite, wanting opening of a mouth. His fingers carded through, played with the suggestion of a grip, and John’s hot breath spilled over his cock. He felt his own flesh soften even further against John’s touch, blood rushing everywhere as he palmed the back of Sherlock’s thighs.
“John—,” Sherlock gasped up at the ceiling, neck craning from being unable to contain the pleasure, “ God, I’m close. John—”
John choked on the mess spilling against his tongue, extra loads of it making its way down his chin.
“— eugh ,” Sherlock’s voice broke as a final whimper.
John peered up to watch Sherlock squirm in front of him, lathering along the erogenous skin while he lifted his head off.
“ Ah. ” Sherlock jerked his knees up at the extra sensation.
John kissed the tip before wiping his mouth.
“ Mngnh .”
“How’s that feel?” John crawled up, tucking a strand of hair behind Sherlock’s ear.
A pleasant hum was all that was heard.
“Speechless?”
A groan of admission. John grinned, pride just simmering on his face.
“Curious to see what you can do without having a pint just siphoned out of you,” Sherlock suggested, all sultry, “I imagine you’re not one to disappoint.”
John climbed on top of him, straddling his thighs, “I can prove it. Next appointment.”
Sherlock cupped John’s temples between his palms, rubbing them to soothe. John leaned into the massage, a nice sigh coming from his nose.
“Still fuzzy?”
John laid his head to rest on Sherlock’s sternum, “Not terribly.”
“My juicebox needs protein.”
“So you do know your nutrients, yes?”
“I am a chemist. But I only need to apply them in regard to how you’ll taste.”
“Good. You can do the cooking.”
“I was just getting to that. The chicken’s finished.”
John snapped his head up at him. He’d barely opened the oven before going to the bedroom, “What— when did that happen?”
“I very speedily popped it in the stove before we began intercourse.”
When he left to go get the orange juice. Right. Okay. Nice.
John felt his stomach grumble, “It better be good.”
He didn’t smell anything burning, as prone to Sherlock as that would go. Brilliant, in fact.
“I looked at your recipe tab and, uhm… Let’s say tweaked it a little. You know, to give us some time,” Sherlock swayed his head from side to side, faking an estimation, “Considering your health level and dry spell, but also arousal leve—”
John clamped Sherlock’s mouth with his palm, “How long’s passed?”
“Twenty minutes at one-twenty,” Sherlock mumbled through the skin, giving it a gross, thorough lick.
Damn. John really didn’t have sex in a long time. He snuggled into the sheets of the bed.
“You’re fixing me a plate. With greens and rice.”
Sherlock shuffled out of the bed, though before he left for the kitchen, he snuck his head back down to meet John with a kiss. He then took a passing, teasing nibble at his lip, drawing a drop of blood.
“ Ow! What’s that for?”
“Midnight snack.”
The chicken was good.