Rent

I've just been playing about a bit with some different techniques, and wondered what you think of this: A bit of smut with stream-of-consciousness thrown in. Please review and let me know if I'm going in the right direction with this method...

Mike Stamford is on call. This isn't a problem in John's book. They've been medical students together, after all. They've pulled enough 100 hour shifts together to know that when the call comes in, even if you are in the pub having a genial pint with an old mate and watching the footie, you don't complain. Which is how John comes home earlier than expected, and how he gets the biggest shock of his life.

It is only about ten. He's watched the end of the football on his own, and then walked back. It is a clear night, with a soft, mild wind and it is pleasant. He feels a pleasant glow. Everything is very pleasant. He plans a mug of Ovaltine and 'Match of the Day' and then a good long sleep because he's got no shift in the morning, so he can lie in.

Sherlock's left the landing light on. Funny. Must have gone out for some reason. Wonder why?

He hears a groan as he pushes the key into the lock, and suddenly has a horrible vision of a disaster, an experiment gone wrong, Sherlock lying on his back on the kitchen floor amongst shards of glass, punctured like St Sebastian.

He could be bleeding to death while I'm out here fumbling with my bloody keys like a half-wit!

This adds impetus to his struggle with the lock.

But Sherlock is not lying on the kitchen floor bleeding to death. Sherlock is leaning with his back to the mantelpiece, his long arms resting along its length. His silk shirt is unbuttoned, his white body gleaming in the lamplight. His head is thrown back, lolling, eyes closed, lips parted just slightly. Those lips are swollen too, puffy from hungry kisses. Kisses from the man who is kneeling in front of him. Man? Maybe that's too strong a word because this creature may or may not even be twenty, with blonde shaggy hair. His head bobs urgently at Sherlock's groin.

John erupts.

'Christ!'

Sherlock's eyes shock open, and he is immediately struggling away from the boy. John sees the reddened, bulbous head of his cock pop out of the boy's mouth, slick with precome and spittle, as Sherlock frantically tries to tuck himself back into his trousers.

'You never said you had a boyfriend,' the boy smirks, his lips sticky and lavicious. 'Give us another tenner and I'll do you both.'

John roars. He grabs the boy by the scruff of the neck and drags him down the stairs, yelping complaints.

'I'll get the coppers on you, you bastard!'

John flings the front door open, carts the boy out onto the street and throws him bodily, lifts him off the ground in his rage and disgust.

'Get the fuck away from here, you little cunt!' He screams. I'll wake the whole fucking street up if I have to and I don't fucking care!

As he slams the door shut again behind him, Mrs Hudson peeps out of her flat.

'John, what on earth…?'

'Not now, Mrs H,' he growls and storms back upstairs. He slams the flat door so hard the glass rattles in the window sashes.

Now for the screaming match.

'In our house, Sherlock! In our fucking home! How the fuck could you do that?'

'You don't understand, John, I-'

'Too fucking right I don't understand! A rent boy! A prostitute! A fucking prostitute in our home! You're a detective, for fuck's sake! A rent boy! Christ! What were you thinking of? And don't even think about giving me some bollocks about research because this is me you are talking to, and this is my home, for Christ's sake!'

Sherlock's eyes flash and he knows the worm has turned. Right, now I'm in for it. Tongue-lashing, Holmes-style. Well bring it on, sunshine, I'm not afraid of you.

'Oh, and like that's any different from you bringing your women back here?'

'What?'

'You wine them and dine them, you take the out to the cinema, you buy them drinks, and then they let you fuck them – in our house, John. Don't tell me that's any different from prostitution! Because it's not as if you love them. It's not like it's any kind of relationship. You do it for the sex, don't try to tell me you don't! And I have to listen while you fuck them! I have to listen to them moaning like they mean it, and all the time you know and I know that the bitches are faking it!'

'You're unbelievable, do you know that? You are fucking unbelievable!' He goes to turn around, head for the stairs, and then has second thoughts.

'You know what. Sherlock? At least they want to be with me.'

That was a nasty shot. Below the belt. But he deserves it. In our house, for fuck's sake!

He storms up to his bedroom and slams the door, sinks down onto the end of the bed, head in hands.

Oh Christ. Oh God. What am I going to do? What the fuck am I going to do? He's had a fucking prostitute in my home. How many others have there been? Has he done it all over the house? I'm a fucking doctor, for Gods sake! It's not like he doesn't know about STDs. What the fuck am I going to do?

There is a sharp rap on the door.

'John? John, please? We need to talk.'

'Fuck off!'

Pause. Then scratching with fingernails on the wood. A whimpering voice. 'Please John. Let me explain? I can explain if you'll let me?'

'Yeah, right. Don't try your manipulative crap on me, Sherlock, I've seen it too many times!'

Silence. Then a scratchy thud against the door. Head. Forehead probably, while he thinks. Knows I know he's thinking. Knows I am waiting for the excuses. Why the fuck am I waiting for excuses? Why the fuck am I even listening?

'Okay, you want the truth? I'll give you the truth.'

Pause. Okay, you're waiting for a response, but I'm not giving you one, you cunt, so fire away, I dare you!

'I can't stand it anymore, John. I've tried. I've tried so hard but I can't. Living with you. Loving you like this. Wanting you like this. It's torture. I thought I could do it but I can't. Lately its been so bad…. I tried in the shower, tried to, well, you know, but the thing is, all I can think of is you in the shower before me. I can smell your shampoo and I think of you standing there naked, and it just makes it worse, John. I can't help it. I've tried to block it out, block you out, but I can't because you are always there, always, well, you.

'I realised I was going to go mad if I didn't do something. I couldn't tell you. How can you tell your straight house mate that all you can think about is his beautiful body and what you want to do to him? It was all I could think of, finding someone to help me release the tension. It was stupid and it was wrong, and I shouldn't have brought him back here, but I wasn't thinking. I wasn't thinking about anything except wanting you. Loving you. Because I do, John, I do. You make life worth living, and if I lose you, I don't think I can live alone again. Please, John. Please listen to me. I'll do anything to make it up to you. Please?'

Oh fuck. Oh, you bastard. You know just how to play me, don't you? Hit me where it hurts and then kick me while I'm down, and now I'm fucked. Proper fucked.

He wrenches the door open and Sherlock is standing there, eyes wide with fear. He can see the pulse throbbing in the man's alabaster throat, see the sweat on his upper lip. This is fear, real fear. Sherlock isn't faking – John can tell when he's faking, even if other people can't.

Fuck, he means it. Really means it. And now he's looking at me and reading me, and fuck, he knows what I'm thinking right now. He knows that image of that boy's head in his lap keeps running behind my eyes. He knows I've seen his cock, and he knows I want to see it again, and he knows I can't fucking help myself, even though I want not to want to, God, so much. And he knows I hate him for it, and he knows what I'm going to do next. You bastard, you fucking beautiful fucking bastard, Sherlock Holmes.

He grabs Sherlock by the thin fabric of his shirt and slams him against the bedroom wall, so hard it knocks the breath out of him in a gust that blasts John face with sweetness. He thrusts his body up against Sherlock's, pinning his heaving ribs against the plaster, pushes his face right into the detective's and snarls.

'Nobody touches you but me, Sherlock! Nobody! Right?'

'Yes, John,' Sherlock pants, eyes wide, pupils suddenly dilating with shocked realisation.

'Because you're mine, you bastard, you understand that?'

'Yes, John.'

'Every fucking inch of you, right?'

'Yes.'

'Nobody sucks you or kisses you or touches you but me. Not in this house, not anywhere.'

'Yes, John.'

He slides his hand under the placket of the shirt, and the skin is so soft, so cool, the muscle so taut, fluttering under his fingertips, and oh Christ help me but that is the best thing I ever felt in my entire life.

And then he kisses Sherlock. With lips and mouth and tongue and hands and Oh God help me, this is just perfect. My head is spinning. I want you so much, Sherlock. So much I can't even see. My God, how do you do this to me? I love you. God, I love you.

And then Sherlock slithers down John's body.

Oh Christ no, he's not, God, Oh, God! Yes. Oh God, Sherlock. How the fuck did you learn to do that? Oh God, that mouth. Your mouth. Oh yes, there. Yes. Oh God.

The dark head moves between his legs, clever fingers caressing the base of his cock, rolling his balls, stroking. And that hot, succulent mouth gorges on him, tongue swirling and flickering, touching the tenderest places, knowing just how to drive him wild. He can't help himself. He grabs onto the man who is suddenly becoming his lover, left hand knotted in dark curls, right gripping a muscular shoulder through thin cloth. Pale eyes look up at him through dark fringes of lashes, filled with love.

Oh God he loves me. He really loves me. Look at him. This is him. This is the real Sherlock. And he wants me. He wants me. Why does he want me? Oh God, I want him so much. How did I never know this? How did I hide it from myself?

And John is unable to help himself. He drags Sherlock to his feet and plunges into his face with searing kisses. Increasingly desperate, frantic, they cling to one another until Sherlock pulls back, his lips twisted in a plea.

'Please John, please? I need you inside me. God, I need you inside me so much. Take me, John. Please?'

Sherlock is begging me. Actually begging me. How did I get this lucky?

He slides his hand down, sinks his fingers unto Sherlock's muscular backside through the fine wool of his exceptionally well cut trousers, and for a moment is filled with the vision of that backside slapping against his loins, of the sensation of ploughing into his white flesh. The scent of his incredible body fills his nostrils.

I think I may faint. I may actually faint. He wants me. He wants me inside him. He wants me to fuck him. Oh Sherlock. Oh God, yes.

'Yes, Sherlock,' he breathes. 'God, yes.'

And Sherlock actually wails.

Then they are tugging off one another's clothes. The buckle of John's belt chimes as he wrestles his trousers off. Sherlock, naked, crawls on his hands and knees across the duvet, presenting his arse in all its glory.

'You don't need to convince me,' John growls at him, pulling off his second sock.

'Want you,' Sherlock moans, flinging himself onto his back with an extravagant flourish.

Christ. He's so pale. No, more than pale. He glows like moonlight. Like he's lit from inside by candles. That skin. That vein on his chest. I want to lick it. Fuck, I'm going to lick it. Look at him. He's like a huge porcelain dish. I could eat sushi off that belly. I want to eat sushi off that belly. I want to lick jam off that belly. I need to taste that skin. I need to taste him right now.

Naked, he crabs onto the bed, pushing Sherlock's long legs apart.

God look at those muscles flex! I have to touch that, I just have to –

So smooth. Even the hair on his legs is smooth. How does he do that?

Then he finally allows himself to look.

Okay, I'm going to look now. But this doesn't mean I'm gay. This doesn't make me a pervert. I'm going to – My God. That's long. Narrower than mine, but. Christ! He's circumcised. I'm not gay. It's just him. It's just his. I don't want anyone else's, just his. But I want it. I wonder what it tastes like? It wouldn't hurt just to – No, not yet, that's too much, I can't. But it looks so good. Is my mouth watering? Jesus, my mouth is actually watering. Okay, I'm going to. Deep breath. And –

Okay, this isn't so bad. Actually it's good. No, scratch that, it's amazing. It resists my tongue. Muscley. Kind of salty. Mmmm. Bacon, maybe? A bit of ammonia. So soft. Like velvet. No, moleskin. Those moleskin trousers I had. Or washed silk. Yes, that's it, washed silk. That vein too. I can feel the pulse with my tongue. Oh, he likes that. Am I doing this right? I have no idea. Not a fucking clue. Don't think it matters. Could probably bite the whole fucking thing off and he wouldn't care right now. Just try and do what he did to me. I mean, it's not like I haven't had it done to me lots of times, how hard can it be? Try the tongue thing. Flicking. Oh yeah, that seems to work. Look at him. Never thought he could look like that. Writhing. God, that's hot. How about this, genius? Yeah? What do you think of that? Not so clever now, are we? Oh God, that's good. How can it be so good?

'Please John,' Sherlock moans, throwing his head back, shuddering on the bed, his skin goosing with desire.

John kneels up, stroking Sherlock's shaft softly. 'You want it? You want it, baby?'

'Yes! Yes! Dear God, yes!'

There are condoms and lube in the bedside drawer. John rolls one on. He's so hard, so desperate, he can hardly bear to touch himself. He daubs lube on top, and then on his fingers.

Sherlock is panting. Rolls his hips up, grabs the back of his knees. John takes a moment to appreciate.

How long have I been a doctor and I never took the time to notice how beautiful this is. This stretch of skin between. So smooth. So perfect. I have to touch him. He's so beautiful. I'm going to touch him.

'You like that?'

Sherlock whimpers, nods, eyes wide as he watches John stroke his perineum, his balls, the tight knot of his anus.

'God, you are magnificent, you know that?'

Sherlock moans, somehow offers his arse more pointedly. John circles his hole with a fingertip.

What do you taste like there, my love? Not today, but I will do it, and you know I will. I can see it in your eyes. You know I'm going to have all of you, every way I can, don't you? You know I know there is nothing you won't give me. So what do you taste like there, my Sherlock? Musky, probably. Earthy, maybe. Salty, definitely.

Oh God, my hand is shaking. I've done this a million times to patients. It's not like I don't know what I'm doing. But, fuck, Sherlock, what you do to me! Look at me! I'm a wreck. You wreck me with those eyes and this fantastic body and I –

Oh. God, so tight. That's it, love, let me in. Let me feel you. God, you're chewing my fingers off in there, mate, what the hell are you doing? More lube. Yes, better. Oh yeah, that's how you like it. More? Yeah. Try two. Is that good? Look at you, you sensuous bastard, you can't get enough. I wish I'd known, my God, I'd have fucked you before, if I'd known you looked this good.

Sherlock grinds his pelvis up, fucking himself on John's fingers.

'More,' he moans. 'More.'

John gives him three, and the opening gapes and sucks at his knuckles hungrily.

Okay, two can play at that game, sweetheart. You want this? You want it?

He crooks his fingers, and caresses Sherlock's prostate, and the man under him thrashes wildly and wails.

'Now, John, for God's sake, now!'

I'm sweating. I haven't even done anything yet, and I'm sweating. God, what you do to me, Sherlock.

Dripping on more lube, John lines himself up, the crown of his cock, against Sherlock's hole, pressing until he gently breaches him. And waits. Lets the body around him settle, accept, then eases in another inch or two, and waits.

Concentrate. Concentrate. You can do this. Just hold on. Concen- oh God, you're so hot. What is that? What are you doing in there? Are you- oh God, Sherlock, don't, because if you do that muscle thing I am just going to come right now like a fucking fourteen year old, and I so don't want to do that because I just want to fuck you so hard you scream my name, and I want to- Just, Oh God Please-

And before he realises what he is doing, John is pounding into the slender body under him, and Sherlock is wailing with joy, pure joy; and the pleasure, the pleasure is more than either of them can stand; and John looks down, and there it is, that long, slim cock, with its slight curve to the left only now it's not curving, its taut and straight and hard and really not straight anymore because its twitching, and he's never seen that before, and then Sherlock is coming and screaming and the plume of pearly come that shoots out of him actually hits Sherlock's collar bone, and the convulsions, the ripples inside overtake them, jerking and throbbing and then John can't see anything anymore except that beautiful elfin face and those eyes, pale eyes, sprung open in shock and ecstasy, and the rippling inside, like a thousand tongues on his shaft, and he plunges on, blind to everything except the pleasure, and then it hits him like a blow in the pubis, and he's coming so hard it feels like his balls are being ripped off, and the soles of his feet and the backs of his legs are on fire, cold white fire and his heart is bursting, exploding, because this is Sherlock, his Sherlock reaching up to him, pulling him down, Sherlock's tongue and Sherlock's mouth and Sherlock's lips and Sherlock's arms and this is just, just, just…

And then he faints.

Licking. Somebody is licking me. Somebody is licking my belly.

John opens his eyes, blinks, and finds he is on his back, and Sherlock is kneeling over him, head bobbing at his waist as he licks up the come that has pooled in John's navel. His own come. Smeared over John's belly when he collapsed on top of the detective. And then he slides up and kisses John, and he can taste that bleachy saltiness on Sherlock's tongue, and Sherlock raises his head and says:

'I love you.'

Fin