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The city-wide blackout’s in its twenty-seventh hour, and the lack of connection to the outside world is starting to wear on Sherlock’s nerves. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock is starting to wear on John’s nerves.
“Jooooohn, can I try your phone again?” The droning voice coming from the sofa is muffled, Sherlock’s lying on his side facing the back cushions.
“Sherlock, we’ve been through this. It died on the way home, before the blackout, and I’ve had no way to charge it. It’s not my fault you were so antsy during the first few hours that you drained your own phone and both the laptops.”
“But I’m bored.” The whining is grating, but John sympathises. The last news broadcast they got on the portable radio before the batteries died made it clear that nobody was sure what had caused the blackout, and suggested that people stay inside their homes unless they absolutely had to go out.
The fact that it’s miserably hot and humid out isn’t helping, either. There are no portable air conditioning units to run, no fans to turn on. They’d used up what little ice was left in the fridge, but unfortunately Sherlock had emptied most of the ice cube trays a while back and filled them with various substances. John suspects he’s better off not knowing what they were.
“Read a book.”
“The light is too dim.” The sun is nearly set, and without the orange glow of the streetlights outside, John admits that the flat isn’t very bright, but that’s never stopped Sherlock before.
“Bollocks. I’ve seen you read in nearly pitch blackness. You’re just looking for things to whinge about.” Sherlock just grunts and waves a hand dismissively over his shoulder.
The heat’s getting insufferable, and John’s getting muggy even just sitting there in his vest and a pair of shorts. Sherlock’s flouncing around in a button-down and a pair of black trousers, but John can see the trickle of sweat collecting at the small of his back.
“Why don’t you put some shorts or something on? It’s just going to keep getting hotter in here.” His suggestion is met with another charming grunting noise, and a roll of the eyes. “Your problem then, not mine. But I don’t want to hear you griping about the heat too, not unless you take those trousers off and put something more reasonable on." Shrugging, John pulls his vest over his head and drapes it over the arm of the his chair. Suddenly alert, Sherlock sits up and faces John.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m hot.”
“I know that, but what are you doing?”
“Ha, Sherlock. Was that some kind of a come-on?”
“If you’re going to parade around with no shirt on, you’re going to have to expect bad come-ons.”
“I’m not parading anywhere, I’m sitting. It’s too hot and too dark to do anything else.” John grumbles. By now the sun has set fully, and the only light coming in is the eerie blue glow of the moon and the occasional light of some vehicle out on a very important mission.
“Mmm, I can think of a couple of things that are ideal for these sorts of conditions.”
“Oh?”
“Come over here and I’ll show you.” Sherlock murmurs. His voice, rough and laden with innuendo, sends a small thrill up John’s spine. Almost as if on autopilot, he gets up and crosses the living room to where Sherlock’s sat up on the sofa, making room for him. Typically, John takes the lead in these sorts of situations, but Sherlock’s body language is so commanding, so in control, that John just leans against the arm of the sofa as Sherlock shifts position and crawls over him, hovering less than an inch above John’s torso, their lips a hair’s breadth apart. John knows he could just reach up and kiss Sherlock, but a small part of him likes relinquishing control like this.
Sherlock stares down at him, pale eyes sharp and clear in the semidarkness. He darts his tongue out, parting those impossibly full lips, and John lets out a quiet whimper. Apparently taking the noise as consent, Sherlock drops his weight slightly, pinning John underneath him, and finally closes his eyes and presses their lips firmly together. Opening his mouth to welcome Sherlock’s probing tongue, John sighs and shifts his weight, pushing his hips up to meet Sherlock’s.
For a moment, the only noises in the flat are the muffled shifts of bodies and clothing, the occasional soft murmur, until Sherlock breaks the kiss and pulls away from John.
“Ngh. Clothes. Too many.”
Inclined to agree, John slides his hands between their bodies, fumbling with the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt. Together, they manage to get them undone, and John slides his hands over Sherlock’s shoulders, slipping the shirt off of him and dumping it on the floor.
John can feel the slight sticky sheen of perspiration on Sherlock’s torso, but it doesn’t deter or distract him. If anything, it’s got rather the opposite effect, and John’s desperate to slide against him, to replace Sherlock’s scent with his own. He draws his hands up Sherlock’s spine, up to his neck, and cradles his head gently, fingers twining through the riot of damp curls. Sherlock groans quietly, pulling John up for another hungry kiss.
They lay entangled on the sofa for a while, the kissing growing increasingly passionate as John feels himself getting fully hard under Sherlock. The heavy pressure against his hip bone makes it clear that Sherlock is enjoying himself just as much as John is, if not more. Emboldened, John thrusts his hips upwards, pressing his erection against Sherlock. Grinning, Sherlock traps John’s earlobe between his teeth and sucks hard enough to leave a mark, before whispering softly.
“Still too much clothing, I think.”
There’s a moment of awkward squirming as they both try to get out of their bottoms, before John grunts and pushes Sherlock playfully against the chest.
“This might go easier if we stand up.”
Sherlock pouts but nods, disengaging himself and standing up, letting his trousers fall to the floor. John takes a moment to appreciate the sight of Sherlock’s long, lean form, a substantial erection straining against the black cotton of his pants. Impishly, he smirks at Sherlock, making sure he’s watching, and undoes the flies of his shorts. Suddenly shy, John makes a show of pulling his shorts open, exposing the fact that he’s wearing nothing underneath, his cock proud and flushed. The look of eager surprise that crosses Sherlock’s features was worth the bit of chafing John endured on the sofa.
As soon as John’s shorts are on the ground, Sherlock lunges, ferine and predatory, pinning John to the wall. The kisses now are hungry, aggressive, Sherlock crushing John’s lips with his own as John’s hands scrabble to find purchase around Sherlock’s narrow waist. John wonders briefly if he should encourage fits of boredom more often if it’s going to create this sort of a reaction in Sherlock before getting lost in the moment again.
John moans softly as Sherlock slips his tongue back into John’s mouth. In retaliation, he slides his hands into the back of Sherlock’s pants, cupping his full, firm arse cheeks. Sherlock pulls back and gasps, the huff of warm air tickling John’s cheek. Impatient, John brings one hand around Sherlock’s hip, fingers brushing the shaft of his erection lightly. As if he’s fearing that he’s losing control of the situation, Sherlock sucks John’s lower lip into his mouth, enough to distract him, and angles his hips so his entire cock is against John’s hand. Sherlock grunts slightly, thrusting his hips.
Instinctively, John cups his hand, surrounding the thick shaft, and starts stroking gently. His own cock throbs with each stroke, desperate for attention. It’s all John can do not to start jerking himself off as well. Gasping, Sherlock pulls away from John’s lips.
“Nngh, John, stop. Want to fuck you.”
Sherlock’s rarely so vulgar, so blunt, and hearing those words in his deep voice goes straight to John’s aching prick. Eagerly, he pulls Sherlock’s pants down, fumbling slightly as they get caught on his erection.
“Best idea you’ve had in days, genius.”
Smirking, Sherlock steps out of his undergarments and in one smooth sweep, grabs both of John’s hands and pins them on the wall over his head. John tilts his face up, anticipating another kiss, but Sherlock’s got other ideas. He latches onto John’s throat, sucking hard in a way that John knows will leave a livid bruise in a few hours. Helpless and whimpering, John jerks his hips forward, aching to be touched. Every sweep of Sherlock’s tongue over his skin causes his cock to throb.
“God, Sherlock, stop teasing.”
Sherlock nods against his throat, hair tickling John’s jawline.
“Turn around, but don’t touch yourself.” He releases his grip on John’s wrists. Desperate now, John complies quickly, bracing himself against the florid wallpaper.
Sherlock rummages briefly through the drawer in the small end table, fishing out a bottle of lube he’d stashed there at some point. John drops his head, whimpering, planting his feet firmly on the floor and angling his hips up to make things easier for Sherlock.
John’s heart is hammering in his ears, his body vibrating with want and need as Sherlock finally circles his anus with one slick finger. He’s tempted to push back, to hurry it along, but with the mood Sherlock’s in, John decides it’s best just to try to be patient, even though every nerve in his body, every fibre of is being is crying out to be touched. Sensing John’s desperation, Sherlock presses his finger forward, earning a satisfied huff from John as his body relaxes and accepts the intrusion.
Almost lazily, Sherlock thrusts the finger in and out several times, spreading the lubricant around. John bites his lip and rocks back and forth in a feeble attempt at deeper penetration.
“Sherlock, please… don’t draw it out.” John can hear the whine in his voice, but he’s beyond caring at this point. Taking pity on him, Sherlock slides the finger in and out a bit more vigorously a few times before slipping in a second, curling them slightly. He’s rewarded with a pleased hiss. Sherlock slides them in entirely, rocking his hand against John’s arse. On the last thrust, he slips a third finger in. Finally satisfied, he pulls his hand out and liberally coats his cock with more lube.
As he presses the head against John’s relaxed hole, both men inhale sharply.
“God, Sherlock. God, fuck… please. Just fuck me.” John’s bordering on incoherence already, before Sherlock’s even entered him properly. He wraps his fingers around John’s hip and slowly, reverently, slides his cock deep into John. For a moment, they’re both still, holding their breath as John adjusts to the pleasant fullness and Sherlock does his best not to pump his hips. John exhales slowly, pulling his hips forwards a fraction of an inch before slamming them back.
That’s all the motivation Sherlock needs to begin fucking him in earnest. He shifts his weight forward, resting his hands on the wall on either side of John’s and thrusts his hips in a steady, quick rhythm. With each thrust, John’s cock bounces heavily between his legs. It’s getting increasingly difficult for him not to take himself in hand, but he bites his lip and concentrates on the hot, sharp sensation of Sherlock’s prick rocking into him again and again.
Sherlock keeps fucking him like this, keeping him on the edge for minutes, hours, days, when John feels him leaning down, pressing against his sweat-slick back. The motion drives Sherlock’s cock impossibly deep into him, and John groans softly, letting his head fall forward. Suddenly there’s a new and unfamiliar sensation on the inside of his shoulder blade, and John realises Sherlock is tracing the scar with his tongue.
The combination of sensations drives John to the brink. He moans loudly, and in an attempt to stifle the sharp cries as he gets closer and closer to orgasm, he bites down on Sherlock’s hand, braced against the wall next to his cheek. He feels the soft skin and tendons rolling under his teeth. Rather than pulling away, the stinging pain only seems to encourage Sherlock, who redoubles his efforts and pounds furiously against John’s arse. John sucks firmly, knowing he’s going to leave a tell-tale red welt on Sherlock’s hand. In retaliation, Sherlock wraps his hand tightly around John’s desperate prick, stroking it roughly and quickly, far beyond any attempts at finesse.
Finally! John shudders; a violent, full-body tremor as Sherlock slides his hand up and down the blood-hot length of his cock. Each slam of Sherlock’s hips, driving his own prick deeper into John’s arse before pulling nearly all the way out, drives John repeatedly through the tight cuff of Sherlock’s hand. He can feel the pressure pooling deep in his belly, the hot coils of an impending and desperately-needed orgasm. The teasing build-up has ensured that the slightest touch from his lover will be more than enough to send him over the edge.
“Not… gnh… not long, Sherlock.” John hisses through gritted teeth, rocking his hips up and backwards, yelping as the change in angle causes the engorged head of Sherlock’s cock to slide over his prostate. “Oh god, oh god, oh god.”
Whether it’s his voice or the change in angle or a combination of the two, nobody’s sure, but that’s all it takes to drive Sherlock towards climax. He cries out loudly before clamping his mouth against John’s shoulderblade, driving his cock deep into John’s arse one last time, as he comes deep inside him. The overwhelming assault on his senses proves to be too much for John as he comes all over Sherlock’s hand with a low bellow. His nails dig into the wallpaper, tearing small strips off as his hands clench.
They hold still for a moment, sucking in huge gasps of well-needed oxygen. Cringing, Sherlock pulls out of John, causing him to whimper quietly.
They tumble into an ungainly, panting, lethargic heap on the sofa. Sherlock pins John under him, and bloody hell it’s just too hot for that. John elbows Sherlock gently in the ribs and swats him with the union jack cushion. Grumbling, Sherlock rolls and shifts his weight, so he’s lying on his side between John and the back of the sofa. They lie together, sweating and gasping for breath when the familiar noise of all the electronics coming to life fills the flat, and somehow every light on the main floor seems to be on. John groans and throws one arm over his eyes. He feels Sherlock shifting, likely eager to check their phones and his email.
“Nnngh. Stay here.”
He feels Sherlock smirk against his shoulder.
“You know, John, your propensity for cuddling never ceases to amaze me.”
“Shut up, Sherlock.”
Wriggling contentedly against him, Sherlock shuts up.