When I agreed with sarren that I'd probably be writing fic soon, I didn't think it'd be this soon. Oh, I can hear my Big Bang yelling in protest.
Title: Oh, But You’re An Explosion
Word Count: ~3,000
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Summary: “The thing that’s confusing John is the look on Sherlock’s face—it’s the expression John’s privately taken to calling his ‘detecting face’, but it’s been a while since Sherlock’s turned it on him.” Written for the Kink Bingo challenge for the “rough sex” square.
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me, all the blame for this can be put on green_postit. (She knows why.) Title comes from the song “I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor” by the Arctic Monkeys.
“Afternoon, Sherlock,” John says cheerfully as he walks into the room, shutting the door behind them.
Sherlock lifts his head from the armrest on the couch to look at him. “How was the shooting range?”
“How did you—wait, never mind,” John corrects himself, shrugging out of his coat. “Yes, my afternoon at the shooting range with Donovan and Lestrade was excellent, thank you.” Sherlock’s still looking at him, his eyes bright and focused, and John blinks back, somewhat discomfited even though he’s used to Sherlock’s ways by this point.
Sherlock looks him over again, and then says dismissively, “You really ought to get better taste in liquor. The swill you keep subjecting yourself to is appalling, it really is.”
John opens his mouth to ask just how Sherlock knew about the trip to the pub after the range, but shuts his mouth in time. “Cigarette smoke coming from my clothes?”
Sherlock’s let his head fall back against the couch, and doesn’t bother to raise his head again. “Among other things,” he says, dismissively.
“My taste in liquor’s just fine, thank you,” John assures him, rolling his eyes as he heads over to his laptop. Even though his room is technically upstairs, a great deal of his possessions have drifted into this room, somehow without John even meaning for them to. These days he just elects to go with it, coming downstairs to write his blog posts or read a medical journal or even just watch something on the telly.
He grabs the medical journal that on the table and settles into the armchair, and because he’s so used to Sherlock watching him, watching everything, he doesn’t think much of the fact that Sherlock’s bright gaze lingers on his face for longer than is strictly necessary.
John gets on rather well with Sally Donovan these days. She refrains from calling Sherlock any variation on the term sociopath, and he refrains from asking her what on Earth she can possibly see in Anderson, the tosser.
It’s a system that works well for everyone involved.
“And how is the amateur these days?” she asks cheerfully as John takes a seat at the corner table.
Of course, none of that means that she actually likes Sherlock.
“Fine,” John says, not taking offense. “Well—he’s a bit quieter than normal.”
“Oh?” Sally asks, pouring a sugar packet into her coffee and stirring it. “Plotting world domination, is he?”
“Please,” John scoffs. “Sherlock would never plot to take over the world; it would mean having to deal with—“ he cuts himself off before he can say Mycroft, and finishes awkwardly, “—people.”
“Mm, you have a point there,” Sally agrees, taking a sip. “But I still bet he’s plotting something. He’s that sort.”
“Well, I hope you’re wrong,” John says without thinking. “Because if he’s plotting something, then it’s got to do with me, since he keeps looking over and staring at me all the time—” Sally’s eyebrows shoot up at that, and John says impatiently, “Oh, don’t start, it’s not as if he’s going to start plotting my murder or anything—”
“It’s a fair supposition,” Sally retorts. “Considering just who we’re talking about.” John makes an impatient face at this, and she rolls her eyes. “Fine, if he’s not plotting your murder, then my best guess would be that he’s…” She trails off, a thoughtful look appearing on her face, and doesn’t continue speaking.
“Well?” John prods after a moment. “That he’s what?”
“Nothing,” Sally says abruptly, shaking her head. “I’m probably wrong. Or at least I hope I’m wrong. And let me say something, you’d better hope I’m wrong too.”
“Well, thank you, Madam Cryptic,” John says, exasperated, and to his annoyance, that’s the last that Sally says on the subject for the rest of their lunch.
John doesn’t get what Sally’s referring to until a couple of days later.
He’s halfway through a blog post detailing their last case—and gracefully avoiding any mention of their less-than-legal activities in pursuit of the murderer—when he glances up to see Sherlock sitting ramrod straight on the couch, staring directly at him.
John blinks in surprise. “Sherlock? Anything wrong?”
The thing that’s confusing John is the look on Sherlock’s face—it’s the expression John’s privately taken to calling his ‘detecting face’, but it’s been a while since Sherlock’s turned it on him. After all, they’ve spend so much time together that Sherlock’s already figured out nearly everything there is to know about John.
“No,” Sherlock says at last, getting up from the couch. “I just want to try something,” he says as he approaches John’s armchair.
“Oh?” John asks curiously. “Another experiment? Because if it involves eyeballs in the microwave, then I’m putting my foot—”
He’s cut off when Sherlock leans down and awkwardly presses his mouth against John’s, his mouth cool and unmoving. John’s eyes pop open in shock, and his nostrils flare as Sherlock presses a cool hand to his cheek. The kiss is so tentative that it sets off a flare of something in John’s stomach to war with the feeling of complete and utter surprise—
—but then Sherlock’s pulling away, his face shuttered. John’s mouth is still pursed, and it takes him a moment to get it working again. “That was…unexpected,” he manages at last.
Sherlock’s face shifts, and he pulls away, standing up as he says formally, “My apologies—” and if John wasn’t already floored, the sight of Sherlock apologizing for, well, anything would do it. “I thought you might—”
“Hey, no,” John says quickly, wanting to wipe that look of Sherlock’s face, “—look, I didn’t say I minded—” And just like that, Sherlock’s entire face lights up, and he says, smug now, “I knew you wouldn’t object.”
Well, John would like to object at that, say a few things such as, oh, the hell you knew and what, have you been planning this or something? Except Sherlock’s moving back in to kiss John again, and his mouth’s otherwise occupied for the moment.
John’s expecting something like the first kiss, something tentative and soft that John can eventually pull away from so they can have a real conversation about this and John can figure out just what is even going on—except that there are suddenly teeth lightly tugging at John’s lower lip, sharp against John’s skin, and John gasps into Sherlock’s mouth.
Nothing tentative now, his face held in Sherlock’s hands, cool against his flushed face, and why is it flushing, why is he suddenly so hot all of a sudden, blood rushing to his face as he tilts his head back and lets Sherlock just—plunder his mouth—
A groan tears itself out of John’s throat, and that just makes Sherlock kiss him harder, press him into the back of the armchair, and John’s got a hand tangled in Sherlock’s hair, curls soft against his fingers.
It takes him a moment to realize that Sherlock’s muttering against his mouth, saying, “Get up, get up—” and John, dazed and unquestioning, lets Sherlock drag him out of the chair and down onto the floor, Sherlock immediately getting on top of him, pressing down and John can feel him, hard against his thigh. Without thinking, John jerks up into it, rocking his hips up and Sherlock actually growls and presses down and John realizes with a fresh flash of shock that they’re actually rutting on the floor of their flat, that he’s kissing Sherlock Holmes and that they’re about to—
He tears his mouth away and gasps, “Jesus Christ—”
“No, it’s Sherlock,” Sherlock immediately replies, deadpan, and John huffs out a weak laugh. That dazed feeling only gets worse when he realizes that Sherlock’s gaze is fixed on his mouth.
“Say yes,” Sherlock says, all his attention focused on John.
“To what?” John asks, his voice hoarse.
“To all the things I want to do to you—John, say yes,” Sherlock insists, and John’s never heard Sherlock sound like this, never seen Sherlock look at anything like this, and now he is and it’s all because of John—
“Yes,” John says, almost before he realizes what he’s saying, “—yes, all right, do it already—”
Sherlock’s already on him before he can even finish, his mouth demanding and his hands greedily pulling at John’s clothes, practically tearing at John’s mouth with his teeth, and John gasps and rocks up for more, for all of it, pulling at Sherlock’s hair, dragging his short nails down Sherlock’s back.
Sherlock abruptly pulls back, his hands pulling at the hem of John’s shirt, seeming not to realize it’s got buttons, and John reaches to help, and Sherlock lets out a low snarl of frustration and just pulls, buttons flying everywhere, clattering on the floor, and John knows he should be protesting, but that was, that really was—
Fuck, it was the hottest thing he’s seen in a very long while.
The minute his arms are free of his shirtsleeves, Sherlock pounces on him again, actually pinning him to the floor and sucking at his neck, John’s starting to suspect a little bit of an oral fixation here, and he’s going to get a bruise if this continues—he yelps as Sherlock bites at his pulse point, groaning, “Jesus, you vampire—”
“Not the worst thing I’ve been called, but inaccurate all the same,” Sherlock casually says in response against John’s neck, and then bites down again, right at the same spot, and John’s hissing in pain and pressing up for more, all at the same time.
Sherlock’s hands are everywhere now, gripping his arms, pinching his nipples, pressing bruises along his ribs that John can already tell will linger for days. Sherlock’s blunt nails scrape along his skin as he drags his hands down to the belt on John’s trousers, impatiently working it open and pulling it off, and then pausing, the bastard, staring down at the leather belt in his hand.
“Sherlock?” John prods, confused and turned on and wondering why on earth he’s stopped. “What are you—”
Sherlock turns his attention back to John, eyes gleaming and declares, “Next time,” before leaning back down to give John another one of those biting kisses on the mouth, and then pulling away again to order, “Now turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
John’s eyes go wide as he realizes what Sherlock’s getting at. “Are you serious?”
“Very,” Sherlock replies. “Now are you going to do it, or aren’t you?”
He should be saying no, are you kidding? or even just hang on a minute, instead, he gulps in a deep breath, then twists over onto his stomach, breathing deeply as he places first one hand, then the other behind his back.
Sherlock’s quick about it, slipping the belt around and between his wrists, and John pants for breath and wonders, dazed, just how he ended up here.
“All right?” Sherlock asks once he’s finished and John’s arms have been immobilized, but his voice is casual, assuming, taking it for granted that John’s fine, and the hell of it is that he’s not at all wrong.
“Yeah,” John confirms. “I’m all right.”
“I thought you would be,” Sherlock says, musing, his hand dragging from the top of John’s spine all the way down to the small of his back, making John shiver. “Lift up your hips for me, John.”
And like with everything else that’s happened so far, John does as Sherlock says and lifts his hips, trying and failing to keep from shuddering with anticipation as Sherlock’s clever hands work at the front of his trousers, and then tug down his trousers and underwear past his hips, down his arse, wriggling it all past his knees and pulling it off his ankles and feet.
Finally, John’s completely naked, his cock hard and leaking, hands tied behind his back, and John shivers again at the thought of what he must look like—
There’s the sound of a cap being opened, and before John quite knows what’s happening, there’s a slick finger working him open, and John gasps and pushes back before he can think twice about it, groaning out, “My God, you planned this.”
“Of course I did,” Sherlock says dismissively, his finger continuing to push in and out, just this side of too-rough, but John doesn’t even think of protesting, just pushes his hips back for more.
John’s not quite ready for the second finger, but that makes it better somehow, the stretch and burn as they twist inside of him, and he presses his cheek against the not-too-clean floor and gulps in unsteady breaths as Sherlock determinedly works him open until John’s shoving back on his fingers and urging him to “move faster, dammit—”
“I’ll move as fast as I want, thank you,” Sherlock retorts, but there’s a crack in his voice that’s gratifying, almost as much as when he pulls out his fingers and John hears the sound of his trousers being unzipped, the sound of a condom wrapper being opened, and then Sherlock’s hand is pressing bruises into his thigh as his cock pushes in and oh, oh fuck—
John’s not fully prepped, and it does burn, but that doesn’t matter, not when Sherlock’s above him, his breathing ragged, thick and hot inside of John, his hands gripping John so hard that he imagines the imprints will sink in all the way down to his bones.
“Move,” John orders, his own voice cracking, “move, fuck, I won’t break—”
For once, Sherlock listens, and starts to thrust, his hips snapping forward, no hesitation, no insistence on taking it slow, greedy and demanding as he presses John further into the floor, a heavy weight on top of him, while John pants and shudders and pushes himself up for more, for everything that he can take, barely recognizing the low cries that are escaping his mouth as Sherlock splits him open with his cock and makes him beg for more.
And now Sherlock’s speaking, fast and rough and filthy, leaning in to hiss in his ear, “Yes, that’s it, come on now and take it, I know you can, you want to, don’t you—just take everything I give you and ask for more, I know it, I know you, now come on and just take it already—”
John does, he takes every thrust, every snap of the hips, every single scrape of Sherlock’s nails on his skin, every bruise, and he lets his body and his voice plead for Sherlock not to stop, to never stop.
He comes without a single touch to his aching cock, his voice a hoarse shout, and feels himself slump onto the floor, while Sherlock continues to fuck him, his hips moving faster and faster until he comes, his hands tightening on John’s hips to the point of pain as he lets out a low grunt, collapsing on top of John.
John doesn’t attempt to push him off for a moment, but finally the weight and the awkward positioning of his arms forces him to nudge at Sherlock, to mutter wearily, “Do you mind—”
“Oh, right,” Sherlock murmurs, and then he’s pulling out of John and fumbling with the belt for a moment before John’s wrists are freed, and they both roll awkwardly to their sides while John rubs at his wrists.
Finally he shifts onto his back, and glances over at Sherlock. “Now that really was unexpected.”
“Speak for yourself,” Sherlock says, his eyes closed. “I saw this coming from almost the very beginning.”
“Liar,” John retorts, and Sherlock turns his head, opening his eyes as he raises an eyebrow, and John’s forced to admit that no, Sherlock probably isn’t lying here.
“So,” John says after another moment. “What do we do next?”
“Go to my bedroom,” Sherlock replies. “And once we’ve fully recovered, I find out just what else you’re willing to let me do with this belt.” John’s eyes flicker down to where Sherlock’s still holding the belt in one hand, his thumb stroking across the leather.
John’s mouth goes dry, but not in a bad way. Not in a bad way at all. “Yeah,” he says roughly. “I can work with that.”
It turns out that John didn’t need to worry about telling Sally—the minute she gets a look at him as he enters the café, she dramatically claps a hand to her face in dismay.
“Oh, God,” she groans. “You’ve finally gone and shagged Cousin It.”
John doesn’t bother to deny it, sliding into his customary seat with no more than a little wince—he’s been in worse discomfort than this. “Yeah, repeatedly,” he confirms, and Sally groans again and shakes her head.
“I should ask you if you’ve lost your mind, but that would make the assumption that you ever had one to begin with,” she says tartly, and John rolls his eyes as he flags down the waitress.
“Don’t be overdramatic,” he tells her. “It’s fine.” It’s more than fine, actually, but John’s fairly sure Sally won’t be interested in hearing the details. Or in hearing about the other uses Sherlock has for that riding crop of his.
Sally’s looking at him with pursed lips, and she says as the waitress approaches, “There’s really going to be no reasoning with you on this, is there?”
John didn’t bother to try and hide his smile. “Yeah, probably not.”
“Urgh,” Sally says dramatically. “Well, go with God, Dr. Watson, as my gram would say.”
John smiles and tells the waitress his order and doesn’t say out loud, Yeah, I think I’ll go with Sherlock too, thanks. He thinks it, though, which is enough to be getting on with.
- Sherlock fic: Oh, But You're An Explosion