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Defiling of 221B

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John opened the front door of 221B to the sounds of things being crashed about.  Frowning, his hands full of shopping bags,  he stepped in and toed the door closed behind him as Mrs. Hudson came rushing down the hall from her own flat.

“Oh good heavens, thank God you’re home,” Mrs. Hudson said, a certain amount of panic in her eyes indicating that whatever was going on upstairs had the otherwise even-keel landlady ruffled. “Sherlock’s been throwing things and carrying on, started up about twenty minutes after you left. I was able to take the gun-” Mrs. Hudson offered the lockbox containing the weapon to John, who accepted it with a look of relieved thanks after shifting a few of the Tesco bags from one hand to the other.  

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I’ll go get him sorted out-” John’s eyebrows raised as he heard the distinct crack of a ceramic cup hit the wall upstairs, “-before he does any permanent damage.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded, jerking when a particularly loud bang emanated from upstairs to the chorus of Sherlock’s shouts.  With a worried look shot at John, Mrs. Hudson scurried back down to her flat and closed the door.  John heard her slide the bolt in place a moment later.  Sighing, John took the stairs as fast as he could, ducking as a book came flying through the open flat door.

“Sherlock!” John exclaimed, coming to a stop in the doorway to survey the chaos that had erupted in their living room and kitchen. Books, sheets of music, beakers, saucers and tea cups and absolutely everything that could be thrown was strewn across the carpet and linoleum, the silver music stand listing to the side by the window, their easy chairs tipped over and tossed askew.  The skull had disappeared off the mantle, and was nowhere in sight.  All the steak knives they collectively owned were lodged in the smiley face above the couch, along with a few of the forks. The rest of the silverware littered the couch cushions and the floor around it and the coffee table.  

John’s eyes came to rest on Sherlock, who was perched on the table that usually contained all manner of detritus and their laptops; thankfully the electronics had been pushed aside to accompany the form of the detective, who was squatting for all the world like an owl, his hands and feet planted firmly on the table.  His knees were cocked out to the side and the black curls on his head were in a marked state of disarray, fluffier and more out of place than usual.  The lithe man’s chest was puffing slightly every time he took a breath in, heavy and fast.  His eyes were that of a wildcats, angry and toned over with the look to kill that came naturally to any predator.  Sherlock was looking at John, his face flushed, dressing gown open and hanging haphazardly off of one shoulder. John couldn’t help but stare at the detective in awe, the odd flush of lust rushing up from his groin to his cheeks.

“Look at- I can’t believe- What in the buggery fuck were you thinking!?” John asked incredulously, trying to divert the sudden haze of want in his mind, never taking his eyes off of Sherlock as he leant over to put the shopping and the lockbox down just inside the door to the flat.  He took a few steps toward the detective, broken ceramics and papers grinding under the soles of his shoes. “What the bloody hell happened? You were asleep on the couch when I left not even an hour ago, and I get to come home to this!?”

“It’s been two weeks,” Sherlock practically hissed, his eyes narrowing at the approaching doctor. “Two weeks, John.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“I NEED A DISTRACTION!” Sherlock roared, his teeth bared. His fingers came up to tug cruelly at his hair, twisting violently at his scalp. “My brain needs to be kept sharp, and I’ve got nothing to keep it occupied, not a single blessed thing to warrant it’s cogs to keep going, this beautiful piece of machinery to keep performing at its most adequate-”

“I’m not getting you cigarettes or any form of illegal substances,” John said in his calmest voice, coming to a stop in front of the table and craning his neck back to look up into Sherlock’s eyes. It took every inch of his soldier’s training to keep himself in check, to stop himself from grabbing those elegant fingers and gently easing them from the detective’s errant curls.

“John.” Sherlock said quietly. “John.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Please.” Sherlock said in an anguished voice.

“No!” John said, sternness creeping into his voice. “No, Sherlock, I am not going to give you that satisfaction. You’re better than that. Now c’mon, off the table-”

Sherlock released an inhuman, guttural sound from his throat as he reached back to swipe whatever he could off the table from behind him.  What ended up hitting the floor was John’s laptop, which landed with a sickening crack on the floor.

John froze. For a second, his face was a mask of disbelief, and then it became hard, his entire body turning into stone as his shoulders straightened, his feet planted and squared, arms crossing over his chest as his normally friendly blue eyes turned an icy shade.

“Get. Off. The. Table. That’s an order,” John intoned, his voice cracking like a whip with anger and authority. Screw the gorgeous fey thing growling at him atop the table, there were things that John didn’t mind Sherlock tossing around but his laptop was certainly a piece set to off-limits.  After a few seconds of stare-down, Sherlock slid to the side, his feet hitting the floor, never breaking eye contact with this new version of John.

“You do not need cocaine or nicotine. They are for weak-minded people. Now pick up my laptop.” When Sherlock did not immediately comply, John’s demeanor took on more tension. “What did I just say? PICK UP MY LAPTOP.”

With the barest of shivers, Sherlock turned to oblige John, picking up the computer from the floor and placing it back onto the table next to him.

“Start cleaning.”

Sherlock bent and began to shuffle the papers on the floor into haphazard piles, all signs of his previous emotional state disappearing from the lines of his body.  He calmly began stacking the books and sorting through the un-broken mugs and plates that littered the floor, moving very slowly as he went.


Sherlock jerked with a gasp at the authority in John’s voice, caught off guard with the jolt of electricity that followed down his spine. His fingers and feet began to move faster, small piles of junk and books forming all over the carpeted floor. Sherlock was practically vibrating in front of John, crouched on the floor as the doctor supervised the mediocre cleaning attempt.

Sensing the unusual calm that was emanating from the detective, John frowned. “Stand up. Face me.”

What John saw was both surprising and erotic.  Because standing before him was a calm detective, with an erection very obviously standing at attention from his pajama pants.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice wavered for a split second, his eyes darting between the detective’s face and crotch.  John was now becoming aware of the rush of heat and blood pooling just below his own belly; and before he knew it, John’s personal space was invaded by the taller man and John was craning his neck back to look up into Sherlock’s eyes, now desperate and pleading.

“Don’t stop,” Sherlock practically whined, his long, thin fingers of one hand squeezing John’s bicep. “It’s... distracting. My mind, it goes white. I don’t... I think it...”

John took a mental step back, surveying what he had in front of him.

One very sexually aroused detective. Check.
One very sexually aroused detective begging him. Check.
One very sexually aroused detective begging him not to stop ordering him about. Check.

John couldn’t believe what was happening.  One second, Sherlock had been all wildfire and thorns, and the next he was as calm as a kitten who’s stomach had been filled with milk.

All because John Watson had started ordering him about.

This was news to John. Sure, Sherlock had seemed amused by John’s sternness with others and his apparent ability to pull rank- but never aroused.  Except that the evidence of such arousal was plainly in front of him, standing up to make it’s hello quite known.

So he decided to see how far he could push his detective.

“Kiss me.”

Sherlock pounced, all manner of cleaning forgotten; his fingers threaded into John’s hair, crushing their lips together fervently. John released a groan into Sherlock’s mouth when a tongue swiped over his bottom lip, allowing entrance. Sherlock’s hands cradled the back of John’s head, holding him possessively close, his erection pressing into John’s lower abdomen, John’s own rising up to meet it.  When John felt he was going to become overwhelmed, he wormed a hand between them and pushed Sherlock away.

“Stop.” John mustered up his most authoritative voice, clearly trying to regain his position over the situation. In that kiss, John had learned that while Sherlock would oblige his orders, he was still too exuberant in the execution for John to keep composure.

Okay, so John needed to be more specific.

“Fix my chair.”

After a second of huffing, his lips slightly swollen, Sherlock turned and strode to the up-ended easy chair, flipping it over to it’s correct position. Moving past him, John turned and sat down in the chair, Sherlock looming over him.

“On your knees.”

Sherlock immediately dropped, ceramic crunching beneath his kneecaps, his eyes conveying complete calm.

“Take my cock out.” Shifting his hips as Sherlock worked at his button and fly, John’s trousers and pants were quickly resting around his calves, his erection tipped up and back towards his belly. Sherlock made as if to touch it, and John made a sound of dissent.

“No. You only do exactly as I tell you, nothing more.” John’s eyes narrowed at Sherlock while in his head he was still reeling from this sudden discovery of a side to Sherlock he’d never seen before. “Put your hands behind your back. Use just your mouth.”

Complying, Sherlock tucked his hands into fists and placed them behind his back. Leaning forward, Sherlock delicately lipped the head of John’s member, tracing the frenulum with his teeth. John hissed at the sensation.  Sherlock chose that moment to dive his tongue into the slit, using his lips to cover the head completely in moist warmth.  John’s hips started squirming of their own accord, the odd sensation of Sherlock’s tongue wriggling against the sensitive skin a heady feeling.

“Hold my hips down. Don’t let me move,” John ground out, his hips bucking to try and get more of his exposed cock into Sherlock’s mouth. “Tease me.”

Sherlock’s hands snaked up John’s thighs before applying pressure into the crease of his hips, effectively stopping John’s attempts to move about.  A little thrill ran up John’s abdomen from his crotch at the force with which Sherlock used to keep John’s arse firmly on the cushion of the chair.

Having better leverage, Sherlock took advantage and swallowed John up to the hilt, burying his nose into the dusky blonde curls at the base of his shaft.  As if that wasn’t enough to set John off, Sherlock chose that moment to swallow, and John could feel the muscles of Sherlock’s throat working around the head, a slow and steady pressure on his skin.  John threw his head back, a moan erupting from his throat as Sherlock started to bob, his saliva creating a smooth passage up and down his cock.

When Sherlock started scraping his teeth along the ridge that ran up and down the underside of his dick, John nearly came straight down the alabaster-skinned man’s throat. With one hand, John threaded his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and ripped him away from his preoccupation of sucking John off. “Stop, stop, I’m going to come down that fucking throat of yours if you don’t stop.”

Sherlock remained silent, although his eyes seemed to convey that it wouldn’t bother him to have a load shot into the back of his throat.  Saliva ringed Sherlock’s mouth, his face flushed in a way that made John even more aroused than he thought was possible. His hands were still holding John’s hips down, fingertips digging into the delicate skin of his rear, assuring that there would be bruising later.

Somehow John couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Take my shoes off, get my trousers and pants off too- yes-” Sherlock was obeying as fast as lightning, the shoes flung one by one over his shoulders and the pants and trousers pushed hastily to one side. Meanwhile, John had been removing his jacket, tossing it behind him, along with the jumper and t-shirt he had been wearing, baring his chest to the slight chill of the flat. “Drag me to the floor.”

John found himself on the floor a second later after a hasty swipe of Sherlock’s forearm had cleared the carpet of most debri. His cock gave a sharp twitch as Sherlock loomed above him, the dressing gown and grey long-sleeve t-shirt having been discarded when John hadn’t been paying attention.

“Take off your pajama bottoms.” John leaned up on his elbows to watch Sherlock divest himself of the offending garment, and gave a low gasp when Sherlock’s member popped over the waistband, no pants on underneath the thin pajamas. Pushing the pajama pants aside, Sherlock’s eyes came back to rest on John, waiting. John let his head fall back with a sigh, trying to put his own thoughts in order and contemplating just what he was going to do- Sherlock was actually a bit bigger than John had been anticipating, but after a small amount of deliberation he found that he could care less. What John had been feeling for months was finally coming to fruition- maybe not in the way he had intended, but it was still amazing nonetheless and he was damned if it wasn’t going to be amazing.

“Stretch me open.” John planted his feet on the floor, spreading his legs to allow Sherlock enough room to reach his entrance. “Come on, use any way you have to-”

Sherlock immediately dropped his head, ducking one hand under John’s hips and tugging up so that John’s leg was tossed over one thin shoulder. Within seconds, Sherlock was tongueing the tight ring of muscle, lathering it with saliva and teasing it with flicks and strokes. John forced himself to relax at the sensation of “having his salad tossed”, instead giving his mind over to the simple pleasure of it. Trying to grab onto anything with purchase, John started to squirm under Sherlock’s ministrations as Sherlock’s tongue started to dive past the muscle, dipping into his anus further and further to stroke the smooth skin inside. Without prompting, Sherlock tightened his grip around John’s leg and waist with both arms, stopping John’s movements effectively. John groaned, pleasure shooting its way up his spine.

When Sherlock had sufficiently laved John’s hole with saliva, a finger was brought up to be slicked with spit and then slowly pushed into John’s rear. John gave a violent jerk, the feeling of this one finger pushing against him both foreign and delicious in feeling.  He saw Sherlock smirk as a second finger was pushed in and worked around, scissoring and stretching.

There came a point in which John simply couldn’t take it anymore, the animal inside of the doctor was clawing its way out of the cage it had been so carefully shoved into and looking up at the detective, he growled, “Fuck me. Pin me down and fuck me hard.”

The command wasn’t questioned twice. Fingers removed and soon replaced with the overwhelming feeling of a cock, Sherlock guided himself into John, pushing a little roughly against the tight feeling. John didn’t care that it hurt; the pleasure was outweighing the pain.  John started slapping his hands against Sherlock’s chest when he didn’t move right away.

“What are you doing!? Start fucking me, I won’t break, come on- MOVE-” John dug his heels into the small of Sherlock’s back, urging him along, and with a needy whimper Sherlock tugged out, then slammed back into John with one quick thrust.

“Oh- yes, oh fu-” John stuttered and bit his lip, arms flailing before Sherlock grabbed his wrists and pressed them back into the carpet above John’s head with one hand, the other bracing the thinner man above John as he pounded into the doctor. They made a small progression across the carpet, pieces of ceramic and dirt scraping at John’s back, Sherlock’s bucking and thrusting moving them backwards. John wouldn’t feel the rug burn and scrapes until tomorrow; at the moment he couldn’t care about anything else except the man moving against him, grunting and taking him by force. Unbidden, Sherlock ducked his head down and set his teeth against John’s collar bone, then bit into the junction of muscle that connected shoulder to neck, sure enough to leave marks in a few hours.  John let this unordered action go, too lost to the man moving above him, wanting to be marked as the detective’s dirty little soldier.

“Come in me- I want you to come in me-” John breathed, his speech broken up in between powerful thrusts and the sounds of skin slapping against skin. He was already so close himself, just a few more well aimed strokes and-

John was coming all over his own stomach, screaming out incoherent strings of babble as thick streaks of ejaculate made their way out and up. A few ruthless and uncoordinated thrusts later and Sherlock was following John over the edge, keening into the side of John’s neck and pressing violently into John’s rear as he unloaded himself deep inside John. Releasing John’s wrists, Sherlock collapsed chest-to-chest on top of John, panting and boneless. John’s arms snaked up to circle the detective’s waist, relishing the feeling of Sherlock growing soft within him. After a few seconds of this, John brought his mouth to Sherlock’s ear.

“Clean me up with your tongue.”