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Kissing in the Blue Dark

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“That’s it! You’ve been playing that game for over eighteen hours. I’m cutting you off from the Xbox.”

“No!” Sherlock exclaims as the screen goes dark. He glares viciously through bloodshot eyes at John, who is now holding up the power cord loosely in his hand. “I was just about to beat the Dragon Lord!”

“Sherlock, you’ve been trying to beat that Dragon Lord for almost three hours. I don’t think that time was going to change anything.” He drops the cord and heads to the kitchen to get some tea, hoping to eradicate the headache he’s procured.

Sherlock is seething, hostility coming off of him in waves. “You’re the one that thought I might enjoy playing it! You’re nothing but a—a two-faced liar!”

John’s brows shoot up. “Wow, note to self: video games and Sherlock Holmes do not mix.” He sets the kettle to boil and turns back around. “Are you even listening to yourself right now? You sound like a spoiled teenager.”

Sherlock hmphs and stomps over to the couch, where he promptly puts his back to the room, coincidentally reaffirming John’s statement.

“When was the last time you even had a shower?” John asks.

No response. Big surprise there.

“Fine, no tea for you. I was thinking about making that dish with the peas you like, but maybe I’ll just heat up some mushroom soup from the tin for dinner instead.”

Sherlock hates mushrooms. And food from a tin.

John catches Sherlock peeking forlornly over his shoulder for a split second before he determinedly faces the back of the sofa again.

He smirks. Precious git.




He had bought the Xbox on a whim, thinking it might help Sherlock through some of the drier spells between cases. That plan had obviously backfired rather quickly.

John does end up making the thing with the peas, and leaves a plate on the coffee table near the sulky form before taking a quick visit to Mrs. Hudson, allowing Sherlock the time to eat without giving John the satisfaction of viewing it. Honestly, you have to treat the man like a skittish animal sometimes. Or a toddler.

When he returns, the plate is empty, and he smiles slightly as he gathers up the dirty dishes and gives them a quick wash. There’s a grumbling noise from the sofa and John turns the water off so he can hear.

“Say again?”

Sherlock shoots him a dirty look over his shoulder. “I said, you’re just bitter that you didn’t get any sex last night.”

A laugh bursts out of John. “Yep, you’ve hit it on the head. That’s exactly why I’m stewing in my own filth and sulking away the day,” he says with a pointed perusal of Sherlock’s form. He dries his hands and comes to sit on top of Sherlock’s cold feet. “You do realize I’m not mad, right?”

A noncommittal hum.

“Although…” Now John gently brushes his hand up Sherlock’s ankle, under his loose pyjama pants and to his calf, “I wouldn’t be against fooling around a little. Y’know, to make it up to me.”

Sherlock huffs. “Immature.”

“What?” Leaning over a little, he teases the skin along Sherlock’s pants line. “You don’t want to? Not even if I eat your—”


John chuckles darkly. One of his favorite things about this man is how easy it is to get him flustered. His cheeks pinken so prettily. All of them.

Sherlock squirms until he is on his back, looking down at John with hooded eyelids. “You’re so crude.”

“You love it,” John says, reaching up and placing a nipping kiss just under Sherlock’s navel. Abruptly, he sits up. “Go shower and brush your teeth. No touching yourself in the shower. I’m going to fuck that bad attitude out of you.”

Sherlock’s face goes bright red, pupils dilating so fast he probably loses vision a little bit. “You’re just assuming I’m going to let you touch me after making me lose all that progress on Skyrim?”

John looks pointedly down where his hands are still resting on Sherlock’s legs, and a little tent has been pitched in Sherlock’s crotch. “Ten minutes.”

Sherlock squints, huffs, then gets up and follows his erection to the bathroom.




John lays stretched out on the bed, hands folded behind his head as he waits for the shower to turn off. He’s left his clothes on, minus his socks and shoes. He listens to the familiar sounds of Sherlock messing with his vast array of shower essentials, and just as he is beginning to get drowsy, the water shuts off.

Seconds later, Sherlock comes out with his towel wrapped around his waist, water droplets still clinging to his hair like pearls before journeying down his long, pale neck, slightly pink from the hot shower.

“Mm, hello there,” John says, dragging his eyes over long limbs and pale torso. “Nice view. Care to join me?”

John is a shameless flirt when it comes to Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock sits primly on the edge of the bed before swinging his legs up, towel still around his waist.

“No, this comes off.” John grips the folds of the fabric and gently eases them away, baring his boy to be seen. “Oh yes, this is much too pretty to cover up.”

Sherlock’s blush has made its way to his chest, his fingers fiddling at the edges of the towel. “John.”



John begins nuzzling his way up those long, long legs. God, he loves these thighs. Wants to bury his face in them endlessly, bruise the creamy canvas of them with his teeth. And this cock. Yes, this pretty, pretty cock in its nest of silky curls. He touches the tip with his tongue and Sherlock’s breath stutters in a gasp as he arches gently into the bed. “Doesn’t seem like nothing,” John continues.

“I…oh!” Sherlock hums a little as he seems to get distracted by what is going on down below, bum moving in a tiny, restrained grind into the bed. “Are you really going to…?” His voice fades out, but John knows what he’s asking. What he’s trying to ask in his own, bashful way.

“Oh, yes.” He tongues the base of Sherlock’s cock, migrating down to the space below and adding a finger to the mix to press gently against that smooth skin. Sherlock jumps. “Absolutely.” A puff of air against that furled opening, a kitten lick meant to drive Sherlock mad. Then nothing. “But not yet.”

A high whine escapes Sherlock as John slides up his body, dragging his clothed crotch purposefully over Sherlock’s sensitive skin. His nipples are hard and budded, begging for attention which John is glad to provide.

“I think I’ll play with these first,” he says, barely brushing a fingertip against the bud. “You love it, don’t you? Me, playing with your tits?”

If possible, Sherlock turns even redder, embarrassed and turned on all at once. “Yes,” he gasps. “Yes, please.”

“So polite,” John teases, breathing against Sherlock’s skin, knowing the anticipation is almost as good as the act itself for the mad detective.

Finally, he laves against the first nipple, cupping the pec like he would a woman’s breast and gently massaging it in his hand. Sherlock groans and thrashes a little, head thrown back as John latches on and sucks, going at it as though he’s trying to get sustenance from it.

The thought drives Sherlock wild, has ever since John whispered against his ear that one time, “Are you going to give it to me?”

At the time, Sherlock hadn’t understood. A breathless question had earned the response, “Your milk, Sherlock. Give me your milk.” And Sherlock had come so hard he nearly blacked out, wails echoing in 221B loud enough that they had avoided eye contact with Mrs. Hudson for a week.

Now, John plays with him, massaging his pecs and sucking insistently on each nipple. “Mm, you taste so good.”

A tiny whimper, followed by a grunt as John nips the little rosebud and then begins a slow, biting journey up Sherlock’s neck. “Are you ready for me to eat you a little? Gonna grind into my face until you’re sobbing with it?” Sherlock lets out a huge whoosh of breath that hitches as John grabs his thigh and brings one leg up around his own hip. He nods his head against John’s, wrapping his arms around the doctor’s shoulders and dragging him closer.

“I need words, baby,” John says, voice suddenly soft and serious.

“Please, John. Please.” Sherlock takes in a gulping, hiccuping breath and John slithers down that body until he can tilt those hips and bend those knees and bury his face between those thighs with the soft, relieved sigh of returning somewhere familiar and beloved.

He starts with kitten licks, tiny little movements of tongue around the rim. John can taste the soap, but he can also taste the man he loves beneath that, and that thought alone causes a little moan to escape. Sherlock’s thighs tremble on either side of John’s head, a high sound making its way throughout the room. Once he starts becoming a bit more insistent, beginning to push in instead of around, Sherlock is helpless to stop the dirty grind of his hips into John’s mouth, fingers in a white-knuckled grip in the sheets.

John teasingly adds a finger, slow at first and then all at once, seeking that familiar spot and rub, rub, rubbing until Sherlock let’s out a broken sound and inhaled sob. “Stop, stop! I’ll come!”

With one more flick, John eases off his prostate, using his finger to instead begin the gentle stretch to accommodate his not-inconsiderable girth.

“Oh, g-god,” Sherlock groans, thighs tensing in a telltale way. “John—”

Abruptly, John uses his other hand to grip Sherlock at the base, denying his body the release it desires. A funny hiccuping sound comes from the man above him, slender hands moving their grip to John’s head and pushing, trying to grind himself closer to the mouth that torments him.

John pulls away completely, except the hand gripping Sherlock’s cock, leaving the man beneath him looking breathless and bereft. “Oh, no you don’t.”

Sherlock squirms, appearing simultaneously contrite and desperate for more, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

“God, you’re irresistible,” John complains, releasing his hold and falling over Sherlock’s lean body and kissing that maddening mouth.

John loves kissing, always has. Until Sherlock, most lovers he had taken only used kissing as a precursor to sex, but he and Sherlock could kiss for ages with no ulterior motive. He adores this mouth, loves to lavish the attention it deserves upon every gentle curve of it, knows every move that will get him a sweet hum or soft gasp against his own smile.

They’re old friends, their lips.

Sherlock pulls back slightly between quick pecks, says, “You taste like us.”

John smiles, bright and happy, and just stares for a moment. “Really? What do we taste like?”

Eyes drifting shut, Sherlock runs his tongue against his gentle pout as if trying to savor the very essence of them. “Tea. Smoke. Sandalwood. Honey.”

“Mmm, we sound delicious. Let me try.” John dives back in, licking his way into Sherlock’s mouth with all the gumption of someone half his age.

Sherlock kisses back with just as much enthusiasm, humming quietly in that way he does. He’s never aware of it, but John loves to coax those sounds from him, make him get louder and louder until all he can hear is that voice and those delicious, accidental sounds being pushed from Sherlock’s lungs.

John sneaks back in with two fingers this time, and Sherlock lets out a surprised little squeak against John’s lips before arching his back into the feeling, impaling himself as far as he can.

“Yes, yes. I want it,” Sherlock whispers hoarsely, spreading his legs further.

John grabs Sherlock’s thigh and pushes it back to his chest, pushing to the absolute limit. Sherlock is unnaturally limber, and it’s one of John’s favorite things.

Sherlock is soft and warm inside, tight in a way that was surely designed to drive John to madness. Better yet, he’s never louder than when he has something up his—

“Ah!” A third finger has squeezed its way alongside the others, and Sherlock writhes, unable to keep still anymore. “Oh, oh. Oh!” John teases that spot, presses around it with two fingers before brushing a light touch to it that makes Sherlock’s breath hitch.

“Don’t forget to breathe,” John teases, biting the thigh quivering near his mouth.

Sherlock’s breath gusts out, having forgotten to do just that.

“Open your eyes” John breathes, and Sherlock does, slowly and with considerable effort. He gently grips that pale chin and brushes his thumb against reddened bottom lip, slick with saliva. “I want to fuck you.”

Sherlock’s eyes roll back in his head and he lets out a high-pitched moan. “Well, I’ve be-en—“ his breath hitches as John starts playing with his prostate again, “waiting!” he forces out.

John grins. “Oh really?” He removes his fingers, and Sherlock whimpers. “Better get me nice and slick then.” And he rolls onto his back.

Sherlock blinks at the ceiling for a moment before he gets with the program and rolls over, almost violent in his hurry. He unbuttons, unzips, and before John can say anything further, he’s got John’s cock halfway down his throat and is moaning like a porn star. He laves, licks, brushes the underside with just the suggestion of teeth. Just enough for John to buck into his throat with a hushed, “sorry, sorry!”

Sherlock pulls off with a light cough before diving back in with plenty of enthusiasm.

John lays back, eyes closed, and plays with Sherlock’s curls until his desire starts to feel too urgent, too present and imminent to let this continue as it is. “Sherlock.” The only response he receives is a firm suck, Sherlock’s bare hips rolling desperately into the bedsheets. “Darling, you gotta stop if you want me to use that in you.”

Finally, Sherlock pops off and glares up at him. “Crude.”

John subconsciously licks his lips, watching Sherlock’s swollen mouth. “If you’re with it enough to sass me, I don’t think I’m doing my job correctly.” He stares down at the oxymoron that is Sherlock calling him “crude” when he’s just been sucking his cock like a cherry ice lolly. A giggle escapes, and then he’s hauling Sherlock up by the armpits and kissing that mouth, feeling the sweet swell of abused lips. “You drive me—“ kiss “—absolutely—“ kiss “wild.“

Sherlock grunts and begins tugging at John’s shirt, releasing buttons with shaky hands until he can shove it off and fling it across the room. There’s a thunk as something falls over on the dresser, but neither pay it any mind.

“Hurry, hurry, hurry,” he whispers, possibly to himself.

John grins and nips Sherlock’s cheekbone. The rest of his clothes are quickly strewn across the room, Sherlock running his hands over every inch of John’s skin he can possibly reach. Lube is retrieved and cool over hot, pulsing skin. They each hiss through their teeth at the contrasting temperatures, but quickly move on in favor of further activities.

Sherlock rolls onto his back, spreading his legs in silent encouragement that still leaves John breathless, no matter how many times they’ve done this before.

“You bloody beautiful creature,” he whispers, hands running up Sherlock’s thighs, reverently soft.

“John, please.” His face is crimson, his blush perfect.

Taking himself in hand, John lines them up and presses in with a rough exhalation.

Sherlock sips in a little breath before grasping John’s forearms in a clawing grip. “Here, here.”

John follows the tugging and pushes in further, both of them gasping for the breath they’ve lost. He braces his forearms on either side of Sherlock’s flushed face and kisses him with a desperation born of their proximity. Sherlock is lovely and pink, panting for air between kisses and digging his nails into John’s back.

John loves the sting, the marks that remain from those greedy fingers for days after. They continue to kiss for several minutes, Sherlock adjusting and John holding perfectly still with a patience he didn’t know he possessed until Sherlock. It’s tight, so tight. Always is, without fail. Like Sherlock was made for his pleasure.

When he whispers this into the air between them, Sherlock gasps in a delighted little puff and squeezes. A grunt escapes John, his hips jolting forward without his permission. And yet Sherlock wraps his legs around the soldier’s hips and pulls with adamant neediness.

And they’re off.

John starts with small twitches of hips, barely pulling out before shoving back in. Little jolts of movement that have Sherlock’s body rocking from the force. Then he grows greedy, needing the sounds he knows Sherlock will make if he just...thrusts...a little...deeper...

“Ah!” It’s breathless and sweet, and music to John’s ears. Soft little uh, uh, uhs, that force their way from Sherlock’s lungs. He has the pillow beneath his head fisted in each hand, knuckles white with it.

And then Sherlock leans forward and bites.

The junction between shoulder and neck stings, and John growls. “Fuck.“

It gets rougher, John increasing his thrusts to the point of Sherlock being jostled up the bed with each one, his head finally bumping into the headboard before John grips his ass and yanks him back down the bed and impaling him on his cock harder and deeper than anything so far.

Sherlock screams, shocked and breathless. “Oh my god. Oh my god.“

John hums, panting a bit himself from exertion as he continues the punishing pace. Sherlock is covered in slick sweat, his cock dribbling copious amounts of precome onto his own concave belly. “God, you’re filthy.” He readjusts and pistons in, aiming for the sweet spot that will make Sherlock howl. “My filthy boy.”

He hits his mark, and Sherlock wails, cock pulsing between them and slicking their stomachs. It keeps going and going, like it won’t ever stop, and Sherlock’s forehead is creased as if he’s in pain.

John continues pounding at that spot, coaxing pulse after pulse of Sherlock’s climax out of him. And then—

“Don’t stop!” Sherlock gasps. “Don’t—!”

Unsure how he can stand to have that point of pleasure teased past the point of anything enjoyable, and yet trusting Sherlock’s desire and the simultaneous need to come, John doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t, and doesn’t. The pressure builds in his lower back, his pelvis on fire and cock hard nearly to the point of pain. He doesn’t stop until it crests in a way he’s seldom experienced before, vision whiting out and blinding him as he huffs out labored breaths, feeling as though he’s being turned inside out.

When it passes, and he opens his eyes, tear tracks down beloved cheekbones and liquid blue eyes meet his gaze.

“Oh baby,” John gasps. “Oh god, are you okay? Was it too much?”

Sherlock’s lip trembles as he shakes his head, pulling John down until he can bury his face in his neck. “No. No. It was perfect. It was perfect.”

Relief pulses through John, and he slowly readjusts them so he’s lying on his back with Sherlock’s head resting on his chest, their hands gripped together tightly.

They remain still for several minutes, catching their breath. “If that’s what I can expect after your binge gaming, I guess the Xbox can stay.”

Sherlock huffs. “You’d do anything to get a leg over.”

John chuckles, turning on his side to nuzzle his curls

“You’re the bloody love of my life.” It’s soft and barely heard, John not even sure he wants Sherlock to hear.

But of course he does. “John.” He presses a gentle kiss to John’s hand. “There is nothing I can say that would express how much you mean to me. Nothing.”

John closes his eyes and smiles.