Title: In Which Gratuitous Sex Ensues

Pairing: John/Sherlock

Rating: M

Warnings: Rimming, slash, blink and you'll miss it cum play. PWP like whoa

Spoilers: None

Word Count: 1615

Disclaimer: Not mine

Summary: John enjoys taking condescending, calculating, arrogant Sherlock and making him human with just his hands and mouth.

A/N: My first Sherlock fic and of course it's porn *is not ashamed* I'm currently obsessed with this show so I decided to give it a shot. Hope you enjoy and sorry for any glaringly obvious Americanisms *is American*

The room is lit only by the glow of a streetlight streaming in through the half pulled blinds. It pools in the hollows of Sherlock's body, seems to cradle the malleable, slender curves of his body, glints off the handcuffs that hold him to the headboard.

John ignores the clutter of Sherlock's room around them, and concentrates on only this, on the man's body stretched out and willing before him. All long taunt lines and pale skin stretched over endless limbs, just begging to be marked with John's fingers and teeth.

He shivers at the thought and moves to drag a slow, gentle finger down the shallow indent of Sherlock's chest and stomach, feels the muscles twitch and shift at the barely there touch.

He repeats the gesture with the pressure of his nail, hard enough to leave the evidence of his touch as a faint red line. John watches the color bloom and leans forward to sooth it with the flat of his tongue, ending at Sherlock's navel, dipping in to taste the salt of his skin.

At the soft, bitten off sound he looks up to see Sherlock watching him, eyes shining silvery in the strange light, and full bottom lip pressed hard between his teeth. When he releases it, it's a healthy pink and glistening moist with his saliva, taunting him with its lush ripeness.

John rears up to lick into the waiting heat and bites deeper into the tender flesh, turns it lurid red and swollen. John takes Sherlock's mouth, coaxes his way in and laps away the lingering taste of tea and arrogance until Sherlock is making broken sounds and fucking into his mouth with that wicked tongue.

Steeped in the taste of him, John can't help but remember the first time he kissed Sherlock, Sherlock's long legs pressed uncomfortably against the edge of the kitchen table, more in a bid to silence him and his never ending deductionsthan from any sudden onslaught of lust.

John had half expected his lips to be made of marble, cold and unyielding and alien. Had thought Sherlock would laugh at him and call him an idiot.

But no, they'd been soft, had felt so full and plush against his own and Sherlock had meltedinto him with a suddenness that spoke volumes. John couldn't help but curl a greedy hand into the tangle of his hair and press him closer. Couldn't help but take everything Sherlock was offering with his parted lips and his long fingers clenched into the fabric of his jumper.

John had been dizzy with the taste and smell of him, even more in awe of the man now that he knew there was more to him than biting intelligence and cold aloofness. John had felt drunk with it, so alive.

He pulls away before he can lose himself in the slick heat of past and present and runs his thumb over the bruised mess Sherlock's mouth has become. He takes a kind of delight in seeing the dark head tilted back, eyes closed now and silent, except for the rapid panting of his breath.

There are no clever words now, only the stark indents of John's teeth.

He moves between the pliant stretch of Sherlock's legs and parts them easily, running the pads of his fingertips over the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, feeling the shudder that runs through them. John places feather light kisses over his knees and calves, his ankles, even the arches of his long boned feet, before slipping back up, nipping hard at the warm junction of his thigh and the sharp flare of his hip bones.

Sherlock's hips are one of John's favorite places to explore. He loves when Sherlock wears only his sleep bottoms and the loose material hangs dangerously low on his slender waist. More than once, he's had to stop what he's doing at the time and drop to his knees before him, curl his fingers over the hollows and nuzzle into the shallow dips and grooves.

Sherlock's eyes always go soft and heavy when he looks down at him, iridescent blue and vulnerable. And when John finally removes the low slung pants altogether and takes the heavy length into the back of his throat, his eyes shut completely.

He can stare, unmoved, at mangled bodies and blood soaked crime scenes, but he has to look away from the sight of John Watson on his knees with his cock disappearing and reappearing from his mouth, head bobbing over and over again.

John is jerked back to the here-and-now by the desperate hitches in Sherlock's breathing.

"Please, John- I- let me-." Sherlock is moaning now and rolling his hips up, trying to force John's mouth where he needs it most.

And it's not just the tone of voice, husky and curling like sin around him, that makes John groan and reach down a shaky hand to wrap around the base of his own leaking cock. It's the fact that Sherlock is begginghim to let him cum.

It makes it nearly impossible for John to continue his teasing. He feels a strange sense of power that surges through him and leaves him feeling light headed and so hard he can barely think through the fog of lust. The man who bowed to no one is begginghim. He has to make the ring of fingers tighter before he can catch his breath enough to proceed.

"Turn over, Sherlock," he breathes out, pushing at the rapidly bruising hips until he complies, handcuffed wrists twisting against the headboard and fists tight once he's lying on his stomach. He looks flushed in the filtered light, sweaty and delicious against the cream of his sheets. No longer untouched and perfectly tailored, but delightfully debauched.

John layers himself over Sherlock and buries his face in his riot of curls, inhaling the scent of soap and formaldehyde for a long moment, licking the salt sweaty nape of his neck, the shifting blades of his shoulders, nipping at the bowed line of his spine until he reaches the round barrier of his buttocks.

He's not quite willing to be barricaded, though, not tonight, and parts the fleshy globes with greedy hands, tongue flitting out to tease Sherlock's puckered opening with soft kitten licks, breathy whimpers escaping the man below him with every touch.

When John flattens his tongue and licks firmly at the muscle and lower to his perineum Sherlock makes a keening, desperate sound and begins to writhe against the bed sheets, mindlessly searching for friction and relief for the heavy ache pooling between his legs.

The taste of Sherlock is burning hot here and John feels like he could devour him, open him up with just his tongue for hours and bask in the desperate, needy heat of him forever. He wants to push as far as he can, as deep as his cock goes when John is buried inside him. He stiffens his tongue and presses inside, taking more, the flavor exploding across his senses, tastes where he's musky and smooth and strong.

He pulls at Sherlock's hips until he's braced on his knees and lets him rut roughly against the intrusion, low sobs ripping from his chest in tandem with the rocking of his body. Let's Sherlock move and take even as his jaw begins to ache and saliva paints his chin.

John presses in two spit slick fingers along side his tongue and grazes his prostate, Sherlock howls and clenches vice tight, grinding into the pleasure. The handcuffs clank rhythmically as he rolls into the touch.

It takes only a few more rough pumps of fingers and tongue and he's streaking the sheets with his cum, breath hitching, back arching sinuously, moaning and panting out his release.

John can't help but love doing this to Sherlock. Taking him apart with just his mouth and fingers. Reducing him to this panting, desperate, touch starved creature. Stripping away the calculating look in his eyes and leaving them blown and glazed and wanting. He loves that he can make him human.

John groans and pulls back, strips his cock harshly with his free hand, fingers still buried inside that deep clenching heat, and comes over the swell of his bottom with Sherlock's name a ragged, slurred sound in the back of his throat.

He stays swaying on his knees sucking in deep gasping breaths and watches his cum dripping slowly down the cleft of Sherlock's bottom. He pulls his fingers out and presses them back in coated in the tacky fluid, gives in to the base desire to claim what's his, revels in Sherlock's approving groan.

It's not until Sherlock is fairly sagging with exhaustion that he moves to unlock the cuffs, wiping his own mouth and the cum from Sherlock's backside and situating them in a section of the bed that's not gummy with their release.

They collapse together on the now rumpled sheets. Sherlock tugs John close and ignores the slightly unpleasant slide of sticky skin.

Sherlock's wrists will be bruised tomorrow. As will his hips and shoulders. But Sherlock doesn't seem to care, and merely makes a soft contented sound and burrows a bit closer, entangling John within the welcome grasp of his long, pale limbs.

"Goodnight," John murmurs. Sherlock buries his face in John's sweat spiked hair and trails a languid hand down his spine.

He's asleep within moments, the streetlight still embracing him in its gentle glow.

John smiles, breathing in the scent of sex and Sherlock and follows him soon after.

Hope you all enjoyed!