![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sirona_ficsTitle: You put your arms around me and I'm home
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Length: ~2,000
Summary: Three days after Manchester, all Sherlock's doing is throwing these looks John's way. John's had enough. For prompts #23 and #24 (sans the cat) (be aware -- extremely NWS -- but oh-so-delicious!).
Warnings: none that the rating wouldn't imply.
Notes: For all those who asked, this is the sequel to Rolling in the deep. Title from Christina Perry's Arms. Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
hpfemme_love Speed Pr0nz challenge.
17.00 to 18.57 EET
It's been three days, three damn days without a word about what happened in Manchester that night, three days of Sherlock sending him glances he thinks are subtle but in reality only serve to drive John up the sodding wall. Sherlock is avoiding him and not letting him out of his sight at the same time; once John would have said that was impossible, but that was before he'd met Sherlock bloody Holmes. John privately thinks that one more day of this and he will call Lestrade himself and beg for a case, any case, as long as it gets Sherlock out of the flat.
Alternatively, Sherlock could just tell him what is wrong already, but John isn't holding his breath.
He'd woken up three days ago to find Sherlock's side of the bed empty and the door to the bathroom closed -- locked, even, when he'd tried the handle, and nothing but omnious quiet from within.
"Sherlock? All right?" he'd called through the door, voice still sleep-rough and bladder painfully full.
"Reading," had been the reply, magnified by the walls of the large bathtub inside so that Sherlock's already fascinatingly deep voice had come out in a sensuous thrum, shaking John to the core and making his half-hard cock twitch in appreciation.
"Well, hurry up, I need the loo," John had grumbled, aroused and suspicious and grumpy and trying hard not to imagine Sherlock naked and half-submerged, winter-pale skin flushed appealingly from the hot water. Obviously, he'd failed.
Sherlock had appeared five-odd minutes later, clad in a fluffy hotel bathrobe and watching him intently as John had scuttled past him and closed the door in his face. He could have sworn he could still feel Sherlock's eyes on his back, even through the two-inch-thick door.
And now they're back home, after a miserably quiet train journey back to London, during which Sherlock had alternately insulted Virgin Trains and thrown down some textbook or other in disgust, only to pick it up again a minute later and repeat the cycle. And John -- John had tried not to ponder the way Sherlock had curled into him the night before, lanky limbs wrapping John up as if in the world's skinniest, coolest, most unfairly attractive blanket. Considering the evening immediately preceding the event, John had slept like a log.
He watches Sherlock pretend not to watch him from the kitchen table, irritated and short-tempered and fighting an arousal that is most inconvenient under the circumstances, seeing as Sherlock has reverted back to his pre-Manchester persona frightfully quickly. John would write the whole thing off as a bad job if it hadn't been for all the looks, the way Sherlock's attention skittles over his skin like a restless spider. John gets up off the sofa and makes his way determinedly upstairs, where he changes into a sweater and a pair of jeans and slips on his shoes before coming back down. He finds Sherlock loitering by the door to the flat, looking at him suspiciously.
"Going out?" Sherlock asks, turning back to his experiment nonchalantly and fooling absolutely no one.
"Yeah, obviously," John snaps, though the statement lacks the heat it should be rife with.
"We're out of milk," is Sherlock's answer. God, but he hates that man something terrible sometimes. An evening out with Sarah should cheer him up no end.
And it would have, he thinks gloomily, if Sarah hadn't absconded with her new theatre-mad boyfriend to the latest West End production. In his desperation, John even calls Lestrade to see if he fancies a pint, but he's out of luck again -- it's Lestrade's youngest's birthday, and Lestrade is happily chained to the table playing the doting father. So rather than calling Harry (please, god, no. He's not that desperate yet), John trudges back to the flat in defeat, and even stops by the shops for milk and some biscuits that he knows for a fact will be gone by tomorrow, no matter how many packets he buys.
It's chilly out, but not quite as freezing as Manchester, so his shoulder is only aching a little by the time he makes it inside and up the stairs. The flat is unusually quiet, and there are no distressing smells about, which is a first since John moved in. He puts away the shopping and the kettle on, making himself a cuppa that he intends to enjoy with a hot bath and a nice book. He wonders briefly where Sherlock's gotten to before shrugging and climbing the stairs to his room, stepping out of his shoes and shucking his clothes for his worn but comfortable bathrobe and aforementioned paperback. Thus armed, he walks down the corridor towards the bath, pushes the door open--and freezes in the doorway.
Sherlock sprawls full-length in the bathtub, water soapy but nearly translucent, tendrils of steam weaving through the air over his bare chest. He has his head thrown back, thick hair droopy with moisture plastered in ringlets around his face, hand resting on his inner thigh right next to his fully aroused cock.
John drops his book, and nearly his tea as well before he deflects the parabola and thunks the mug onto the counter by the sink.
"I am so sorry," he babbles, looking at the ceiling, the floor, his slippers, anywhere but where his eyes most want to land. "I didn't mean to--I didn't see the light, I--er. I'll just go. Sorry."
He chances a look at Sherlock's face, knowing his own in flaming damningly, and finds Sherlock's eyes locked on him, lips parted, pupils blown, and Jesus Christ he doesn't think he's seen anything more beautiful in his life than Sherlock is in that moment.
"Well?" Sherlock drawls, and John jumps. He's lost time staring, he realises, and feels his skin prickle from his head to his toes with embarrassment. "I thought you were going?"
"I am," John assures him lamely, still staring, fucking hell, this is more than a bit not good. "I am," he says with more determination, bending down for his book, on the floor by his feet. Above him, he hears Sherlock's sharp intake of breath.
"You don't have to," Sherlock says, so quietly as to be no more than a rush of air a couple of feet from John's ears, and when John looks back up, Sherlock is biting his lip and looking down at his hands, fingers twisting around each other, knuckles white. He peers at John through those absurd eyelashes of his, and John feels an exasperated groan make a bid for freedom from his throat.
"Bloody hell, Sherlock," he says, and he hardly recognises his own voice, low and heavy with intent. "You'd better mean it this time."
"Meant it last time, too," Sherlock says petulantly, which is so at odds with the picture of pure temptation he presents, lying there in the water, that John feels his irritation dissipate.
"As far as I remember, and do feel free to correct me if I've made the wrong deduction here, last time you ran away."
Sherlock pouts a little -- maybe he doesn't mean to, but the way that plush lower lip is jutting out is doing all sorts of uncomfortable things to John's composure. He wants to know what it tastes like, so badly that it's the only thing he can think about right now.
"I didn't know if it was just the closeness talking," Sherlock says, which makes no sense whatsoever until he goes on; "you needed to feel safe, and I was the only person around that you trusted. I didn't know if you would still want it in the morning."
Oh for fuck's sake, John thinks as he kicks the door closed and unties the leash to his robe, letting it fall off his shoulders to pool at his feet. Sherlock's eyes focus on his bare skin with gratifying swiftness.
"This want enough for you?" John asks, what he hopes is clearly a rhetorical question considering the state of his cock, which at this point could have held up the bathrobe all by itself.
Sherlock's lips fall open, and he swallows dryly. The click of his throat is loud in the silence as John steps closer, and closer again before he throws one leg over the rim of the tub and inside the wonderfully hot water, shifting his weight onto it. Sherlock's hands come up to brace him, clutching onto his hips as John climbs inside fully, then kneels between Sherlock's legs and sits back onto his heels. Sherlock throws one long, long leg over the edge of the tub, making space for John to lower himself between his legs, faces so close that their breaths mingle thrillingly between their lips.
"Are you sure?" Sherlock says, and the hesitant look in his eyes, John has to kiss him, right now.
So he does. Sherlock's lips are warm and slack against his, letting John ply them open and lick insight without the slightest hint of struggle. John lets himself sink over the lean body until their skin slides together, path eased by the soapy water; when their lengths rub against each other, John's spine bows without warning and his hips jerk forward, trying to get them impossibly closer. Sherlock moans in his mouth, and for a second John can't see, nothing but sparks and white space behind his eyelids. Sherlock is slick against him; he feels Sherlock's hands stroke over his back, pull him closer still, and Sherlock surges against him like this is the most incredible thing he's ever felt. John can't breathe with wanting this man, can't stop his hands from wondering Sherlock's skin, thumbing a nipple, catching Sherlock's gasps with his lips again and again. Water sloshes around them and over the rim, spurred on by their increasingly frantic movements, but John can't care for anything that isn't Sherlock, now, yes, this.
Sherlock comes first, grabbing onto John's arse and slamming his hips up, a long, drawn-out groan filling the room and echoing loudly; and god, John doesn't give a fuck about Mrs Hudson arching her suggestive eyebrow at them tomorrow, not when Sherlock is slicktauthot against him, not when Sherlock mouths at John's neck just so and yanks the orgasm out of him, smug and selfish and glorious and so, so infuriatingly pleased with himself when John can open his eyes to look at him again.
"Gah, this is disgusting," John grumbles when a clump of come floats past his arm that's flopped half over Sherlock and half over the edge of the tub, fingers hanging limply in the air. Sherlock just hums, stroking a hand through John's hair, scratching at his scalp soothingly while his own head is thrown back, neck bared for John's kisses.
"We'll need a shower," Sherlock says, which is a completely innocent observation except for how it really, really isn't.
"Stating the obvious now, Sherlock? I must have really blown your mind," John says with an overly-exaggerated leer. Sherlock snorts derisively above him, but the hand around John's back tightens.
"It was all right as those things go," Sherlock says mildly. John's eyes narrow.
The bathroom ends up needing a thorough scrubbing afterwards, what with water everywhere and shower gel and shampoo ending up in streaks over the shower curtain; but it's worth it, John thinks with satisfaction when he wakes up to a debauched-looking Sherlock in his bed, arms and legs taking up more space than should be physically possible -- not unlike a very self-satisfied cat. And besides, cleaning up can be fun, too. He's sure there's a novelty apron somewhere in his belongings that could be pressed into use -- in this case, quite literally. He'll go dig it up -- just as soon as he's given the stirring Sherlock all due attention.
-----
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Length: ~2,000
Summary: Three days after Manchester, all Sherlock's doing is throwing these looks John's way. John's had enough. For prompts #23 and #24 (sans the cat) (be aware -- extremely NWS -- but oh-so-delicious!).
Warnings: none that the rating wouldn't imply.
Notes: For all those who asked, this is the sequel to Rolling in the deep. Title from Christina Perry's Arms. Written for
hpfemme_love Speed Pr0nz challenge.17.00 to 18.57 EET
It's been three days, three damn days without a word about what happened in Manchester that night, three days of Sherlock sending him glances he thinks are subtle but in reality only serve to drive John up the sodding wall. Sherlock is avoiding him and not letting him out of his sight at the same time; once John would have said that was impossible, but that was before he'd met Sherlock bloody Holmes. John privately thinks that one more day of this and he will call Lestrade himself and beg for a case, any case, as long as it gets Sherlock out of the flat.
Alternatively, Sherlock could just tell him what is wrong already, but John isn't holding his breath.
He'd woken up three days ago to find Sherlock's side of the bed empty and the door to the bathroom closed -- locked, even, when he'd tried the handle, and nothing but omnious quiet from within.
"Sherlock? All right?" he'd called through the door, voice still sleep-rough and bladder painfully full.
"Reading," had been the reply, magnified by the walls of the large bathtub inside so that Sherlock's already fascinatingly deep voice had come out in a sensuous thrum, shaking John to the core and making his half-hard cock twitch in appreciation.
"Well, hurry up, I need the loo," John had grumbled, aroused and suspicious and grumpy and trying hard not to imagine Sherlock naked and half-submerged, winter-pale skin flushed appealingly from the hot water. Obviously, he'd failed.
Sherlock had appeared five-odd minutes later, clad in a fluffy hotel bathrobe and watching him intently as John had scuttled past him and closed the door in his face. He could have sworn he could still feel Sherlock's eyes on his back, even through the two-inch-thick door.
And now they're back home, after a miserably quiet train journey back to London, during which Sherlock had alternately insulted Virgin Trains and thrown down some textbook or other in disgust, only to pick it up again a minute later and repeat the cycle. And John -- John had tried not to ponder the way Sherlock had curled into him the night before, lanky limbs wrapping John up as if in the world's skinniest, coolest, most unfairly attractive blanket. Considering the evening immediately preceding the event, John had slept like a log.
He watches Sherlock pretend not to watch him from the kitchen table, irritated and short-tempered and fighting an arousal that is most inconvenient under the circumstances, seeing as Sherlock has reverted back to his pre-Manchester persona frightfully quickly. John would write the whole thing off as a bad job if it hadn't been for all the looks, the way Sherlock's attention skittles over his skin like a restless spider. John gets up off the sofa and makes his way determinedly upstairs, where he changes into a sweater and a pair of jeans and slips on his shoes before coming back down. He finds Sherlock loitering by the door to the flat, looking at him suspiciously.
"Going out?" Sherlock asks, turning back to his experiment nonchalantly and fooling absolutely no one.
"Yeah, obviously," John snaps, though the statement lacks the heat it should be rife with.
"We're out of milk," is Sherlock's answer. God, but he hates that man something terrible sometimes. An evening out with Sarah should cheer him up no end.
And it would have, he thinks gloomily, if Sarah hadn't absconded with her new theatre-mad boyfriend to the latest West End production. In his desperation, John even calls Lestrade to see if he fancies a pint, but he's out of luck again -- it's Lestrade's youngest's birthday, and Lestrade is happily chained to the table playing the doting father. So rather than calling Harry (please, god, no. He's not that desperate yet), John trudges back to the flat in defeat, and even stops by the shops for milk and some biscuits that he knows for a fact will be gone by tomorrow, no matter how many packets he buys.
It's chilly out, but not quite as freezing as Manchester, so his shoulder is only aching a little by the time he makes it inside and up the stairs. The flat is unusually quiet, and there are no distressing smells about, which is a first since John moved in. He puts away the shopping and the kettle on, making himself a cuppa that he intends to enjoy with a hot bath and a nice book. He wonders briefly where Sherlock's gotten to before shrugging and climbing the stairs to his room, stepping out of his shoes and shucking his clothes for his worn but comfortable bathrobe and aforementioned paperback. Thus armed, he walks down the corridor towards the bath, pushes the door open--and freezes in the doorway.
Sherlock sprawls full-length in the bathtub, water soapy but nearly translucent, tendrils of steam weaving through the air over his bare chest. He has his head thrown back, thick hair droopy with moisture plastered in ringlets around his face, hand resting on his inner thigh right next to his fully aroused cock.
John drops his book, and nearly his tea as well before he deflects the parabola and thunks the mug onto the counter by the sink.
"I am so sorry," he babbles, looking at the ceiling, the floor, his slippers, anywhere but where his eyes most want to land. "I didn't mean to--I didn't see the light, I--er. I'll just go. Sorry."
He chances a look at Sherlock's face, knowing his own in flaming damningly, and finds Sherlock's eyes locked on him, lips parted, pupils blown, and Jesus Christ he doesn't think he's seen anything more beautiful in his life than Sherlock is in that moment.
"Well?" Sherlock drawls, and John jumps. He's lost time staring, he realises, and feels his skin prickle from his head to his toes with embarrassment. "I thought you were going?"
"I am," John assures him lamely, still staring, fucking hell, this is more than a bit not good. "I am," he says with more determination, bending down for his book, on the floor by his feet. Above him, he hears Sherlock's sharp intake of breath.
"You don't have to," Sherlock says, so quietly as to be no more than a rush of air a couple of feet from John's ears, and when John looks back up, Sherlock is biting his lip and looking down at his hands, fingers twisting around each other, knuckles white. He peers at John through those absurd eyelashes of his, and John feels an exasperated groan make a bid for freedom from his throat.
"Bloody hell, Sherlock," he says, and he hardly recognises his own voice, low and heavy with intent. "You'd better mean it this time."
"Meant it last time, too," Sherlock says petulantly, which is so at odds with the picture of pure temptation he presents, lying there in the water, that John feels his irritation dissipate.
"As far as I remember, and do feel free to correct me if I've made the wrong deduction here, last time you ran away."
Sherlock pouts a little -- maybe he doesn't mean to, but the way that plush lower lip is jutting out is doing all sorts of uncomfortable things to John's composure. He wants to know what it tastes like, so badly that it's the only thing he can think about right now.
"I didn't know if it was just the closeness talking," Sherlock says, which makes no sense whatsoever until he goes on; "you needed to feel safe, and I was the only person around that you trusted. I didn't know if you would still want it in the morning."
Oh for fuck's sake, John thinks as he kicks the door closed and unties the leash to his robe, letting it fall off his shoulders to pool at his feet. Sherlock's eyes focus on his bare skin with gratifying swiftness.
"This want enough for you?" John asks, what he hopes is clearly a rhetorical question considering the state of his cock, which at this point could have held up the bathrobe all by itself.
Sherlock's lips fall open, and he swallows dryly. The click of his throat is loud in the silence as John steps closer, and closer again before he throws one leg over the rim of the tub and inside the wonderfully hot water, shifting his weight onto it. Sherlock's hands come up to brace him, clutching onto his hips as John climbs inside fully, then kneels between Sherlock's legs and sits back onto his heels. Sherlock throws one long, long leg over the edge of the tub, making space for John to lower himself between his legs, faces so close that their breaths mingle thrillingly between their lips.
"Are you sure?" Sherlock says, and the hesitant look in his eyes, John has to kiss him, right now.
So he does. Sherlock's lips are warm and slack against his, letting John ply them open and lick insight without the slightest hint of struggle. John lets himself sink over the lean body until their skin slides together, path eased by the soapy water; when their lengths rub against each other, John's spine bows without warning and his hips jerk forward, trying to get them impossibly closer. Sherlock moans in his mouth, and for a second John can't see, nothing but sparks and white space behind his eyelids. Sherlock is slick against him; he feels Sherlock's hands stroke over his back, pull him closer still, and Sherlock surges against him like this is the most incredible thing he's ever felt. John can't breathe with wanting this man, can't stop his hands from wondering Sherlock's skin, thumbing a nipple, catching Sherlock's gasps with his lips again and again. Water sloshes around them and over the rim, spurred on by their increasingly frantic movements, but John can't care for anything that isn't Sherlock, now, yes, this.
Sherlock comes first, grabbing onto John's arse and slamming his hips up, a long, drawn-out groan filling the room and echoing loudly; and god, John doesn't give a fuck about Mrs Hudson arching her suggestive eyebrow at them tomorrow, not when Sherlock is slicktauthot against him, not when Sherlock mouths at John's neck just so and yanks the orgasm out of him, smug and selfish and glorious and so, so infuriatingly pleased with himself when John can open his eyes to look at him again.
"Gah, this is disgusting," John grumbles when a clump of come floats past his arm that's flopped half over Sherlock and half over the edge of the tub, fingers hanging limply in the air. Sherlock just hums, stroking a hand through John's hair, scratching at his scalp soothingly while his own head is thrown back, neck bared for John's kisses.
"We'll need a shower," Sherlock says, which is a completely innocent observation except for how it really, really isn't.
"Stating the obvious now, Sherlock? I must have really blown your mind," John says with an overly-exaggerated leer. Sherlock snorts derisively above him, but the hand around John's back tightens.
"It was all right as those things go," Sherlock says mildly. John's eyes narrow.
The bathroom ends up needing a thorough scrubbing afterwards, what with water everywhere and shower gel and shampoo ending up in streaks over the shower curtain; but it's worth it, John thinks with satisfaction when he wakes up to a debauched-looking Sherlock in his bed, arms and legs taking up more space than should be physically possible -- not unlike a very self-satisfied cat. And besides, cleaning up can be fun, too. He's sure there's a novelty apron somewhere in his belongings that could be pressed into use -- in this case, quite literally. He'll go dig it up -- just as soon as he's given the stirring Sherlock all due attention.
