The Art Of Sexting, a sherlock fanfic

A/N: The title is perhaps misleading. It should probably be called The Blundering Effort At Sexting because while writing this I discovered that sexting is… not my forte, and Harry has inherited this non-skill of mine. However the story does degenerate into sexy times which are the cookies of fanfiction, really. So if I can tempt you with cookies, read on! :)

As always, I'd like to thank Rheadyn for being my beta (willingly) and for joining me in my fangirlish ways, it's so much more fun when you're not alone!

I'd also like to thank Sauron-The-Computer-Guru for explaining where the buzzing noise in computers comes from... any mention of computer parts is credited to him because I am a technological noob.

Disclaimer: One day Sherlock will be mine. Sadly, that day is not today.

Warnings: Potty mouth John (not really) and slash.

The Art Of Sexting

Harry had a plan. It was a devious plan. John would not approve. Not that John ever approved of her plans… especially not when they involved him, and this plan very much involved him.

Harry might not have a PhD in medicine but she was far from stupid. She knew people and she knew emotions. So she knew, without a doubt, that John was in love with his flatmate. She had noticed early on that ever since John had met Sherlock Holmes he could talk of nothing else. Moreover, even though he mostly complained about him, there was a soft, fond look in his eyes and occasionally he would smile in that obnoxious I'm-happy-and-I-don't-know-why way that was peculiar to the love-struck. Yes, her brother was in love with Sherlock.

Not that he knew it.

John occasionally had absurdly black-and-white vision. He knew there were gay people, he knew there were straight people and he knew he wasn't gay. So he must be straight. It was all perfectly logical… if you were a robot. But people weren't robots, they had emotions and desires and sometimes a straight man could fall in love with another man. Sadly, John was just too stupid and too stubborn to see that.

That's where Harry came in. All she needed was his phone.

"Ah John!" Harry rushed over to her brother and gave him a big hug, kissing him soundly on the cheek while her hand secretly sought out his mobile.

Sherlock's phone beeped a text at him and he deigned to expend the required energy to grab it off the coffee table because John wasn't there to do it for him. That was annoying; John disappearing like that to attend a family dinner of all things. Sherlock never abandoned himfor family.

What are you doing?

Sherlock rolled his eyes. John asked the most inane questions sometimes.

Contemplating my next experiment. You won't like it.

Since you're such a great experimenter why don't you experiment with me?

Sherlock frowned.

I always experiment on you, you just aren't aware of it because it could bias the results.

Well have you ever thought to move your experiments to the bedroom?

He had thought of it actually but:

Not enough lighting and the kitchen is better ventilated.

The texts stopped there (perhaps dinner had started) and Sherlock sank back into the dullness of an empty house. His mind, constantly buzzing with new data like an overtaxed hard drive, involuntarily picked up on the tiny traces of domestic life around him. There was a stain on the carpet where John had spilled some of his tea this morning when he discovered the partially dissected fetal pig on the kitchen table. A worn out spot on the arm of the recliner, soon to become a hole, that John picks at when he's trying to decide how to ask an awkward question. Bits of evidence were scattered about the room; John's medical texts shoved aside where he'd put his wallet; the scarf that he couldn't decide if he needed on the other side of the room; the corner of the carpet folded back from his wandering around the living room asking trivial questions about the case. Stalling. So he'd been reluctant to go, reluctant to leave.

Sherlock's lips pulled up into a slight smile before he quickly pulled them down again. He was doing that often lately. Smiling and thinking of John.

His phone beeped.

I can't stop thinking of you.

Helplessly the smile crept back into place.

Of course not, I'm fascinating.

He thought for a moment then typed out another text.

Come home.

What will I get if I do?

I wasn't aware that you wish to be treated like a pet.

Perhaps I just want you to make me your bitch.

Sherlock snorted.

Impossible. You're not female.

It was another thirty minute before he got another text.

The dessert here is really sticky. If I come home dirty will you lick me clean?

No, that's unsanitary.

Sherlock quickly ran through a mental list of the home cooking John talked about most.

But bring me back some toffee pudding.

Sherlock wasn't particularly fond of sweet things and generally only indulged in them in the presence of Mycroft. (What one wouldn't do to gloat in front of an archnemesis) But he'd recently noticed John eyeing the dessert menus in several restaurants while out on cases; he never got anything but the craving was clear. After their last case Sherlock had taken John to an Italian restaurant and ordered tiramisu for himself. It was atrociously sweet; after taking two bites he'd forced John to finish the rest.

The experience had been an interesting one though. Watching John licking soft white cream off a spoon while humming contentedly to himself was strangely intriguing and almost—

The phone beeped in an irritated fashion.

Here's a case for you to solve. It's the case of why we haven't shagged yet.

Sherlock sighed but before he could formulate a response another text message arrived.

So when I get home why don't you throw me down on the kitchen table and start investigating.

Unbidden, the image sprang to the forefront of his mind. John spread out, willingly, on the table for Sherlock's thorough examination. John, after all, was an interesting specimen; so completely different from anyone else in subtle indefinable ways. Sherlock had a burning desire to learn everything about him, discover all his secrets and horde them for himself.

Go on.

John was immeasurably glad to be home again. Dinner had been a nightmare. His parents had spent the entire night badgering him about finding a girl and settling down while Harry— Harry had just been acting strange. She had been petulant and irritable for half the evening and then disturbingly smug by the time John announced that he needed to leave. Then there was Sherlock. He hadn't texted John all night and that was oddly… disappointing.

Putting it out of his mind John paid the cabbie and made his way up the stairs of 221B Baker Street.

"Hope you didn't go completely round the bend while I was out." John said as he walked into the flat.

"Not at all. I was quite entertained actually."

"Oh? By what?" John asked as he locked the door behind him.

"By you."

John turned around to see Sherlock prowling towards him from the couch. "Er- By me?"

"Yes, John, you've occupied my mind almost since the moment you left."

That was… terrifying. No one should occupy Sherlock's mind; attack, barricade against but never occupy. John opened his month to ask what he meant but didn't get the chance.

"Is that for me?" Sherlock asked, looking at the bag that John was carrying.

"Yeah, I brought you back some toffee pudding." Harry had all but forced it on him.

Sherlock's smile was devious.

"I presume this is the point where I'm supposed to lick it off you?" he said, stepping closer. "Or did you what to lick it off me?"

John's mind came to a screeching halt as he imagined Sherlock's body covered in warm sticky syrup with bits of pudding gathered at his navel as John's tongue— He stopped that train of thought before it could plunge even deeper into forbidden territory.

"Wha—What? He stammered.

Sherlock moved still closer and John took an involuntary step back, bumping into the closed door. Locked door, he corrected himself, feeling a bit like a trapped animal.

"Where's your bravado, John?" Sherlock's eyes shone with amusement. "Haven't you dreamed of this? Wanted it for months now?" He sounded like he was quoting things now. "Do you fantasize about me?"

John would have said 'no', he really would have, if he could find his voice. Because he did NOT fantasize about Sherlock Holmes… Ok, so maybe he'd had one or two fantasies. Three at the utmost. He wasn't counting the one in the shower because it had been Sarah in his mind right up to the moment when Sherlock singsonged "Finally, we've got a hard one, John. Come quickly." through the bathroom door and come quickly he did, with the wrong name on his lips.

But that had been a fluke, sexual desperation… something because John was attracted to women. He liked their gentle curves and soft voices and Sherlock had neither. He was all angles and hard muscle beneath smooth pale skin that seemed to beg for colour. His voice deep and rich, sometimes cutting like glass and sometimes flowing over John's skin like honey. John swallowed.

Sherlock was looking at him like he was expecting an answer. Perhaps he had asked a question, John couldn't quite remember.

"Very well," the detective sighed, "I'll take the initiative."

A hand came up to cup his jaw and then Sherlock was kissing him. His lips were cool and inquisitive as they moved gently against John's mouth. A warm tongue touched his bottom lip and John parted his lips. In surprise. But Sherlock seemed to take this as an invitation to slip that wet tongue into his mouth, exploring in a scientific manner. John found himself responding, kissing Sherlock back, sending his own tongue to investigate the perils of that treacherous mouth. But it was purely out of instinct. In a moment he was going to push Sherlock away and they were going to have a talk. A talk that involved the words 'I'm not gay' and 'WHAT THE FUCK?'. Only his hands appeared to be tangled in Sherlock's soft curls and he couldn't seem to get them free.

Sherlock was pressing him against the door, one hand braced beside his head and the other on his hip. He should probably do something about that, the man might get the wrong impression. In retrospect, sucking on Sherlock's bottom lip was probably not the appropriate response but it elicited such a lovely moan. It reverberated through John like a small earthquake and transformed the kiss. No more gentle exploration, now there were teeth and tongues battling for dominance. John was panting and making small noises that were supposed to be 'no' but sounded a lot like 'yes'.

Sherlock moved his mouth away from John's, licking a path down his neck till he found a particularly tender spot and bit down. Hard.

"Fuck!" John cried, arching his back.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, John." Was the amused reply.

John glared at him.

"Look, I'm not—" The dark-haired man bit the same spot and John saw stars "—Sherlock!" he moaned, heat coursing through his body and making his head spin.

"Very observant, John. You are not, in fact, me." Warm fingers were working their way under his sweater. "Is there anything else astoundingly obvious that you'd like to remark on?" Sherlock punctuated these words by grinding his hips against John's astoundingly obvious erection.

John's hips involuntarily bucked forward seeking more friction. Really, quite involuntarily because he wasn't— Oh, sod it! John gave up. If being gay meant he could have this, this scorching passion that whispered 'danger' to every nerve in his body, then he would gladly tattoo it on his forehead.

The decision, if you could call it that, changed everything. His hands became more assured, his movement more bold and he breathed Sherlock's name every chance he got like a mantra, reminding himself who he was with. His hands found the buttons on Sherlock's shirt and went to work on exposing more deliciously pale skin. His foot hooked behind the detective's leg and pulled him in closer which produced a surprised grunt.

Sherlock' fingers trailed across his chest, rubbing and pinching at his nipples, while he muttered observations against John's ear. Observations about John; the way his body felt, how he tasted, the small sounds he made without realization. Somehow it was all incredibly sexy. It made John's heart beat faster and his face flush with heat. John decided that Sherlock really needed to shut up before he drove him insane with lust so he promptly latched his mouth onto those full lips, chasing down that rapier tongue with the unrealistic hope of taming it.

John was rutting against Sherlock like a teenager, more desperate to get off than he'd ever been in his life. The last few button of Sherlock's shirt hit the floor as he lost his patience and ripped it off him. The detective retaliated by finally pulling off John's jumper.

"You have the most ridiculous sweaters."

"You talk too much."

"You think I'm brilliant." Sherlock's smile was so bright that John didn't have the heart to make a snarky reply.

"Yeah, I do." He agreed.

Sherlock's eyes flared with heat and he proceeded to rediscovered that spot on John's neck that made him whimper and ask for more. Only this time it was better because John could feel the heat of Sherlock's skin against his own and run his hands over his muscular back.

John was achingly hard and frantic when he felt the uncertain brush of fingers at his belt. All the air left his lungs with a whoosh because, yes— that was—

"Oh God, yes! Please, Sherlock!" he groaned as his own hands scrambled at the fastenings of Sherlock's trousers.

Sherlock was quicker and John almost came when he felt those long fingers curl around his cock. He bit his lip and concentrated on pulling Sherlock's pants down far enough to free his straining erection. Sherlock's cock was velvety smooth and pink. John wrapped his hand around it feeling oddly pleased. How many people had been this intimate with Sherlock? How many people would Sherlock trust enough to be this vulnerable with them? John would bet anything the answer was not many. No one, a greedy part of him whispered, I want to be the only one.

John ran his hand up and down the silky length hearing the small stutter in Sherlock's breathing. The detective copied his actions and John quickly got lost in the sensations. He reveled in the noises he was able to draw from Sherlock; his cut off moans, the sound of his heavy panting and the way he called John's name when he twisted his wrist just like that. The pace increased and soon John was bracing his weight against the door for support, his legs shaky and unstable. Sherlock was a quick study and his technique was improving by leaps and bounds.

John was close, so close to just tumbling over the edge. Sherlock was staring at him with bright eyes, examining him in detail, probably cataloguing God knows what and then he said his name like it was a command. Perhaps it was because the next moment John was shuddering and shouting Sherlock's name as he came harder than he could remember. Waves of white-hot pleasure rolled through his body and he was only dimly aware of wet heat on his hand and Sherlock's teeth on his shoulder.

They collapsed on the floor, each trying to catch their breath, and it was a while before John collected his thoughts enough to ask the only question worth asking.

"So not that I er— mind, but why did we have sex?"

Sherlock chuckled softly.

"Your sister is very convincing." Was the cryptic reply.

Harry woke up the next day to discover that she had one new text message from her brother.

Is it too late to give you up for adoption?

Harry smiled. If John was texting her instead of calling screaming bloody murder, then all was well.

A simple thank you would suffice! :)

A/N: Yay! Now I can go back to writing my Sherlock-Harry Potter crossover story :) ... You should all be terrified!