AHHHHH THANK YOU, i’m super honoured!!! IT’S BEEN SITTING THERE AS A DRAFT FOR A LONG TIME, I’m happy it’s finally posted at least!

~cookie-eat-me

oh my gosh i apologize that it took so long (also that it’s a wip-) but I hope you enjoy!

TheWolves were not only disgusting, dirty creatures, they were also abysmallyidiotic.

“Don’tyou say that to us too?” Molly asked uncertainly, her head tilted as sheglanced at him, watched him watch them.

“Yourpoint?” he muttered.

IfMolly had said anything after that, he hadn’t heard it. He hated to fall intothe clichés of their century long feud, but there was something about the waythose mutts prowled that stunk of misplaced superiority, and if there wasanything he hated more than attending galas in his brother’s place, it wassomeone thinking themselves better than he.

Thewolves were only passing by the city, on their journey to the deserts ofAhastier. Having gone through his brother’s files well before the gathering, heknew exactly what it was that they were after.

Personally,Sherlock was surprised his brother hadn’t showed his face - Mycroft pridedhimself in his ability to keep the world in line with his wishes. That thewolves would become near infallible should they find cure to their afflictionto silver could be… troublesome, and should be well within Mycroft’s concern.

Hiseyes, having swept over the room disinterestedly, caught on the blond wolfhumming in the corner of the room, in his arms a grinning human with bright eyes.

Humansgenerally didn’t care to be out and about with werewolves, or vampires, orgargoyles, or sirens, or anything that wasn’t of their own kind. They wereclose-minded that way, and the only exception he had met had been Donovan, whoonly hated him for undermining her, instead of his lack of humanity.

Nothingwas sacred in a hall filled with Vampires and Werewolves, and the thrillinglaugh torn from the human’s throat made something in him shift. Curiosity,perhaps.

Atany rate, it would take up his time.

Molly,who had been his attendant for nearly a decade, startled when he strode throughthe crowd, hurrying to follow. He took a glass from a near empty tray, makingsure to have some of the thinned blood spread across his lips.

Thewhole point of this endeavour was to entertain himself, after all.

Closerup, he saw the worn travelling cape the human had clasped around his neck, thedusty boots in a hall as grand as this, and allowed a faint sense of surpriseto flood him. He had come with the Wolves. A human had come with the wolves ontheir little classified mission, or perhaps he hadn’t known what he’d sign upfor.

However,watching the way the human’s hand was curled around the wolf’s shoulders,watching how they murmured amicably to each other, it was highly unlikely thathe hadn’t been told.

Thewolf, nearly a head taller than the human, stilled imperceptibly at hisapproach, his gentle smile fading as his green eyes flickered towards him.

Hefelt his lips stretch in a smile, just as the music reached a crescendo.

“MayI have this dance?” he asked smoothly, offering a hand to the human with a headcocked.

Thehuman, with an assemble just on the side of formal, all weapons – for Sherlockwouldn’t make the mistake of assuming him without, a human among wolves –hidden properly, politely, turnedtowards him, ocean eyes widening to the sight of his bloodstained smile. Therewasn’t as much of a struggle as he had hoped, as the man’s heartbeat calmed ina way that was most certainly practiced, dipping his head in a cordial nod ashe pulled away from the Wolf. He had a handsome face, if somewhat plain, linedwith age and worn with time. His cheeks were flushed, just slightly, a productbrought on by his dancing.

Thewolf backed away, but Sherlock could feel him hovering.

“Partner?”he asked in a rumble, slipping his arm around the human’s waist, tugging himtowards him firmly. Their fingers entwined easily.

Thehuman allowed him his manhandling, a small oofshocked out of him when their chests bumped. “Nothing like that.” He saidcarefully, his voice a pleasant tenor as he tried to shift away, his fingerstwitching against his shoulder. His head tipped to keep their gazes locked,barely pausing on his lips. “It wouldn’t be proper if I was… romanticallyentangled with my C.O.”

“He’snot your Alpha.” He hummed, turning his head away to catch Molly’s worriedgaze.

Hesmirked.

Tensionshad always been high between them and the wolves – a word out of place and theycould be looking at a war. He believed his brother to have taken special careto warn his attendant of watching over him tonight.

“Whatmakes you think I have one?” The human countered, both eyebrows raised. Therewas a small plastic smile playing at the edges of his lips, as he movedmechanically from left to right.

“Evenif I hadn’t seen the crest sewn into the inside of your cloak,” he said softly,bent to murmur into the human’s ear, relishing in the sudden uptick of hisheart, the sudden pounding of his blood just a finger beneath him. “Wolves areterritorial creatures, slow to trust outsiders. You are no mere soldier – youare human. You must hold quite a standing to have been allowed on thisridiculous trek, and yet,” he gently spun the human, watching him trail afterhim uncertainly. “You don’t know how to dance. A family member then, or afamily friend, to have volunteered you. No matter which way you look at it,none of these Wolves would have trusted you unless you were part of a pack.” Hetipped his head to the side, drawing the human’s wide, disbelieving eyes dartingto the numerous Wolves watching them, whether discreetly or not.

“Andas you can see,” he murmured, surprise flitting through him to see a half smilecurl the human’s lips. A real one,this time. “They are remarkably fond of you.”

“Theycould have just known me for a really long time.” The human argued, sounding atouch breathless; he pulled away slightly to look at properly the man. His eyesnarrowed slightly, to think that he had accidentally lost himself to the whitenoise of human blood, losing sight of the man himself. He hadn’t in a long time. The human’s eyes were astormy colour, and the flush of his cheeks had spread. Sherlock had the sudden,unfamiliar urge to follow it with his tongue.

“Ifthey did, you would have been accepted into the pack at some point.” Hereminded, his fingers spreading on the man’s waist, stroking once with his palmto invoke an involuntary shudder. “A pack has an Alpha.” He continued lowly,his teeth aching. “Logic.” He finished, hearing a low growl definitely meantfor his ears.

“Not mind reading?” the human asked, staringup at him with wide eyes.

Sherlockrolled his eyes heavenward, just about to snap out a sharp reprimand at thesurfacing of an old rumour, his patience diminishing, when he saw the grin thehuman tried to hide, ducking his head from his sight, and he suddenly felt at aloss as to what to do, with such a magnificent creature in his arms.

“Thatwas brilliant.” The human said, as if assuring a companion – an enjoyable companion.

Hehadn’t felt this wrong-footed since Irene.

“Wasit?” he asked softly; the rumble of his voice caused the human’s to pupils todilate, to his satisfaction and delight. He’d always known his features tocause heads to turn, but his tongue and dripping disdain usually warded themoff, usually had them watching from afar instead of coming too close.

Thishuman, however. This human withcoarse fingers curled warmly around his cold skin, his smile sincere andbreath-taking, and Sherlock might want to keep him forever.

Theyhad drawn the eyes of nearly everyone in the hall.

“MayI have this dance?” another voice said, accented and gruff. There was anunderlying current of amusement in his voice.

Thehuman seemed to tear his eyes away from him as reluctantly as he did, turningto face a wolf as tall as he, one he had spotted lounging by the candle-littables chatting up a forest nymph. There was a jagged scar running along hisjaw, one he certainly flaunted.  He had ahead of windswept bronze locks, and a hand held towards the human, his headcocked to the side.

Sherlockdidn’t even have to look to know they were conversing without him – the human’sheartbeat stuttering with indignation and shame.

Theman finally dipped his head in a nod, reaching out to let the Wolf cradle oneof his hands.

Blueirises flickered to him; he saw his own eyes burning red reflected in them. Hiseyes had never glowed without hisconsent – he blinked, pulling his glamour over himself carefully once more.

~cookie-eat-me

ceywoozle has left the Sherlock fandom, it's true, and they are currently inactive on tumblr too. rip cey, they were a shining star *crying emoji*~cookie-eat-me

The boy is scarcelyolder than twenty, which still isn’t as young as the sort of boys Victorusually salivates over. He’s small in stature, easy to manhandle.

And manhandle Victor does.

The boy doesn’t protest - Sherlock privately thinks he rather likes it, given his dark, hooded eyes and bobbing Adam’s apple. There are faint tracesof glitter and gold high on the boy’s flushed cheeks, and his lips glisten withliquor. A neglectful parent, Sherlock reads in the sputtering of fire lightingthe boy’s glowing face, when an older woman turns him away. Eager to please,Sherlock reads in the curve of his back.

A medical student.

Victor drags hisknuckles over the boy’s cheeks. “Don’t bother with her, luv, you’ll have enoughfun with us.”

The boy turns his headjust slightly to brush the edge of his mouth against Victor’s fingers, and thesweet smile that overcomes his soft lips makes him look drastically guileless.

If Sherlock isn’t acomplete idiot.

The young man’seyebrows furrow. His eyes have flecks of blue in them. A sardonic expressioncrosses his youthful features for just a brief moment. Only a fool woulddismiss the indistinct curl of his fists- a fighter.

The game is much moreboring with this new plaything in his sights.

What’s he doing withVictor when he has a test to study for? He arches and exhales in time to theolder man’s lusting caresses, like a wild thing playing at being a kitten, butmaybe Sherlock is the only one looking at his face, and so the only one whosees the lie.

The miniscule ticks ofthe boy’s brow, the flattening of his lips, the suppressed eye roll givenVictor’s lousy cheat.

Well into the game,their eyes lock. The boy becomes surprised, the act forgotten, taken aback tobe under his gaze, but it’s a split second falter, before he smiles, slow and sultry.

Cheeky.

Eager.

Sherlock has beensubject to many such smoldering gazes during his friendship with Victor. Barsand clubs and parties to things he doesn’t care about. The boy is small enoughthat even Sherlock, with molly weakening his limbs, will be able to move himaround however he wishes. He is smart, despite his fool act.

A bark of laughter,and the arm – Victor’s arm – around the boy’s bared waist, tightens.

“Sherlock,”

As Victor pulls theboy flush against him, the boy presses gentle, fluttering kisses to the arch ofhis neck, quiet noises slipping past his parted lips. His eyes, wide and darkand blue under bright lights, watches Sherlock, like it’s a game.

He pulls his gaze away,to meet Victor’s triumphant eyes. “You want a shot at this, mate?” the older manbounces the boy on his lap, turning his head to mouth at his cherubic cheeks.

Victor’s seconds?

“Play the game.” Hebites out acidly.

The pout that curvesVictor’s chapped lips makes the boy giggle. An honest to god giggle, the sound of bells in a placesuch as this. “Tell you what.” Victor’s broad palms are high on the youngerman’s thighs, where the shorts he’s wearing does nothing to hide the tent inthem. He must be simmering with want by now, a low flame periodically tendedto, smothered with lapses in between.

Teased as much as heis a tease.

“You win this roundand I’ll throw darling John in.” Victor smiles with his teeth, nips at theboy’s ears. “That alright with you, sweet?”

John smiles beatifically, murmurs something that makes Victor, sharp-eyedand smart-mouthed, groan in what Sherlock can only label overt sexual frustration. The man is dramatic,has amped up the boy’s appeal with his possessive touching. Half the men aroundthe table, even with playthings of their own warming them, eye Victor’s boywith desire.

A few have already sampled the merchandise, under Victor’swatchful eye.

What a ridiculouslyordinary name the boy has, almost so ordinary it makes distaste curveSherlock’s thinned lips.

Almost.

“The darling littlething wants to be a soldier,” Victor professes in a conspirational whisper,leaning forward with John in tow, his cards pressed against his chest. “I’llbet he takes orders very well, eh?”

John doesn’t seembothered by the lewd cheers of men more than a decade older than he is, butthen again, Sherlock hadn’t suspected he would be. Sherlock suspects him to begrowing impatient.

Games are so much morefun when the prize is something he actually wants.

~ cookie-eat-me

Warning: Unprotected Sex, Infidelity, Post Season 3

“How’s… the baby?”

Sherlock invites himin with the same glass smile he’s so used to seeing; absent joy, and it isn’tthe boundless cheer so many clients are targets of. At the depths of his mind,he thinks that it would’ve been a larger insult than the one that seems to himas if Sherlock can’t be bothered to convince him, and is reluctant to share.

He feels the evergrowing distance between them in the moment Sherlock turns away, and his chestseizes. Keeping his fingers from pressing against his eyes, he follows.

He’s tired.

Mary is, for lack of abetter word, a wonderful mother. She knows the role, in and out- and Johnwonders, had she been a mother before? Or had it just been another mission,assignment, something beyond his reach, something he will never understandbecause he’d thrown her past away, burned it and thought he’d be able to livewith it.

He’d thought-

I wanted to see Sherlock, a pitiful voice cries at the back of hismind.

Sherlock offers him teaover the kitchen table, gently steaming liquid in a delicate china cup, becausehe’s taken all his mugs back and there’s no proof at all that he’s lived here.Why does he bother, he thinks behind his own bland smile, why is he sodesperate, when Sherlock’s made it clear with his stiff words – I don’t want you here.

Too nice to send himaway.

The question, how’s the baby, makes him curl hisfingers tight around the handle of his tea cup. Always, the baby.

Never Rosamund, never her name.

He drains the cup carefully.The answer is always the same, anyway. Always fine. Always good. Alwaysperfectly healthy-

He sets it down. “Good.”He replies, as he is supposed to.

What a bad idea, hecan’t help think bitterly into his cup, to come down here.

A dead silence seepsunder the cracks, buzzing- there’s a buzzing-

“I want you to behappy, John.”

Sherlock’s voice ismatter of fact. Loud in the stillness of the flat, yet it arrests hisattention, the same way it had a thousand years ago, in a classroom at StBarts. A thousand years ago, laying out the grizzly details of a murder. Thefirst time, he realizes, head lifting quickly; the first time since the return, in which Sherlock isn’t treatinghim like glass.

Sherlock meets hiseyes – whatever seems to be painted on him, what open expression Sherlock findswhen he sees him… it makes Sherlock grin so brilliantly he’s breathless.

His response-

Hide.

Emotion between them,it chafes in a way it hadn’t before. He drowns his response in the last of histea.

“And it seemed,”Sherlock says slowly, a thousand different thoughts in the shadow of his voice.When John lifts his head, heart loud in his ears, Sherlock has his head tiltedtowards the cup in his hands. He’s so bright under the kitchen light, Johnthinks suddenly with a realization in his throat, the shadows of his newwrinkles coming together to form a puzzled eyebrow furrow.

He’s different, better-

And John.

John is the same.

Half listening toSherlock – “Every time I visited you,” –he reaches forward to fill his cup. His throat is parched.

Quietly, Sherlock murmurs, “All I saw was your unhappiness.”

John inhales his teathe wrong way, nearly chokes on it when struck with the feeling of his pulseagainst his skin. Unhappiness. The word, spoken so seriously, sits wrong withhim. He isn’t unhappy. He thinks –unhappy is such a strong word, why doesSherlock think-

“I’m always happy tosee you, Sherlock.” He says, sotto voiced.

The words are stilted,and he flushes.

Sherlock’s lips curveinto a – well, fond, John thinks uncertainly, fond – smile. He looks years younger when he smiles, when he really smiles, without the foot printsof a ghost lurking behind his eyes. It reminds John of Harry, not Sherlock- Sherlock doesn’t remind him of Harry, butshe had described someone before. Ina way that had been so beautiful, in a way that had drawn a character soexquisite it brought tears to her eyes and John-

Had laughed.

But Sherlock, thesight of his happiness, so unexpected, coaxes a laugh out of himself; soft,trilling, a sudden burst of life between them.

He jerks back, stunnedat the noise.

It’s a short silence.

Sherlock’s deep laughshatters the wall they’ve built, and John has the ridiculous thought that he’dlike to sink into the waves, go under, where it’s just Sherlock with him. Leaveeverything, oh god it’s ridiculous.

But he wants both of their laughter again.

Sherlock shoves hisown cup of tea away from him in an accidental wave of his arm.

It goes over thetable, never to be seen again.

In his eardrums, he hearsthe sharp bumps of his laugh, their laugh; tries again, to sink into it. “Missthis,” he breathes out in the space left behind, watching Sherlock’s curls shakewith his shoulders. A forgotten feeling holding his heart hostage.

“Miss you.” Someone else with his voice says.

“And I,” comes thetemulant whisper somewhere above him, “Miss you next to me.”

His heart swells tentimes its size when Sherlock lifts his head, awed, in all honesty, thatSherlock can be so brilliant even when he isn’t doing anything. Bright eyes anda large grin; he can see his teeth. “Imiss hearing you,” Sherlock continues with a voice gone soft, something gentleon the curve of his lips, something urgent in the lines around his eyes. “Imiss seeing traces of you in 221B, in the couch, the kitchen- your mug, John,”

Sherlock’s eyes widenas he swivels – too quickly, John finds, a hand pressed hard over his own mouth – towards the upper cupboard, his headtipped back. The lines his profile makes is etched into John’s pupil, the verylobes of his brain and he thinks, Christ,he’ll never forget again.

Doesn’t blink for a while,unwilling to have it go.

“The mug you got,”Sherlock is saying, when John turns to watch the clear cut line of his jaw movewith his words. It’s in a too loud voice, drums pleasantly against the confinesof his skull. “From the army, John.”

He follows Sherlock’sgaze, before, abruptly, finding himself bursting into another peal of giggles.

That’s wrong.

His cheeks hurt, god, butit’s Sherlock’s fault. He looks ridiculouswhen he’s-

“Wrong.” John announces, and with great pride.

Before he confrontsSherlock’s affronted look, he pulls himself to his feet. The world rushes togreet him in dancing lights, forcing his feet to stop, leaving him breathlessand gaping. His palm is cold where he grasps the table, but the rest of himseems so warm, energy with nowhere to go.

Sherlock makes aderisive sound.

Laughs some more,probably at John.

The table is not so large,so it only takes a few steps before he sinks against the table with his backagainst it. With Sherlock, a furnacebeside him, where their arms are branded to each other. He leans forward topoint at the second- is it? Is it second or the third?

“Mug,” he breathes,“Was there, you bloody idiot.”

Sherlock chortles, therumble of his voice low and just this side of loud, behind him. Puffs of breath tickle the back of his ear, andhe has to bite down on his bottom lip, stop the grin that’s already making hischeeks ache. A pale hand engulfs his, curling around his fingers gently, andSherlock, a line of warmth against him, moves his finger to the side, says,“What the hell are you pointing at?”

He whirls around inindignation, oh Christ how dumb isSherlock?

And the edges of hislips brushes against Sherlock’s.

Sherlock pulls back,startled.

And he-

His left hand comesup, nails catching on the skin of his lips, where he swears he can still feel Sherlock’s- lips, on his own. His headtips downwards, as if he’ll be able to see the imprint of Sherlock’s lips onhis skin, the calloused pads of his fingers.

He thinks he hadsomething to say, something he’d wanted to say. He had been going to say-

Fingers curve underhis chin, and Sherlock kisses him.

He kisses Sherlock.

Someone kisses someoneand no one stops.

Sherlock pushes pasthis lips to take his air away, a force reminiscent to a whirlwind, devastating,demanding- Sherlock kisses like he’s starving,and John finds, treading his fingers through damp curls, he is starvingwith him. It tastes like smoke between them, sparks to fire, steals his breath withthe same ferocity Sherlock has for everything.

It burns, where long fingers curl aroundhim- Christ, Sherlock’s hands will be thedeath of him.

Breathe.

His chest will expandno more, until he simply has to, has tobreathe- he makes a small, reluctant noise, curling his tongue aroundSherlock’s in quiet warning, but drawing back, when Sherlock has his handsaround the globes of his arse- when he suddenly squeezes-

A whimper bubbles fromhis throat.

However unwilling, he has to break away. Exhaling in a loud,hurried breath, he hears as though underwater, a giggle following his exhalemere seconds later, through his parted lips, as he tilts his head back.

Sherlock presses a smileinto the arch of his neck.

Pressing against him,engulfing him, John has a brief moment to savour the warmth, safetylove. He’s been so cold, he thinkshe remembers distantly, so cold for so long and he hadn’t known it, but now. He throws his arms around Sherlock’sneck – maybe, maybe he’ll be able to stay warm this way, with Sherlock.

Out of the corner ofhis eyes, he catches sight of Sherlock’s soft smile, his slick lips, gleamingunder the brilliant lights. He hasn’t- ever seen that smile before, has he?

Balance leaves him ina sudden, when his feet is on the ground one moment, and next-

It might have been himwho had gasped, most likely, through the grin that had spread on his lips. Herecognizes, dimly that it’s the largest he’s ever smiled in- god, has it been years? Sherlock had, in one deft move, hauled him up onto thetable.

‘Course, it’s Sherlock, he thinks, dazzled.

Sherlock’s eyes areblue today, a thin ring of sapphire around his pupils, blown wide. The edges ofhis eyes are crinkled, laugh lines around his cheeks that John yearns to trace,with his tongue or his fingers, it doesn’t matter.

It’s always you.

He tries to smotherthe huff of laughter against Sherlock’s adam’s apple, presses a kiss againsthis skin. Partially succeeds.

His belt slidesthrough their loops with a speed he’s never seen before, but then again,Sherlock is ridiculously strong, and fast. His skin is too tight, and his trousersare pressing against him so uncomfortably, he needs to get out of them.

Unbuckling Sherlock’sbelt with trembling fingers, he thinks the ground might be shaking-

I love you.

His lips are dry whenhe finally curls his palm around the front of Sherlock’s boxers.

Sherlock’s voicegrounds him, a long, wounded sound, husky in his ears. Heat burns its waythrough to the bottom of his gut, in a way it hasn’t in a long time.

He casts his gazearound, sure there had been something he had been supposed to look for. Leaningback with his attention on the other side of the kitchen table, he has topause, just for a mo, when he hears a peal of laughter behind him, and someone– Sherlock, of course – pulls himback.

Pulls him back tooquickly, there is a quiet force behind Sherlock’s limber, powerful arms, thatmakes him shiver.

“Don’t bother,”Sherlock’s voice is pitched impossibly low and rough, a bright blue bottle inhis hands. His forehead is damp with perspiration. “I’ve got it.”

He beams – I love you – straining upward to sealhis lips over Sherlock’s, giggling escaping him despite his best efforts, whenSherlock has to bend slightly anyway. He is ridiculouslytall, and so large. They swalloweach other’s laughter, take and keep and remember.

He scrapes his teethover his bottom lip with just the slightestforce, before he draws away, dizzy and breathless.

“Come on then.”

The bottle looks heavyin Sherlock’s hold, full.

He breathes throughhis nose, salivating, as Sherlock dribbles lube on his fingers. Those fingers, it’s tortured him soimmensely before, dreams that had seemed so much like nightmares instead. Hesquirms at the mere wonder that they, so long and delicate and precise god-

He can’t have leantback quicker, hiking his feet onto the table with hurried whispers leaving hisdried lips. He wants, wants Sherlock inhim.

Sherlock’s left handcurls around his ankle, just above the fabric of his socks, as if in comfort.

Two fingers press intohim at once, cold and wet, and he’s shocked into amusement once again, themoment shattered. He bites back the quiet moan that threatens his breathylaugh, head thudding back against the table edge as the ring of muscle loosenseasily, allows Sherlock to widen the gap of his finger, slip in another one-

“Sherlock!”

A hand covers thefront of his button up, presses him down. “Gorgeous.”he hears Sherlock croak as warmth gathers between them, more a mumble than acoherent word.

“’M ready, Sherlock,”he rasps, feeling their pulse thrum together where he wraps his hand aroundSherlock’s wrist, hears Sherlock’s hoarse, affirming groan. Fingers, next time- he wants a cock in his arse-Sherlock’s- “Ready, now.”

Sherlock’s chestexpands with his sharp inhale.

His fingers, gone fromJohn’s arse, curl around his hips instead, and it feels like a claim already.When he feels the weight ofSherlock’s cock against the cheeks of his arse, something quivers in his chest.His face is hot, eyes screwed shut as the rest of him is held just as taut-

He hears his ownbreath, punched out of him, as Sherlock pushes in altogether, can barely hearSherlock’s agonized gasping.

The cry scrapes pasthis throat like a prayer, and his back arches off the table.

His hands, in asudden, desperate scramble for leverage, finds its dulled edges, and graspsonto it with as much force as he’s able. He feels as if he’ll shake apartotherwise, Sherlock so deep in him, thick and warm.

Damp palms cover hisknuckles.

“Sherl-” his lips part; Sherlock jerks back, the tip of his cock catching againstthe muscle of his hole, before he slams into him.

The rest of his wordsend in a scream.

He’d thought- like an idiot, that he had been on fire justthen. A heat he can’t understand, can’t control. Above him, a monarch Johnis destined to serve, Sherlock pulls out as far as he can without leaving theheat of his hole, but far enough that each push-

His veins have turnedinto wires and blood into sparks.

“Christ, Sherlock!”

Biting down on hisbottom lip, he keens, with tears of euphoria stinging the ends of his eyes, atthe edges of his vision. The noises thick in the air, he doesn’t know- is it his or Sherlock’s? His feet,slipping off the table, kicking out, dig into Sherlock’s back, pulls him inwith each punishing push, the only thing that keeps him afloat.

“I love- god, I love you,” is groaned into theweary skin of his cheek, wet teeth and tongue moving to the arch of his neck.

The moan that tearsout of him shakes the heavens, as brutal, as commanding as each of Sherlock’srapid thrusts. “Nhgh, Sherlock, Ilove you, love you.” He rasps, turning his head to press wet kisses againstSherlock’s forehead, the bridge of his nose, the line of his cheekbones.

“Wanna come, fuck, Sherlock-” he cries, making to shake the hold onhis hands, body straining for release.

Sherlock’s handstighten powerfully around his, and he’s boneless against Sherlock, can’t get out, can’t cum- His cock squirts astream of pre-cum over his thighs, tip smearing against Sherlock’s button down-the only way he’s allowed.

He screams in torment,fucking himself desperately on Sherlock’s cock.

The timber ofSherlock’s voice shakes, trembles, breaks off completely as his pace increases,he tells him- “You’ll come- you’ll comewhen I come, John,”

“Come,” he tries tosay, eyes rolling at the back of his head, “Ohgoddd- come in me- in me-”

Sherlock comes.

Spills into him, a sudden burst of heat filling his hole, too much-

A wordless moanescapes his unprotesting lips; his tongue, out and panting like a dog, leaves spit dribbling down the sideof his jaw, collecting in a pool beneath him. “Le- lemme come, Sherlock-” he slurs, hips lifting to rub himself overSherlock’s thighs weakly, “Please letme come-”

There’s somethingmissing, something odd in the brightness of Sherlock’s eyes, as he leans overhim, and the light above them outlines his silhouette, makes him glow.

Sherlock’s voice isshattered, wrecked beyond belief, the rumble of a god watered down into a merewhisper - “Come like this, John.”

Need washes over himin a tidal wave, but Sherlock is unmoving.

Whimpering, he rocksinto what Sherlock’s given him in mindless pursuit, eyes half-lidded and dazed wherehe pushes down, where his cock brushes against Sherlock. Some part of his waist,or his thighs. Some part of him that’s firm and hot and there.

Faster- fasterfasterfaster-

“Want,” he pants into Sherlock’s parted lips, “Sherlock-”

Sherlock shifts, allof a sudden, and he grinds down hard onhis thigh-

His vision shutters, ashock of ecstasy tearing him apart to the very bottom of his feet. Heat escapeshim to paint Sherlock’s ruined clothes with white, wet dripping down his legs. Hearches off the table, and Sherlock seals their lips together.

His heart pounds – he feelsit in both his ears and his head.

It’s the pulse that keeps himalive.

He remembers yearning for its survival in Afghanistan, remembers protecting others’ as a surgeon- he remembers so manyfriends who’s lost theirs. Eyes clenching shut, he lets Sherlock bite down onhis lips, take what’s left of his breath. His hands turn to entwine withSherlock’s, feels their pulse, together. Heremembers Sherlock’s death, its absence, and his return.

He remembers marrying Mary.

Rosamund.

There are tears on his cheeks that aren’t his.

~ cookie-eat-me

Warning: Non-Con, Public Sex, Gang-Bang, Sexual Harassment, Unprotected Sex, (Slight) Blood, Gunplay, Crying

Milk’s out again.

A small noise ofresignation leaves his thinned lips.

Tallying up what heneeds, John pulls his watch around his wrist with deft fingers. Being somewherearound 12, his breath leaves him in a slow, thoughtful exhale, when he realizesthat if he hurries, he’ll be able to catch Mary as she’s leaving for her shift.She’s taken the afternoon ones this week, as a sort of favor.

He’s taken a day offtoday, too tired for anything but Mary. These days, she seems to be the onlygleam of life in his. She brightens him – he’s desperate to see her before sheleaves.

Eyes catching on thedark edges of his bedside table, he hesitates.

It seems… a lifetime ago, when Mycroft Holmes hadtold him to pick a side.

A breath.

Darting back aroundhis single bed, he pulls the drawer open without any more thought. The weightof his Sig is cold in his palm.

He tucks it into thepocket of his coat, trying to stop himself from thinking of the last time he’sheld it.

Pulling the front dooropen, he casts his eyes around the simple flat for one last check. He’ll beback a little after 1 to meet Mary at her door – he won’t be out long. He’llneed to hurry back to shove his bottles into the refrigerator.

Unwilling to dawdlelonger, he heads out, and the hurry in which he trudges down the stairs causesit to creak loudly beneath the soles of his shoes; the neighbors might whine.

Out the door, hefurrows his eyebrows, creases formed across his forehead trying to see pass therays on light that seem to only attack his eyes. He feels the blazing staresfrom across the street, prickling the back of his head – whoever they are, theymake him feel like the Sig in pocket isn’t there out of paranoia. Which, hesupposes with grim humour, would be something Ella would love to pick apart.

Escalating paranoia.

Why do you think you feel that way, John?

He snatches his bikefrom its lock, relieved to be out of the suffocating block as he cycles to thecorner store at the end of the street. He knows there aren’t many around thearea at this time of the morning – they have their own jobs, their ownschedules to follow on a weekday. Family.

Except.

Except the prickling still won’t disappear. The constantweight slowing him down and stopping him from stepping on the next paddle. Hemakes a sharp turn around the corner, too caught up in the labyrinth of histhoughts; the tires screech as vertigo crashes upon him.

Panting and out ofbreath, his foot hits the pavement. The bicycle stands are bare, he sees whenhe lifts his head, and he’d thought no one around to notice him, a nondescriptcivilian on their way to the grocery store. No one notices much of him thesedays. A quick in and out of the store and he’ll be on his way.

A sharp whistlepierces the air, unfamiliar, easy to ignore. The sort of provocative whistlingdesperate men proposes towards nice girls who drive by. There are peoplemilling, however little.

John gathers himself,and walks his bike towards the stand.

Bent over, he loopsthe chain across the stand. He could always leave it without its lock, but he’slow on funds as it is. Losing hisbike, it is, truthfully, notsomething he can afford.

Laughter.

The lock clicks-

Someone smacks him on the arse.

He sucks in a rapid,involuntary breath. The force is warm, hot,leaves a sting that travels all the way up to his cheeks, and heats hisears. He turns around with his fingers half dipped into the pocket of his coat,his heart loud and thick in his throat, and yet the man has already passed him.

A man- not a boy.

“’Scuse you?” he bites out, indignance and fury all at once;he treads forward a step, with half a mind to reach out, grab the wanderingman, in slacks and clean button down.

Who disappears aroundthe corner without so much as a by your leave.

Swallowing down theloud retort he has waiting on his tongue, he glances around.

No one sees him.

Mary waits, a quietvoice at the back of his mind murmurs. He bites down on his cheek, and turns onhis heels, striding towards the little convenience store. The door opens with aloud, electronic thrilling, with only three other patrons who glance towardshim disinterestedly.

With lowered gaze, hemakes immediately for the diary section.

The day has onlybegun, and he’s already considering an appointment with Ella.

Going out always reminds him, how tattered apart at theseams he really is, how he sees shadows at every corner, how he can’t let go ofwhat’s already past. Makes him afraid, because if he can’t handle the past, howis he supposed to handle a future? He knows, though, that Ella will force himto rethink his thoughts, make him second guess, isolate him before she fixes him.

Without much consciousthought, he picks two of the same carton of milk and checks the expirationdate.

Doable.

Out of the corner ofhis eyes, another man ambles down the aisle, humming under his breath. He is doesn’thave a grocery basket hanging on his arm, and for some reason, that sticks withJohn as the man approaches.

Unthinkingly, he movesswiftly out of the way, eyes darting down to peer at his watch. His feet bringshim to the cashier.

The cashier-

Who isn’t Lachlan, orJulian, and is instead the man with the bloody slacks and button down. The man who had smackedhis arse. The man now perusing some sort of racy magazine issue behind thecounter with amusement painted across his sculpted lips. He just oozes bastard-

John inhalescarefully, warm energy pooling into his fists.

He oozes danger.

The man rubs a thumbover his stubble, turning to tuck the issue back into its very own place on theshelf. “You’re slow,” he murmurs in a low, throaty tone, making a show ofpeering at him with sea foam eyes. “Dr. Watson.”

No one sees him.

So-

It has to be S- Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s enemies, even now. Johnpivots his body around, one step at a time with dry, unamused huffs of laughterfrom his throat, when he meets the dark stares of lumbering men behind him. Theoutside world, is so still, so silent, when faced with solid shadows, shadowsthat he hasn’t made up-

His eyes returnquickly to the man behind the counter.

“I don’t want anytrouble.”

Trepidation crawl upthe knobs of his spine, as a slow, serene smile spreads across the man’s lipslike honey. Unlike his men – has to behis men, thugs – who chuckle hoarsely, waiting on his command, he is statuestill, leans back in his seat, and John’s attention is brought to his hands.The skin of his knuckles are paler in comparison to the darker tan of the restof him, split and healed and split again.

“This isn’t trouble.” theman says lightly, in that same moment, he dips his head in a nod, looking atsomewhere over John’s shoulder.

Someone behind himshoves him forward with a jeer, the force of what seems like a blow sending himcareening against the counter, knocking over stacks of sweets and gum. Somethingcrashes to the ground, a thousand cigarette packs follow. The sharp throb ofwood and plastic striking the bones of his hips, forces a low, airy cry pasthis lips.

The cold press ofsteel clasps tightly around his wrists.

He sucks in a startledbreath, drowned by the pounding in his ears. Over the counter, he cranes hisneck upward, panting long, open-mouthed breaths.

The man humsthoughtfully, even sitting lax in the crooked stool normally reserved to thecashier, he’s above John, the barest gleam of sharp teeth in his smile. “Thisis retribution,” the man says in an undertone, while rough fingers hook intothe waistline of his trousers, raucous disembodied laughter enclose him- fuck-

Agitation and dreadmoves him, for a moment, he forgets; tightlygrasping onto the counter edges, he gains a split second leverage he just, doesn’t wait to use- kicks out-

Somebody cries out,another pair of hands are ripped away.

But it’s a short, fruitless victory, they remind him, when a second later, a large,warm hand strikes him in full strength on his arse, drawing a low, agonized moanout of his parted lips. The ache spreads, a larger, and longer, pain than the one this morning.

Warms his thighs andthe bottom of his spine, goes everywhere-

Oh Christ; his entire body is pushed forward, his handcuffs jingle against metal- he’s trapped, he thinks, with too much in his head and not enough inhis lungs-

“Look a’ the cunt,” athroaty voice sounds behind him, and fingers thread into his hair, pulls-

Aggressive hands curlaround his hips, already tender and bruised, and too late, fuck, too late, they wrench his trousers to his feet. A quick,stricken breath draws something else out of him, something small and quiet and pained-

The barrel of a gunkisses his cheek.

“No, no-” the gun smears the rest of hiswords, nudging against his lips slowly, gently, and he breathes oil and powder.

“Be a good soldierboy.” the man says in a conspiratorial murmur, inches away, soft lips curvedinto a sharp smile, his scarred finger on the trigger. He sees himself behindthe man’s half-lidded irises, wide-eyed and gasping.

He hadn’t known he’d been gasping.

The windows, the door, his briefs are on the ground.

Big hands slap hisarse cheeks in turn, a chorus of arousal thick laughter echoing in the quietshop, as rough hands squeeze warm skin. A guttural moan pushes out of his lips-it hurts. It’s everything but quietwhere he stays, chaos. Sweet, honeyedcroons pushes their way into his thoughts, makes a home in his mind’s eye. Hisheart threatens to choke him as he pants against the surface of the counter,marble warmed by his body, damp palms sliding down his arms.

“You know you want it,cock whore.”

The man’s smile issickly, sharp nails digging into his jaw, lifting his head to the point where,he simply can’t keep his lips pressed shut, can’t keep himself from crying outin a groan.

The gun scrapes thetop of his mouth, presses at the back of his throat. He gasps around it withfluttering lungs, something cold, wet, pressed into his the crack of his arse,leering loud. He can’t breathe throughhis nose, not anymore-

“It’s enough.” Hot breath promises in his ear, teethclamping down briefly in a punishing nip. Echoing laughter. “You’ll take it oryou won’t.”

No.

He cranes his neckback, desperate, to shake off the flitting shadows behind him, but the man,tutting disapprovingly, presses the barrel down on his tongue. No, no no- Wordless noises out of his throat, he hears something like a whine, he hearspleads, begs, before he hears the scream.

It tears out of histhroat, jagged and bloodied.

“Finally some noise,” someone laughs.

Someone’s voice- his own voice, trails off into faintrasping. It’s wet, thick at the back of his throat, secondary to it, too big, too soon, oh god, thefeeling of being forced him apart. It scrapes against his walls, fills andpushes- Hands clench around his hips,pulls him back. He can’t see, hisvision blurred and body strung taut; he’son a string and he can’t get down.

In a distance, hehears a low, quiet voice, warmth at his left ear; “You’re a natural.”

Pulls him back again,and again and again and- He breathesthough his mouth, his inhale, exhale, punched out of him in heavy thrusts. Something in his mouth, won’t let himbreathe.

Gentle fingers curvearound his chin, scraping over pink, crescent indents. It’s wet, his chin, it’swet, his face.

His throat twinges inprotest.

The man with the seafoam eyes smile, pupils blown wide and dark, says something.

Fingers press into hisarse hole, beside the thick, hot cock stretching him wide open, pulls apart asif looking for space. There is no space, hewants to scream, but the noises out of him aren’t words, and the words in his ears-

“You’ve made a mess ofyourself, cunt.” Quiet, gentle.

He gasps, drying spitpooling on the counter, swallowing wet spilling from his gaping mouth,swallowing air he can’t get enough of. Past his fading vision, he remembers thehead of dark hair, flawless skin- he remembers the man with the gun, and hisjaw aches.

Hands knead his arseroughly, peels him open.

Unwilling, a raw moanshudders past his heavy tongue, tasting iron and copper, as another cock shovesits way into his arse. The cheer that follows worms into his hazy thoughts, ringsshrill above his own rough breathing-

Sobbing-

His own- his own voice.

A palm, hot like abrand, presses low against his belly, pushes and kneads, until- he cries out in muffled anguish, feels the protrudingoutline of a cock against his walls. Pushes into him harder, somethingwarm dribbling down his legs.

Be over- let it be over, he meets the dark eyes of the man through afilm of burning tears, how they never seem to stop, god, his chest stuttering with each hitching puff of breath.

Everything’s gone cold from inside out.

He lets the gun holdhim up, slack, as he’s moved, hearing his own grunts best of all, aboveeveryone else’s. The gun is his centre, the gun keeps him afloat; if he screamsinto the gun, if he whimpers and whines, only he will hear.

In comparison tohimself, to the men deep inside him, theman is louder. The man with the dark hair, who pushes back and he chokesagain, and he gags again and he hopes hepulls the trigger-

Someone- both of them- all three, he doesn’t know- shudders,and comes in him, fills him to the brim, and his increasingly shatteredthoughts disappear completely. Something splatters against the filthy tiles inthick, wet globs.

There aren’t any morehands on him, no one to hold him up, and John collapses.

The weight on histongue bumps against his teeth before pulling away gently. He lets out a low,keening noise, eyes closing, as he sucks in his shaky inhale, exhales.

Done.

He’s done, he’s done-

“Good boy, John.” The manpresses a quick, bruising kiss to his lips, ownshis breath again, and his eyes fly open, petrified he’ll leave with it. “Whatdo good boys say?” he murmurs as he pulls away, still too close, nose to nose-

There is the crashingwaves of the ocean in his ears, water seeping into the holes of his head-drowns him.

The man hums.

“Say, thank you, Mr. Moran.”

He tastes copper onhis lips, something is bleeding. The man’s lips are smeared with his blood, andhis eyes are dark. John had thought it had been green, or blue, but it’s a darkpupil, eclipsed by a ring of silver. Hungry, all-encompassing.

Inaudibly, hewhispers, “Thank you, Mr. Moran.”

~ cookie-eat-me

WARNING: a lot of comeplay

John listens in silence, his ears twitching as the sound of crackling ice pervades the room. He sighs, relaxing back into his restraints as the soft shuffling of footsteps grows louder and louder.

They’ve been at this for days. How many to be exact? John honestly doesn’t remember.

All he remembers is flashes of heat, warmth, pleasure, euphoria… but beyond that-

“Mmmmm John.”

John turns his head instinctively at the sound, his neck curving as the rest of his body pulls and tugs against the restraints that have him affixed to the bed.

What does Sherlock have in store for him this time?

“You’ve been so good for me… so good to me,” Sherlock murmurs, reaching a hand down to John’s chin, tilting it upwards with his index finger.

“Do you want more John?” he croons, dragging a palm down his back and John’s breath hitches.

He tries to force out a nod, shaking his head in a daze as Sherlock chuckles, moving to sit on the bed along with a tray of… something.

“Well then, open wide,” Sherlock smiles and John responds accordingly, his lips widening as Sherlock slips something in. It’s cold and hard, a nice, long cylindrical shape with a huge circumference and… oh

Bitter.

“I’ve been planning this for ages,” Sherlock grins, wiping the sweat of John’s brow who shudders, suddenly hit with the realisation that Sherlock has basically just presented him with a popsicle of his frozen come.

“You’re going to be so full John,” Sherlock continues, stuffing the popsicle further into John’s mouth, “Just wait till you see what I’m about to do to you.”

“But for now… SUCK.”

John whines in response, his eyes glazing over as he obeys Sherlock’s command, tongue lapping fitfully at the popsicle of come. It stings, the popsicle cold to the touch and his tongue and mouth is slowly going numb but he can still taste the bitter tang of Sherlock’s ejaculate, still feel a bit of the melting come dribbling off of the stand and onto his chin, painting the base of his face in a sticky mess.

“Wonderful,” Sherlock chuckles, pushing the hair on John’s forehead back, watching as John hollows out his cheeks and sucks. “Now for the second part.”

John closes his eyes, still sucking as he feels a weight settle at the foot of the bed, listening as the crackle of ice resounds across the room.

He feels the butt plug in his arse being extracted, his hole suddenly feeling ten times empty than what it had been before. John keens in answer, begging Sherlock to put something- anything back in there and… oh

It’s cold.

And large.

There’s something, far larger than the butt plug, nudging at his entrance… and John has an idea of what that is.

He moans as the smooth tip slips past his sphincter, his muscles fluttering around the intrusion as he takes deep breaths, willing his muscles to relax as the popsicle slips all the way in.

Sherlock has his hand on his stomach throughout all of this, his guiding hand grounding him throughout the whole thing and John swears that he can feel himself distending around Sherlock’s fingers.

“You all right?” Sherlock hums, waiting till John nods before he drags the popsicle out slowly before shoving it roughly back in.

John gives a muffled cry in answer, his lips still full of the first popsicle which still seems to have a long way to go before it melts completely.

“So full,” Sherlock chuckles darkly, beginning to piston the popsicle in and out of John’s ass, “So full just for me.”

John shudders as Sherlock picks up the pace, his movements getting rougher till he begins to purposefully seek out John’s prostrate, hitting it dead on once, twice… thrice.

“Fff sherl-” John groans as he comes, his hips bucking down into the bedsheet as Sherlock steadies him, holding onto his hip with a vice-like grip.

Sherlock waits till John has composed himself before shoving what remains of the popsicle all the way back in, sealing his entrance and John groans at the relief.

“I used a plug as a base,” Sherlock smiles, stalking over to John’s front and giving him a sly smile, watching as his lover continues to suck obediently on the popsicle enclosed between his lips. “It’ll keep everything inside.”

“When it melts, your ass will be flooded with my come, filled to the brim with it, so much so that the plug in itself will be struggling to keep it inside.”

“I have more popsicles you know,” Sherlock continues, almost nonchalantly, “We can do this as many times as you want… well until they all run out of course. How do you like the sound of that?”

John’s eyelids droop as he nods, still high on the endorphins from his orgasm as he continues to suck on the popsicle between his lips, come dripping slowly down his throat.

As many times as Sherlock wants sounds like a good idea.

~ predictably-unpredictable

i know this isn’t what a vocaloid is but it’s the best i can do.

also, this thing is hella long so i have to put it under a read-more. if you’re having trouble viewing it because tumblr’s a jerk, you can also read it on ao3.

______________________

“You'realone,” his doctor tells him, and he doesn't know what he'ssupposed to say.

Iknow. So what? I'm not lonely.

He'snot.

“Youdon't know how to be alone,” she clarifies after a moment ofsilence. “Find yourself, John. It'll help.”

Thatstatement, coming from the subject of his despair, is singularlyunhelpful. He debates on whether or not to say something but in theend he can't really be bothered so he just looks at her, waits forsomething else to come that might, against all expectations, prove tobe somewhat useful.

“Talkto yourself,” she tries, and he waits, endlessly patient. “Get arecorder, or a diary. A blog. Talk to yourself. See what John Watsonhas to say.”

She'stalking about him as though he's not in the room, a third person whoisn't here and it's disconcerting. He bites his tongue, waiting totaste the copper of blood before releasing it again, just to makesure he really is here. But the image of his doctor doesn't waver.She is solid and so, apparently, is he.

Shedraws breath to speak again and he waits, wondering who she's goingto talk to this time, himself, or the phantom of himself, the thirdpresence in this already overcrowded room.

“Time'sup,” she says.

It's easy to see. Inhis face, distorted and oblong, something smudged and unfinished,some builder's half-finished project, unloved and forgotten. In hishair, wild and unruly, too long and too short, something belonging toa child, a parody of innocence, asking for trust and abusing it. Inhis hands, too large, too bony, made for tearing and strength, foroverwhelming and suffocating and control. His body, angular andgraceful, sharp edges that tear like a knife, splitting the spacearound him into ribbons.

It's easy to see. Inhis eyes, cold and hungry. It's easy to see when he looks at himself.

There is a flush tohis animal face, new, and he catalogues it with the rest. Anotherabuse of trust, this one, lending him frailty that he doesn't feel.He watches it, tendrils of blood beneath his skin, like finger marksdragged down his neck and chest, fading to pink beneath his ribsbefore disappearing into the deeper bowels of his belly.

He stares at himself.Watching. The familiarity of his deformities removing fear. Hewonders what it would be like to look upon himself for the firsttime, to observe the monstrous workings of limb and sinew andexpression like a nightmare bearing down upon one. He's almostenvious of them, all the people he hasn't met. He wonders what itwould be like to encounter himself, how he would acquit himselfagainst him. Would he be afraid? Would he run away?

Stupid, of course.Monsters don't fear others of their kind.

“Sherlock?”

He starts, lookingover his shoulder in the reflection of the mirror.

“John.” Tousledand pale, except for the high spots of colour on each cheek. Heblinks in the brightness of the bathroom light and his eyes scrunchclosed and Sherlock is entranced, the two of them together in themirror, side by side in their reflection, the monster and itscaptive, and he is reminded of how careful he has to be to make sureJohn doesn't figure it out, that John never realises what he reallyis.

He leans over andflips off the light.

“Did I wake you up?”he asks, and in the sudden darkness there is nothing to warn him ofthe two arms that come to slide around his waist, the human body,fevered from sleep, pressing up against his own.

John doesn't answer,simply mumbles a sigh into the skin of his back, and Sherlock feelsthe intensity of it like a bruise. He has these marks all over him bynow, the small patches of humanity that John has pressed into himwith his breath and his fingers and his words. The area theyencompass enlarges every day until Sherlock knows, one day, he willlook in the mirror and he will no longer see the monster he was butthe human that John has created from it.

“Come on,”Sherlock says, and turns around, taking John's pliant body in hisarms, leading him through the dark to the lighter shadow of the bed.John's protest is less than a sigh, given off in half-sleep. AsSherlock presses them together, John's back held tightly to him, histhighs spread around Sherlock's insistent pressure, he knows that inthe morning John will remember this as more than half a dream, wakingup hard and ready, his mind not alert enough yet to wonder why hisbody is still open until Sherlock is once again inside him. And thenhe will laugh, a soft breath of sound carried on the sighs of hispleasure, and he will twist his head around and demand a kiss andSherlock will give it to him, sliding his tongue as deep as it willgo, lapping at the humanity inside as well as out.

One day, John willfind out. He will look at Sherlock and see that the monster is gonewithout ever having known it was there at all, but by then it will betoo late.

~ceywoozle

The day was humid and cold with a chilling wind that sliced through clothes and pierced into bones. Snow had fallen the night before leaving London in a mess. The streets might well have looked pretty with all that pristine white snow but that was before the traffic started. Currently the pavement was covered in brownish grey slush.

The horses trotting through the snowy London streets were also leaving brownish little gifts of their own, piles of steaming, stinking mess which Sherlock Holmes narrowly avoided stepping in.

“Holmes,” John hissed. “Watch out, would you?”

Sherlock paused to take care in his step with absolutely no gratitude to John at all.

So that’s how it was, then. John was going to be soundly ignored because of an argument that Sherlock would be stewing over for probably days because he was just that melodramatic. And ridiculous.

Neatly sidestepping the horse-present himself, John hopped into the hansom cab, noticing again how absolutely bollocks-freezing it was. The chill was not in the least shut out by the cab roof either, wrapping its icy arms around John and squeezing. He was wearing his warmest winter clothing with his thermals beneath but it all did nothing, the cold seeped into him as if he were naked as a babe.

Shivering, John rubbed his hands together and breathed warm breath on his gloved hands.

“You could share that, you know,” John said, eyeing up the thick, warm blanket Sherlock had pulled over him, right up to his chin. “It’s plenty big enough for us both.” Which was why they'd brought the blanket with them in the first bloody place. To share. In the cab. Because of the cold.

“Yet I am in more need of it,” Sherlock said. He pulled the blanket up higher, refusing to even look at John.

John sighed, frustration slicing into his patience. Sherlock had overreacted over nothing and John was not going to spend the whole cab ride back to Baker Street freezing his bollocks off because of it.

“I told you, it was nothing.” John said, teeth chattering.

Sherlock ignored him, instead taking the time to tell the cab driver where they were headed to. Then they were on the move,  the horse and cab making its way through the messy throng of London traffic on the icy roads.

“That’s not what it looked like,” Sherlock said after a moment, burrowing his face into the blanket. “I am the most observant man--”

“Yes, lovely, but you’re wrong, Holmes,” John said, looking at the blanket again. He squeezed his hands together in his lap. “He and I never ... Never, Holmes.” John tried to impress the truth upon Sherlock through his tone because he couldn’t actually say what he needed to out in the open like this.

Probably exactly why Sherlock had refused to hear him out earlier when they had been left alone in the house after their client had left. He meant for John to sit there and spend the whole cab ride back home in misery.

Well bollocks to that.

John snatched a corner of the blanket for himself before Sherlock could do anything about it, yanking it over his lap.

Sherlock, predictably, glowered at him and tugged his side of his blanket closer, sitting on it.

“You're behaving like a child,” John gritted his teeth, though the warm blanket over his lap was already helping to ease the freeze. He pulled on it again, attempting to pull it up to his chin to cosy down.

Sherlock didn't dignify that with an answer. He just buried his nose beneath the blanket, though he did let up a little, allowing John to gather more of the blanket for himself.

“Thank you,” John said tartly.

Sherlock just sniffed and stared out into the London streets with its grey sky and hundreds of people out and about. It was loud enough outside to at least attempt a quiet conversation between them. John didn't want to fill their home with a loud argument.

Sliding closer, John settled beside Sherlock thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder. With his breath puffing white in front his face, John leaned in close.

“Nothing ever happened. He arrived to see you and you were out. We simply connected over a shared military past.”

Sherlock scoffed, sitting up straighter and turning his head to look at John from down his long, sharp nose.

“His face said something all together different when I watched him talking with you.” Sherlock said, mouth turned into a sour frown. “He wants more than a brothers-in-arms bond with you.”

John sighed in frustration, rolling his eyes. Damn but his mustache was starting to form ice from the combination of his warm breath and the cold air.

“Even if he did – which he does not – that doesn't mean I would hold that feeling for him. Holmes, you know… You know it's only you.”

“Do I?” Sherlock said, somehow managing to sound lofty and annoyed all at once. “I was gone for a few hours and I arrive home to him practically in your lap,” he all but hissed into John's ear. “He was making eyes at you and I was still across the room! You weren't stopping him.”

John had to cling to the blanket to avoid reaching out to throttle Sherlock's neck. “He was not – Dear God, Holmes, what kind of man must you take me for? That I would do those things with a man of my mere acquaintance?”

Sherlock levelled a long look at John from over the edge of the blanket. “You did with me.”

“I. Yes. Well.”

Heat bloomed in John's cheeks turning them pink and his whole body followed, warming at the memory of their first meeting, at how within hours of meeting each other he had been sitting astride Sherlock's lap with his tongue in Sherlock's mouth. And it hadn't stopped there. He'd been lifted up and carried into Sherlock's bedroom and placed on the bed and before long John had been on all fours, gasping quietly into the pillow as he was filled with the length and girth of his new lover.

It had been instant with them. An instant desire, attraction, love. John loved him. He loved him. His Holmes. His Sherlock. He would never betray that with some other man. Especially not with one who was embroiled in a case that was proving to be far more complicated than first assumed (missing diamond jewellery) and instead was turning into blackmail, scandal and possibly murder.

The heated flush from his memories and the surge of love in his chest caused John to reach out to touch Sherlock beneath the blanket, squeezing his thigh, imploring with his eyes what he could not say aloud in public in a cab.

oops sorry! my fault, i screwed up the links. all fixed now :)

“So tiny,”

“Sherlock, please,” John begged.

“So little and pink and tight…”

John whined from the back of his throat. “Christ, just…”

Sherlock pressed the head of his cock against John’s hole, feeling the resistance of it as he pushed inside, the muscles squeezing around him.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John sucked in a sharp, trembling breath. “Stop, stop. It’s too big.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and wrenched his self control back from the single-minded need to be buried to the root inside John. He stopped moving, gripping the base of his cock between thumb and finger and waited.

“Just give me a sec,” John said, hanging his head, forehead pressing to the pillow beneath. He widened his knees, gyrating his hips, trying to adjust to the girth of Sherlock’s cock. “How far are you? How much inside?”

“Just the head,” Sherlock said with far more calm than he felt. “John, I…”

“Just a second,” John mumbled, squeezing his eyes closed. The pressure of being stretched open, the fullness he felt already, and Sherlock wasn’t even halfway. “More lube.”

Sherlock quickly squirted from the bottle, pouring cool lube all around John’s hole with his cock still inside. He circled his finger around the stretched rim, shivering in pleasure at how red it looked swallowing his cock like that.

The rim massage of Sherlock’s finger and the extra lube helped, easing the painful pressure into something else, something not quite pleasure yet on the verge of it.

“Okay,” John breathed with a thick swallow around his dry tongue. “More,”

Sherlock groaned under his breath, a soft noise that caught in his teeth as he pushed forward. His cock slipped in with far more ease but the resistance was still there, the tightness of John’s fluttering little hole still massaging around his cock. “Just a little more,” Sherlock said with a breathy sigh, watching with something like euphoria as his cock disappeared into John’s body. “Just a bit more,”

Shivery heat tightened John’s nipples as little goosebumps prickled across his skin. He felt too full already, too widely stretched, and yet Sherlock wasn’t stopping, he was still going.

“God, John, look at you taking me like this,” Sherlock marveled at it, at how that sweet little hole was swallowing his cock up. A low moan rumbled from deep in his chest as he finally bottomed out, his cock fully sheathed inside John’s body.

It was pure driven instinct to pull back and start thrusting; he curbed the need by raking the pads of his fingers down John’s back, admiring his taut muscles, the way his bones felt, the fine sheen of sweat across his skin.

Curling around smaller John’s body, loving how perfectly they fit together, Sherlock kissed the back of John’s neck and nosed into his hair. “Please, John,”

John groaned in a mewling kind of way, a lit fuse inside his body as Sherlock’s chest pressed against him, changing the angle of his hips, his cock sliding just so and pushing up against the place inside him that made his legs quake. “Move, Jesus, Sherlock, move,” he panted.

With a noise of pure pleasure, Sherlock started to move his hips in smooth, thrusting motions. It didn’t take long for power to build, the urge to go faster and harder too great to resist. He pushed down on John with his body with each powerful thrust until John’s knees slid out from under him, pushing him flat on his front. Sherlock covered John’s body with his, sliding his arms beneath John’s chest to gain leverage as he fucked into John’s hole with snapping, hard thrusts. His whole cock was pushed inside John, his balls slapping against John’s skin as he moved, the slick little noises of fucking filling the room.

John turned his head the side, panting as he moaned in a staccato to match Sherlock’s thrusts. His cock was rubbing  between his body and the soft bed sheets, teasing him with the promise of release but never quite getting there. It was glorious, sweet torture.

“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” John begged and panted and clawed at the pillow. He was completely covered by Sherlock’s body, completely at Sherlock’s mercy, unable to move except to squirm and wiggle.

“Hold on,” Sherlock breathed, stopping the movement of his hips. “Roll with me,” he said, lifting off of John only enough so that John could move with Sherlock as he rolled them onto their sides, spooning up behind John tightly, his cock slipping out.

Lifting John’s leg up, Sherlock kissed the shell of John’s ear and said, “Put me back inside you,”

With a trembling sigh, John reached between his legs, grasping for Sherlock’s slick, hard cock and took it in his hand, guiding it back to his hole where he pushed the tip in and bore down, groaning in a desperate, breathy way as he felt the hot stretch all over again.

“Touch yourself, wank your cock for me,” Sherlock said, sliding his hand up the back of John’s thigh. He pushed over the curve of John’s sweet little arse and then slid his hand up to grip at the soft bit of fat John had at his hips. Using it as leverage, Sherlock held onto John’s body and fucked into him, listening as John wanked himself.

“Come on, love,” Sherlock breathed, the excitement in his body increasing with every moan that fell from John’s lips.

With a wiggle of his hips, John bore down on Sherlock’s cock, taking it into himself deep and hot. It didn’t take long to feel that familiar ache in his balls, that shivery tension behind his navel. With a soft, low cry John came into his hand, spilling come over his fingers and onto the sheets, Sherlock’s name on his lips.

Watching and listening to John come sent Sherlock over the edge. The way John’s body was squeezing and pulsing around his cock was an exquisite kind of torture, pulling pleasure from him in pumps of soft sticky come that filled John’s little hole.

“God, John, so good,” Sherlock panted, hips stuttering to a stop as the last of his orgasm drained from him.

It took a while to get themselves detached and cleaned up and they ended up taking a joint trip to the loo. After a shared shower where they soaped each other and kissed in between each slide of soapy hands on smooth, soft skin, they collapsed in bed together.

Without a word, John pulled Sherlock around him, huddling his body against Sherlock’s. A shivery pleasant tingle ran through him as the position echoed what they’d been doing just a short while ago.

Lacing their fingers together on John’s stomach, Sherlock nuzzled the back of John’s neck, marveling yet again at how perfect they fit together. The solid weight and muscle of John pressed up against him was the deepest comfort Sherlock could have ever hoped for.

–The end.

answered nonny!