Work Header

In Good Hands

Work Text:

The flat was stifling as Sherlock entered, his shirtsleeves already rolled up against the budding warmth of early summer. Though the sun would be setting soon, there was little indication that it would take with it the thick heat of the buzzing city. A quick glance around the sitting room indicated that John was upstairs, soon to retire to their shared quarters. And although nothing could be found more fascinating than the good doctor himself - a proclivity Sherlock had managed to keep secret from all save his disinterested brother - there was one particular item that piqued his curiosity beyond the norm. Furthermore, as it clearly had to do with John himself… well. Sherlock supposed he may as well follow his flatmate’s lead and change into something more appropriate.


‘Let’s do this, then.’

‘You’re home!’ John spun quickly to face the man who’d padded silently into the sitting room on bare feet. ‘What do you mean, let’s…? Wait… what are you wearing?’ he asked suspiciously.

Sherlock blinked slowly, savouring the feeling of John’s eyes roving over his body, if only out of confusion.

‘Yoga clothes, obviously,’ he answered after a moment, nodding toward the green mat on the floor. ‘I assume you’re planning to attempt some stretches to decrease the phantom pain in your leg. I don’t know how useful the exercise will be on a psychosomatic injury, but it’s not a bad idea in general.’

‘Thanks…?’ John replied, clearly uncertain whether he had just been insulted or encouraged. ‘But why are you dressed -’ he eyed the detective’s thin, clinging trousers and loose purple sleeveless jersey ‘- like that?’

‘I’ll be guiding you through the positions.’

‘You’ll be…’ The doctor blinked rapidly.

Sherlock stepped closer, the heat of the room loosening both his muscles and his speech.

‘I’ll be helping, John. You don’t want to risk injury, and I am rather proficient in stretching techniques.’

‘How… why?’

‘Ballet, John. I’ve told you haven’t I?’

The older man shook his head slightly, brows furrowed.

‘Hm. I must’ve told you while you were out. Anyway, yes. I performed ballet until I was eighteen years old.’

John’s mouth fell open, ostensibly at the casual manner of this admission, and he didn’t seem to hear himself murmur ‘alright.’


Alright? Alright?!

John had just agreed to allow Sherlock - Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective, for whom he’d been nursing a schoolboy crush - to assist him with yoga stretches, of all things. He was already sweating, more from the vision of the slim chest and well-defined thighs before him than the frankly uncomfortable level of heat in the room, meant to relax his tight muscles. Given what he’d just said yes to, the only thing likely to relax him at this stage would be a diazepam.

Ten minutes later, and John’s internal mantra of ‘dead puppies, dead puppies’ was doing little to quell his mounting erection. As if that weren’t bad enough, Sherlock had just commanded him to bend over.

The taller man positioned himself close behind John, informing him that he was now in ‘downward-facing dog,’ as though it mattered.

‘Spread your legs just a bit…’ he instructed, toes pushing at the inside of John’s right ankle, ‘there. Good. Now I’ll just…’

John let out a tiny yelp as Sherlock curled long fingers around his pelvic bone and tugged upward.


Sherlock thought at first that he had been mistaken, but John’s erection was growing increasingly evident. The fact that John was clearly not wearing pants beneath his gym clothes had also become obvious, and it took all of his semi-professional training not to stare.

He can’t possibly… the detective’s brain stuttered. He doesn’t… well he does, but he would never admit… though perhaps, given sufficient impetus…

‘Bend over, John. That’s it; palms on the floor. This position is called downward-facing dog.’

He continued to nudge his flatmate into the correct position, allowing himself the liberty of pushing his legs further apart while stifling a moan at the sight of his soldier’s arse waving before his eyes.

The strangled cry John let out at the feel of Sherlock’s hands pulling his hips back, the warmth of the space, of their bodies in close proximity, the scent of sweat and musk and John filling his lungs… the consummation of it all caused the detective to throw uncharacteristic caution to the wind.

‘There’s a new move I’d like you to try John,’ he began, nearly panting already, ‘but you must let me know if it becomes too much.’

The older man swallowed audibly and forced out a strained, ‘go on, then.’

Sherlock gradually pressed his own barely-clad cock into the cleft of John’s trousers.


A hum and a nod.

‘Kneel for me, slowly.’

They sank together to the floor. Sherlock was careful never to break contact as he caged the smaller man in with his arms.



He began rocking, legs on either side of John’s, head rolling back from the glorious friction they created together.

‘Yes…’ John huffed below, ‘more… please… more…’

Sherlock licked his palm sloppily and slipped a hand beneath John’s waistband, rolling and rolling and rolling over the hot flesh of his captain’s dripping cock. Encircling him and sliding down to the base, then pulling up fast, faster, squeezing gently at first, then more roughly as his ministrations were greeted with, ‘yeah… oh fuck, yeah… harder, harder! Yes, YES, just like that!’ With every word, he felt his sac drawing up against his body, felt the pooling low and deep in his belly as he thrust in earnest against the man he had longed for without hope.

‘Christ, Sherlock, yes!’ met his ears and he knew he had to hold on… just… long… enough… His calloused fingers dragged up and around John’s length, offering the same silent praise he did his beloved violin. John pumped his hips hard into the twistpullroll , obviously relishing the pounding of Sherlock’s desperate cock against him on every backward thrust. Sherlock suddenly imagined what else John might let him do with that perfect arse and


‘Oh god, YES YES fuuuuuuuuuu-’ John’s words were strangled into silence as he struggled to breathe, hot streams of come coursing out of him and over Sherlock’s hand until the younger man was dizzy with the scent of his lover’s release and found himself rutting without rhythm until his own orgasm poured the strength out of his body.


Panting in time, they collapsed in a heap on the floor, John pressing his back firmly against Sherlock’s chest while long arms folded to encompass him. He could feel the slowing of breath against his ribcage, the licking of lips against the nape of his neck. And it was everything.

‘Finally,’ he exhaled.


‘What? Nothing,’ John rushed to correct his slip, though he supposed it was a bit unnecessary now.

‘How’s your leg?’ Sherlock inquired with a smile John could hear. He slid long fingers back beneath his waistband and ran them along John’s thigh, up his hamstring, over his arse…

‘Hmm… still a bit tight…’

‘I’ll bet you are,’ the detective agreed, lazily circling John’s hole. ‘What do you suggest we do about that?’

‘You’re the expert.’ John rolled over to face him, tentatively bringing their lips together in what would be the evening’s only chaste kiss. ‘I’m sure I’m in good hands.’