Sampling

Feb. 23rd, 2012 11:56 pm
dani_the_girl: (Default)
[personal profile] dani_the_girl
Fandom: Sherlock
Summary: Sherlock gets bored of waiting for John to recognise the obvious.
Rating: R. Definitely R. Plot decidedly absent.
Beta: [personal profile] roane - thanks for all the pointers!




When they get up to the room, there is one double bed in it. John sighs, irritated and turned to go back down to the desk and complain. It'd been two very long days and a frustrating and frankly disturbing case and all he wants is is to have a lie down and possibly a gin and tonic, not an argument with a hotel receptionist.

He nearly runs right into Sherlock, who is heading straight for one of the armchairs, all the better for posing, presumably. "Something wrong, John," he asks as he shucks off his coat and throws it carelessly onto the bed.

"No," John snaps. He's just getting tired of this, this constant assumption of togetherness. It's wearing. On the other hand, there's no point talking to Sherlock about it. "Didn't you ask for a twin room when you booked us in?"

"If there aren't enough rooms available for us to have one apiece," Sherlock points out in a bored voice, "then clearly this is the only possible room available. Do try to think a little, John."

"This isn't the only hotel in Gloucester," John tries, slightly hopefully.

"No, but it is the only hotel in Gloucester patronised by my dear brother, and therefore the only one I can have charged to his department in his name," Sherlock says with a smirk.

John takes his hand off the door knob, shaking his head. "Right, fine. Well you take the bed and I'll take the chair then." It didn't look very comfortable but at least he was practiced at getting some sleep in uncomfortable situations, whereas Sherlock was extremely practiced at complaining given the least provocation.

Sherlock levers himself up from the armchair, looking irritated, and stretches out full length on the bed, legs crossed at the ankle. John flicks off the room light and slumps down in the vacated chair. As he had suspected, it really isn't very comfortable. There isn't enough incline to support his head once he had fallen asleep, leaving the alternatives of contorting himself awkwardly to support himself on one of the arms or waking up every half hour as his head drops forward. As he shifts around, trying to find some feasible position, Sherlock snorts in irritation.

"What?" John snaps.

"If your pretended heterosexuality isn't secure enough to survive even falling asleep side by side fully clothed," Sherlock says sharply, "can't you at least lie down quietly."

John reached over and turned the lamp back on. "Pretended heterosexuality?" he asks, raising his eyebrows.

Sherlock sat up in the bed, pushing up the pillows so that he could prop himself on them. "Yes, obviously," he says. "I was experimenting to see how long you could possibly maintain the denial, but I'm afraid it's become too much of a bore to continue with."

He ought to be angry, John thinks to himself, at the idea of Sherlock running experiments on him and perhaps if it weren't so very predictable, he would be. As it is, he is more irritated by the hypothesis than anything else. "Look," he grumbles, "I thought you at least were clear on this. You've met my girlfriends for God's sake!"

"Yes," Sherlock says meditatively. "Polite, kind, restful, vanilla, well within your sphere of attractiveness, your social equals, just the sort of person you think you should want. Why do you always end up breaking up with them again?"

"You drive them away!" It comes out closer to a shout than he intends, perhaps because he's aware that it's only partially true.

"I simply behave exactly as anyone who knew me would expect me to," Sherlock points out. "You, on the other hand, instead of protecting your partners in order to preserve the relationships, actively encourage them to get to know me in the vain hope that this will somehow cause them to forgive you for constantly running off to spend time with me instead of tending to your relationships with them. Ergo, you do not wish these relationships to succeed. I am merely the instrument by which your wishes are carried out."

John blinks. The problem is that he's too used to Sherlock being right when it comes to deductive reasoning. It makes it hard to marshal arguments against. He decides to try a different tack. "Look, I'm sorry if I've been leading you on or something but you should have said. You told me when I moved in that you weren't interested."

Sherlock snorts. "Yes and what would you have done if I'd said oh by the way, do let me know when you're ready to fuck because it will be exceptionally good?" He pauses for a second, even though he can't possibly think John will have an answer for that. "You would have run a mile, obviously. Do give me credit for a little subtlety."

"This is subtle?" John asks, almost breathless.

"Obviously not. I am bored with subtlety. Direct methods are clearly required at this point."

"Look, Sherlock," John starts, quickly, as Sherlock swings his feet off the bed. "I'm really not..."

"Yes, yes," Sherlock says dismissively. He strides over to stand in front of John's chair. "Let me kiss you, John." His tone is mostly just his usual idle assumption of command but there's an underlying thread of entreaty that John can't remember ever hearing before in Sherlock's voice.

"Why would I want to do that?" he asks softly. He ought to just get up and go, walk downstairs, find another hotel. Leave Sherlock to come down from his adrenaline high in private. He doesn't move.

"If you are as heterosexual as you think you are, it will make no difference, you can come and lie down on the other side of the bed and we can both get some sleep. If not, you will have discovered something useful about yourself and we can proceed from there."

"And if I say no?" He realises he's staring at Sherlock's hands, long fingered and elegant, resting on his hips. He pulls his gaze back up to Sherlock's face, to those intent eyes and their determined scrutiny.

"Then as I am no longer required by experimental protocol to wait for you to recognise the blindingly obvious, I will retire to bed and consider some other tactic."

Some other tactic. "What, some tactic other than just booking us into a double room?"

"Yes," Sherlock agrees, not looking in the least abashed. "If a direct approach has failed to gain any ground, I'll obviously have to use more circuitous methods."

The very thought of this becoming some sort of ongoing campaign is enough to decide John; even the embarrassment this is bound to be is better than constant covert attack. He's just about to push himself up when Sherlock firmly pushes him back down into the chair. "No, you stay where you are," he murmurs. "Don't want to risk you going weak at the knees."

Instead, Sherlock climbs onto the chair with him, knees tucked in next to John's hips. It's not a particularly big chair and it's a very tight fit for the two of them; John feels uncomfortably trapped as Sherlock looms over him. "Relax," Sherlock says softly and leans down to claim his kiss.

It starts off gentle, a warm pressure, a slight nibble on his lower lip, the swipe of Sherlock's tongue and then without really meaning to, John opens his mouth and lets Sherlock in. Sherlock moves his hands so his forearms bracket John's head and leans his weight in just a little bit more. He strokes and twines his tongue around John's, never seeming to pause and just for a second, John wonders what it would be like to have Sherlock's mouth on his cock. He can feel his body beginning to respond to the idea and clamps down determinedly on the thought. One kiss. He shifts uncomfortably.

He feels the curve of Sherlock's lips as he breaks the kiss and leans forward to whisper in John's ear "Now, just think where my tongue could be better employed," and then he takes John's earlobe gently between his teeth and starts to tease it with the tip of his tongue. The faint stirrings of arousal kick into overdrive and he's suddenly fully erect and he can't stop thinking about the image of Sherlock's mouth wrapped around him, Sherlock looking up at him through those incredible lashes. Sherlock moves a hand down, stroking over his collar bone and down to lightly tug his nipple through his shirt.

He lets out a groan and feels Sherlock smile again as he releases John's ear. "In the absence of a more coherent response," he tells John in amusement, "I am going to proceed on the basis of empirical data." He slides his hand further down between them to cup John's erection through his trousers, looks straight at John as he strokes firmly down the length of it. John can't help it; he pushes up, just slightly, into Sherlock's hand. "Yes, that seems fairly solid," Sherlock says and slides gracefully down onto his knees in front of the chair.

John lets his head thump back against the chair back as Sherlock opens his trousers and tugs them down just far enough to let him get at John's cock. He should say something, he reminds himself; there'll be no convincing Sherlock after this, but really, it's already too late for that and he knows it so he just lets the momentum of his arousal carry him forwards, slides forward in the chair into a convenient position for Sherlock's waiting mouth.

Sherlock's tongue dances over the head of his cock, teasing gently, and those long fingers reach into his boxers to stroke gently at John's balls. He sits back on his heels for just a second, adjusting the angle, and then, deliberately, John thinks, slides John right to the back of his throat, looking up all the while, grey eyes dancing through long lashes. In for a penny, thinks John wildly and starts to thrust gently as Sherlock's tongue strokes and teases and Sherlock's fingers continue to play with him, cupping his balls, tugging and massaging them gently but insistently.

He's seconds away when Sherlock pulls his head away and sits back on his heels. John groans and tries to reach for himself but Sherlock bats him away with one hand, the other still playing idly with John's balls. "Very instructive," he murmurs, sounding as composed as if he's just found something interesting in one of his experiments, not spent the last ten minutes turning John inside out.

"Sherlock, please," John begs, not caring if he sounds pathetic.

"Would you like to come, John?" Sherlock asks casually and really, John should have figured he would be a sadist, he really should.

"God, please, just, yes," John agrees.

"On the bed then, I think," Sherlock orders. He stands up and starts to strip off his clothes efficiently. John waits until he thinks Sherlock will be distracted by his buttons and reaches for himself again, only to find that Sherlock's hand has whipped out and is gripping his wrist. "Now now," Sherlock says, "No cheating. Clothes off, on the bed." He looks at John, considering, and adds "I'll get a better angle there," just a tiny temptation to tip the scales.

John stands up and finds that his hesitation has meant that he now has an audience. Sherlock is stretched out on the bed, hands behind his head, ankles crossed, watching John. He looks for all the world as he had when they'd first come into the room except for the fact that he's naked and also very obviously aroused. There's something incredibly flattering about it and John can't take his eyes off it as he shucks his trousers the rest of the way off, taking his boxers with them and starts to unbutton his shirt. It feels strange to be doing this under the gaze of another man, to be deliberately about to get into bed with a naked Sherlock, of all people but he can't deny there's a thrill to it too. Like diving with sharks, he thinks wildly to himself.

Sherlock seems, if anything, to be enjoying his discomfort. He plumps up the pillows as John gets onto the bed, pushes John back down against them. "Make yourself comfortable," he advises with a smirk before sliding easily back down the bed, slipping his mouth over and down John's cock without stopping for breath. He was right, the angle is better. Sherlock takes him all the way in and John shudders as he feels Sherlock swallow gently while his tongue continues to explore, taste and titillate. Sherlock's fingers reach back down to tug gently on John's balls and stroke behind them and the heat and the sensation of it is irresistible. He's making embarrassingly breathy noises but he doesn't care anymore, just slides his hand into Sherlock's curly hair and hangs on until he can't hold it back any more. Sherlock slides off enough to swipe his tongue over the head as John finishes coming and then all the way up with the expected smirk on his face.

John lies back on the pillow, taking a moment to catch his breath before he tries to do anything. He feels Sherlock's hand still moving gently around but doesn't think about it until he feels the tip of Sherlock's finger stroking his arsehole. He flinches away, more out of surprise than anything else. The finger retreats back to his balls, still stroking. "Just relax, John," Sherlock says with a smile, leaning in towards him. "You'll enjoy this, I promise."

"You've worked that out by deductive reasoning, have you?" John asks. It's not nearly as sarcastic a question as it would have been half an hour ago.

"Your response to perineal stimulation suggests that you will receive a high degree of pleasure from prostate massage," Sherlock tells him. It's nearly the same matter of fact tone that he uses when telling John how he knows that someone is left handed. "But if you'd like to leave the experiment for another day, there's no particular hurry to confirm it."

John can feel Sherlock's erection firm against his thigh and has a strong suspicion that he knows what follow up studies this particular experiment will lead to. On the other hand, Sherlock has been right about this so far and he finds to his surprise that he's more curious than anything else. "Slowly," he orders Sherlock, "I'm not used to this," and tries to relax. Sherlock leans down to kiss him again and he can taste himself on Sherlock's tongue, which is distracting enough that he's able to let Sherlock inside with a minimum of tensing and it's fine, really, a strange sensation, but fine. Then Sherlock shifts his hand a little, pushes a little further in and John knows in theory what to expect from prostate stimulation, but it turns out that theory is selling it short, to be honest. He reaches for Sherlock's cock, vaguely aware that he ought to be putting in some effort for all this reward.

"Hands are all very well," Sherlock says, sliding in a second finger and starting to gently push and stretch John's arsehole, "but I think we could be cutting out the middle men here, as it were." He fishes under the pillow with his free hand and pulls out a condom. It's like a conjuring trick, John thinks, momentarily distracted by wondering when the hell Sherlock had managed to put that into position. Sherlock doesn't seem to be in any hurry, just carries on stroking his long fingers in and out, giving John time to think.

John tries to imagine what it will feel like to have Sherlock's cock where Sherlock's fingers currently are and fails, but those fingers feel so good that he's already becoming erect again, which suggests that the whole experience might be rather more his cup of tea than he might once have thought. "Probably better than fumbling around," he agrees.

Sherlock gives him a smile like a sunrise and slides his fingers out. He opens the packet and positions himself between John's legs. "You won't regret it," he tells John seriously and then slides the condom onto himself before settling his cock at John's entrance.

Even if Sherlock hadn't stretched him first, John thinks it would almost have been worth it for the look on Sherlock's face as he slides in. The first couple of inches feel tight but manageable, and then the pressure of Sherlock's cock on his prostate is even better than fingers and he gasps and starts to push back, pushing Sherlock further inside. Sherlock groans, the first uncontrolled noise John thinks he can ever remember him making and starts to thrust, gently at first and then increasingly vigorously. John feels himself coming fully hard again on the combination of the feeling of Sherlock inside him and the sight of Sherlock propped over him, sweating and glorious. He reaches his hand down between them to tug at himself and Sherlock makes a noise almost like a laugh.

"Knew you'd be a prostate slut," he says breathily between strokes. John decides against replying that if asked to guess he would have suggested that even during sex Sherlock wouldn't be able to resist showing off his deductive skills. "God, John, so tight. I need to."

He leaves the sentence unfinished but it's pretty obvious and John nods and speeds up his own hand. Sherlock bends down and takes a nipple between his teeth, tonguing it. John swears and between that and the feeling of Sherlock coming inside him, he tips over and spills between them.

Sherlock slumps down on top of him in a boneless heap, which feels wonderful for about five minutes and then quickly becomes horribly uncomfortable. John rouses himself up enough to give a good push at Sherlock's shoulder to get him off and then swings his feet off the bed to go and get at least somewhat cleaned up.

"Come back to bed," Sherlock demands from the bed. John ignores this. Sherlock can damn well wait a couple of minutes; if John is going to have to submit to snuggling, he's at least going to be clean. "If you're turning your back on experimental evidence," calls Sherlock from the bed, "I'm throwing you out of the flat. You had two orgasms. Now let's go to sleep."

"Two data points is not a reliable result set," John yells back cheerfully.

This produces a thoughtful silence. "Good point," Sherlock says as John walks back into the bedroom. "What time shall we request an alarm call for tomorrow?"
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