Actions

Work Header

Lament for the Lubricious

Work Text:

Charlie Milverton’s life ended not with a whimper, but a bang. The murder was most certainly hate-fuelled; he was shot in the face at close range. They’re not making much headway on finding his killer. It’s the sort of case they would call Sherlock in on, but for readily apparent reasons, he’s not interested in helping.

Sally’s half convinced Sherlock shot the man himself. He’d have a motive, but, as evidenced by a website that went up with attendant announcements to news outlets and social media sites 48 hours after Milverton’s death, so did a lot of people.

It’s an interesting website, to say the least. Simple navigation, categorised by type of scandal with an easily accessed search box for keywords and names. Scanned documents and incriminating pictures; shocking recordings, audio, video; sex; drugs; embezzlement; political and legal misdealings. It shines a searchlight on all sorts of scandals, and it’s left the police busy with far more than murder.

That’s not Phil’s business though. He does care about MPs being caught literally in bed with the opposition, but it’s not part of his job. What is part of his job – though by all rights he shouldn’t have to put up with it – is dealing with an insufferable twat calling himself a consulting detective, and his tag-along praise-dispenser.

Sherlock humiliates Philip Anderson routinely; he humiliates all of them. So it might not make him the nicest man alive, but he’s not going to pretend he doesn’t get some joy out of seeing Sherlock humiliated in turn.

Sherlock is on the website. Sherlock and John are on the website, together. It’s actually one of the more vividly scandalous videos.


“They’re Ken dolls,” Sally says when he brings it up. Everyone’s talking about it. The tabloids are talking about it. The speculation about whether the freak and his flatmate are shagging has finally been laid to rest, and suddenly the most vocal proponent of team ‘Like rabbits. Like horribly maladjusted rabbits.’ all but refuses to comment.

“Smooth planes,” she insists. “Maybe they roll around for a bit on a bed, nothing more.”

“Why are you so...” Phil starts before the realisation dawns. “Did you watch it? Are you traumatised now? Is this your cry for help?”

“I didn’t watch it. I’m not going to watch it. I know they’re together; I don’t need to see the blow-by-blow. This is how you avoid trauma.”

“And,” she amends, “it’s probably just a video of them staring at each other in that way that makes everyone else uncomfortable. That’s probably hot sex for them.”

Phil knows that way. He knows several variations of that way. They all seem to occur around dead bodies, which is as good a reason as any for Sally to not want to think about what happens afterward.

“I mean,” Sally looks at him with a solemn expression, “do you really want to know if they do that ‘Wow! You’re so brilliant!’ thing in bed too? Could you keep from being violently ill the next time you saw them do it in public? I couldn’t.”

“That’s got to be exactly what it’s like.” He humours her. “They stand there with John going ‘No one else could have deduced she was a dyslexic typist from Croydon with four cats and lactose intolerance!’ while Sherlock comes all over himself.”

“God. Don’t. It has to have happened. It’s not funny if it actually happened.”

“His face when he has an orgasm looks exactly like it does when he thinks he’s just discovered something clever. It’s too late, Sally, you’ve already seen their live-show.”

“Get out!” She laughs.

“Maybe I will watch it. Brave the trauma to confirm or deny. Be the hero you need.”

“Don’t do that. He’ll know. The freak knows everything.”

“I don’t care. It’d do him good to be in a room full of people who’ve seen him like that. See how much of a prick he is when I can remind him I’ve seen his o-face.”

“Don’t call it that.”

“When I can tell him I’ve gazed upon his visage at the moment of carnal ecstasy?”

“You do that,” she tells him. “See how it goes.”

Maybe he really will. If anyone deserves to have his sex-life ridiculed, it’s Sherlock Holmes. It’s karma.


He gets home after work and tries to load the site. It’s been DDoSed to hell, but not before a host of mirrors have gone up.

He uses one of them, and he’s actually glad he has to, because if he hadn’t had to google for it he never would have learned that the results for Sherlock’s humiliating sex tape rank higher than his stupid blog.

It’s in HD. Phil smirks to himself because yeah, of course Sherlock Holmes films his porn in HD, what did Phil expect? There’s clearly a tripod involved, and, knowing the man, probably noise-interference absorbing equipment behind the camera.

It starts as perfectly as he could have dreamed: with the words “performance anxiety.”

John is sitting on the bed, recorded from the side, dark green sheets pulled up to his waist, staring into the camera in a way Phil might find intimidating if it were actually directed at him.

The scars stand out. John’s not a young man, and he may be in shape, but his body shows the signs of a life recklessly lived. Phil doesn’t watch gay porn, but he’s fairly certain that body won’t be up to mainstream viewers’ standards. It’s not that he delights in John’s public humiliation, but at a certain level of association with Sherlock, you are asking for whatever misfortune befalls you.

“Ignore it,” he hears from off-screen. “It defeats the purpose if you stare at it.”

“It’s not exactly unobtrusive.”

“Why are you worried? We discussed this. I’m the only person who’ll watch it.”

“Yeah, if we’re doing this, I’m watching it too.”

“Why?” Sherlock sounds so sincerely puzzled that it startles Phil into a laugh. London’s foremost detective, ladies and gentlemen.

“The usual reason people watch porn. I’d tell you, but I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

“It’s counterintuitive to masturbate to a video of yourself having sex with someone when you could simply have sex with that person again.”

“Not always.” John shrugs with a small smile. “It’s counterintuitive to film someone for ‘adequate observation of sexual response,’” Phil can hear the quotation marks, “when you can just observe them during sex.”

“If you didn’t insist on being so distracting...”

Oh, God, they’re flirting. Phil doesn’t know why he wasn’t prepared for that, but he isn’t. Just ejaculate prematurely and get it over with he thinks about Sherlock, and apparently the porno gods hear his prayer, because Sherlock passes in front of the camera and climbs up on the bed in a movement that is far more graceful than he has any right to be.

“If you’d let me observe,” he says, moving over John to press him back against the pillows, “we wouldn’t have to set all this up. It’s your fault for being difficult.”

There’s a short huff of laughter before Sherlock cuts it off by pressing his mouth against John’s.

It can’t be said that they don’t have passion, but hell, Phil’s seen far too many of their heated stares to be surprised by that.

“I observe as much as I can,” Sherlock says, pulling back just enough and rubbing their bodies together. “If you think I haven’t memorised every movement that makes any muscle jump...” Sherlock runs his fingers over John’s chest, making him tense under him with a long inhale. The way he looks at Sherlock isn’t quite the same as it is when he’s listening to him tear a crime scene apart, but it’s close enough that Phil’s going to remember this the next time he sees it.

“Don’t think I don’t watch you, or remember everything that makes your breath catch.” He pulls the sheet away and slides it down, out from between their legs. “I remember every gasp, and what I need to do to hear it again.” He slides a hand down between them as he speaks, not quite centred enough to touch John’s dick, and on cue the man lets out a short, loud exhalation. “I know every one of your scars, and I know how you got them, and I know what it’s like to feel you inside and out.” Sherlock drops a quick kiss on John’s left pectoral. “So don’t think I haven’t catalogued every moan and what it means, or the range of smiles you save for the afterglow, or counted your thrusts until I couldn’t keep up.”

“I can’t catch everything when you’re touching me. I need it all. I need to be able to count your breaths as you rock into me, and see how your throat fills when you’re sucking me down.”

Sherlock pulls back and moves down to run his hands along John’s thighs as he mouths at his hardening cock.

Phil isn’t aroused. He does not get off to gay porn, and if he did, he wouldn’t get off to the freak. But he is... sort of stunned. That whole speech was probably creepy if he thinks about it, but it was intense. Very intense. Some people get off to that, he supposes. He doesn’t count himself among them, but he can sort of see where they’re coming from.

“And what are you doing with all this information?” John’s voice is slightly uneven.

Sherlock pulls off, replacing his mouth with both hands. “I use it. It can be helpful to tell how your day’s gone by the tension in your thighs and back. I can tell what you’ve eaten today by the taste of this.” Sherlock cups his lips just over the head of John’s cock.

“No you can’t.” John protests halfheartedly.

“I can.” Sherlock sounds on the verge of offended. “Consistency and taste of ejac–”

“You can’t do a day-to-day analysis.”

“You couldn’t do a day-to-day analysis. I’m better at it than you are.”

“Oh!” John laughs, and pulls at Sherlock to guide him back up the bed. “Should I take that as a challenge?”

“If you like.”

“I do like,” John says softly as he rolls them over. The grin Sherlock responds with is filthy.

John kisses his way down Sherlock’s body. Phil would be paying more attention to the actual sexual acts occurring, but Sherlock picks that moment to look directly into the camera. It’s startling, but it’s also obvious he’s only looking to help himself recall positioning. He drops one leg wide off the side of the bed to give an unobscured view of John’s face as he licks up along him.

John holds one hand to his base and balls, and loops the other around Sherlock’s other leg. He circles his lips around him and sucks and bobs.

Phil likes to think he’s been around, and he likes to think he’s had some really good blowjobs. Still, he feels a spark of jealousy, because he can’t remember ever having had a blowjob from someone who looked so happy to be giving it.

John looks devoted when his mouth is stretched wide. There are more than hints of smiles when he pulls off to lick and kiss along the shaft. When he does something Phil only wishes he could see more of with his tongue and Sherlock’s foreskin that makes Sherlock curve his spine and repeat “Oh! Oh!” it’s John who blushes and grins before retaking his length. There’s plenty of eye contact. It’s just... the entire act is gratuitous.

It’s not fair. It’s almost worship. If there’s anyone who doesn’t deserve that, it’s Sherlock. And trust him to find the one person on Earth who’d happily give it to him.

But that’s the thing. It’s not given. It’s not something John’s doing as a favour for Sherlock. It’s not a reward or a bribe. John’s just a filthy little cocksucker who loves it, and God damn it, since he’s not getting anything like that from anyone, he’s going to leave some sort of vicious anonymous comment on one of their blogs to make them feel as bad for having that as he does for not.

He can at least think about it happening to him, from a woman. It’s not masturbating to gay porn starring people he hates; it’s observing and fantasising about a technique.

“John! Oh! John!” Sherlock cries almost as soon as Phil starts, because even in his own porn, Sherlock is a complete cockblock. John lets Sherlock push him back and take several deep breaths. He watches Sherlock with a pleased, proprietary stare. Phil hadn’t known John could look so smug.

Sherlock throws his hand in the general direction of John, who grins even more broadly when he clasps it.

“I want to come with you inside me. That would have been too soon.”

God, yes. It’s not even a sexual desire, he just wants to see that stuck-up prig fucked.

“Might need the lube.” John sounds amused, and when he moves up the bed, Phil sees why.

Fully erect, John’s cock belongs in porn.

It’s big. It’s huge. And Sherlock Holmes is a size queen! The knowledge delights him. No wonder he hasn’t shown his face since this went up, now everyone knows he’s spread for that on the regular.

Sherlock hands over a flip-capped bottle from the bedside table, and John slicks himself up.

Maybe it explains why he’s willing to put up with so much from Sherlock. It must be easier to handle his disrespect when you know you’re the biggest man in the room.

John squeezes more out onto his fingers before reaching down between Sherlock’s legs.

“Don’t use too much,” Sherlock warns, as if he weren’t shifting lower so John could finger him more easily, clenching his hands in the sheets and tilting his head back.

John takes advantage, leaning in to kiss and nip at his neck, to make Sherlock moan before leaning back and pushing his free hand under Sherlock’s back to help him tilt his hips further.

“C’mon, are you ready for me?” John asks, hoisting Sherlock’s leg up.

“Yes, yes! You can do it.”

“Are you sure?” John moves up, thrusting his hips just slightly closer. The scene would be more interesting if Sherlock hadn’t moved his thigh to block the important bits.

“Yes, for God’s sake.”

“Really sure?”

Sherlock throws his head back with a groan of frustration very similar to the ones Phil’s heard directed at him. Then he tenses, and whips his head forward to stare open-mouthed at John. He rocks his hips and smiles, licentious and amused.

“Yes, I’m really sure.” He pulls his leg up and hooks his arm around it to give the camera an unobstructed view of John’s cock rubbing right against him, almost pressing in. “I want you to push inside and stretch me open. Fill me. I want all of you, as deep and hard as you can get. I want you to fuck me, so fuck me, now!”

John doesn’t speak. He dips his head forward with a small smile and pushes in.

Phil can see every part of it: the give after resistance; the stretch and the drive; the hesitation just after it’s halfway in; and the continued press after Sherlock moans “deeper,” until there’s nothing left to see.

They both breathe deep, unmoving, pressed as close together as possible.

Then John pulls out – almost all the way – and pushes back in.

“God, yes,” Sherlock moans, and John does it again.

John puts his arms around Sherlock, tucking them under his arse and pulling him down the bed for better leverage.

They move together. Sherlock’s not just impaled on John’s cock; he’s not just riding it; he’s writhing on it. He circles his hips, and shifts, and grabs at the sheets, and John, and himself. He’s wanton.

Phil is jealous, again. He’d rather die than want – or have – Sherlock, but, God, he’d kill to have someone moving on him like that. He grips himself for the poor approximation and watches.

They vary their movements, the depth of the stroke, the speed. Sherlock spends some moments shifting himself up and down along an almost stationary John. He spends others held steady while John pounds into him, and others moving with and against him, working to capture the angle and pace that works.

“The camera,” Sherlock protests when John tries to move him too much, to change their position.

“Playing to the camera is forcing us into substandard sex,” John complains, but he stays where Sherlock wants him.

Phil can’t let himself believe that. If this is their version of lousy sex, his life is a meaningless void.

“You’re always so good,” John tells Sherlock as he grips his cock, pulling it double-time to his own thrusts. “The way you move. You feel fantastic, every time. You look amazing like this, open, for me, and you feel even better.”

He keeps on. He calls Sherlock ‘brilliant’ and ‘incredible’ and ‘marvelous’ and Sherlock’s “Oh, oh, John, yes,” breaks into something more primal.

Phil is too busy coming with him to think of how deeply horrified he’ll be the next time he hears John admire Sherlock. When he’s done with that, he’s far too busy being deeply horrified at having come to Sherlock, as Sherlock did, to worry about anything else.

John pulls out as Sherlock’s semen slides over and off his abdomen, onto the sheets.

“No, come inside me. I want it,” Sherlock protests, but John, after trying to obey, backs off when his next few thrusts make Sherlock wince.

“Come on my face,” he proposes, then repeats it as a demand.

John huffs a laugh before setting Sherlock down and crawling over him.

John tugs at himself, hovering over Sherlock with one hand on the headboard.

What Phil can see of Sherlock’s face looks like open-mouthed ecstasy. There’s a fraction of a second as John groans and shudders when Phil wishes he’d waited for this, but no, coming while watching Sherlock’s face splattered would probably have been worse.

John collapses to the side as Sherlock raises a hand to his face.

It’s not to wipe it away; it’s to rub it in.

“Too much coffee,” he says after delicately licking the pads of his middle and index fingers. “Far more than usual. Also toast.”

John groans and turns back to Sherlock. “You know that because you ruined the kettle, and I made us toast.”

“I haven’t eaten toast.” Sherlock sounds as confused as Phil’s ever heard him.

“No, you didn’t. It’s still lying out there, forsaken and alone.”

“Oh. Hmm. Anyway, I can taste it.”

“Lies.”

The camera can’t capture Sherlock’s expression when he turns his head to John, but judging by the laughter it provokes, it’s impressive.

“Don’t look at me like that. You’re only trying to coerce me into saying I believe you so you can laugh at me. I know you too well.”

“Rather well.”

“Go turn the camera off.” John says, even as he twists and lays his arm over Sherlock’s chest.

“You turn it off. You’re the one that doesn’t like it.”

“And get the blanket.”

“Mmm.”

“You’re going to need a shower.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock rolls to face John, then further still, climbing on top of him.

What starts out as a kiss turns into some sort of weird, face-nuzzling activity.

“Now you need a shower too.” Sherlock pulls back with a grin.

“Thanks. I was going to anyway.”

“You can join me,” Sherlock invites, rolling off the bed with a flail of limbs.

“What for?” John asks incredulously, but he’s grinning, and even before the image jumps and freezes, Phil can see him start up to follow Sherlock.

Phil... Phil doesn’t really know what to do with himself once he bins the tissues and tucks himself away.

The horror still outweighs the shame. Sally was right; this is going to make crime scene investigation distinctly uncomfortable. He can only pray that when the time comes, his body will react with the appropriate pervasive disgust rather than perverted arousal.

He clicks back and searches for the blogs, just to see how they’re handling it.

John’s is locked down, comments fully disabled with the newest entry being nothing but a link to a post on Sherlock’s blog.

Yes, Sherlock’s post says, We had sex. Congratulations us, and all that.

All admissible evidence from the entirety of human history indicates that we’re not really going to burn in hell for it, but your concerns have been noted.

John wants me to say something about how much integrity it must take to watch a sex tape on a blackmail website in which the participants immediately made it explicitly clear it wasn’t filmed for the public, but I doubt it would have any impact on the type of intellectually-barren degenerate who thinks watching it and coming here to comment with personally identifying information and an offer to fuck me bloody could possibly end well for him.

I’ll write this clearly for the small minds amongst you.

No, we are not interested in a threesome, especially with anyone who can’t spell the number three.

No, I am not interested in having sex with you. Only send me pictures of your genitals if you have Corbus’ disease or Fournier’s gangrene. They are useless otherwise.

No, John is not going to have sex with you. He is mine now.

No, we’re not interested in making another video. No, we don’t care how much you’ll pay.

And no, I didn’t learn that at public school.

Phil laughs at that. He has to. Trust Sherlock to use being outed by sex tape as an opportunity for his favourite pastime of insulting everyone’s intelligence and overreacting to perceived slights.

As far as Phil’s concerned, Sherlock and John can hide away in their little flat for as long as they want. The longer they spend obsessing over blog comments, the longer Phil has to practise repressing everything he saw and did.

He has to repress it. He’d thought Sherlock would know with one look that he’d watched the video and laughed over it. If Sherlock could see that, he could just as easily see that Phil had watched it and masturbated over it. Maybe it would be just as effective at horrifying Sherlock, but he’s not willing to gamble his own humiliation on that.

Given enough time – and he has the motivation – he can make himself believe Sally’s Ken doll theory. It was a good theory. Ken dolls have never filled anyone with bitter sexual jealousy.

Whatever he needs to do, he’ll figure it out. And if he happens to spam a harassment-prone message board or two with direct links to the video and the blog, well, shared trauma brings communities closer together, and it’s just one more thing for him to forget about.