Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Remind me why we have to go to this again?" John's voice floated down the stairs.

"Because I told Mycroft I would." He winced at the words. He couldn't believe the day had come when he was actually bowing to Mycroft's wishes. But after the whole incident with Moriarty and the pool, when Mycroft had waltzed in and cleaned up the mess with barely a wave of his fingers, Sherlock felt that he owed his brother something. John was still alive, and it was thanks to Mycroft; surely he could summon the courage to swallow his pride and just do what Mycroft wanted for once?

And it will really only be once, Sherlock thought, scowling.

"Yeah, like that's ever been reason enough for you before," John shouted down, sounding distinctly disgruntled. "And anyway, you said you would. This has absolutely nothing to do with me."

Ignoring the comment, Sherlock wandered over to the table, looking for something to grab his attention. He'd been ready for twenty minutes, but John, for some unfathomable reason, was still getting dressed. Honestly, you'd think the man had never put on a suit before, the way he had complained about it.

Not that Sherlock didn't feel like complaining himself. A formal dinner, at Mycroft's fashionable Park Lane townhouse, with Mycroft's unbearably dull guests? He was already ready to beat his head against the wall, and they hadn't even left Baker Street yet. It was going to be a long night.

"Hurry up, John," he called up to him.

"All right, all right, I'm coming."

John finally clattered down the stairs and entered the living room, fiddling with his cuffs.

Sherlock stared.

Well, he thought. Well.

In theory, he shouldn't be surprised by how John looked. He'd picked out the suit himself, not two weeks ago. He'd given very specific instructions to the tailor: Something formal in midnight blue. Silk blended with wool. Single breasted, three buttons, single vent, peaked lapels. Strongly tapered sides, top button sitting just at the natural waistline. Waistcoat to match, off white shirt with French cuffs. The tie something in blue silk. Got that? He'd handed over John's measurements and swept out the door.

So, in theory, he should have known exactly what John would look like. In practice, he was absolutely not prepared for this.

He was not prepared for the way the jacket hung perfectly off John's shoulders, making them that tiny bit squarer. Or how the fold of the lapels and the position of the buttons made John look at least two inches taller. Not to mention the cut of the trousers, single pleat, falling to a pair of perfectly shined Oxford balmorals, which made John's legs longer and slimmer.

Sherlock was absolutely not thinking about how those legs would look wrapped around his waist.

Eventually, he became aware that John was speaking.

"... a hand?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock replied, his mind still spinning with the endless possibilities those legs seemed to offer.

"Could you give me a hand with my cufflink? I can't fasten it properly," John said, finally looking up from his cuff.

And, dear God, that was not what Sherlock needed right now. Because it turned out that the tailor must have had some kind of psychic ability; how else could he have known that choosing the tie in that precise shade would make John's eyes almost startlingly blue?

"Sherlock?" John was staring at him, a small frown creasing his forehead.

"Yes, yes, of course," Sherlock replied, shaking his head slightly to clear the fog.

John stepped towards him, his left arm outstretched.

Sherlock gripped his arm tentatively, rotating it until the cuff was facing him. He traced his fingers lightly over the soft fabric of the jacket sleeve before pushing it back slightly until he could see the whole cuff. John's cufflinks were sterling silver, engraved with two crossed swords behind a lion and a crown. He fastened the link quickly and ran his finger over the engraving, the cool metal warming quickly to his touch.

"They were my father's," John said quietly. Sherlock looked up in surprise.

"Your father was in the army too?" he asked. Fascinating.

John nodded, his eyes fixed on Sherlock.

"He was killed when I was nine, and my mother gave these to me. Said I could wear them and be proud of who he was." John looked away, and Sherlock returned his eyes to the cufflinks. "I've never worn them before."

Sherlock was suddenly aware of how close they were standing, practically breathing each other's air. He still had John's left wrist in his hands, and was rubbing aimless patterns on his wrist as he stared at the silver circles embedded in John's shirt.

They stood there for a moment, still but for the tiny motions of Sherlock’s fingers. Eventually, Sherlock looked up. John was staring at him, a curious expression in his eyes that Sherlock couldn’t quite decipher. Sherlock smiled.

“They look good,” he said.

John laughed.

“Thanks. You, er, you look good too,” he added a little awkwardly.

Sherlock felt his pulse quicken at this, but he shrugged.

"Amazing what a good tailor can do," he said carelessly, stepping back from John and trying to even out his breathing.

Sherlock's own suit was black, a slightly finer cut and blend than his usual, everyday ones. A crisp white shirt, black waistcoat, dark red tie and silver cufflinks completed the outfit. He was quite fond of this suit, actually. He liked the feel of the expensive fabric against his skin, and the fit was superb. He made a mental note to send his tailor a little thank-you.

"No, really," John said, a slight smile curling on his lips, "you should wear ties more often."

Sherlock hated wearing ties. They made him felt like he could be strangled at any moment. He suspected John knew this and was poking fun at him. He narrowed his eyes at him, but John only stared back innocently.

"Come on, let's go," Sherlock said, grabbing his coat off the back of the door. "The car's been here for twenty minutes."

"Mycroft sent a car?" John asked, surprised. Sherlock scowled.

"Of course he sent a car. Couldn't have a taxi pulling up outside his house, now could he? It would be dreadfully embarrassing."

"Oh, right, of course." John smirked a little. "You're going to do your best to embarrass him tonight, though, right?"

"I don't know what would give you that idea, John," Sherlock returned airily. He held the door open. "Shall we?"

John smiled, and as he headed out the door, Sherlock felt John's fingers brush lightly against his arm. He shivered. This night was going to be even longer than he'd anticipated.

Sherlock followed John's eyes to the tall man currently talking to Mycroft. Sherlock watched him for a moment before turning back to John. He set his glass down on the mantelpiece and leaned closer.

"CEO of a large IT firm, business hasn't been good lately, that's why he's here. Wants Mycroft's help with something. His suit says married, no children, his watch says mistress. Blonde, I'd guess, probably at least ten years younger. He saw her before he came here, and he's worried his wife's about to find out. He's also got an STI that he doesn't know about. Originally from Manchester, moved to London about ten years ago."

John was staring at him with wide, amused eyes, so Sherlock leaned back as nonchalantly as he could, taking a sip of his martini. He made a face.

"Something wrong?" John asked.

"My drink. I specifically asked for a vodka martini, stirred, with a twist."

"And that is?"

"Gin, shaken, with too much vermouth and no lemon peel."

John laughed, his high-pitched giggle that Sherlock found endlessly endearing. It was the most unexpected sound, coming from an ex-army doctor with nerves of steel and the steadiest shooting arm Sherlock had ever come across. Sherlock couldn't help but smile down him as John took a sip of his own drink, a whisky sour.

"Well, my drink is excellent, thank you," John said pleasantly, nudging Sherlock in the ribs.

"Of course it it," Sherlock muttered. "Mycroft probably gave orders that I was to be served the exact opposite of what I asked for."

John laughed again, emptying his glass.

Sherlock glanced around the room again, taking in the people surrounding them. The usual mix of high flyers and political heavyweights that he'd expected. Dull. Obvious. His eyes slid back to John, who was surveying the room himself. An hour had not been long enough to inure Sherlock to the sight of John in his suit; every time Sherlock looked at him, he felt his breath catch slightly. The tailor really had done a damn fine job. The cut of the jacket was exceptional: it made John look taller, slimmer, broad chested. Sherlock's gaze raked down his body, taking in the fall of the lapels and the hint of black waistcoat showing. The bottom button of John's suit was undone, and Sherlock could just see his shirt peeking through and the gleam of his belt buckle. Sherlock's mouth went dry.

"So tell me something," John said suddenly, turning to face Sherlock. "Why did you agree to come tonight?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Oh, you know," he said vaguely. He waved his hand. "Myrcoft asked."

"Yeah, and in the whole year I've known you, you've never once done what Mycroft asked."

"He asked nicely?" Sherlock tried.

That made John smile, but he persisted.

"Really, I've never seen you agree to anything Mycroft's suggested. Why this?"

Sherlock looked around him desperately. He needed a diversion. Anything. A murder right about now would be good. Maybe one of the guests would collapse, choking, like something out of an Agatha Christie novel.

Then he felt John's hand settle on his sleeve; he felt it all the way through his shirt and jacket, as if John's warm skin was pressed against his own. He turned to look at him.

"Please?"

And what was Sherlock supposed to say to that? How was he possibly supposed to refuse John anything, when he was standing next to him in his perfect suit, his blue eyes imploring, his hand warm and perfect on Sherlock's arm?

"I owe him. I owe him our lives. I owe him your life."

"John, I - "

"Dinner!" Mycroft announced.

Sherlock flinched at the sudden announcement, and John jumped slightly, increasing the distance between him and Sherlock.

"All right, all right," Sherlock grumbled. He looked at Mycroft, and was not surprised to see Mycroft staring back with a smirk on his face. "Shall we?" he said to John, resting his hand lightly on John's lower back and pointedly ignoring Mycroft. John looked surprised for a moment before replying:

"Ready when you are."

*

Dinner was excruciating.

Sherlock was seated next to a fifty-something-year-old cabinet secretary who was somehow suffering under the delusion that Sherlock was remotely interested in politics. He had launched into a long-winded speech decrying the current government's policies on everything from national security to health care the minute he'd sat down, and didn't look remotely ready to stop for breath.

Ordinarily, Sherlock would have interrupted with a cutting observation and sneering comment, leaving the man flailing in a pit of offended pride, but he was a little too distracted to pull his thoughts together enough to do so. He was distracted because of John.

They'd sat down to dinner together, John on his right, and the insufferable politician on his left. Fine. Normal. As dinner had progressed, however, he'd gradually become aware of John shifting closer and closer to him. He was doing it extremely surreptitiously, just a few millimetres at a time. Sherlock suspected John wasn't even aware of it himself. The end result was that Sherlock's right leg was now pressed entirely against John's left one, and the warmth of the contact was doing strange things to Sherlocks's stomach.

Eventually, he simply tuned the man on his left out and let his attention wander. The food was excellent, as was the wine. More importantly, since John was left-handed and he was right, their fingers constantly brushed against one other as they ate. Sherlock enjoyed this more than any of the dishes Mycroft's French chef was serving. He took to timing the intervals between touches, working out the mean. Three per minute. He decided four was optimal and set about raising the average.

John was engrossed in conversation with the man on his right, a former soldier like himself, but every now and then, he would glance over at Sherlock and give him a small, crinkly-eyed smile before returning to his conversation. Sherlock had to work hard not to grin like an idiot at each one of those smiles.

He glanced impatiently at his watch. Dinner had been going on for nearly forty-five minutes. He estimated another fifteen for everything to be cleared, another fifteen until dessert, plus coffee and after dinner drinks...he did a quick calculation. An hour, he decided. He and John could leave in an hour. Thank goodness.

Eventually, the dishes were cleared away, and the table fell into idle chat, conversations eased by wine and good food, as they waited for dessert. John stood up and excused himself. As he did, he trailed his fingers along Sherlock's shoulder, just barely catching the skin of his neck. Sherlock jumped at the touch, but immediately composed himself. He would not be acting like a lovestruck teenager in front of Mycroft, he told himself sternly.

Five minutes passed before he started to wonder where John had got to. He waited another three before he went in search of him, pointedly ignoring Mycroft's smirk.

*

He eventually found John on the terrace.

He was standing close to the balcony, hands in his pockets and legs spread, simply breathing in the night air. Sherlock paused for a moment at the French windows, watching him. He admired the pull of the silk-wool blend across John's shoulders and the contrast of the off-white of his shirt with the tan that still lingered on his skin. There was a slight breeze tousling John's hair and ruffling the vent of his suit jacket and giving Sherlock a perfect view of his arse. Which, to his not very great surprise, looked excellent in those trousers.

The conviction that had been building all night finally settled itself in Sherlock's stomach. As excellent as John looked in that suit, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to get him out of it.

He approached John quietly, moving to stand beside him. John didn't look at him, but shifted slightly closer, leaning into the warmth of Sherlock's body. Sherlock leant as well, and they stood, not quite touching, in companionable silence.

"Enjoying yourself?" Sherlock asked eventually, glancing sideways at John.

"I suppose," was the reply, a smile accompanying it. "Just needed some air."

Sherlock noticed for the first time that John's face was flushed, a dull pink spread across his cheeks.

Wine? he wondered. The heat of the room? Something else entirely?

John abruptly turned to face him.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" he asked, a strange cadence to his voice.

Sherlock studied him, not answering immediately. This close, he could see the little flecks of silver in John's tie and the shiny lining of his lapels. He could smell John's cologne, a rich, earthy scent and the wine he'd been drinking at dinner. He could feel John's body heat and John's breath, warm on his neck.

"Do you know," he said at last, "I rather think that I am."

John rewarded him with a huffing little laugh.

Sherlock reached out and brushed an imaginary speck of dirt off John's right shoulder, and decided that his hand was rather comfortable just there, so he left it. John didn't shrug it off. Instead he said, unsteadily,

"Sherlock, I think I - " He broke off, licking his lips, his eyes darting away from Sherlock's.

Sherlock was struck by how extremely important it was for John to finish that thought. He slid his hand along John's shoulder until it came to rest curled around John's neck. He felt John shudder, so he stroked soothingly along John's jaw with his thumb.

"Yes, John?"

John was still not looking at him, but he leant into the touch, and Sherlock was sure, absolutely sure, that John wanted this too. He tilted John's head back, forcing John to look at him. John's eyes were dark and glorious and Sherlock could read everything that he wasn't saying in them.

"John," he repeated, barely more than a whisper this time.

John licked his lips again and then gave Sherlock a tiny nod.

Sherlock smiled. He brought his other hand up to grasp John's shoulder, and felt John's delightfully solid, steady hands settle on his waist. He threaded his fingers in the curling hair at the nape of John's neck and lowered his head slowly, until their foreheads were pressed together, their lips were no more than a centimetre apart. The sensation of John's breath on his lips was heady, intoxicating, and Sherlock was content to simply enjoy it for a moment.

John made an impatient noise and fisted his hands in Sherlock's jacket. Sherlock chuckled a little and moved forward, his lips just brushing John's, when -

"Dessert is served, gentlemen."

Sherlock growled, actually growled, his head whipping up to glare at Mycroft. He left his hands on John's neck and shoulder, but he felt John's drop away. John gave him a small, almost apologetic smile before stepping away carefully and sauntering past Mycroft.

"I am going to kill you," Sherlock hissed at him as he passed.

Mycroft smiled serenely.

*

If dinner was excruciating, dessert was sheer torture.

The food itself was quite nice, but Sherlock had never been one to get excited about food. What made dessert so painfully, wonderfully long was the way John was eating it. He wondered if John was doing it on purpose. Either way, it was fascinating.

John would scoop up about half a spoonful of his chocolate mousse type thing, and raise it to his mouth and eat it exactly like a normal person should. But after every bite, every damn bite, he would lick a tiny smear of chocolate off his lips and spoon. It was probably appalling table manners, and Mycroft was likely gritting his teeth, but Sherlock found it mesmerising.

He stared blatantly for what was quite possibly five full minutes before John looked up and caught his eye. The look on Sherlock's face was surely unmistakable, and John blushed magnificently. Sherlock couldn't help but notice a small smudge of chocolate still present on John's lower lip; the urge to lick it off him was overwhelming. Wary of his surroundings, however, he lifted his thumb and brushed it away carefully. John's breathing hitched, and Sherlock thought for a wild moment John was going to suck Sherlock's thumb into his mouth. He smiled instead, and Sherlock let his hand linger, cupping John's jaw lightly.

A soft cough came from Sherlock's left. He glanced over, straight into Mycroft's disapproving glare. Returning it with interest, Sherlock dropped his hand back to the table and resumed eating.

He was nearly finished when he felt John's hand pressing against his leg, gripping it lightly just above the knee. Suddenly, the arousal that had been bubbling under his skin all night spiked, and Sherlock could feel it fluttering up and down his spine. He shivered. In his peripheral vision, he could see John smiling. Bastard. Affecting unconcern, he concentrated on eating and breathing

John's hand inched higher, until his fingers could lightly stroke Sherlock's inner thigh. Sherlock grabbed at his hand in warning. If John didn't stop, Sherlock was going to do something that would not doubt anger Mycroft and possibly horrify his guests. John's hand stopped moving, but he didn't take it back, so it remained sitting lightly on Sherlock's thigh.

Finally, finally, dessert was over, and people began to mill around, some drinking coffee or brandy, filtering out to the drawing room or the terrace. Sherlock stood, wondering if Mycroft would forgive him for skipping the after-dinner drinks. Then he decided he didn't care and turned to John. John, who was wrapping his arm around Sherlock's shoulders and pulling him down until his ear was level with John's mouth.

"Why don't we skip drinks, hey?" John murmered, his breath hot and tingling on Sherlock's face. He could only nod his assent, not trusting his voice. John laughed and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s jaw, so light he thought he'd imagined it to his jaw.

"Come on," he said, tugging at Sherlock's arm. "Let's get a cab."

Sherlock followed him, biting back a smile. Really, John had excellent ideas sometimes.

*
The cab ride home was quiet. They sat as they had so many times before, side by side in companionable silence. This tension, however, this frisson in the air, was new.

Or perhaps not, Sherlock mused. It wasn't so much that the sensations were new as that they were heightened, almost unbearably so.

He was debating the merits of mimicking John's earlier action and placing a hand on John's leg. On the plus side, he would be touching John, and at the moment he craved contact with John the way he usually craved nicotine patches when he was stuck on a case. On the minus side, he wasn't sure he'd be able to stop at John's leg, and he had no desire to be arrested for public indecency.

Sherlock reached out hesitantly (hesitantly! He'd never been hesitant before in his life), but lost his nerve and ended up with his hand resting awkwardly on the seat between him and John. John, seeing the movement, quietly placed his own hand on top of Sherlock's, shooting him a half quirk of his lips before staring back out the window.

The warmth and weight of John's hand was more than enough to distract Sherlock, at least for a few minutes. He linked John's fingers through his own, fascinated by the contrast: his own pale, spidery digits enmeshed with John's darker, stronger, more masculine ones. John's hand was peppered with tiny scars, accumulated over years of working with sharp instruments and dangerous weapons. Sherlock found them endlessly intriguing. He decided that he would one day trace them all with his fingers and lips as John told him the story of each and every one. He glanced up.

John was still gazing out the window, the lights of London playing across his features. Sherlock drank them in silently; the line of his jaw, the sweep of his hair, the square of his shoulders. His suit looked bluer now, in the half light, and John looked softer, more real, closer to the everyday John Watson that Sherlock knew so well and sometimes worried he didn't know at all. John had tugged his tie loose and undone the top button of his shirt, exposing more of his neck, to Sherlock's complete approval. He could see the place where John's neck met his shoulder, his smooth skin lightly dusted with freckles.

Now that he came to think about it, it looked like a perfect place to press his lips. They would fit so perfectly into the little dip there, and Sherlock could imagine running his tongue along it, flicking down to lick across John's collar bones, returning to bite gently at the muscle of John's neck...

"Sherlock, hey, hey," John said softly, squeezing his fingers. Sherlock wondered if John was psychic. "Nearly home."

Sherlock nodded briefly. He looked away. He didn't trust himself to look at John any longer, just sitting there looking perfect and and lovely and completely, utterly ravishable. He squeezed John's hand back and tried to will down the arousal he could feel stirring in his groin. He made a swift calculation.

Accounting for traffic lights and a roadblock, they were approximately four minutes from Baker Street. Four minutes. He could manage four minutes.

He could.

*

After the longest four minutes of Sherlock’s life, the cab pulled up outside 221b Baker Street. Sherlock leapt out and threw some money – he had no idea how much – at the cabbie. It was clearly enough; indeed, from the smirk on the cabbie’s face as he drove away, Sherlock suspected it was too much.

He pushed the key into the lock, willing it to open easily. John was standing behind him, far closer than usual, and Sherlock was aware of every brush of their bodies against each other. He fumbled the key and cursed softly. John laughed, but Sherlock could hear the tension in it; he could sense the tension thrumming through John’s body.

The door finally gave way, and Sherlock tumbled through it. He had some vague thought about getting up to their flat as quickly as possible, which promptly went to hell when John grabbed his wrist and spun him around. For a moment, they stared at each other, breathing as if they’d been chasing criminals all over London. Something stretched out between them as they looked at each other, something delicate and crystalline and perfect. It shattered.

John reached up and slid his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, pulling him down into a forceful kiss. It was hard and hot and eager, and Sherlock was already dizzy, wrapping his arms around John’s waist and pulling him close. John’s mouth opened instinctively, and Sherlock simply had to press his tongue in and taste him. John responded immediately, tugging on Sherlock’s tongue as he tilted his head, searching for a better angle. John tasted partly like chocolate and partly like wine, but mostly like something that was driving Sherlock fucking insane.

He pressed closer to John, who took an involuntary step backwards under the force of Sherlock’s body. Sherlock kept pushing until John finally came into contact with something solid, and oh, that was perfect. Sherlock pulled back a little to look at John and decided the look of the boring blue wall was much improved by being adorned by a flushed, kiss-rumpled John Watson. Grinning a little, Sherlock ducked his head until his face was level with John’s and kissed him again, slower this time but no less desperate; he kissed him like he was fucking him, deep, hard, rhythmic thrusts of his tongue against John’s.

John’s arms slid down to Sherlock’s neck, holding his head in place, and John took charge of the kiss, pushing back against Sherlock’s tongue until Sherlock relented. With a growl of approval, John bit down on Sherlock’s bottom lip and tugged it between his own; not hard enough to hurt, but enough to kick Sherlock’s arousal up from pleasantly tingling to completely desperate.

With an embarrassing gasp that Sherlock was absolutely going to deny tomorrow, he moved his head to mouth along John’s jaw, pressing wet, filthy kisses along the line of it. John let out a tiny moan that Sherlock immediately decided he wanted to hear again. He bit and nibbled at it, revelling in the solidity.

There were suddenly strong hands pressed into his chest and pushing him away.

“Wait, Sherlock,” John hissed, “we can’t do this here; what if Mrs Hudson comes in?”

At this point, Sherlock wouldn’t have cared if the entirety of Scotland Yard came in.

“It’s late, she’ll be asleep. And you know she takes those so-called herbal soothers, so there’s no chance she’s going to wake up, as long as we’re not too noisy.”

He pressed himself against John again, the brief separation having made him all the more desperate for contact. He could feel John struggle for a moment, but eventually he gave in, drawing Sherlock into another passionate kiss.

John’s hands fumbled their way to Sherlock’s shoulders, urgently pushing his jacket off; a brilliant idea, in Sherlock’s lust-addled opinion. He slid his own hands down John’s chest, marvelling at the feel of the muscle beneath the fine thread of his shirt, and rapidly began undoing the buttons. Only when he reached the top did he register that John’s tie was still on, and he reluctantly removed his mouth from its residence on John’s neck to yank if off as quickly as he could. Which meant it inevitable got stuck around John’s mouth.

“Fuck, fuck,” he hissed, grappling uselessly with it. Much as he’d admired it earlier, he positively hated the thing now.

“Sherlock, stop, let me do it,” John said, or at least Sherlock thought he said; John’s voice was muffled by the fabric. John reached up and loosened the tie quickly, pulling it over his head, then tossing it on the floor.

Sherlock immediately reapplied his mouth to John’s skin, the open shirt affording him perfect access to the collar bones he’d been longing to sample.

John had got Sherlock’s shirt untucked, clearly lacking the coordination to undo it properly, and his hands were all over Sherlock’s skin as if he intended to map out every inch of it so he could know it by touch alone. The sensation of John’s warm, calloused hands on his skin made Sherlock positively ache with desire, and he immediately pushed his hips against John’s, instinctively seeking more contact.

They both gasped; the feel of John’s erection, even through his trousers, was enough to make Sherlock moan, and he thrust again, unable to summon the coordination to move his hands from where they rested on John’s shoulders.

“God, Sherlock, why are you still wearing so many clothes,” John muttered, and he pushed Sherlock back and reached for his belt. In doing so, his hand brushed against Sherlock’s achingly hard cock. Sherlock’s breath stopped all together, and he leant forward to rest his forearms against the wall, his head buried in John’s neck, breathing him in.

He couldn’t remember ever feeling this frantic, desperate need before. It was electrifying and overwhelming; Sherlock felt like he could drown in it, but he also didn’t want it to end. John was kissing his way down Sherlock’s neck now, murmuring into it as he did so:

“Fuck, Sherlock, fuck, your neck. So bloody distracting, I couldn’t think about anything except you the whole night. I wanted to get on my knees right there and have your cock in my mouth. I wanted you to hold my head still and fuck my mouth until you couldn’t stand from the pleasure of it.”

John’s words were making him lightheaded, and finally, after what felt to Sherlock like an age of trying, John got his belt off. He wasted no time in opening Sherlock’s trousers and reached inside immediately. Sherlock was suddenly extremely glad that he was braced against the wall, because his legs were actually trembling at the contact, at the feel of John’s strong, doctor’s hands wrapping around him and starting to stroke. He knew his breathing was shallow and ragged, and that his hips were stuttering forward involuntarily. John laughed; a clear, perfect sound.

“Like that?” he asked cheekily, squeezing lightly.

Sherlock kissed his earlobe in response, and John laughed again, and the realization struck Sherlock that he didn’t just want this here and now, he wanted this again and again, quite possibly forever. The enormity of it terrified him, or at least if would have done if he wasn’t quite so distracted by trying to fuck into the circle of John’s hand.

John pulled his hand away.

“Mngh?” Sherlock said. He tried again.

“What? Why are you stopping?” He knew it came out sounding needy and whiny. Fuck that, he thought. He was needy. He needed John’s hand back on his cock right the fuck now. But John was undoing his own belt and shoving his own boxers and trousers down to midthigh. The sight of John’s fully erect cock was more than enough to shut Sherlock up, and he licked his lips unthinkingly. Before he had more time to think about all the possibilities currently on offer, John’s hands were back inside Sherlock’s trousers, but they were sliding around the back, simultaneously cupping his arse and nudging his trousers down. Then he pulled Sherlock’s hips forward, and they were rubbing against each other, their cocks sliding together.

Sherlock moaned, the noise shockingly loud in the hallway.

“Shh,” John hissed at him. He probably meant it to sound authoritative, but his face was deeply flushed, and he was practically panting, so Sherlock took the order as more of a suggestion.

John reached between them and stretched his hand wide enough to take the two of them in, and oh. The pressure was hot and tingling and utterly perfect. John flicked his thumb over the head of Sherlock’s cock on the upstroke, using the generous liquid gathered there to slick his passage.

Sherlock groaned again and lowered his head to John’s shoulder, his eyes screwed shut. He knew that if he opened them and watched as John jerked them off simultaneously, this was going to be over incredibly soon. As it was, he was thrusting desperately into John’s hand, short breathy moans still escaping him. He can feel himself rushing towards the edge; his spine was tingling, and his blood was thrumming in his ears.

Then John pulled his hand away again.

“John Watson, are you trying to fucking kill me?” he demanded, breath coming in short, hot pants. John grinned wickedly at him. The sight, against all probability, turned him on even more, and dear God, Sherlock just knew that when he came, he was going to be seeing the entire fucking galaxy.

John spun them rapidly around so that Sherlock’s back was to the wall and nudged Sherlock’s legs further apart. Before Sherlock had time to process what was happening, John was on his knees and swallowing him down.

Sherlock cried out, the hot wet heat almost undoing him completely. John shot him a narrow-eyed glare, warning him to be quiet, but the sight of John looking up at him with his lips stretched around Sherlock’s cock was not inducing him to silence. And when John started sucking in earnest, working his mouth properly along Sherlock’s aching erection, his tongue doing something obscene (and possibly illegal, Sherlock thought wildly) he couldn’t keep quiet anymore.

“Shit, John, your mouth, oh God, your mouth. So hot, so fucking hot,” he babbled, Sherlock Holmes, who had never babbled in his life. He moaned loudly again, with complete abandon.

John pulled off, his breathing heavy and shuddering. He stood quickly, muttering, and yanked Sherlock’s tie off. He stuffed it into Sherlock’s open mouth, enough for Sherlock to bite down on and muffle the sound. He dropped to his knees again and pressed a filthy kiss to Sherlock’s cockhead, then moved to nuzzle against his groin, his tongue lapping at Sherlock’s balls.

Sherlock shuddered and writhed, aching for the heat of John’s mouth again. John obliged, reapplying himself to the task with the admirable dedication of a solider under orders. He licked from root to tip, swirling his tongue around the head, before drawing it into his mouth. Sherlock moaned again, and he could tell that, despite the gagging effect of his tie, it was still inordinately loud. John gripped the base of Sherlock's cock with his left hand, sucking him down again and pumping, again and again, with increasing pressure.

It didn't take long. Less than a minute later, Sherlock could feel his orgasm about to crest. He only just had the presence to tug on John’s hair in warning, and then he came, flooding John’s mouth. The pleasure overwhelmed him, his muscles shivering in delight, his whole body wracked with it. He rode wave after wave of it, fully abandoned for the first time in he couldn’t remember how long. For a brief eternity, the world was white and shining and perfect.

Slowly, he became reacquainted with his surroundings. He had somehow managed to stay upright, although he was completely slumped against the wall, and his legs were twitching. He couldn’t remember ever being so aware of his own heartbeat; he could feel every pump of blood through his body magnified a hundred times. He felt ripped apart, shattered into a thousand perfect pieces, each more satisfied than the last.

John was leaning against his hip, breathing almost uncomfortably heavily, mouthing sloppy uncoordinated kisses to Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock’s tie had somehow wound up looped over his shoulder; Sherlock could only suppose it had fallen from his own lips during orgasm. John was shuddering now. He looked, Sherlock realised, absolutely glorious. His eyes were hazy and unfocused, his mouth swollen and red and thoroughly debauched. He was still almost entirely dressed, both his shirt and jacket still on, albeit undone, his trousers slung over one hip.

Sherlock was almost overcome with how much he needed to touch John, to feel him warm and desperate and undone under his hands. He reached down and hauled John up to him, kissing him greedily, licking his own taste out of John’s mouth. John responded messily; he was groaning now, begging for release. Sherlock wrapped one arm around his waist, his fingers digging in to John’s sweat-slick skin, and reached for John’s cock with his other hand.

John almost flinched at the contact with his sensitive skin, but his hips were moving, and he was murmuring into Sherlock’s mouth, “harder, harder, more, yes, fuck, more please, please, Sherlock,” and five strokes later he was coming, all over Sherlock’s hand and trousers and shirt.

John suddenly going boneless made Sherlock aware of exactly how much John had been supporting him, and he slumped to the ground, unable to support both their weight, his hands still clasped around John. John was pressed against him, eyes still closed, a look of wonder on his face.

They sat, half on top of each other, simply breathing together. Sherlock stroked John’s damp hair off his forehead, idly wondering if this was going to happen every time John wore a nice suit. Then he hoped that it would happen a damn sight more often than that.

After a few minutes, John sat up straight again, his brain clearly having pieced itself back together enough to accomplish this feat of coordination. He was giggling.

“What?” asked Sherlock, unable to keep the smile off his face. God, he was positively beaming; he could feel it in his cheeks.

“I hope you know a good drycleaner.”

Sherlock laughed and leant down to kiss John, just a small, joyful press of lips.

“I have a suggestion for you, Doctor Watson,” he said, when he could speak solemnly again.

“Oh yes?”

“Why don’t we adjourn to the flat and take off these wretched things? Otherwise I will be forced to rip a three-thousand-pound suit off you, and I intend to do in about,” he glanced at his watch, “thirty minutes.”

John grinned and stood up, stretching his hand out to haul Sherlock to his feet.

“An admirable notion, Mr. Holmes,” he replied, tugging Sherlock towards the stairs.

They made it to Sherlock’s bedroom with five minutes to spare, having been somewhat distracted by the opportunities offered by the stairs, the doorway, the fridge and the kitchen table.

Later, as he wrapped his body around John’s and prepared to fall into the deep, dreamless sleep of the thoroughly well-fucked, Sherlock’s last waking thought was that he really would have to send his tailor a small thank-you card. Or, quite possibly, a rather large one.