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"Would your ability to deduce be less efficient if one of your senses was compromised?" comes John’s voice from his chair one evening, as he lowers his newspaper to observe the taller man opposite him. "Like, say, your sense of sight?" he continued, faux casual and not one bit ashamed. "How on point would you really be, Sherlock, if you were blindfolded?" Go on, he thinks. Go on, you arrogant bastard. Take the challenge, we both know you want to. And maybe I do, too.
"Are you wishing to conduct an experiment John?" Sherlock was genuinely interested.
"Of course I would be at a distinct disadvantage without sight but you know as well as anyone that sight is merely one of our five senses."
Sherlock studied the man before him and wondered for a moment if what he was deducing now was indeed accurate, his interest piqued.
"Allow me to help you with your investigation, I put myself entirely into your hands."
"Right," John said, trying very hard indeed to not show the extent of his glee on his face. "Wait here," he instructed before getting to his feet. It wasn’t as if blindfolds were just lying around 221B… Not that he knew of, anyway. An interesting thought, one for later examination. For now, John ran up the stairs to his room, returning not long after with one of his nicer ties. "Stay seated." Like hell was he going to stand on his toes as he tied the slip of fabric around Sherlock’s head.
It was clear that John was quite excited by this ‘experiment’, Sherlock smiled as he ran up the stairs.
Staying put Sherlock waited patiently, still seated as John fixed the tie around his eyes.
"So what is it you want me to deduce?"
What, indeed? Having tied the makeshift blindfold around Sherlock’s head, John continued to stand behind the chair and rested his hands on the other’s shoulders, leaning down to murmur close to his ear. “Impress me.” He smiled, a wry curve to his lips, but his eyes were bright with mischief. “If you still can, that is.”
Sherlock started slightly at the unexpected contact, a shiver ran though him at the whispered words, John’s breath tickling his ear. He tucked this away for further analysis later.
"ahem …you are excited, in more ways than one. Your breathing is 12% faster than normal and ..you are sweating slightly. I estimate a 8.5% increase in body temperature."
Sherlock smiled.
"I never knew you had such a passion for practical experiments John."
"Perhaps you’re rubbing off on me." Or perhaps Sherlock simply enhanced that which was already naturally within John. He could not deny that having Sherlock in his life had served to increase his penchant for finding himself in dangerous situations. And liking it. The rush, the thrill of it all. It was intoxicating. As was this. Quieter, certainly, but no less tempting. "Keep going," he ordered, making his way around, crouching down and placing his hands on the other’s knees. "Why am I excited?"
Sherlock’s head turned, following John’s voice and movements. He drew in a breath…
“You are excited by me, by being in close proximity to me and especially by having me under your control.”
The smug smile was back. He knew he was right by the repressed gasp.
"What I don’t understand is why. Maybe you should give me a clue."
"No clues." John’s voice was low now, throaty, his hands slowly sliding up Sherlock’s seemingly endless legs, pausing on his thighs, the warmth of his palms seeping through the other’s trousers. "Deduce, detective. Solve it."
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but John’s voice stopped him. There was no doubt that John was aroused, not just excited and all the evidence pointed to his arousal being connected to Sherlock, particularly Sherlock blindfolded and somewhat at his instruction.
There was also no denying that John’s hands on his thighs were producing feelings and reactions that Sherlock not only never expected but in part at least, didn’t think he was capable of. His breathing had picked up, almost matching John’s and his heart rate was most definitely faster than his relaxed position would indicate.
"I …you …"
The great Sherlock Holmes, at a loss for words. God, that was such a turn on. John took a difficult breath, needing to refocus as well. “Yes?” he whispered, leaning forward until their lips were but inches apart. He could feel it now, Sherlock’s quickened breath, mirrored by his own. His thumbs were brushing the insides of Sherlock’s thighs now, featherlight touch. “You were saying?”
Sherlock could feel John’s breath on his face and involuntarily leaned forward. Oh god what he was doing with hands.
Why was John aroused, why was he aroused?
"er … you …you’re aroused. Sexually." He whispered the words.
"I dare say I’m not the only one." Knowledge which left John feeling more than a little lightheaded. Another difficult breath, and he leaned his forehead against Sherlock’s, closing his eyes. Breathing in the moment, just for a bit, just so he could gather enough courage to— "I’m going to kiss you now. Alright?" No time or space for a response, just John shifting, John framing Sherlock’s face with both hands, John brushing his lips over Sherlock’s…
Almost panting, Sherlock couldn’t help the gasp or his hands rising to grip John’s hips. He had been kissed before but not like this and he had never kissed back before, never really wanted to. As soon as John’s lips touched his, he moved forward, his lips opening under John’s, his teeth grazing John’s bottom lip.
John hadn’t been sure what to expect. But then, waking up that morning, he certainly hadn’t anticipated to find the two of them here, like this, either. The angle was somewhat awkward, but he didn’t care. Because Sherlock was actually kissing him back now. John’s hands moved, tangling in that glorious mess of curls, before he dared to deepen the kiss. The first touch of their tongues together was like a shock to the system, and John couldn’t help but moan. Christ.
Not even sure of what he was doing, the responses from John were unmistakably positive, so he carried on. This time sucking John’s lip into his mouth before running his tongue over John’s teeth. The slip and slide of tongue over tongue was like nothing Sherlock had experienced before and the thrill shot straight down his spine.
The blindfold was completely forgotten as Sherlock all but dragged John forward into his lap.
It should have felt at least somewhat emasculating, falling into Sherlock’s lap like this like some eager strumpet, but fuck if it wasn’t the most arousing and yet strangely safe feeling John had felt in a long time. Shifting restlessly on Sherlock’s lap (God, he felt so warm), John tightened his hands in Sherlock’s hair (mine mine mine) as he kept spilling wanton sounds into the other’s mouth. Damn the bastard for being superbly skilled at this, as well.
John pulling on his hair was doing unspeakable things to Sherlock. He was finding it increasing difficult to breathe (especially as his lips were locked to John’s but he didn’t want it to stop) and his heart rate was though the roof. For a moment his brain flickered back online and thoughts of coronaries and a very localized aneurysm crossed his mind.
He broke the kiss panting and sweating, a large and somewhat embarrassing bulge pressing into John’s backside.
Disoriented for a moment, John could do nothing but stare at Sherlock. And find something very important was missing. Sharp eyes of the bluest blue… With a quiet, yet almost feral sound, John pulled the blindfold away. And there they were, eye to eye, flushed, breathless, both unmistakably aroused. “Hey,” John murmured, voice low and slightly hoarse. A ridiculous thing to say, given the givens, but it made a corner of his mouth quirk just a little. “Alright?”
Sherlock nodded and surged forward. With a hand cupping John’s jaw and the other possessively tugging John tighter to his body, Sherlock recaptured the doctor’s lips.
He wanted more and the want burned, making his actions more forceful. With unbelievable restraint Sherlock pulled back, copying John from before, he rested forehead to forehead, breathing hard.
More than alright, it seemed. John barely recovered from that unexpected second kiss before their foreheads were resting together again. It made something inside his chest constrict, the sensation not entirely unwelcome nor foreign. “Easy,” he murmured, tracing Sherlock’s jawline with a gentle touch. He had to admit he felt quite thoroughly shaken, too… Shaken, and still horrendously aroused. “That was… amazing, Sherlock. Really. You’re… actually a remarkable kisser.”
"I ..appear to be …learning from …the best."
It was difficult to get the words out. How John was remaining so coherent was baffling. Was this normal, was something very wrong with him that he was reacting this way? Why couldn’t he think?
If Sherlock had been asked to describe what he was feeling at this moment and assuming he could actually articulate, he would have said that his chest felt much too tight and at least twice the size both at the same time, which was ludicrous. He would have described the need to touch, to consume as all pervading. If he had been coherent he would have said that he must be very ill because this was so alien and so intense, he had no other explanation.
"What ..is happening ..John?"
"Mm, well, if I had to submit a theory," John murmured, quite purposefully shifting his weight in Sherlock’s lap, eyes dark but full of mischief, "Ah, yes. Also taking in your dilated pupils, and quite some colour on your cheeks… I would say you are aroused." He ran a reassuring hand through the other’s unruly hair. "Don’t be distressed. It’s perfectly normal. And I’ve got you." He leaned in once more, brushing his lips over Sherlock’s. "Just… go with what feels right, yeah? Don’t think."
Suddenly his brain kicked in again.
"I am fully aware that I am aroused John. It’s just that I’m not sure going along with this is the best course of action, even though I really really want to."
He stopped to gasp in a few extra lungfuls of air before continuing.
"The things I want to do …could be …dangerous."
"Oh, you bastard," John said, voice low and dark. "As if you don’t bloody well know saying that only serves to pique my interest. Go on, then; tell me what you want to do." A wandering hand settled on the back of Sherlock’s neck, gripping, the other tangling tightly in his curls. "Better yet… show me."
That was all the consent Sherlock needed and he quickly and efficiently moved John and now had him straddling his thighs. His hands made quick work of John’s shirt buttons and before he had fully pushed it off John’s shoulder’s, he was leaning in with lips, tongue and teeth. He mouthed down John’s neck, making small sounds of appreciation as John tilted his head, allowing more access.
When he reached the junction of neck and shoulder, he bit down. Not hard enough to draw blood but with enough pressure make John yelp.
Sherlock stopped and looked up, seeking some sort of approval. He wanted to do considerably more. And he wanted John to do much more to him.
John could do nothing but hold Sherlock’s eyes as he nodded his consent, the mark Sherlock had left on his shoulder still stinging, so deliciously. He too could only do what felt right, his hips churning downwards as he attempted to grind their still clothed, rigid cocks together. The absence of sufficient stimulation was maddening, adding a feverish sense of urgency to it all. Reaching between them, John rubbed the palm of his hand against Sherlock’s bulge, the angle clumsy, but eager. Hungry.
The moment John touched him, Sherlock’s head dropped back and he seemed to melt into chair. Mere seconds later his head snapped back up and he began to work on John’s belt and trousers. His still (barely) functioning brain reminded him that he no experience in this area what so ever, animal instinct told him to get on with it regardless, which he did.
Speech however was still elusive so he indicated that John should stand, despite that fact that Sherlock didn’t want to lose that hot comforting weight. There was no way they could rid themselves of clothing without moving.
As soon as John stood, Sherlock dropped to his knees and gently removed John’s shoes and socks, tossing them aside. He looked up and stopped dead. John was looking down at him with such an intense expression of desire and Sherlock didn’t hesitate.
"Look at you," John whispered thickly, reaching down to cup Sherlock’s cheek, thumb dragging across his bottom lip, briefly dipping into the hot, wet cavity of his mouth. God, his cock was throbbing. "On your knees, and so eager. Beautiful."
"You have no idea…" Sherlock mumbled as he dragged John’s jeans and underwear down his legs, pulling them off each foot in turn.
"I’m just preparing you to be bent over the the back of the sofa."
With one quick motion Sherlock swallowed down John’s leaking cock, the head pushing against his soft palette. He pulled back, his tongue pressing tight to the underside of the shaft until he moved up and swirled his tongue around the glans, tongue dipping slightly into the slit.
John hissed as his cock was engulfed and tongued expertly. Good, it was so good, but his mind cruelly spoke through the haze of pleasure: how was Sherlock so deliciously good at this? The possibility of another man, even if it could have been for the sake of knowledge and experimentation, sent a stab of possessiveness through John. He gripped the other’s hair, not gently, hips thrusting forward. “Mine…” he rasped, as he looked down and watched his cock slip in and out of Sherlock’s mouth.
Sherlock hummed in approval as the grip in his hair tightened and this caused John to stagger slightly. He wasn’t going to let John get off this way, not this time. He briefly wondered if there would be another time. Maybe John was imagining a woman’s lips where Sherlock’s was. This could merely be tension relief and nothing more.
He gripped John’s arse cheeks, steadying him. Slowly his fingers moved inwards, seeking the hot centre. He would have given his right arm for some lubricant right now, if that arm wasn’t preoccupied that is.
He pulled off with a last hard suck and a pop, the sound obscene and delicious. He licked his lips and swiped the back of his hand over his mouth. Sherlock was still fully dressed and a certain part of him was straining against his suit trousers.
"Get up here," John growled, hands pulling at Sherlock, divesting him of his robe, shaking fingers unbuttoning his shirt before hands smoothed over the pale planes of his chest. The absence of breasts was… strangely alright. Sherlock was slender, lean, his muscles taut under John’s touch. Unbuttoning Sherlock’s trousers, John used the grip in his hair to pull him down for another searing kiss, as his hand finally wrapped around the hot length of Sherlock, thumb brushing over the leaking head.
Groaning, Sherlock let his head drop to rest on John’s shoulder. He watched John’s hand, impossibly getting harder. He thrust into that hand, the friction almost too rough, too dry and he reached out, capturing both of them in one large hand.
The mix of pre-ejaculate and silk like skin over hard flesh was so much better and John was matching Sherlock’s thrusts.
Spit-slick and so much heat, too much heat. “Fuck,” John whispered, the sight of Sherlock’s large hand and their cocks sliding together making his knees weak. “Sherlock…” He was impossibly hard, harder than he’d ever been, and if he wasn’t careful he was going to come in embarrassingly little time. “You said something about the sofa?” he murmured, voice rough on the edges, amazed that he was able to string together any words at all.
"I have …a better idea."
Sherlock let them both go and flung his arms around John, holding him close.
"My bedroom" He whispered into John’s ear "Now"
Sherlock gave John a gentle push and had the lovely view of a naked bum moving in front of him. Though most were gone or dragging around his ankles, as he walked Sherlock shed the rest of his clothes.
John’s heart was racing as he entered Sherlock’s bedroom, the act of being there already a rare occurrence in their daily life. Discarding the remainder of his clothing, he climbed on the bed, lying back against the pillows, unashamed, cock still erect, and heavily resting on his stomach. He watched Sherlock with dark, half-lidded eyes, desire burning through in his gaze. “Go on, then.”
Sherlock crawled up the bed, over John, collecting a leg with each arm as he went. With the back of John’s knees resting on the inside of his elbows he gave John a distinctly predatory look before reaching under the bed and coming back up with a bottle of lube.
He squirted a generous amount of lube onto his hand and swiped it up from John’s hole to the head of his cock, giving one firm stroke to the shaft on his way back down.
There he circled one finger lazily, never taking his eyes off John’s face.
It was all there, on John’s face. All there for Sherlock to see and read, to soak up and relish and claim as his own. Because it was all for him. Every shade of desire, anticipation, the barest flicker of concern, instantly extinguished by the very touch of his hand on John’s aching member. God, he felt so exposed, vulnerable and safe all at once. The heat of Sherlock’s gaze felt like it would burn him alive. “Stop teasing and get on with it,” he murmured hoarsely, hips shifting restlessly.
Slowly, carefully Sherlock pushed into the heat of John’s body. He needed to do this right, he may never get another chance. He trust one digit in and out a few times before adding a second, the noises John made fried his brain and he stilled for a moment.
"Oh god John…"
A third finger had John squirming and a few moments later Sherlock prayed to some imaginary deity that what he was doing was correct as he withdrew his fingers and lined himself up.
John braced himself as Sherlock pushed in, who was very clearly trying to do this right, make this good without hurting John, but John wanted more, needed more, and he needed it now. Groaning deeply, John pushed downwards, down and down until Sherlock was inside of him, to the hilt. “Fuck,” he gasped, eyes flying open and locking on Sherlock’s. It burned, Christ, it fucking hurt, but it was a glorious and delicious sort of pain. He felt so alive. “Sherlock… oh, Jesus…”
Sherlock’s brain went completely offline when John pushed himself down. It took everything he had to speak one word.
"Alright?"
The answer was John grinding down on him some more, so Sherlock took this as sign that he should move. He began to thrust. With one of John’s legs still captured by his arm, Sherlock used his other hand to grip John’s flushed and leaking cock.
With every increasingly fast and deep snap of his hips, Sherlock pumped the ever hardening flesh in his hand.
"f..fuck"
Frantic, is what it was. An urgency, a hunger to every snap of Sherlock’s hips, every moan that fell from John’s lips as Sherlock fucked into him, so hard, so deep, so fantastically fucking amazing. Every fiber of John’s being seemed alight, every breath not enough, cut off even further as he reached out to kiss Sherlock, desperately, hungrily, crying out against his lips when his orgasm crashed over him, so sudden and violent, coating Sherlock’s hand in streaks of his release. “S-Sherlock—!”
Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was the kiss or John’s muscle clenching orgasm that sent him over the edge. Later he knew it was John reaching for him that really did it. That was what had sent him up into the firmament. At the time it didn’t matter, at the time the only thing that mattered was that he, Sherlock had made John come.
He released John’s leg and with one last soft stroke, released his softening cock too. He lay half on John and buried his face into John’s neck.
For long moments, all John did was being reminded by his body how to breathe. At some point - when, he did not recall - his arms had made their way around Sherlock, holding him almost protectively against him. “Well,” he murmured, sounding more than a little wry. “I’d say that experiment was quite successful. Wouldn’t you?”
With his face still hidden in John’s neck, Sherlock nodded and whispered.
"My first, my only…"
Sherlock inhaled deeply, he would always remember this scent, the smell of himself on John, the smell of a virile soldier. He would store it away, keep it safe.
Tentatively he raised his head.
"Please tell me we can do that again …only next time you er …top."
"As you like." John smiled a little, brushing some damp curls away from Sherlock’s face. He had no idea what the hell they thought they were doing, but right now, in this moment, he did not have the heart or proper state of mind to care. "Come on, let’s get cleaned up." An ambitious statement, one he regretted a moment later. "On second thought, let’s just lie here for a bit, yeah? Till my legs remember their function again, at least."
He couldn’t help it. The laugh started as an almost silent giggle but bubbled up till Sherlock was shaking with laughter.
Pulling himself together he struggled up and staggered slightly to the bathroom. He returned wearing the lowest hung pair of sweat pants John had ever seen and a warm damp towel which he used to clean John up.