Title: Say It!

Rating: M

Pairings: John/Sherlock

Warnings: A modicum of smut, more than my usual.

Word Count: 1,030

Summary: Sherlock and John are in bed. Sherlock is being a bossy boots. John just wants to sleep.

Say It!

"Say it," growled Sherlock through the earlobe he'd caught between his teeth.

On hands and knees, Sherlock loomed over John, straddling him, as predatory and playful as a cat. He'd been at John, teasing him for over five minutes, but John stubbornly refused to engage him and pretended to sleep on. Irregular breath, breaking smile; Sherlock was damned if he'd reward such a pitiful performance. Letting go of John's ear, he shifted his weight, rolling John left then right in the bed.

"Say it, John," Sherlock purred insistently against John's throat.

He leaned in to nuzzle and lick the smooth, air-cooled skin. Meanwhile, all stealth, Sherlock's right hand dove low, seeking the thick-thatched warmth, the prodigious nest of pubes that covered John groin. So was it with Captain John Watson, Sherlock thought; cool and smooth and army-trim on the surface, warm and furred and streelish underneath.

The smell of John, his heat, so close, made Sherlock grow increasingly impatient for a response. Splaying his fingers, he burrowed in deep and gripped. John's eyes flew opened. He glanced at Sherlock, then at the clock on the nightstand, before slamming his eyes back shut.

"Clinic in an hour," John pronounced with military firmness. "Need sleep."

"Say it and I'll let you," Sherlock told John's left nipple.

The puff of air from Sherlock's words caused John to jump. He wriggled in protest and tried to pull up the covers, but they were pinned beneath Sherlock's knees. With a huff of exasperation, John opened his eyes. He frowned and gave Sherlock a withering stare.

"No, you obsessed bastard, you won't."

Sherlock hummed his agreement, lowered his head, and sucked.

John groaned. He tried to push Sherlock off him, but the effort was weak and half-hearted.

"Sherlock, this idea of yours—it's ridiculous." John's breath had begun to hitch. "You're the one with the French grandmother, not me. Besides, I don't look anything like him."

Sherlock let John go with a sticky pop. John's expression had softened a bit, but he still looked far from amenable. Sherlock had more convincing to do. Even though John's cock bumped with interest at the back of Sherlock's hand, Sherlock knew that he was not ready to give in. At least not yet.

"Not here," Sherlock said, stroking a line from John's crown to his chin with his left hand. "Here." Sherlock tightened his low-down grip with his right.

John's eyes widened then narrowed.

"And you know this how?" John sounded somewhat skeptical, somewhat amused, and somewhat aroused.

"Extrapolation, John. He's got quite the virile moustache, not unlike the one you grew last summer."

John giggled, tried again to push Sherlock off, gave up almost immediately, and giggled again.

"For a bet, Sherlock. I grew it for a bet, a bet that I won, if you remember."

"Did you?" Sherlock smiled and slid his hand around the thick base of John's erection.

John groaned again. He stared up at Sherlock with a mix of frustration and desire.

"You're not going to let me sleep, are you?" John said finally, resigned.

"Not until you say it."

"And let you have your wicked way with me," John added, dryly.

Sherlock had begun to stroke John lightly, in the noncommittal way that drove John mad. Indeed, John had begun to arch his back and cant his hips, and his breath was now truly ragged. He'd grasped the bed sheet with both hands in an attempt to steady himself, but it was doing little good.

"Oh, John Watson, how well you know me."

Sherlock added a graze of nail to his stroke, just to show that the opposite was true as well. John groaned a third time and looked up at the ceiling as if seeking divine intervention. Sherlock took pity and stilled his hand. Sherlock could feel John relax beneath him; pliant body, pliant mind. Sherlock would get what he wanted.

"Fine. But you have to kiss me first. Properly. Then I'll say it. I promise."

It amused Sherlock to hear John try to negotiate from his weak position, one of near total subjugation. Such pluck deserved a reward, especially one that Sherlock would enjoy too.

Sherlock released his hold and took John's face gently in both hands. He liked looking into John's face when John yielded to him. John's stubborn jaw had gone slack, and his desert-tanned cheeks bore a flush of light pink. And John's eyes… They were so very dark, warm and inviting. But there was something else there in John's eyes, something lurking beneath; an element of untamable mischief that Sherlock found to be absolutely irresistible.

Unable to prolong the moment any longer, Sherlock, slowly, lowered himself into the kiss. He never made it. Before he could react, John's leg came around, hooking Sherlock about the chest and toppling him backwards into an awkward heap. Seconds later, John was perched on top of him—Sherlock was totally immobilized. His bent legs were pinned to the side by the bulk of John's weight, while his back was pressed flat into the mattress by John's forearm, masterfully positioned between Sherlock's windpipe and clavicle. Sherlock could only stare up in admiration at his small blond conqueror.

"Vive la Gaule!" John crowed.

He raised an arm above his head in victory before swinging it down, giving Sherlock's bare arse a resounding smack. Sherlock roared in outraged. Then he laughed so hard that his eyes teared and his stomach ached. John joined him, making whole bed shake. It was a full minute before Sherlock could speak.

"Well, John, you said it, as promised. I knew it would suit you, my diminutive warrior. It doesn't matter that you aren't French-it's the spirit of the thing that matters. Besides, reading Asterix le Gaulois was my forbidden childhood pleasure. You're my adult one. It's only natural that this sort of fetish would develop."

Sherlock ignored John's look of utter bemusement and continued.

"Anyway, to the victor…"

He raised his eyebrows suggestively. John laughed and gave Sherlock a longing look before sighing and shaking his head.

"Later. Tonight," John said, and he planted a kiss on Sherlock's forehead.

John hopped out of bed, pulled on his bathrobe, and, with no further ado, headed for the shower. Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows, listened, and smiled—John was humming La Marseillaise.

-fin-