entrancelogs | The Adventure of the Impulsive Partners

John should have been used to waking up in odd places by now. Wonderland was notorious for it, and even the gradual proceedings that lead Sherlock Holmes to his bed were sometimes worthy of a head scratch. But the tackiness of the pink and red, the low lights and the awkward loshing of the waterbed nearly made him flushed with second hand embarrassment. He had heard of places like this, mostly as jokes between army mates that seemed more akin to the Loch Ness monster or a Hound of the Baskerville then a place that would actually exist as a sexual getaway. He could only imagine how Sherlock was taking all this, as he tolerated very little of the idiotic, and that was in instances far more averagely stupid then this.

John had left, fleeing the no doubt long list of questions that his inexperienced flatmate most likely had. But, in the span of time it had taken him to get down the stairwell into the front of the now considerably shorter mansion, his thoughts had swayed from the shocking array of animates to Sherlock himself. And why he had walked away, why wasn't he turning right back around to happily answer any question that man could pose to him? It was only after he realized that he was contemplating what sort of limbs he could procure for the detective that John noticed something else amiss. Well, not amiss, per say. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, to be honest, but he had this fluttering, insistent urge to impress Sherlock. To surprise him, please him so he'd smile the way he did when they'd left the party together. John frowned, wondering if the so called "honeymoon phase" could appear after a week or two post coupling instead of jumping strait into the "old married couple" lifestyle that seemed to suit the two of them far more.

The doctor was already making his way back up to their room with haste before he could realize he'd made a decision to go back.

(ooc: So so so SO SORRY I've been gone, hun. I know you've heard my excuses before, but I'll really try to be better now that I have regularly scheduled computer time again.)

[glad to see you ^__^]

Sherlock was rather amused, really, and hadn't even noticed John had left. John not being there hardly meant the dialogue needed to end.

"Banana flavored? Really? In my experience, banana flavored anything is nearly always the last to be selected. Why banana? Cherry makes much more sense as far as appealing to the general public. Do they not consult any statistics whatsoever?" He tossed the condom packet into the drawer along with the other odds and ends. "I like the ceiling, though. It'll make any sleep studies I want to conduct much simpler. I can observe your sleep patterns without having to adjust my own posture by much. A bit voyeuristic but science often is."

Sherlock sat on the waterbed, scowling. "I am in very real danger of suffocating in my sleep on this thing so a sleep study is really the best use of our time. Outside of...-" there was that strange calling again.... "-well, outside of other things." Which were just as impractical on the waterbed. "Might be worth camping out on the floor...."

And he was now once again reminded why he left. The soft voice tickling at his emotions was drowned out for now by the wave of Sherlock level curiosity towards a situation that was better left pointedly ignored in John's opinion.

"I'm going to ignore the proposition that you watch me sleep all evening in this room for the moment. Maybe we could get another mattress from the cabinet. And some paint in some less... expressive hues." He was pretty sure that a water bed would do little good for his shoulder. Plus, he missed their wall paper. That shade of pink was building a ache between his temples. Or maybe it was an aneurysm from all questions of objects John never expected to see held in Sherlock's long pale fingers. Objects that went from a range of simple, recognizable lube to odd silicone objects even he had no clue as to their function.

"Uhm... Perhaps we should put this stuff away?" John said with a voice rough in embarrassment and his ears flushed, not quite sure where he should let his eyes linger casually for fear of Sherlock guessing some odd or end about his sexual desires from the amount of time he accidentally stared at one of the many packs of condoms littering the floor.

Sherlock waved at John dismissively. "If you honestly think I spend my nights in your bed asleep most hours, you're rather mistaken. You may be interested to know that your comfort levels in REM seem to be affected by the presence or absence of direct physical contact. It's much easier than I had previously believed to calm you in your sleep. Considering the improvement to the bags under your eyes, I'd say you've been experiencing the health benefits of restful sleep on those occasions."

He leaned over the bed, knocking things to the floor rather than putting any effort into cleaning up. "As for the room itself, it's event locked. Nothing will change it. We could stab the bed to drain all the water to make a firmer surface but chances are we'd just end up with a flooded room that smelled of damp. Pillows and blankets on the floor will do." He followed John's gaze to the condoms and smirked. "Are those the glow in the dark ones or the ones that are supposedly ribbed for her pleasure?"

He choked, trying to hide it into his hand, caught between a snort of amusement and a sputter. Some things were not meant to be said from certain people, and 'ribbed for her pleasure' in Sherlock's low, smooth tone was funny and wrong in so many ways. "Glow in the dark. Don't tell me you've done a study on the variety of condoms available on the modern market, too." The doctor managed eventually between chortles.

"Wait, wait a minute." John said once his breath was back. "What was that you said about me sleeping?" He blinked, absently bringing a hand up to touch under his eyes where the fading shadows resided. He hadn't really noticed the improvement of his sleep with Sherlock's occasional resident in his bed. But now that he considered it, there was no recollection of even the suggestion of his usual nightmares, having been lost between the folds of other dreams with, it seems, the addition of the detective soothing them away. "Christ, I haven't had any real nightmares with you there, have I? I'm not exactly quiet and still about it..." Sherlock would have said something had he been punched in one of John's unaware attempts to fight off unseen enemies and semtex vests, right?

Sherlock smirked. He couldn't help but be a bit pleased with himself. "Auditory stimulation worked well enough but I was worried continued engagements in speech supported comfort would wake you. It's almost more effective to just pet your hand or stroke along your skin. You're very receptive to touch."

Sherlock pulled up a sleeve of condoms off the floor and read the rather limited information on the foil. "As for these, the answer is no. Not really my area. With a limited amount of options available for male contraceptives, I imagine you on the other hand have a very personal and extensive amount of knowledge on them."

"You took the time to do that... Uhm. Wow." He mutters, obviously touched by the sentimental gesture. Sherlock had been considerate enough to not only sooth him when his dreams took a darker turn, but do it in a way that would ensure he'd continue to sleep. He tried to grasp for any memory of long fingers calming against his skin and hair, of any murmured whispers of comfort that he'd managed to stir awake for, but he knew that anything supplied was an act of imagination then any real recollection.

So the heat across his cheekbones was already settled in by the time Sherlock hinted at his experience with condoms. He snorted. "Yes, I would say so. I'm a doctor at the very least, aren't I?" His past sexual experiences are not an area he really wants to go into with his first male lover. His first male lover who happens to be the inexperienced but extremely insightful Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock rips the corner off the foil packet and extracts the condom for inspection. He drops it almost immediately when his fingers touch the very slippery surface, his face crinkling with the smell.

"Oh, yes, what a romantic odor spermicide, latex and medical grade lubricant make. I can only hope the flavored ones smell better. Can you imagine putting something in your mouth that smells like a battery and feels like a distressed slug?" He picks it back up, inspecting it better and trying to unroll it.

Sherlock handling the condom like it's some form of alien object nearly has John in stitches.

"You know, usually once they're caught up in the moment people don't complain much about it." He says between bitten back giggles, that voice he'd been ignoring before riding the wave of bemused fondness bubbling in his stomach. As it slowly became recognizable as adoration, the urge became a little more noticable, even in the silliness of the sight before him. After all, Sherlock is rather wonderful even with that expression. The one that is urging the doctor to go up on his toes and press a kiss to the disgusted wrinkles on that pale nose.

Edited 2012-10-03 05:08 (UTC)

"Tolerance in utility, is it?" Sherlock smirks a little at having his nose wrinkles kissed, his hand hovering close to John's side in an uncertain wish to keep him near. It was impossible to miss the flush to John's cheeks. His pupils were keen to speak up as well.

Sherlock chuckled lightly. "Rather good fortune we're dating. This would be rather awkward if we were just good friends."

Christ, John hadn't actually realized he was going through with his urge until Sherlock's breath was against his cheek and Sherlock's skin under his lips. But now that he was close, it was near impossible to conceive stepping out of the other man's space, even with the insistence of propriety. So he stayed close, shivering at the light sensation of the detective's hovering hand.

"I'd say so." He said with a matching chuckle, his eyes flicking up to meet the other man's bright, pale ones. "...Though you saying things like 'ribbed for her pleasure' would still be hilarious."

"I fail to see what's so humorous about my reading a packet but I accept it as a novelty in composition." Sherlock smiled and finally let his hand slowly come to rest along John's waist. "Have you noticed the odd atmosphere to this room? It's more than obvious what the purpose and intention of these rooms are but I am beginning to wonder if the location change was all that the event brought with it."

Especially with intimacy seeming very much on the horizon despite no real contextual reasoning. Unless the presence of sexual items was cause alone to increase the likelihood of such occurrences.

John gave a perplexed frown, leaning his head back so he could get a full view of Sherlock's face. "Like what else? Something changing the atmosphere... to suit the rooms?" He looked around the room again, shifting only slightly so as to not dislodge to large cup of Sherlock's hand on his hip. As if seeing the suggestive materials and bedding for the first time, his eyes widened and turned back to the diminished space between them, understanding the implications.

"What, like an aphrodisiac?" John lifted his hands from where they'd wandered to Sherlock's shoulders, before placing them down once again after a moment of consideration. "Great." He muttered dryly, puckering his lips in mild irritation and confusion. All of his inclinations to be near, to touch Sherlock felt like his own. But if they were induced, chemically or otherwise, perhaps he shouldn't act on his instincts as readily. After all, he was far more sexually driven then his partner. John readied himself to back off casually...

But Sherlock was smiling at him, keeping him close. John licked his lips and looked up at the detective. "Alright then. Suggestive rooms in more ways then one. Got it. Uhm. What... What should we do, then? Go into the gardens? I mean, even if it's airborne it can't be everywhere..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes good naturedly. “You left not so long ago to escape the atmospheric changes which really did nothing to clear your mind. It worked so disastrously that it drove you right back here in a matter of minutes. Rather like H.O.U.N.D. , you can be aware of the effects but you can’t control them.” He shrugged, eyes adverting to the ceiling. “I’m not immune. Natural inclination does seem to play a small part in things but it’s not selective in its contagion. We could try going for a walk but it’s doubtful it will actually alleviate any of the event induced chemical components.”

"Honestly, I'd rather not wander in public places if this stuff is everywhere." John muttered, rubbing his forehead. Not that he expected much surprise to their new relationship (in fact, it was pretty much obvious that most people would be shocked they hadn't already been a couple long before the evening after Sherlock's party), but even if this urging didn't go beyond light touches and proximity it was still something he felt was meant for just the two of them.

He realized he was staring at the detective's throat and jawline. Sucking on his bottom lip, he drummed his fingers against the other man's shoulders as he shifted his weight.

"Well, if we're stuck like this I'll just... get some extra pillows and blankets for camping out later." Stepping out of Sherlock's circle was harder then he could have imagined, but the excuse had to be made if they were to get anything done with this atmospheric influence. John made his way over to the closet, intent on pulling out down extra comforters and pillows for their sleeping arrangements. He tried to not think about burying his face into the juncture of Sherlock's long neck and shoulder and tucking his hands into the back pockets of his friend's trousers.

"...This could be a bad situation for people who aren't couples." He realized aloud with a small, concerned frown over his shoulder.

Sherlock nodded with John’s small deduction. “It’s likely the effects are rather indiscriminate; arousing urges even where there is no affection. I’d be mildly interested in testing to see if I felt inclined to engage in intimate affairs if in Evelyn or Tony’s presence. I think proving that right might make for prolonged awkwardness, however. And the effects aren’t lasting enough for that to be much more than a passing query.” Though generally not being aware of even possessing a mind and body that had such interests made the small, nagging voice in the back of his mind a fascinating novelty.

He plopped down on the waterbed, trying to figure out if it felt more like a non newtonian liquid or a gel thanks to the constraints of the bed’s form.

“On a scale from one to ten--one being not at all, three average, and ten extreme—how would you rate your overall inclination towards sex since this event began?”

John froze while pulling another oversized pillow from the closet, two others and a fluffy blanket already tucked under his arm. Clearing his throat, the doctor tossed his supply onto the carpet by the foot of the bed and reached in for more things to make their stay on the ground more comfortable.

"...Right now? Perhaps a four." He licked his lips. "But I'm... actually more inclined to just cuddle or something at the moment. Be close. But I can sort of feel how that would probably trigger a domino effect." He flushed at the admission, keeping his gaze focused on task as he set up their new bed. "...What about you?"

“Adjusting the mean for my own inclinations down to a one, I’d say about a two or three. My pulse is elevated from the norm and I feel somewhat more excitable. Rather like closing in on a killer.” He smiles as he says that. He likes that feeling. “Just to forgo unnecessary awkwardness in light of my general disposition, I see no reason to fight the event’s effects. It’s not exactly hardship for either of us. I rather think we enjoyed it last time. I’m sure we could very easily perfect the technique with some applied studies.”

He shares a smile at the comparison to the rush of adrenaline their cases cause, knowing that both of them feel rather the same way about it even if John is less inclined to express it outright. It does rather feel like that, though; the fluttering of a quickened heartbeat, excitement tingling in his fingertips and the want to do and the slipping hold on patience...

"Applied studies." He sputtered slightly, but more in flustered bemusement then discouragement. "Always have to be scientific about everything, don't you?" John said with a fond grin, eyes soft and quite obviously showing he had no mind to change that about his friend. The doctor raised his hands in an offering gesture before dropping them back against his thighs. "All right then. We'll let it happen. No arguments here."

"I could forgo the scientific method and instead just run with 'dear John, fancy a shag?'." Sherlock kicked his shoes off, the black loafers joining a less than neat pile of silicon toys by the bed. "Rather you didn't die from the resulting laughter all the same. A few giggles is one thing but me as the king of comedy detracts from any hope of ever being viewed as a sexual entity."

"Ah, we wouldn't want that." John said, and with a flair of inspiration approaching the other man and cupping his face between his hands, grinning against Sherlock's lips as he went up on his tiptoes for a quick kiss, sliding their noses against one another playfully. "Why, drop a few more smooth lines like 'fancy a shag' and I'll be beating back interested parties with a stick." It was far too fun to tease, muffling his snickers against Sherlock's soft bottom lip.

Sherlock chuckled back in turn, his arms wrapping around John. "I'm sure you know much better lines. But you're already wooed so there's really no point in borrowing a few."

"Such a charmer." John muttered with a fake affronted frown, feeling the familiar flutter that drew him to this man in the first place (the promise of adventure, the thrill of mystery, the way he smirks, the long line of his silhouette...) but sparking much faster and with such a ferocity that wasn't recognizable as his own emotions. Like a clothe doused in gasoline and set aflame. He in turn slid his hands down Sherlock's jacket front with obvious appreciation in the firm stroke of his fingertips, curving around the detective's slim waist and settling in the small of his back.

Sherlock pulled them closer with his large hands against John's back, his left trailing up to the back of John's head to cup against the curve of his skull. He felt quite a bit more confident in kissing. They'd made a fair habit of including short, labial expressions at tea, in passing, and in addition to 'good night'. Sherlock disliked how observation came to a standstill with their faces close and their eyes traditionally closed. But letting his hands and body observe what his eyes no longer could describe was becoming an increasingly appealing experience.

He kissed his lips gently, toying with his bottom lip, drawing on it to make it fuller where nature had deemed it thin. It was only through tactile exploration that its thinness was even notable. John's tongue so often swept across them it had become the more obvious feature of the soldier's mouth.

The kiss was slow and sensual, Sherlock's clever mouth nibbling at sucking on his lip and making John's knees quiver. A low, soft noise rumbles in his throat and he kisses back as best he can without messing up the flow of the detective's actions, sliding his hands down to appreciate the curve of Sherlock's arse before sliding up under his shirt to grip at warm skin and shifting shoulder blades.

John let himself be properly kissed, continuing his purr of appreciation as they circled in swaying steps around one another, pressed close and tight, only stopping when the bedding he had pulled to the floor brushed against their ankles. For an easy stumble or push or gentle guiding down should the need arise, since the desire was already there.

Sherlock's kisses lingered as he drew them slowly apart, hands roaming back down John's firm form as he assessed the clothing issue--the part where they were both still quite dressed. The voices that told him to rip John's clothes to shreds and seize him naked on the knotted blankets under foot were easily ignored in favor of the much more practical mind still in control that quested with assertive force for the tab of John's fly. The jumper being a pull over made undressing John's top half much too involved.

John unbuttoned Sherlock's jacket and the shirt under it with the same speed of his companion on his own clothing. He pressed his nose against the hollow of Sherlock's cheek as the kisses broke apart and those long fingers grasped at his trousers. Inspired, John began nipping at Sherlock's jawline, down the strong tendons of that pale neck as he pressed the newly unbuttoned clothes off his friend's shoulders, letting them fall onto the unused waterbed.

He was inclined through mental whisperings to press Sherlock down, hold him down, make up for him the effort he had taken to woo John. To show him pleasure. To own him.

That last part made him mentally flinch, only to be captured once again with the act of undressing--leaving his jumper on as well for he was too occupied with lavishing Sherlock's collarbone with kisses--and easily distracted him from the rather possessive thoughts he'd had a moment ago.

Sherlock wasn't much for foreplay. Teasing and drawing out sensations was sort of outside the point of sex. He liked the feel of John's lips on his skin but generally the idea of it sailed over his head in these matters. It would have been awkward and difficult for them both to do so at the same time anyway so really John was welcome to tracing the contours of his décolletage--was there a gender neutral term for that?--while Sherlock peeled away the trappings of the soldier's trousers. Pointless as it seemed, there was still a thrill of knowing John accepted his body for what it was despite his usual inclination. It was arousing in ways that were far more surprising than physical stimulation alone.

He slid his hand inside against the fabric of John's pants, his touch firm as he stroked him with his hand before guiding the fabric to fall from his lover's hips.

His. Only in Wonderland and always a blink away from gone forever. It made his want of him surge as the little reminders of how fleeting this could all be urged him to not waste so much as an instant that could be spent with him. Tie the man down, keep him locked away where nothing but Sherlock could attend to him. Let all of Wonderland forget he and John were even there so nothing would ever come between them. John could never leave him or hurt him if he was never allowed out of Sherlock's sight.

It was irrational and stupid to consider and he pushed it back as far as he could, ignoring the glint of metal from the handcuffs he'd discovered in his earlier inspection of the room. John was different. They were different. There was no reason to resort to kidnapping.

John moaned softly, stopping his lavishing of what Sherlock might think to be trivial kisses to tilt his head back and gasp lightly in appreciation of the caresses on his newly exposed lower half. Canting his hips into the light touch, John took a moment to bite at his own lips, trying to gather what little thoughts he could manage given the circumstances.

The world did not exist outside this and rightfully so. Nothing was as important as the man in his arms having all his considerable and amazing focus on one short army doctor.

John reached up and carded his fingers into Sherlock's dark curls, tugging him down with more demand then usual, pressing their mouths together as he in turn slid his hand down to fumble at Sherlock's trouser zipper. The temperature in the room was spiking, as was the rapidity of his heartbeat, and John was determined to make sure that Sherlock was tumbling along in this wonderful hot frenzy as much as he.

Frenzy was a good word for it. Between his body's desires and his mind's insistence, there was nothing but encouragement to leave the trappings of clothes behind them. The uncertainty of their first time was long forgotten along with any hesitancy that he hadn't the mindset to linger on. There was just John and how good it felt to kiss him and how much he needed to hear him moaning and gasping like the time before. He let gravity and John's legs finish the work of removing John's pants while he wrapped his fingers around his shaft, smirking against John's lips at just how hard and needy he was already.

He stepped out of his own trousers as they fell to his ankles, kicking them aside as he tugged at John's bottom lip with his teeth.

"Floor? Wall? Bed?"

With their skin flushed and searing, vocal eloquence was quite unnecessary.

John growled, dragging his fingers over Sherlock's exposed hips and gripping possessively over the small of his back and where the curve of the detective's arse began. He dragged his teeth against Sherlock's top lip as his lower one was ravished, nipping at the flick of his friend's tongue with each suggesting question. Each one offered such possibilities. Even the ridiculous water bed was starting to sound more like an adventurous possibility rather then silly.

"Oh Christ..." John muttered. "Wall first. I want to be..." He wanted to be pressed close. He wanted them to be skin on skin, even with no sexual completion, enough to be buried into one another in any way possible. John backed them up carefully to the nearest wall, flipping them around and pressing Sherlock against it and bracing his hands on either side of the taller man.

Sherlock nodded, finding John's lips again as he pressed his own shoulders into the wall, sinking against it to bow his back rather than his neck to meet John. He held tight to John's hips as he wrapped a leg around the back of his knees, pinning him against him as surely as Sherlock was to the wall. He moaned into their kiss as their bodies burned together, wantonly grinding against John.

Calling a moan from Sherlock made a shiver shoot down John's spine, and he ground back in turn, sucking on the full cupid's bow lips against his. He groped down blindly, hooking his arm under the leg Sherlock had wrapped around him and hoisted it up a little further, keeping the other man pinned against the wall with his hips.

Mind you, he still didn't have a full clue as to what to do with a man in these situations, but going along with what felt good seemed to work out well last time, and this had the makings for a similar outcome. The doctor rocked them together, their exposed cocks sliding against one another in hot, pleasurable strokes and beads of sweat starting to catch on their hipbones and thighs.

John absently wondered if Sherlock had any idea of what he did to the poor doctor. Because the detective was so good at putting to words things that were previously unnoticeable and indescribable with such plaintiff and obviousness that perhaps he'd have better insight into this thing that John could hardly understand himself. John gasped against Sherlock's mouth, tangling the fingers of his free hand with Sherlocks and grasping tight for mental grounding.

Sherlock squeezed John's hand, mind in a tailspin as John inhabited all of his senses. Somehow it was better this time, perhaps in part because his mind was not simply settled on the concept but actively driving him in the pursuit of pleasure. John had likened the atmosphere of the place to an aphrodisiac and the deeper into the carnal call he let himself slip, the more Sherlock had to agree. This wasn't normal for him. It was like enjoying a high with the additional bonus of eventual orgasm. He liked it perhaps more than he should have but only slightly less than he did the assurance that he was in complete possession of John's heart, mind, soul and body.

Sherlock cut off their kiss to duck his lips to John's neck, teeth bared and sinking in roughly to mark him visibly as his lips closed to suck, tongue innocent in its penitent licks. His John. His now and forever and obvious so that even the most idiotic would have to know. He belonged to Sherlock.

"Huhng...!" John made a garbled sound in response to the deep bite, knees wobbling with each apologetic swipe of tongue following it. He could taste the possessiveness in the back of his throat, like it was in the air and in Sherlock's mouth and ringing in his ears.

John pinned their tangled hands together up against the wall with a loud "thunk," curling over the detective as best a man of his height could, head canted to the side to allow the exploration of teeth and tongue to continue on his neck even as he dragged his fingers against Sherlock's thigh, marking in turn with lightly scratching fingers. Mine. Just as much his as he was Sherlock's.

"God, you extraordinary thing..." He muttered, half dazed and through kiss swollen lips.

Sherlock practically growled at the praise, pressing against John as much as possible, free hand demanding there be no space between them as he pressed against his back hard enough to bruise. He would murder anyone who so much as looked at John. Every word from John's lips were for his ears only, every thought for him alone to digest and enjoy. If he couldn't have John to himself, he'd simply have to kill everyone. Including John. Like the heart in the jar he could just keep the pieces of him that mattered and never fear of losing or having to share him ever.

Sherlock moaned against John's skin, pleasure tainted in mild terror. No, he'd never kill John. He could never dream of doing such a thing. That wasn't right; those weren't his thoughts. As much as sense seemed to reason they needed to stop and consider what might be happening above and beyond the sexual stimulation, a foreign hunger in him demanded more. He needed John more than he needed anything in all of creation.

This wasn't about pleasure any more. This was about ownership. Power. The right they had to one another. Somewhere deep in the humming fuzz that was filling his brain John balked at the emotions rushing through him. And the horrifying demanding possessiveness that was inspiring his fingers digging into that lovely skin or his hips crushing bruises into the lovely arch of those hipbones. Snarling against Sherlock's throat, John bit down onto the other's flexing shoulder, opposite his own scar, with ferocity and purpose beyond his characteristic inspirations. He wanted to make Sherlock cry out for him again, make that brilliant brain stutter to a full stop and onto focus on him and him alone. Or completely white out so that the detective could hardly remember his own name, let alone who was causing the sensations.

John balked and choked, the stinging taste of copper on his tongue as he drew back, panting. Blood, from his own tongue, Sherlock's poor shoulder or both, coated his mouth and made it hard to swallow. Somehow during the demanding biting (three times, he recalled the first but not the following two... what was going on?), John had worked a hand down between them and was wrapped around Sherlock's cock, slick with precum. But now he stilled, knowing he needed to realize something, but not quite sure what it was.

The first bite was good--almost necessary to help pull his mind from sensation towards sensible. This was nothing like the slow, sensual encounter that had been their first. Careful, kind, considerate John was breaking through his dermis with his teeth, demonstrating the same lust and need that had bruised his neck from Sherlock's own bite. It wasn't necessarily a bad thing but still it needed to stop before they consumed each other--figuratively but increasingly relevant in the literal sense as well.

The second bite didn't help clear his mind nearly as well as the first. John at his most base and carnal, fueled by instinct and desire, was an intensity of presence that made Sherlock tremble not in reservation but excitement. If people saw these marks, they'd know. They'd know someone loved him, that someone lusted for him, that he was wanted in the company of another in all manner of ways. He could rub in each imbecile's face that he had beaten all odds and become worthy of love. They were private people, John and himself, but his own base desires wanted nothing more than to broadcast their naked bodies while entangled as proof to everyone who had ever mocked him that loving him was possible. That John did.

The third bite was nearly the end of him, the hand stroking him filling the tiny sparks of pain in his brain with almost too much data to process. God on his cock and the devil in John's teeth put him right on the edge, panting John's name, nails scarring paths across his back and shoulders. "John, I... something is--" no, that thought was forgotten. Nothing was wrong. Everything was right and was only getting better. "Oh, God, I need..I need to..." Sherlock flexed his raked thigh against John's hip, needing it back even as it offered such amazing contact, needing both feet to remain standing as his nerves sizzled and made his muscles seize with the expectation of fruition.

Edited 2012-10-08 03:11 (UTC)

John hissed, arching against (or was it into?) the score of Sherlock's nails into his back, absently feeling blood rising to the surface but deciding it wasn't a matter to be concerned with as pleading came into the atmosphere. He let go of the thigh in his grasp reluctantly, easing it down to the ground in a show of tenderness usual to the doctor's demeanor but out of context with the frenzy of their current coupling.

There was a desire in him to slow this down. To drop to his knees and slowly kiss at the injured areas of that leg. To lap at the pooling sweat and pre-cum against Sherlock's hip and perhaps, if he felt brave enough, to take the detective into his mouth and suck him off, as inexperienced in that area as he was. In the back of his mind, the offer to do that felt rather romantic and appropriate for their second sexual experience together.

Instead, he dug his fingers into his friend's desperately canting hips. "Tell me what you need, Sherlock." John kissed up to those dark curls, matted with sweat and plastered on Sherlock's forehead. Meanwhile his hand started moving faster on his partner's flushed cock, thumbing the head and grinning to himself with each broken off sentence that stumbled past Sherlock's lips. The detective could hardly string his words together, and the thought made a made rush of emotions tighten in his chest and for arousal to pool liquid hot in his stomach. Mine.

"You. Just you." Sherlock bit his own lip to try to stop the rising action in his body. He hated to be first again but John was amazing and everything felt intensified. Maybe if he came, he could think again and remember what had been so pressing in his mind the few times his thoughts had strayed from John, sex, and how he was never letting the man leave this room ever again.

He grabbed John by the sides of his face, forcing him to meet his lips and kiss him, bruising intention in the clash of their teeth.

John groaned heartily into Sherlock's mouth, kissing back with abandon as his hand moved in quick, loose jerks over Sherlock's hot prick. HIs other hand, his hand that had been scoring lines into that lovely hip, slid down and behind, fingertips circling feather soft behind the detective's balls and against the edges of his hole. Not pressing, just stimulating in slow, torturous sweeps. If Sherlock needed him, he'd give him everything he wanted and then some.

Just bend him over and take him. The thought flit, searing and horrible and tempting through his veins, and John let out a low whine of disproval, though it could easily have been mistaken for an overwhelmed moan. Because the next thing he knew pleasuring Sherlock was once again the soul focus of his being. This was his entire purpose in life. Making Sherlock his and his alone. "Beautiful, amazing, fantastic, wonderful..." He mumbled under his breath between demanding kisses.

Sherlock's canting hips stuttered at the light touches below, his eyes widening in awareness where they had been closed tight as he tore at John's scalp with his orgasm. John's name felt ripped from his throat, his encouragement flooding him with ecstasy even as he fucked John's fist till he felt drained of everything, his less than conscious mind curious about the new touch he rocked into on the down-stroke of every thrust.

He'd neglected John again. He was rather adept at forgetting his partner's pleasure when faced with his own. A note to himself: pin John next time, make John see stars first. First or second, he needed John to come now. He needed to feel it on his hands and hear it in his breath. He wrapped his hand around his cock, stroking him as he knew John liked it, his own breath still shallow and labored as he leaned heavily into him.

John did not feel neglected. Feeling Sherlock trembling under his fingers, eyes wide and unseeing with the rush of pleasure and the cry of his name had John near over the edge alone. Biting his lips until bleeding, he watched as Sherlock shuddered against him, stroking him through the aftershocks, not once remembering his own cock until long, cool fingers were wrapped around it.

He gasped, finally releasing his hold on the other man to scrabble at the wallpaper for purchase, his own arousal rushing back to him. With Sherlock's wet pants in his ear, it wasn't long before John was climbing towards the edge, his body strung taunt like a bow.

Sherlock bites and nibbles, hissing against his ear with words he's done well not to vocalize. But he knows John gets off on the sound of his voice and the warning thoughts telling him not to say the things in his head are not nearly loud enough to drown out the things running through his mind.

He strokes him faster, making sure to rotate like he likes, his own body burning against his skin. "You are mine and I will erase every person who has ever touched you before me from your head if I have to carve open your skull and remove every memory one second at a time. You are mine, do you hear me? Mine forever and I will never, ever, share you. Mine even if I have to kill you to keep you."

The words and their meaning register, even through the haze of mounting pleasure. John tries to tell himself that at this point, Sherlock could say whatever he damned well wished and it would have been hot. But as he recognizes the dark tone of actual intent behind the detective's biting declarations, so too his blood sings hotly in his ears and his hips break their rhythm in a frantic stutter.

"Sherlock...!" What starts out as a noise of shock turns into a low, pleading moan. "Oh, fuck, that's--" John's eyes roll back under fluttering eyelashes and he gives a ragged, choked gasp as he comes suddenly, entire body jerking at the intensity. John barely notices as he slumps into the other man, panting and mind a racing fog.

What the hell was that?

That was the positive reinforcement of very bad thoughts. John's reaction, the feel of his shuddering against him, of his breathing and his sweat and fluids, his heartbeat and cooling skin all melting into Sherlock as they grasped at each other as though skin could be something shed and moved into, their individual bodies far too small and limiting for the efforts made to break through and inhabit each other.

Sherlock held John close to him as he let his back sink against the wall, dropping them both slowly to the floor as everything buzzed and revealed just how exhausting their efforts had been. He would not give John an inch, folding his legs around him, cocooning him possessively as he tucked him in against his chest.

There was no clarity in completion. There was a slight terror in how much he meant the words when he said them, even if the urge to make good on it was subsiding in their embrace.

John let himself be bundled tight against the other man, his own arms looped limply over Sherlock's hips and his head tucked under Sherlock's chin. He knew the intensity and implications of what just happened, but his brain wasn't quite wired to process it at the moment. Instead, he was held and held back in turn, basking in the warm hum that wasn't quite fading like it was supposed to.

He could hear the detective's heartbeat, slowly easing into a steady th-thumping, and he followed the sound back into reality. And the man who had suggested slaying him to the point of making John orgasm. The doctor shivered, but perhaps not as repulsed as most sane people would feel. His blood sang a little.

"Sherlock..." He began, unsure what to say.

Sherlock dug his nails into John's skin, part of him wanting to cut off the man's air to keep the last word from his lips his name. That intensity needed to go away. And the more resolute Sherlock felt in the need to ignore it, the easier it seemed to become. But, god, it would be so easy. One moment of trust and then snap as his vertebra slid aside and his spinal cord severed...

"I think this event is more dangerous than previously hypothesized," Sherlock said, though it was impossible to deny the physical effects of their less that careful or considerate actions.

"Yeah..." He muttered, trying to not hide his face into Sherlock's neck and pretend this slowly twisting climb wasn't happening. That he wasn't already thinking of pushing the other man down, tying him up, demanding more and more from him when he knew it wasn't something Sherlock was interested in giving. Nor was he interested in taking. Not like that. What was going on in his head?

"Something's not right." He groaned, shifting against the sweat sticky body surrounding him. "What should we do?"

Sherlock took a deep breath, his mind settling slowly. "I'd say to separate and avoid each other for the rest of the event but I have a feeling that would prove difficult and ineffective. I'm not sure what is causing an elevation of desires. Even now I can't stop thinking about lobotomizing you. The desire to have you to myself damn the consequences or means is... it's not good. It might be best to make use of the handcuffs for your own safety. At least until we know what's causing this."

The Adventure of the Impulsive Partners

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