It took ten minutes and much swearing at his phone, but John finally worked out the correct password for Sherlock's computer. He opened a browser window and stared blankly at Google's search page for a solid minute, uncertain where to begin. How exactly did one search on a phrase like I love it when my flatmate chooses my sexual partners, orders me about, and then holds me down while they perform sex acts on me? That was only slightly more awkward than kinky platonic gay relationship.
And of course, he had to assume Sherlock would see any search term he used. Anything too extreme and he was setting himself up for a truly boundary-pushing night of sex. He was fairly open-minded and adventurous, but there were some things he was going to need quite a lot of time to consider before going anywhere near them. Sherlock had already shown he had no trouble commandeering John's body and mind for nonsexual experiments; John shuddered to think what situation he might casually thrust upon him if John did a search on "flogging".
Right, so. Proceed with caution.
Five minutes later he had typed and deleted at least a dozen phrases, never once clicking "search". Perhaps he needed to think about this more? He checked his email instead. The blog had got a few comments he needed to approve, mostly from his friends, but a few from stalkerish fans. He never quite knew how to respond to those, so he generally deleted them. The weirder ones he sometimes saved to a file for entertainment purposes, but--
Should he and Sherlock be using their real names in the club? He knew Sherlock was setting up many of the encounters via email -- surely he wasn't using his own email address? What if the next newspaper article about a case they'd solved mentioned that they frequented a private sex club in Soho? John closed his eyes and groaned. Enough people thought they were a couple as it was; masquerading as one for the purpose of an experiment was hardly going to help matters.
Of course, the line between masquerade and reality was growing more than a bit blurry. Which brought John back to the reason he was sitting in front of this computer in the first place.
He briefly considered Googling their names to see if anything new came up. On second thought, no. The last time he'd done that, he'd been scarred for weeks.
Sherlock's spreadsheet was minimized in the tray at the bottom of the window. He would probably assume John had looked at it, so John had no choice but to open it, really. He clicked the icon with more than a touch of trepidation and watched it fill the screen. It had grown immensely since the last time he'd seen it, with two entire rows of tabs across the bottom. The current tab seemed to represent some sort of analysis and John couldn't make any sense of it. The columns headers were so heavily coded that it was unclear what they represented. He clicked on a random cell and the string of formulas that appeared in the entry bar may as well have been Greek.
He clicked on several other tabs, but none of it made much more sense. John was hardly a Luddite and was actually quite good at maths, but his Excel skills were limited to extremely basic accounting.
He finally found the original sheet, the one he'd seen that first night a week ago. It remained much the same, as if Sherlock hadn't added any more information to it. Of course, this had been the porn response sheet, so somewhere in here there were probably sheets dedicated to everything from watching John have orgasms to details about how he liked his dick to be touched. What Sherlock planned to do with that information was anyone's guess. Perhaps he could summarize it in a quick report that John could hand to all future lovers. On the Proper Care and Handling of John H. Watson. Or something.
Of course, at this rate John might be able to write a treatise on what got Sherlock off as well: John getting his cock sucked by a man; John losing control of his cognitive abilities when there were fingers up his arse; John enjoying being watched so very closely. As long as Sherlock didn't have to get his hands dirty and John was willing, it seemed like it worked for him. He knew John would do anything he asked, anything he whispered in John's ear.
John closed his eyes and shivered. The sound of Sherlock's voice alone was starting to be enough to get him going. He didn't know what to make of that, nor of the way he felt when Sherlock took charge like he'd done tonight.
Ah, there was a place to begin his search. He minimized the spreadsheet and began typing.
*****
It was nearly noon when John finally made it downstairs. He rarely slept that late, preferring to keep himself on a regular schedule, but the combination of late nights out and much on his mind was pushing him steadily towards nocturnal.
Sherlock stood by the window, bow in hand. The music was what had finally roused John; as alarm clocks went, it was a fairly pleasant one. Sherlock was standing stock still now, the violin tucked under his chin, the bow pointing toward the ceiling, and his brow furrowed in concentration.
John had long since learned not to speak to him at moments like this. He headed straight for the kitchen, intending to make some coffee. Unfortunately, they appeared to be out of coffee, even the horrid instant kind John kept on hand for emergencies. He cast a suspicious glance in Sherlock's direction, but said nothing. Asking would be pointless and counter-productive. He might as well go out.
He pulled on his shoes and his coat while standing in Sherlock's line of sight, though there was no acknowledgment of his presence. He might as well be invisible. Maybe if he took off his trousers, Sherlock would notice. Hell, he could probably stand right in front of him and jerk off, and Sherlock would barely blink. On second thought, no -- he'd probably open his laptop and take notes.
The day was cool and clear and he ended up going for a long walk in Regent's Park. He finally decided to get a sandwich at the Pret around the corner from the flat, a place he'd never managed to talk Sherlock into going to. Now it was a place he went alone when he needed to think. Someone had left a newspaper on the adjacent table and he scanned the headlines, looking for possible cases out of sheer habit. It occurred to him then that Sherlock hadn't mentioned wanting a case in the last week. Even on the days when the club was closed, he'd been perfectly content to think about… well, whatever it was he was thinking about. Was watching John have sex really fascinating enough to keep that mind occupied for this long?
Perhaps it was. He contemplated his sandwich, feeling his cheeks heat. Last night Sherlock had said it was complicated. It seemed clear he felt some sort of sexual attraction to John -- or at least in the presence of John -- but was he interested in acting on it? And if he did, how did John feel about that?
He circled his fingertips on his temples and tried to clear his mind. He cared about Sherlock. He liked him a lot. He'd jump at the chance to have sex with him, that much was clear. But would their friendship be able to survive that?
He had no idea.
*****
"I found one," John said, dropping a copy of QX on Sherlock's chest.
"Ah, thanks," Sherlock replied, pushing himself to sitting. He flipped through it quickly, giving each page a cursory glance, and then tossed it aside.
"Glad I didn't go to much trouble," John mumbled. Which he had; he'd searched for a good half hour. He'd asked every news kiosk operator on Marylebone Road where he might locate a copy, only understanding their bemused expressions when he finally found one. "Why did you need a guide to the London gay scene? Isn't all of that online?"
"It is. So while I appreciate the gesture, it was essentially pointless."
Fantastic. John stripped off his jacket and hung it up, then sank into a chair and sighed.
"What happened?" Sherlock asked, leaning back into the cushions of the sofa. He knees splayed open and John caught himself looking at the slight bulge leaning to left between them before forcing his eyes away.
"Nothing happened. Why?"
Sherlock frowned. "I thought you were trying to hint I should ask. You can just tell me when you want me to do the listening thing, you know. It's infuriating to have to work out when you want me to ask and when you want to be left alone."
John laughed and Sherlock looked even more confused. "Sorry, it's just that coming from you, that's actually rather sweet. You're trying to be a good friend. I appreciate it."
"I've done better than try, I hope."
John smiled. "Yes, of course. You are a good friend. My best friend, actually."
Sherlock looked pleased at that. They smiled at each other for a long moment.
"You were thinking very hard when I left," John said at last. "Make any progress?"
"Yes. The websites you left open last night were rather helpful." His expression shifted to one of calculation.
"I'd hoped you'd find them useful." John raised his eyebrows. "Nothing too extreme, mind. I'm open to trying things, but within reason."
"Safe, sane, and consensual, right?" Sherlock stretched like a cat and then sank even further into the sofa. "You really get off on it, me telling you what to do."
"When it comes to sex, yes. But most of the time it makes me want to punch you, so don't get the wrong idea."
"Hence my surprise." He paused, his eyes flicking away from John for a moment and then back to him. "Why do you like it?"
John paused, pursing his lips. He'd spent much of his walk thinking about that very topic. How much of it he was prepared to tell Sherlock was an open question. "I like not having to think about it. Sex had become this elusive thing I couldn't manage to get. It was stressful going to bars and trying to meet someone and wondering if she was going to like me and whether it would go anywhere."
"I thought you were fine with masturbation."
John snorted. "It's good in a pinch, but nothing compares to the real thing. Touching another person, being touched."
Sherlock looked away, towards the window. Sunlight streamed in at this time of day, catching dust particles in the air. John wondered if he took any pleasure in being touched, if it was something he wanted or even thought about.
"With you in charge, I can just relax and enjoy it, I suppose."
"But it's more than that, isn't it?"
I like the fact that watching me turns you on. God, I really do. He wasn't going to say that part aloud, honesty be damned. He tried to look thoughtful for a moment and then shrugged.
The calculating look returned to Sherlock's face. "How far do you want to go with this?"
"I'm not sure. I'll tell you when it crosses the line, though."
Sherlock smiled darkly and John struggled not to squirm in the chair. God, he wanted to sink to the floor, press those knees apart, and--
No, stop. He really had to stop fantasizing like this. Or at least keep it in the shower. He closed his eyes for a moment and cleared his mind before opening them again. Sherlock was staring at him, watching him.
John wondered what Sherlock wanted to watch done to him tonight. "Should I assume you've planned a surprise for me this evening?"
"Yes." There was that expression again, the one that made John's cock twitch in anticipation.
He smiled. "Good."
*****
The moment John crossed the threshold into the club, he felt himself start to relax. The excitement that had been thrumming in his veins for the last few hours began to settle into something more like quiet anticipation. Sherlock turned to look at him, his eyes narrowed, and John swallowed the urge to grin. Time to play.
They made their way to the bar, where John waited while Sherlock ordered drinks. The crowd was denser tonight and there was energy in the air. People were looking at each other with definite interest, flirting, touching, negotiating. It was amazing that he hadn't known any of this existed until just a week ago.
"I've arranged something special for you tonight," Sherlock said quietly into his ear.
John felt a shiver run through him and he closed his eyes. He leaned back a fraction of an inch and his shoulders touched Sherlock's chest.
"I want you silent and obedient. It may be difficult, but I'll make it worth your while."
John exhaled and nodded.
"Very good." Sherlock dropped a soft kiss on his neck, right in the spot he knew did John in. John only barely managed not to whimper.
Wait, did "silent" include sounds other than words? If so, he was in trouble.
Sherlock leaned against the bar and stared out at the crowd impassively. John sipped his beer and waited.
And waited.
Ten minutes later he began to wonder if this was some sort of test of his patience. Sherlock had barely moved; his drink was nearly untouched. John had been letting his mind wander, running through possible scenarios. He tried to remember what had been on the web pages he'd intentionally left open, but the possibilities were nearly endless. He took a deep breath and pushed it all aside, letting his mind go completely blank.
He wasn't sure how much time passed after that. At least three songs started and ended, and he just listened and watched and waited, feeling oddly content. A movement to his right caught his eye: Sherlock finally raised his glass to his lips and downed its contents. He set the glass on a nearby table and, without a word to John, walked away.
John fell into step behind and followed him across the room to the familiar door, through and down two flights of stairs. Sherlock led them to a doorway near the end of the corridor and into a room, closing the door quietly behind them. They'd been here before; the art and the arrangement of the furniture in the room looked familiar. He turned back to where Sherlock was stripping off his coat and waited.
Sherlock turned to face him. "Our guest will arrive shortly. You should get undressed."
He didn't usually strip this early on, but perhaps it was part of the game tonight. He pulled his coat off and toed off his shoes, aware that Sherlock was watching very closely. Interesting. He met Sherlock's eyes with his own as his fingers moved up to unbutton his shirt. He took his time, moving as slowly as he dared. Something like a smile played at Sherlock's lips just before he closed the distance to John to a mere arm's length.
John pulled the shirt off and let it drop to the floor, watching Sherlock's eyes slide down his chest. This was new. New was definitely interesting. Sherlock's eyes flicked up to John's briefly before moving across his shoulders, down his arms. John wondered what he was thinking, if he liked what he saw. He really ought to join a gym now that people were seeing him naked on a regular basis. He'd been in great shape not so long ago; his chest and arms had actually been something to look at.
"Trousers," Sherlock said as he circled behind him.
John fumbled with the button of his trousers, his fingers suddenly uncooperative. This was oddly unnerving. He was used to being watched by Sherlock, so why would this be different?
There was movement to his right and then Sherlock was in front of him again, standing far too close. He tilted his head and pushed John's fingers away from the resisting button. "Need help?"
John managed to nod, or at least he thought he did. He may simply have stared in shock as Sherlock's fingers quickly opened the button and the zip, his eyes fixed on John's. Then Sherlock dropped to his knees and John stopped breathing altogether. He was instantly hard. Oh fuck.
Sherlock tugged his trousers down, careful not to take John's pants with them just yet. His erection strained against the fabric and oh God Sherlock was definitely focused on it. He stared at the bulge in John's pants for a long moment before tucking his fingers into the waistband at John's hips and pulling the pants down, moving them carefully over John's cock and down his thighs. John felt the fabric slide down and finally hit his ankles, but he was afraid to move. If he lifted a foot he might fall over, or worse, forward. Sherlock sat back on his heels, and John took a shaky breath and looked down.
His cock jutted straight out from his body, fluid already leaking from the tip. Sherlock tilted his head slightly, just looking. His expression was one of unbridled curiosity; John realized he'd never been close enough to examine like this before. He tried to relax, tried to clear his mind, but it was impossible with Sherlock kneeling before him, close enough to his hard cock that he could just lean forward a little bit and--
Oh fuck, oh God. He exhaled shakily and clenched his hands into fists. He didn't know how much longer he could stand this looking-without-touching. How the hell Sherlock could be so completely fucking impassive was beyond him. He had to know what this was doing to John; he couldn't possibly misunderstand it. He was seized with an impulse to thread his fingers in Sherlock's hair, to press the head of his cock against those lips. He wondered what Sherlock would do.
He glanced down to see that Sherlock was now looking back up at him, just watching, damn him. Sherlock stood then and brushed his fingers against John's cheek before circling behind him again. John exhaled. Jesus, he had to get a grip on himself before their guest arrived. He kicked his pants off to the side and wiggled his fingers to relax them.
Sherlock's hands touched John's shoulders and John bit his lip to keep himself silent. Those hands smoothed across his shoulder blades, across the scar where a bullet had left his body, and down his arms, finally pulling his hands together at the small of his back. He held them there for a moment, and then John felt something against his wrists. His mind whirled when he realized his hands were being tied.
Sherlock stepped back when he was finished and said, "Okay?"
Okay? Bloody hell, he was naked and hard with his hands tied behind his back. Of all words he might use to describe this situation, okay was not one that came immediately to mind.
He tugged against the bind; it was tight enough to keep his hands in place, but not so much that it hurt or would be impossible to get out of if he really wanted. This was unexpected, but it was -- he rolled his eyes -- fine, it was okay. He nodded.
"There's one more thing he wanted," Sherlock said, his voice soft. John frowned, confused for a moment before realizing that Sherlock was referring to their guest. And then there was a strip of cloth over his eyes, being pulled tight around the back of his head.
He froze, uncertain for a moment. There was still time to back out, time to say no. He hadn't been blindfolded since that bizarre stress training exercise in the army five years ago, and though he'd kept his cool better than most it had still fucked with his head. He had no idea what to expect from this, and that idea was both terrifying and exciting. Maybe a bit more terrifying at the moment.
"Tell me if you don't want to do this," Sherlock whispered. He was so close John could feel the heat from his body against his back.
John took a deep breath, released it, and remained silent. He had no idea what he wanted right now. He felt Sherlock move away and then there was some movement in front of him.
"Kneel." A hand on his arm, steadying him.
He knelt and there was a folded blanket under his knees. Sherlock's footsteps receded to the door and John settled in to wait. The silence became heavy around him and he used it to settle his mind, to calm his nerves. Sherlock would still be in charge, and he knew John. He'd watch and observe and he'd make sure John enjoyed it. John trusted him. Completely.
The knock at the door ought to have startled him, but somehow it didn't. He heard the door open, heard Sherlock talking quietly with someone, footsteps crossing toward him.
"This is John," Sherlock said.
"Beautiful," said the man. His voice was soft, friendly, even warm.
"Yes, especially like this."
John felt his cheeks warm at that, even though he knew it was part of the act.
"Thanks for sharing him. If he were mine, I don't think I could." John felt fingertips brush his shoulder. The voice was oddly familiar, but he couldn't place it.
"He makes it worth my while."
"I imagine he does. Where should I begin?"
"Just touch him for now."
It was odd being talked about as if he wasn't there, as if he had no agency, but it also heightened his anticipation in a palpable way.
"Mmm, happily." Hands that were smaller and warmer than Sherlock's pressed against his shoulders and stroked slowly down his back. Fingertips traced the line of his spine, carefully running over every vertebra, then out along the ribs. He felt the flats of palms smooth down his sides to the small of his back, where the tightness of the leather strap binding his hands was tested. Fingers slid up his arms to his shoulders, and then one hand grasped his right arm. "Here, stand." John's knees were stiff; he hadn't realized he'd been kneeling in that position for quite so long.
Those hands smoothed over his chest now, sliding through the sparse hair there, tracing along his clavicle. Clever fingers tugged at his nipples and John gasped softly.
"Does touching include kissing?" the man asked, his voice definitely husky now.
"If you like," Sherlock replied. His voice echoed around the room and John couldn't tell where he was.
"Good," the man murmured and John felt warm breath against his skin just before a tongue flicked across one nipple. He had to clench his jaw to keep from moaning. That tongue swirled and licked and sucked and then moved across his chest to the other nipple. John seriously wondered how long he was going to have to remain standing, because honestly? This was an unreasonable expectation.
After that the man's mouth moved down his belly and that tongue swirled around his navel and John could guess where this was headed. The man worked his way down to one hipbone and John felt hot breath at the base of his cock and God. His pulse was racing now; he could feel his body thrumming with it.
Fingers trailed down the back of his thigh, almost tickling him. John realized he was holding his breath. He wanted that touch on his dick so fucking badly, but he could only wait.
"Do you want me to suck him?"
"No," Sherlock replied, and John nearly whimpered. "I want you to pay more attention to his arse first."
"Right." The man grasped John's hips and turned him 180 degrees. That hot breath was brushing against one of his arse cheeks now and John swallowed, hard. The man's fingers dug into his hips. "Down on your knees." John complied, relieved to find the blanket under him again. "And lean forward. The sofa is right in front of you."
It was only when John's forehead was pressed into the cushions of the sofa that he realized the implications of the position he was in. His hands were still bound at the small of his back and his upper body was being supported by his head. It was awkward, even uncomfortable. He shifted forward on his knees, trying to find a more comfortable position. Hands caught his hips then, as if trying to keep him from moving too far away.
He shivered as those hands stroked over his arse cheeks and squeezed, massaging them. This was another area that hadn't been explored very much until now. Kisses and bites followed and he squirmed, startled at how ticklish his arse apparently was. How had he not known that until now?
And then there was a tongue flicking at the cleft of his arse and hands pulling the cheeks apart and oh fuck oh fuck was this going where he thought it was? He barely breathed as that tongue worked its way south, getting closer and closer to his arsehole, and God why did he want this so badly? It was filthy and weird and oh my God that tongue flicked ever so lightly across his hole. He whimpered, simultaneously thrilled and mortified.
It was gloriously dirty and perfectly amazing, and why the hell hadn't he done this before? That tongue circled his hole slowly, lightly, spiraling ever closer to where he really wanted it. Just when he thought he couldn't bear it another moment, the tip of the tongue pressed into the center and wriggled and fucking hell. It probed again and again and he found himself squirming, pushing back against it, wanting it to breach his body. There were thumbs pressed against either side of his arsehole now and that tongue pushed in ever so slightly, slick and hot and perfect and God. He moaned into the sofa, unable to keep quiet any longer.
One of the man's hands reached around and gave his cock one long stroke, and everything intensified. Between the hand working him and the tongue wriggling into his arsehole, damn near fucking him, oh God -- he was close, far too close, but it was so good.
"Stop," Sherlock said, and John was startled by the proximity of his voice. He had to be right next to the sofa. "Don't let him come yet."
The tongue disappeared and the hand on his dick moved to the base and tightened uncomfortably, and John winced. A hand stroked his thigh for a moment. There was another hand petting the back of his head, and wait -- that made three hands. John wondered which one of them belonged to Sherlock.
"Go on," Sherlock said at last. His voice came from almost directly above and then John felt the sofa cushions compress. Sherlock was sitting right next to him.
Fingers pried his cheeks apart again and that tongue went back to work, flicking lightly across his hole at first. Sheer torture, that, and John tried to press his hips back, anything to get more of it. Sherlock's hand tightened in his hair, almost pressing his face into the cushion, and he had to turn his head to be certain he would be able to breathe. The tongue moved more slowly now, wider lathes, and then there were lips pressed around his hole and that tongue pressed into him again, more easily this time.
John could barely breathe now; his body just wasn't capable of managing more than one function at a time. Those lips were moving against his arsehole in some sort of obscene kiss, and that tongue pushed into him further than he would have thought possible, and then the hand on his cock started moving again and oh God oh God.
He wasn't sure he'd be able to think about this later without blushing like a schoolgirl. Or coming in his pants at the memory alone.
"Finger him," Sherlock said after what seemed like an eternity. His hand stroked John's hair once more and then retreated.
John wasn't ready for the tongue to stop, but the wet finger pressing into him also felt rather damn good, so he couldn't really complain. Unlike Cam, this man knew what he was doing, and John was soon a quivering mass of nerves from the finger fucking his arse and the hand moving expertly on his dick.
"Stop," Sherlock said, and John groaned. God, he just wanted to come. Was that really too much to ask?
The man pressed his forehead into John's back and exhaled, apparently sharing John's frustration.
"Go ahead," Sherlock said after a moment.
Two fingers pressed into his arse now, twisting, and John groaned. That had no right to feel as good as it did, really.
"Can I fuck him now?"
There was a moment of hesitation, and then Sherlock said, "Yes."
He'd heard women describe the last stages of labor as like being underwater, able to hear everything around them but being so far inside themselves it was difficult to communicate. He'd felt a bit like that up until now, like everything was slightly warped. It took his brain a few seconds to process the words he'd just heard, but when his faculties finally caught up, it was like being doused with cold water.
No. He didn't want that, actually. No.
"Sherlock," he breathed.
There was no response; instead there was a distinct fumbling behind him. His hands were still bound and he wriggled his wrists, but he couldn't free himself. Panic flooded him and he tried to sit back on his heels. What was it he was supposed to say? His mind had gone blank.
"Down, love." There was a hand pressing between his shoulders, pushing his face down to the floor. "That's perfect."
Oh God, think. Think.
"Cinnamon," he whispered. Then again, more loudly, "Cinnamon."
Everything stopped and grew quiet. John exhaled, sinking into the floor. He curled up on his side, suddenly overwhelmed. He heard voices but the words were muffled. The room grew silent and oddly cold.
There were hands on him again, this time stroking his back, soothing. His hands were untied and he reached up to tug the blindfold away. Sherlock was staring down at him with the most genuine expression of concern John could ever remember seeing on his face.
He closed his eyes; it was too much to process.
"John."
Fingers on his cheek, then stroking his hair. The blanket was over him and the floor suddenly felt icy in comparison. He opened his eyes again and pushed himself to sitting. He tugged the blanket over him and leaned back against the sofa.
Well, shit. That hadn't gone well at all.
He pressed a hand against his forehead, not quite ready to look at Sherlock. Fortunately Sherlock seemed prepared to wait until he was ready. He sat on the floor next to John, his hands clenching the edges of the blanket as if it was a substitute for John himself.
John took a deep breath. Oh God, this was embarrassing. He'd completely freaked out and he wasn't entirely sure why. This was probably going to put Sherlock off doing anything like this again.
After a long moment he finally forced himself to speak. "I'm sorry."
"No, don't be sorry. That's exactly what the safeword was for."
John pressed his forehead into his knees. He needed to explain before Sherlock jumped to any conclusions. He just didn't want to; he would rather melt into the floor, honestly. Maybe Sherlock would curl up with him on the sofa and just sit, silently, maybe pet his head a bit.
He sighed and looked up, focused on the door across the room, and finally turned to Sherlock. "I should explain."
"If you like. You don't have to." God, he really had read the web pages John had left open for him.
"No, I want to. But first, can we get off the floor?" He pushed himself up onto the sofa and pulled the blanket over him again. Sherlock settled on the other end, his body turned toward John, his legs folded beneath him. The expression of concern was incredibly endearing.
"It was too much, wasn't it?"
John shook his head. "No, it was amazing. I just…" He paused and searched for better words than the ones that came to mind, but found nothing. "I didn't want him to fuck me."
"Oh," Sherlock replied, his tone indicating he didn't understand this at all. Which wasn't unreasonable, considering that John actually didn't understand either. "All right."
"But the rest of it was good. Great, honestly. That thing he did with his tongue was just…" He blushed at the memory, God. He laughed, unable to help himself.
Sherlock looked very confused. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, I'm fine. I promise." He smiled in a way he hoped was reassuring. "I didn't want him to leave. I just didn't want that."
Sherlock nodded, clearly relieved. "Duly noted. What do you want to do now?"
John settled back into the sofa and considered. His erection had flagged, but the tension was still there. Being stopped on the verge of coming twice had left him feeling a bit desperate for release. He looked at Sherlock. "I want to come."
Sherlock looked surprised for a moment before a smile slowly formed on his lips. "Good. Go to it then."
John groaned. "I have to do it myself?"
"Our guest fled when he realized you had safeworded. I could go upstairs and find someone else, but the most efficient course of action would be for you to take matters into your own hands. So to speak."
John mock-sighed, but his hand was already moving under the blanket. Wanking was fairly anticlimactic after everything that had happened, but it would suffice. Of course, if Sherlock could give him a bit of direction...
"Will you… talk to me?" John looked away, suddenly embarrassed by what he wanted.
There was a pause. "Of course." The blanket was tugged away and John shivered at the feeling of being exposed. "Slowly, long strokes."
God, that voice. It did things to him, things he couldn't explain. He let his hand obey, stroking his prick from base to tip slowly, rolling his thumb over the top before sliding back down again.
Sherlock scanned the floor by the sofa and leaned over, coming back up with an unopened packet of club-supplied lubricant. "Here, use this."
"Yes," John hissed in reply, snatching it from him. He ripped open the packet and squeezed a generous amount onto his hand. Three more long slow strokes and he was completely hard.
"What do you think about when you masturbate?" Sherlock asked, his voice pitched lower than usual.
John turned his head to look at him. He was curled on the end of the sofa, his body turned toward John. His eyes flicked up from John's cock to his face, but he didn't seem embarrassed about it. He liked to watch and he knew John understood that.
"Right now I'm thinking about that guy's tongue in my arsehole. Have you ever done that?" Sherlock shook his head. "Neither had I until tonight. God, it was bloody amazing. Add that to your spreadsheet."
Sherlock didn't respond to that, just stared at him. John kept his strokes long and steady, relishing the slick slide of his hand on lubed skin. He could grip his penis a bit tighter this way, could replicate the feeling of being inside someone just a bit more closely.
"What do you think about while you watch?"
Sherlock's eyes widened fractionally and his gaze broke away from John's eyes, back down to the movement of his hand. "You're so expressive. You are all the time, but when you're just feeling like that, when you seem to lose yourself in sensation -- it's breathtaking."
"Is it?" John's hand lingered at the head on the upstroke a bit, his fingers massaging the foreskin against the glans. "You get off on it, don't you?"
"Yes."
"It gets you hard. You're getting hard now."
"Yes." It was barely audible.
"Care to join me?" He tossed the packet of lube into Sherlock's lap with his free hand.
Sherlock exhaled shakily. He picked up the packet of lube and turned it over in his long fingers. God, those fingers. John wondered what they'd feel like inside him. Sherlock's eyes flicked back up to John's at that, and John only barely stifled a moan.
Oh please oh please oh please.
Without breaking the gaze, Sherlock shifted his hips on the sofa and unfastened his trousers. After a moment's fumbling his cock was in his hand and he was stroking, and John had to still his own hand to keep himself from coming on the spot. He stared back at Sherlock, open-mouthed. He'd been teasing, hadn't actually expected Sherlock to take him up on it, especially not after last night. And he'd never seen this before, not really. He'd been next to Sherlock on the sofa that one night, but he hadn't looked.
But now, now he looked. He stared, he observed, he memorized every little detail. Sherlock's cock was long and thin, like the rest of him. His grip was tight on the shaft and his fingers tugged the foreskin over the glans on each stroke. John mirrored the movement, matching him stroke for stroke.
Sherlock smiled, apparently realizing what John was doing, and John grinned back. It was unbelievably hot and strange and more than a bit fucked up -- seriously, who did this? And John fucking loved it. If he couldn't have Sherlock, then he could at least have this. No one else got to have this, no one else got to see him this way. If no one could touch him or kiss him or fuck him, then at least John could have this part all to himself.
"So what do you think about when you masturbate? I assume your answer has changed since the last time I asked."
"It's obvious, isn't it?"
"I still want to hear you say it."
Sherlock exhaled shakily and stroked slightly faster, and John thought it was one of the hottest things he'd ever seen. "I think about how you respond when people--"
"Men," John added.
"--touch you. Your face when you come. The way they watch you." He didn't acknowledge John's correction.
"God, Sherlock," he breathed. It was almost too much.
Sherlock's cheeks were flushed and his hand was moving faster now. The movement was growing erratic and it was difficult to keep up. He was close, John realized, very close. Sherlock's mouth opened and his eyes closed, and the hand on his dick stilled and the other came up to cover it and--
"Ahhh, fuck."
John's orgasm came out of nowhere just at the sound of that. He gritted his teeth and groaned and felt it course through him. He leaned back on the sofa cushions, gasping.
"That was…" he said, and then stopped himself. Would any good come of saying it out load?
"Yeah," Sherlock replied, still breathless.
John looked up and saw that Sherlock was looking at the blanket, which was now splattered with John's semen. He grinned. "I imagine it’s had worse on it."
Sherlock smiled and wiped his hand on the blanket, smearing his own semen next to John's.
John laughed. "Oh, God, I shudder to imagine what the laundry folks must think."
Sherlock laughed and tugged the other end of the blanket over his lap. John stretched out his legs and wriggled his toes under Sherlock's arse, and Sherlock made a sound of surprise and leapt off the sofa. His trousers were still around his thighs and he almost lost his balance trying to tug them back up. John laughed so hard his sides hurt.
"Glad to be a source of entertainment," Sherlock said, tossing John's trousers to him. "Get dressed."
John took his time and Sherlock watched more closely than was strictly necessary. But John didn't mind. Not at all.
*****
John yawned and raised an eyebrow at the cup of coffee Sherlock held out to him. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You can't think--"
"I don't," John said, taking the cup. "But I haven't forgiven you either."
Sherlock smiled tightly and to his credit, said nothing. John took a sip of the coffee.
"Well?" John said at last.
"What?"
"You only do things like this when you want something. Spit it out."
"I want to ask you about something you said last night." Sherlock paused and sat on the sofa, his fingers wrapped tightly around his own coffee cup. "You said you didn't want him to fuck you."
John nodded. "Right."
"So…" Sherlock paused and chewed his lower lip. "Does that mean no anal sex at all? That's fine, by the way. It's not a problem. I just want to make sure I understand, so I don't put you in that position again." It was practically an apology. Sherlock's apologies often came with beverages, John was learning. It was rather charming.
John sighed and leaned back in the chair. "It's not that I don't want to do it, because I do. But not like that."
Sherlock nodded, though the expression on his face indicated he didn't understand at all.
"I need to know it's coming and to have more control over the situation. I don't know why it seems like such a big thing compared to everything else. He had everything but his dick in my arse last night, but..."
"Because it's about the gayest thing you can do." Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "And under the wrong circumstances it hurts like hell."
John hoped he wasn't speaking from experience, but he probably was. "That's not the problem. I'm not worried about it being gay." He paused and took a sip of coffee. "But there's something about being penetrated like that -- I would need to be more in control than I've been lately, not tied up and blindfolded. Not that I didn't enjoy that," he added quickly, worried that Sherlock would get the wrong idea. "Because I did. I really did. But for this… I'd need to know I could trust the person."
"You want me to find a stranger you could trust?"
"Well, obviously strangers are out, at least for the first time. In fact…" He paused again. "…there are only two people I can think of whom I'd trust to fuck me."
"Who?"
"Ryan, for one." John barely knew the man, but he'd seen how gentle he was with Annie. Something about that made John trust him implicitly.
"And the other?"
"Isn't interested." John was proud of himself for maintaining eye contact as he said that. He hadn't even flinched.
Sherlock nodded, and John could see the wheels turning already. "All right then."
John exhaled and focused on his coffee. "My turn to ask you a question. I think know why you tied my hands last night, but why the blindfold? You said it was his idea."
"He requested it. It was one of his conditions for playing with us."
"Why?"
Sherlock shrugged. "I assume because he didn't want to be recognized."
John felt the blood drain from his face. "Oh God, was he someone I knew?"
"Well, no, not personally. I had the impression he was someone famous. A film star, perhaps. He was very good-looking."
John couldn't help the strangled laugh that escaped him. "Are you serious? Did he tell you his name?"
"I assume Dr. Zhivago wasn't his real name."
John covered his eyes with a hand and laughed. "Oh God, he had his tongue in my arse and he's famous and I had no idea."
"He would've fucked you as well," Sherlock added with a smirk. "I imagine you'll regret that one day."
John smiled. "I probably will. Shit, I'm going to wonder who that was for the rest of my life."
"He seemed to be a regular, so it probably won't be your last chance." Sherlock's face clouded for a moment. "Assuming you want to keep going to the club, of course."
John smiled. "I do. In fact…" He took a deep breath. "I want to try something different tonight. I want to be the one doing the touching."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he looked down at his hands. John hadn't expected him to like the idea.
"Look, I need… I am definitely attracted to men, that much is clear. I've enjoyed everything that's been done to me, but I need to know how it feels the other direction. I want to know what it feels like to be the one doing the… whatever. Everything."
Sherlock looked up at him again. "Are you trying to work out if you're gay?"
John shook his head. "I know I'm not gay. But I think I'm bisexual and I just need a bit more time to think on that, to try things out."
Sherlock's forehead furrowed. "But you are bisexual. It's obvious. Surely you know that by now. Why do you have to… do things to other people to find out? You enjoy it when they do it to you. Isn't that enough?"
John stared at him for a long moment. He shook his head. "Jesus, Sherlock. For all your thinking and plotting and experimenting in the last week, you know fuck-all about sex." Sherlock looked as if he were about to protest and John held up a hand. "It's not about getting off, you idiot. It's about connecting with another person, using your hands and your mouth and your body to make them feel good. They usually return the favor and that's fantastic, but the most amazing thing about sex is giving pleasure, sharing it -- not merely getting it." He shook his head. "I would have thought you knew that, considering that you've essentially been doing that to me for the last week. Not directly, certainly -- you had other people do it for you, but from a certain perspective you've been having fairly amazing sex with me for a solid week now. And I know you get off on it. Don't you dare deny it."
Sherlock gaped at him. John waited, but it seemed he'd rendered the man speechless.
John looked away, paused to catch his breath. He hadn't intended to say all of that, but now that it was out, he might as well go all-in. "I want, no, I need to be able to participate more. Not every night, but at least every now and then." He looked up at Sherlock again. "I was thinking we could start tonight. Hoping, anyway."
Sherlock still said nothing. He looked a bit shaken. John exhaled. He'd probably crossed the line and scared Sherlock off for good. There was nothing for it now, though. Honesty, as he kept saying, was the most important thing.
He smiled tightly. "Well then. I'm going to get dressed and go out for a bit. Thanks for the coffee."
When he came back downstairs fifteen minutes later to collect his coat, Sherlock still hadn’t moved from the spot. John thought about saying something, but he didn't. Best to let him think on it for a while.
*****
John set the sack of groceries on the kitchen table and opened the refrigerator. He was getting used to it being used only for food. Too bad it wouldn't last.
He felt an odd twinge in his gut at that thought. It wouldn't last, because nothing ever did. It would run its course and Sherlock would get bored, and they would stop going to sex clubs together and John would probably never get laid again.
God, that was a depressing thought. And that was even assuming that he hadn't completely freaked Sherlock out this morning.
"Ah, you're back."
He turned to see Sherlock standing in the doorway, shirtless in his pyjama pants. At four in the afternoon. This wouldn't have caused John a moment's pause a mere ten days ago, but now it seemed incredibly intimate. He forced himself to look away from the sight of all that pale skin over a wiry and oddly muscular body. Did Sherlock work out when John wasn't around? Because seriously.
John forced himself to look back to the sack he was emptying. He definitely needed to get past this crush on Sherlock.
"Oh, bananas. I'm famished." Sherlock plucked a banana from the bunch John had just removed from the sack. John couldn't help but stare at him as he peeled it and downed half of it in one bite.
"Who are you and what have you done with my flatmate?"
"Hmmm?" Sherlock replied through a mouthful of banana. "Sorry, just woke up. When did I eat last?"
"Thursday, I think. You took a nap?" Curiouser and curiouser.
"I was tired. Did you get my text?"
John nodded. The text had simply said yes and he'd had no idea what it was referring to.
"Good. We'll leave at nine. Do you want to order a takeway later? I'm going to shower."
John swallowed down his anxiety as Sherlock practically skipped off to the bathroom. This behavior usually meant Sherlock had worked out something important. Whatever it was, John had a feeling he was going to find out tonight.
At least they were on for tonight. He smiled at that.
"Oh!" he heard Sherlock call from around the corner. "And wear that black shirt tonight, the one that you always complain is too tight."
God. John pulled a banana from the bunch, pocketed a box from the sack, and headed upstairs. Maybe he should take a nap as well. Definitely a shower.
He smiled.
[End of Part 4]
Author's Chapter Notes:
Chapter Summary: Enough people thought they were a couple as it was; masquerading as one for the purpose of an experiment was hardly going to help matters. Of course, the line between masquerade and reality was growing more than a bit blurry.
Notes: Now seven parts. This contains only HALF of what I had planned for chapter 4, so now everything gets bumped back a chapter. I am committed to posting weekly (every Wednesday), so rest assured that you won't have to wait too much longer to see the end of this. :-)