Chapter Text

A noise that sounded suspiciously like bird song reached Sherlock's ears; he twitched his nose and frowned in his sleep. He didn't want to wake up, not yet, not while John was still in bed by his side. Sherlock threw his arm out, searching for John. He wasn't there. A silver eye slit open and peered out over a fluffy pillow. There was an indent in the bed where John had been. It had gone cold; Sherlock groaned a little and rolled over into the middle of the bed. John must have gone in to work early. He licked his lips and blinked in the early morning sun. John forgot to close the curtains, though it was understandable considering previous night's activities... With a yawn, the detective stretched his arms out and rolled onto his side. That's when his eyes fell on the freshly made bed. His face twitched. John had made a convincing argument last night about the particular print on the fabric, but Sherlock was still unsure how to feel about them. To his left Sherlock heard his phone let out an obscene noise. "Aaaah...Sh...sher...aaa! More! Moore..Oh gooood!" The detective's lips quirked. John hated his new text alert noise with a passion, but Sherlock refused to change it. He liked how red it made John, how angry it made him, how aroused he sounded in it. Oh yes, Sherlock would never change it. Rolling over he snatched up the mobile and gazed at it, a smile creeping on his still sleepy face.

Good morning, Sherlock. Have a nice day. – JW

Sherlock rubbed his eyes, yawned and then typed his reply.

Good morning. It is nice sleeping in clean sheets, though I'm still not quite so sure about this… pattern. – SH

John felt his trouser pocket vibrate as he knelt in front of a frightened child at the clinic, his weathered hand warm and soothing on the boy's shoulder. He spoke to him in soothing tones as he examined him. The child had a viral infection. Simple enough. Unlike Sherlock, John actually liked children. He remembered exactly how it felt to be a little boy, remembered the joys and fears of childhood. He rolled his eyes a little at that thought... Sherlock didn't like children because he didn't understand them. Sherlock had never been a child, John was sure of it. He'd always been the bright eyed, analytical genius he was now, and perhaps that was why little bursts of pouting infancy came leaking out of him occasionally. Sherlock never had a childhood, and he was making up for it now. John slipped his hand in his pocket, scanned the text. He smiled gently. Excusing himself from the examination room, he shuffled down the hall to his office, fingers lightly tapping the mobile keyboard.

What's wrong with my sheets, Sherlock? Everything doesn't have to be stark white. I like the pattern. – JW

He slid the phone back in his pocket, and called out to the nurse for the next chart.

Sherlock was ambling around the flat in an oversized shirt that John had bought him last week when he'd complained about his pyjama trousers being too hot. He was absentmindedly pushing things in place when his phone sounded out again. Sherlock smirked and shook his head. Really? He rather loved the fact that John still had those childish sheets, but Sherlock wasn't used to them being on HIS bed. He was used to his white sheets. These were...different.

Yes, but dogs wearing scarves? – SH

Paw prints? Pine trees? – SH

Not a few seconds after he sent the texts off he received another one. Sherlock looked at his mobile and made a face. Lestrade. He growled and muttered darkly under his breath. The man had been hounding him for days now to go to some dance that everyone at the Yard would be going to. Sherlock did NOT want to go.

Lestrade is still insisting I go to that dance. Are you sure you can't get away from the clinic? – SH

Sherlock hoped John would have an excuse to get out of it. The detective would be there with bells on if John would only get that night off, but unfortunately John had insisted that he could not leave the clinic.

Can't. Sorry. – JW

John actually laughed out loud as he shot off the reply. Served Sherlock right, making fun of his worn, comfortable sheets. All right then, so Harry'd given them to him for Christmas, and they were a little ostentatious, but that wasn't the point then, was it? Sherlock needed a little more color in his life, and this dance Lestrade had invited them to was just the ticket. Greg had all but come out and said that Sherlock had to attend if he ever wanted another case thrown his way. To regain the trust of the local police after the Richard Brook scandal, he had to do a little PR. And John was all for it. He couldn't imagine a single thing in the world better for Sherlock Holmes than being forced to socialize amidst a sea of tuxedos and evening gowns, surrounded by the people whom he belittled each and every day. John wished desperately he could attend. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hoped that Sherlock would be coerced into dancing with that sergeant who'd taken a shine to him last month on that kidnapping case. Oh, he'd pay good money to see that. But it was not to be. He simply had to work. But he was delighted that Greg hadn't given up on Sherlock even though John was not there to field the more… awkward moments. The invitation had gone out to them both, and secretly, he'd been conspiring with Lestrade for weeks; Sherlock would not be won by force; it required finesse. Coercion. And John was just the man for the job. He attended to his patients absentmindedly, waiting for the buzz in his pocket with a little too much pleasure.

Sherlock sighed laboriously. John was up to something, it was obvious, he just wasn't sure what it was.

I wouldn't mind going if I could go to the dance with you. – SH

He pouted and toed John's arm chair moodily. He did not want to go.

John sighed, glancing at the clock. He wished it was lunch time. He was peckish. He tiptoed back to his office again, laboriously avoiding Sarah's watchful eye, and he slid into his chair, fumbling about in his desk for the bag of crisps he left there the day before. He sat for several moments, breathing through his nose, crunching, and scrolling through his old texts. He smiled a bit. Sherlock had sent him some... interesting messages as of late. Some of them still made his cheeks heat. He flicked back to the last one, unwilling to let himself become aroused mid-morning when he had a day full of patients ahead of him, and no Sherlock until late evening, after the dance. John furrowed his brow. Sherlock hadn't bought anything new to wear tonight... he would need something more appropriate than his every day gorgeous black suit. A tie at the very least.

Sherlock, I would pay a half a year's salary to watch you dance. But no. What are you wearing? – JW

As he read the text he felt irked. John was going to keep prodding him to get something to wear to the dance. Sherlock snarled a little at the question and sat down hard on John's chair, crossing his arms and tapping his toes. He waited five whole minutes before whipping out his mobile and with an evil smile on his face typed in an answer. Sherlock was going to avoid the dance and the question for as long as he possibly could, and what better way to do that than distract his doggedly insistent lover. But before he sent the text he shook his head. No, not yet. First he would play the sympathy card.

I don't dance. That's the whole point. Lestrade just wants to humiliate me for the texts I sent during that high profile case. Not my fault he got the information wrong. – SH

John winced, hunched over the nurse's station. Sarah walked round the corner, and he whipped the mobile under his jumper, tossing her a quick smile and a nod. She answered in kind, and he waited until she was back in her office before typing out,

I feel a little responsible for that, Sherlock. I wish I could make it up to you by coming to the dance. Now that I think about it, I bet you're gorgeous on the dance floor. – JW

There. An apology and a bit of flattery. It didn't do much to soothe the guilt. John knew he shouldn't have left his mobile where Lestrade could access it, and he did feel responsible. Sherlock told him everything, but they couldn't expect anyone else to understand that. And John was just glad that Lestrade only saw the texts related to the case.. not the more... personal ones. He stood for a moment longer, chin in his hand, eyes half closed. What would Sherlock look like on a dance floor? It was an intriguing thought. Would he be gangly? Awkward? Or graceful and fluid? John pushed off of the countertop, inhaling through his nose tremulously. Probably the latter.

Sherlock flushed, John thought he'd look gorgeous? Well...maybe... No! He was not playing into that and... a frown settled on his lips once again. Responsible? What was John talking about? Sherlock had assumed Lestrade had looked for John's mobile and then read their texts out of pure curiosity. After all, that's what Sherlock would have done. But...

Responsible? Were you talking to Lestrade? I don't dance, John. I never learnt how, or if I did, I forgot it a long time ago. – SH

Yeah. John wasn't about to talk about this. It would just end up getting Sherlock all riled again at Greg. He needed Sherlock to be on his best behaviour tonight. So instead, he concentrated on the dancing comment, and grinned.

Yes but that long lean body in formal wear undulating to music? Oh bloody hell, I have to try and get out of work. – JW

He meant it. How was he supposed to think about ailments and patients when all he could see was Sherlock, attempting to move his hips, gyrate, oh... damn. John swallowed dryly. If Sherlock playing his violin was sensual... and it really, truly was... how arousing would it be so see him dance?

Oh, I was wondering... Did you mean what I'm wearing now or to the dance? You might be interested in both considering what I have or don't have on at this very moment – SH

Sherlock glanced down at his bare legs and stretched them out languidly. Perhaps he would have to acquire a new suit for the dance. If there was even a slim chance that John was going to show up, well, Sherlock wanted to make John's eyes light on fire.

John chuckled, his eyes drifting from the paperwork before him to the mobile screen. Oh, Sherlock wanted to play? He shifted in his chair, wishing he'd stayed home today, wishing he'd called in sick, wishing he, too, could sit at home and simply wait for a case to fall in his lap. In the waiting room, a toddler was screeching. John sighed.

I meant to the dance, you bad man, but… if you're offering... – JW

'Oh, John... let's play.' Sherlock loved this game, he really did. This was the game where he'd say themost lascivious things he could possibly think of and see how long John could last.

Hmmm… it might be easier just to tell you what I'm not wearing, on the other hand… easy is boring. – SH

One of Sherlock's hands slid down his chest and fiddled with the hem of his red shirt. He knew John would go ape-shit if he knew what Sherlock had underneath the shirt

Oh no. John flushed at his desk. This was a very bad idea. He loved this game, as much as Sherlock did. It had become a sort of foreplay with them; if Sherlock was heading home from a case, or John from the clinic, they would start the evening's antics before they even saw one another. Their texts would shift slowly from playful to sensual to downright explicit until they were both so worked up that by the time they were in one another's arms again, the coupling would be frantic and insanely debaucherous. But... it was midday! John licked his lips, glancing at the clock. Nearly noon. He felt the skitter of expectant arousal in his flesh, and his breath deepened.

What, you're not… Oh. Sherlock, you're not wearing knickers beneath your trousers again, are you – JW

He'd been known to do that. Taking a cab to a crime scene, John's young lover would lean over and whisper to him that he had no shorts on beneath his tight black trousers, then sit back and watch as John panted and whimpered for him all day. Sherlock was such a sadist. It would inevitably wind up with John on his knees in the closest dark corner the moment no one was looking, Sherlock's hands tangled in his hair, moans ripping from that long throat as the good doctor sucked him vigorously. Sometimes, if they could find a quiet spot, Sherlock would fuck him, fast, hard, and silent. John liked that very much. He leaned back in his chair, a sudden stirring between his legs alerting him to the fact that he was not going to be able to wait until after the dance. He groaned, snatching the mobile again.

You know what that does to me, damn you. Can you come by the surgery on my break? – JW

Sherlock started massaging himself slowly, his lips parted. His hips rotated a little and he let out a quiet moan.

Who said I'm wearing trousers? – SH

He let out his breath in a hiss, should he wank here or should he go to see John? Sherlock closed his eyes and imagined John sucking him off, his shoulders heaving, his cheeks pink, an erection straining against his jeans. Yes, that would be more fun than a solitary wank.

Does your door lock? I'll be there in 10 minutes. – SH

After a little bit he let out another long breath and smirked.

Two words, John. Black lace. – SH

There. If that didn't drive John crazy, then Sherlock did not know his army doctor.

John shook his head. He knew Sherlock, knew how eager he got at the prospect of a sexual encounter. He was ever the addict, and John was his new fix. He wriggled in his chair, and gasped as Sarah popped her head in the door. "John, Mrs. Tesfield is waiting in exam room four."

"Ta," he managed, very aware of the pink in the apples of his cheeks. She lifted an eyebrow, but disappeared. John blew all the air out of his lungs.

Ten minutes. I will finish with the last patient. Be wearing trousers, but not knickers. I want to taste you. Fuck! I want you on my chair, I want to crawl under my desk and taste you. And the door locks from the inside. Sarah has a key but she won't barge in if she sees us go in. She isn't daft. - JW

He jumped up, straightening his clothes and scurrying off to get rid of the last patient before his lunch break, before Sherlock came.

He was supervising an injection when the next text came in. His pocket vibrated, and John's heart leapt. He continued to murmur soft, encouraging sounds to the fresh, new nurse, his hand sliding into his pocket and retrieving his phone. His grey blue eyes drifted momentarily to the screen. Black lace…

"SHIT!"

The nurse jumped, and the patient howled, and John began rattling off apologies. Bloody hell, what was Sherlock thinking, sending him a text like that in the middle of his work day? Never mind that he was already aroused, never mind that they'd already made arrangements to shag on his lunch break… John's neck burned as he stayed a moment to finish up, and rushed to his office, slamming the door behind him, his chest heaving. He tore at the mobile phone, his fingers trembling on the buttons.

BLACK LACE? FUCK. – JW

He was rock hard.

Sherlock giggled as he saw John's reply. Oh yes, that did it. The sleuth was off the chair in less than a minute, on his way to their bedroom. He was aroused and in need of a good fuck especially in light of the evening ahead of him. Dancing.

Do you still want the knickers gone? – SH

He stripped his shirt off and scrabbled about for a clean suit. John hadn't done the laundry last night, either, but Sherlock had been partly to blame for that.

No, no, fuck no, leave the knickers. – JW

I'll chew through them. – JW

John staggered to his desk, collapsing on the chair, his fingers grappling at the arms. The door was locked. John was done for the next hour. And he was so fucking hard. Sherlock... Sherlock had never done anything like this before. He closed his eyes, his entire body rippling with the conjured images that danced in his mind, and John moaned lowly. He wanted that man. He wanted him bent over this desk, with... black lace. Black lace... John could almost feel the texture against his cheek... his lips... his teeth. He began to pant softly, and palm the front of his tented trousers. Sherlock needed to Get. Here. Now.

Sherlock found what he was looking for, the suit. Sliding it over his long legs, the legs that he'd shaved last night after John had fallen asleep. Sherlock knew John liked his legs, he knew that John loved to stroke his legs and kiss them. The sleuth wanted to know if John would like his legs even better if they were smooth, like a woman's. God, the fabric felt great against his legs, oh, he'd have to do this again. Sherlock closed his eyes and let out a little whine. The lace, the silk, it was almost too much to bear. He'd been planning on fucking John but this...

I'm going to wear your favourite suit. You know, the black one that's, how did you put it, just a little too tight in all the right places? – SH

John hissed, chewing on his lip. He wouldn't be wearing it for long...

Oh yes please, Sherlock. Shit, I can't go out there like this. – JW

His hand pressed hard against his erection, and John exhaled shakily. He would never get enough of this man.

Sherlock was half way to the door before he got the text. John was hard and ready and Sherlock was.. Sherlock needed to be fucked. Fucked hard. He imagined John pushing him down over his desk, papers flying everywhere in their frenzy. Sherlock saw John pulling the lace panties down with his teeth, he saw him taking Sherlock in his mouth, biting him, sucking him, wanting him, fucking him. 'Oh god!'

The silk fabric is delightful on my smooth legs. I didn't realize how sensual cloth could feel on shaved skin. – SH

Sherlock opened the door. He did not want John to know how turned on he was, he did not want John to know how frantic he was, how he was already hailing a cabbie and giving him directions.

John blinked at Sherlock's text for several seconds before he remembered to breathe. He... had a thing for Sherlock's legs. They were long, and slender, and beautifully shaped. They were awkward at times, like a new born foal, but worked magnificently in a pursuit. He was like a gazelle, strong and limber, able to do things the human body should not be capable of. And that included their experiences in the bedroom. Those legs were perfectly wonderful in every way. John liked to suck the hollow behind his knee, liked to spend hours just running his fingertips over the lines of his thighs and calves and... He shuddered.

…What? You shaved? Why did you shave your legs, Sherlock? – JW

John wanted to touch. Wanted so very badly to touch. He shook himself, his fingers flying again.

Not that I mind. – JW

Hell no, he didn't mind. He wanted. He needed. He was going to fuck Sherlock… so… hard.

Sherlock palmed himself surreptitiously, letting out tiny little whines. His mobile let out John's moan and that only made things worse. From the corner of his eye he could see the cabbie turn red and start at the sound of his alert tone. Sherlock smiled. He liked unsettling people. Now, what could he do to make John want him even more?

I'm putting my trousers on. They look so nice with what I have underneath. – SH

He's still at the flat? John glanced at the clock again, his entire face turning beet red. At this rate, he wouldn't have time to... to... well, to do all the wicked and completely depraved things he wanted to do to Sherlock. John felt a spike of anger as he closed his fist over his cock through his trousers, his body quivering. Damn him damn him damn him...

Daaaamn it Sherlock! Get your arse over here, I'm going to rodger you good. – JW

John closed his eyes again, squirming. He rarely got to drive into Sherlock; his lover definitely preferred the dominant position. That was fine with John. He could lie back and let Sherlock pound him for hours, his lover was just that good. But... today… John felt an overbearing urge to take that lean body, make it his own. "Oh, Sherlock.. fuckkk..." he moaned into his fist, frustration pumping steadily through his temples with every beat of his stalwart heart.

Sherlock's breath was coming in short gasps, he wanted John so badly. The cabbie was speeding just a little; he wanted Sherlock out of the car right now. Sherlock looked at him for a moment, reading his whole life's story. Diabetic, approximately 45 years old, chain smoker, chewed with the right side of his mouth due to a bad cavity, happily married for 15 years, two kids. The picture on his dash was one with a plain woman and both boys, one of them was missing half of his face. There were two reasons Sherlock could think of for that; most likely the boy was gay and his father did not approve. Having Sherlock in the cab only rubbed that fact in his face. Sherlock smiled and texted John again, turning up the ring tone just a little louder.

My coat is on but I don't know how long I can wait, John. Can I make it to your office? I'm so hard already. The lace, the silk… feels so good. – SH

There was a knock at the door. John looked up, startled, from his frantic texting, and he stumbled to the door. He unlocked it, and turned on his heel to hide the evidence of his activities. He slid behind his desk as the new nurse entered, mumbling apologies for the fumbled injection and bearing a cup of tea. John waved his hand dismissively, stammering out placating words which he did not even register before they came tumbling out. She placed the cup on the corner of his desk and beat a hasty retreat, and John sat, staring at the tea, the blood thundering in his ears.

YOU can't wait? I could barely get up from my desk and see my last patient! GET OVER HERE NOW. If you toss in the flat instead, I will make you pay dearly. – JW

He felt unreasonably angry with Sherlock. He was a fucking tease, and John was going to have him, whether right now in his office, or back home at the flat that evening. And if Sherlock made him wait that long... oh yes, he would make him pay, he would make him scream.

Sherlock's phone sang out again and he chuckled. Oh John, he was so gullible.

Oh but that sounds so good… ah! John, every time I move. These trousers are so tight. – SH

Shit. Just tell me now if you're not coming, I am wanking here because it fucking hurts, I want you now, I want to suck you, I want to fuck you, Sherlock. – JW

He sounded pathetic and he knew it. And he bloody well didn't care. He moaned again, cursing.

Oh, that was too much. That was...that sounded perfect. He wanted John inside him so badly. He thought of John's hot, hard cock, ready to split him open. John was short, sturdy, muscular, and he knew how to make Sherlock scream until his throat was hoarse.

I'm on my way, in the cab. Don't you dare fucking touch yourself before I get there. I want you in me. I want to feel your cock pounding me. I want that mouth of yours around me. – SH

Sherlock was not playing around anymore.

"Oh shit," John whispered, and a rash of goose flesh broke out on his arms, chest, thighs. His cock was straining beneath his trousers, and he gave it a quick squeeze as if to say, it's all right, he's coming, Sherlock is coming... He reached up on his desk and buzzed the intercom. "Margaret? I have a visitor arriving shortly. Sherlock Holmes. Send him on in, will you?" His voice was shaking. Margaret sounded odd on the other end. "Yes, Dr. Watson." John leaned back in his chair again, humming in anticipation. Oooooh, yes, he was going to ride Sherlock. Ride him good and hard.

Hurry then. Just picturing you in black lace may make me shoot my load in my knickers. – JW

You won't have to picture for long. I'm almost there. The cabbie keeps giving me looks. Perhaps it's because of the little sounds I keep making whenever I think about how hot and hard you are, and how I'm going to be bent over your desk and fucked ruthlessly. – SH

Sherlock was standing outside of the building, just standing there for a little while before entering the hospital, his coat pulled around him, hiding his raging hard on from the world. John was waiting for him.

John wasn't stifling the groans now. Hell yes, hell yes. He snarled, arching in his chair, carefully unzipping his trousers and pulling out his erection. He didn't touch it... no, Sherlock was explicit in his instructions. But John wanted to look. He wanted to see it, dark and throbbing and shiny, wanted to stare down at his own cock and think about it taking Sherlock apart, moment by moment, thrust by thrust. His breath caught.

Too right you are. I am going to have to stuff that scarf in your mouth because you going to be screaming so loud you'd alert the entire street. – JW

I'm going to devastate you, Sherlock. I'm going to demolish that arse. – JW

Perhaps... just one touch. John's finger trailed up the underside of his engorged length, and wracks of pleasure shot through him. He whimpered. Poor Sherlock. Poor, unsuspecting Sherlock.

You won't be able to run on rooftops for a month after I'm done with you. – JW

Sherlock let out one last tiny whine, shuddering with anticipation as he read John's texts. He couldn't wait any longer. Taking long strides, practically running, he burst through the doors, looking wildly about before returning John's text.

Oh god. Promise? - SH

The detective stormed down the hall, his coat hands shoved in his coat pockets, hiding his erection, all the while gripping the mobile phone so hard his knuckles were white, the ends of his coat flapping behind him.

Oh god, oh fuck, oh god. I'm in the building. Be at your door. – SH

He's here. John spread his legs in his desk chair, and threw his head back, panting, trying desperately not to wank. He was here. In a few short moments, he would be ramming his cock into Sherlock's tight hole, and listening to the debaucherous mewlings of his stoic lover. "mmm.. oooh..." John was already moaning. He shivered, his cock glistening and slick.

I swear on my father's grave. You'll be squirming like a horny virgin on her wedding night. I am going to make you forget your fucking name. – JW

Sherlock licked his lips as he stood in the lift, he was not allowing himself to touch his cock, no, Sherlock was waiting for John to suck him dry. Every single time his phone went off Sherlock felt a jolt of electricity run up his spine. John Watson was a devil.

Where. Is. The. Fucking. Office? – SH

Fuck fuck fuck what was taking him so fucking long? John was practically grinding himself down on the creaking office chair, and the urge to touch himself was growing positively overwhelming. He growled, desperation clinging to his voice, and he grabbed at the mobile swiftly.

Sherlock! I am on the second floor. It's not hard to find! Suite 207. Walk in, tell them your name. They're expecting you. My door is unlocked, come in, I am waiting for you. – JW

Now, now, fucking NOW. Fuck, he needed Sherlock. John's cock pulsed in agreement.

Sherlock was running now, his cock was throbbing, his head was spinning, his throat was dry. There! He spotted it.

'Hello, I'm Sherlock Holmes.' Sherlock leaned against the desk and smiled winningly down at the receptionist, his cheeks flushed with anticipation.

She stared at him, her eyes bulging just a little. Sherlock resisted an urge to snap at her; he thought John had told her he was coming.

'Uuuuh, Sher...Oh! That's right!' She said, returning his smile with a shy one of her own. 'Dr Watson said you'd be stopping by.'

Sherlock almost growled. He did not have time for small talk. Instead he whipped out his phone and sent John a hurried text.

I'm running. Fuck. That receptionist's look… I think I may have ruined your reputation. I see the door. – SH

Sherlock could hear her asking him how he knew John; he could hear her trying to make small talk. He jiggled his leg impatiently before putting his hands down on the desk, a little harder than was needed, and staring her directly in the eyes.

'Which way to his office?' he intoned dangerously. Sherlock Holmes was not a patient man.

John was up and across the room in three steps. He stood next to the door, waiting, leaning against the wall. He did not bother undressing... he would not need to. All he needed was Sherlock, naked and shaking below him, legs spread, arse in the air... He moaned aloud again as familiar, clicking heels sounded outside of his office, down the hall. Sherlock.

I hear you… Ohh, Sherlock… Hurry… – JW

His fingers trembled as they typed, and he stared at the screen as the footsteps halted. He waited, holding his breath.

The woman's face turned from a pleasant normal, slightly flushed colour to white and then bright red when Sherlock's mobile sounded out. 'R-right down that way.' She pointed, swallowing hard and pointedly not looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't pay her a second thought; instead he turned on his heels and walked to the door, his legs eating up the space with every stride. Soon.

I'm here. – SH

Sherlock pushed open the door.

The door swung open slowly, and John was immediately assaulted with the smell of Sherlock's shampoo, his fragrant coat, his aftershave. It was liquid sex, pheromones and sweat and skin and Sherlock. John stifled the groan. He stood behind the door, and Sherlock couldn't see him yet. He could feel the confusion radiating from his lover as he stared at the empty desk. John waited until he was fully within the office before placing a flat palm on the door, pushing it out of Sherlock's hands, and slamming it shut. Sherlock whirled about, his eyes wide, and John wasted no time. He grabbed a handful of coat and shoved him backwards, delighting as Sherlock took in the sight of his aching erection, that full mouth rounding in a perfect "O". John pushed him down into the desk chair and straddled him, rubbing his cock against his chest, shivering at the roughness of the woolen coat on his heated flesh. "Took you long enough," he snarled, tangling fingers in Sherlock's curls, pulling him up for a violent kiss. He nipped at him, licked at him, amazed at the electric shocks of pleasure already washing over him. Sherlock's hands had found his buttocks, and were kneading there.

Sherlock gasping for breath as they broke off the volatile kiss. He bucked into John, needing friction. His senses were heightened, his mind was going crazy. John was acting so demanding, so fucking dominant, and Sherlock couldn't get enough. Sherlock wanted John to take him, Sherlock wanted John to rip and bite and tear and suck and lick and eat him. 'I...aaaa! I'm sorry.' he panted, moving against John's body. He didn't care that he sounded pathetic and submissive. He was. John was in charge. Sherlock let out a cry of pain and pleasure as John yanked on his hair again, pulling his head back as far as it could go before stripping the scarf off and biting Sherlock's exposed neck.

"Mmm, fuck, Sherlock..." John sank his teeth into the smoothness of his flesh, and his lust went onto overdrive. His hands were everywhere, pushing wool down, yanking at buttons, pulling, peeling, exposing white skin, as creamy and soft as orchid petals. He sat up quite suddenly with a sharp inhale, his steel blue eyes focusing on Sherlock's gaping face. John grinned, thrusting his hips forward, and rocking his arse down on Sherlock's erection. "Ohhh... come on then, Sherlock, let's see those pretty legs." With one last thrust, John slid off of his lap and knelt before him, unzipping his trousers swiftly and yanking them down. A strangled cry ripped from John's chest. "Sherlock... Sherlock... OH FUCK..."

Sherlock gasped and closed his legs a little at the sudden rush of cool air hit his erection. The lace panties did nothing to cover his long, hard cock, already dripping with precum; it stuck out demanding attention, angry that it had to wait for so long. Sherlock squirmed a little as John just stared at him. 'No... no good?' He panted, his hands moving to try and hide it.

Yes, he had been a little self-conscious about wearing them, he had been curious as to how John would react. Sherlock was almost positive John would love them, now the truth would be told. Sherlock waited, practically holding his breath. His lips parted, his cheeks flushed, his eyes wide, his coat dangling from the chair, his shirt had been ripped open and was hanging from his arms, black lace panties tightly hugging his hips, his pants pooled around his ankles.

"Oh... good, Sherlock." John darted forward, licking at the cock head that peeked out of the panties, and Sherlock keened. John breathed heavily into the space between Sherlock's legs, his eyes on the detective, memorizing every twitch, every little body movement, every whimper. "Very good Sherlock. You're so fucking beautiful." And he was. Sherlock looked amazing, spread out, dishevelled, submissive, willing... waiting. John groaned deeply, and buried his face in his crotch, biting and licking at the black lace. His teeth found a hold in them, and he yanked back, head pulling, jaw flexing, teeth tearing as he freed more of that delicious cock. "So fucking beautiful," he repeated hoarsely, the smell of Sherlock's skin filling him, driving him mad. His hands began to play at Sherlock's ankles, and they slid up, up his calves, to his knees, his thighs... his balls. So smooth. Like silk.

Sherlock twitched and writhed in response to John's attention. His heart was beating wildly against his chest. He could feel John's breath on his legs, feel the teeth pulling the panties down, feel those gorgeous callused hands stroking up his legs, loving him, caressing his thighs with two perfect thumbs before touching his balls. Sherlock could no longer hold back the cries of pleasure. He forgot that there were other people outside this room, that there was even a world outside the room. 'John, oh god, John! I love you, I love you!' He threw his arms around John's neck, bending over and smothering his face in the sweet smelling hair atop his cruel lover's head. 'Hurt me, John, make me scream. Take me. Don't play around. Come on.' He bucked his hips again, hoping for retaliation.

John grinned into the baby soft flesh of Sherlock's inner thigh, and then WHACK! His brilliant lover gasped and cried out as John's open palm smacked his hip, smartly. Sherlock wriggled in the chair, moaning, and John leaned in, biting at the base if his cock, still covered in black stretch lace. "I'll take you when I'm good and ready," he growled, laying another smack on Sherlock's outer thigh. John nuzzled his nose into the panties once more before drifting up, and taking that weeping cock into his mouth, inch after inch, humming the whole way. His own dick throbbed, and he stroked it slowly, languidly, grinning as Sherlock dissolved underneath him.

Sherlock threw his head back, tossing it around, his mouth opening and closing, making obscene noises. Long fingers curled in John's hair, trying to keep a hold on something, it felt as though there was no gravity, like he was falling, falling into the deep, dark ocean that was John Watson. Sherlock's hip burned from the force of the blows and he loved it, he could feel John's lips closing around his cock, feel him humming. Oh, John was a very bad man. 'More! Oh god!' Sherlock snapped his head back and looked at John's face. The detective's lips parted, he moved a hand back to his own chest as he pinched hard at one of his own nipples. 'Doctor,' he said, licking his lips, 'I've been so very, very naughty...' and he let out a low, guttural moan.

John's cock jumped as Sherlock purred those wicked words that he knew drove his soldier mad with desire. He began sucking Sherlock's cock in earnest, whimpering and canting his hips, unable to get enough friction. His tongue and teeth dragged along the veins and head of Sherlock's gorgeous prick, and he tasted the salt, the musky sweetness that leaked from the tip. This was one of the things that had surprised John the most about being with a man.. something he'd never imagined. John loved sucking dick. Sherlock's, to be quite specific. He felt his entire body jolt with the pleasure of it, with the fantastic perfection of devouring this most intimate part of the man he loved. No one had ever had Sherlock but John. And John liked it that way, very, very much. He let his right hand wander up Sherlock's body, and find the other rosy nipple, pinching it hard, twisting it, listening to Sherlock shout. John grinned around his cock, and dove in further. He'd push Sherlock to the very brink before giving him what he really needed... and what John needed. He needed it so bad he was going to make Sherlock think twice about ever asking him to fuck him again.

Sherlock could feel himself coming to a climax, he could feel it in the way everything suddenly became sharper, harder, more painful, more pleasurable. He rocked into John's mouth, pushing deeper and deeper. But this, this was not what Sherlock wanted. He hissed in impatience. He wanted John's fucking cock up his fucking arse, tearing him apart, shoving his face against the desk, slapping his buttocks, pounding him, making him scream and beg for mercy. 'John!' He pushed weakly against John's shoulders, 'John! Give it to me! Please, John, please, please. I need it. I need it.' He moved around, trying to push John away. 'Please, John, fuck me.'

"What?" John bit down on the head of Sherlock's cock, none too gently, and he twisted the nipple again, slapped his thigh sharply. "I didn't quite hear you, Sherlock. What do you want?" The flesh in his mouth pulsed hotly against his tongue, and John swirled it around the sensitive rim, scraping his teeth up, down, up again.

Sherlock whined and arched into the pain, his nipple throbbing, his cock ready to explode, his thigh stinging. 'I want YOU, JOHN. FUCK ME NOW. Please! Oh God, please! PLEASE. PLEASE JOHN I...AHh! I!' Every time he was about to say what he wanted, John would slap him again, bite down, causing him to writhe even more in desperation and need. 'Please John, FUCK ME! Push me up against that bloody desk of yours and pound into me until I have no voice left, until I break.' He pleaded, grabbing onto John's shoulders. He was shaking with need. Trying to hold back, trying not to cum.

"Beg me." John felt himself reel as the words fell from his lips. He could sense Sherlock's agony, could feel him coming apart, but... John's taste for the sadistic had just taken a very personal turn. He'd never had Sherlock like this before... at his mercy... pleading... needy. He may never see this Sherlock again. Tomorrow would be back to John on all fours, screaming as Sherlock's generous endowment pierced him open and made him turn into a quivering mass of John Watson jam, but today... "Beg me, Sherlock, or I'll leave you here in your fucking black panties, and I will watch as you fuck yourself on your own damn fingers because you're such a whore for my cock right now, aren't you? Fucking beg me, Sherlock."

Sherlock's mind raced. Beg? Beg? He would not be... 'Yes, John, I'm a fucking whore John, your whore, your slut. I need your cock, please, please.' Sherlock's arms slid back until they were resting on the arms of the chair, his hands grasped the metal and clenched, his toes curled, his legs tensed up. 'Fuck me, fuck me, I need you, I'm begging you. You own this little whore, so please, please fuck him good and hard.' Sherlock panted. He couldn't believe he was saying this, he never in his life would have thought...but, it was John, John made him do crazy things. John was his master, John was his life, John was his - 'OH GOD, PLEASE STICK THAT COCK INTO MY ARSE AND FUCK ME UNTIL I CAN'T SEE STRAIGHT.'

That was it. That was bloody all he could take. John thrust the chair away from him, grabbing at Sherlock's neck and pulling him in for a tearing, ripping embrace. His tongue forced his mouth wide open, and he explored every inch of that hot cavern before yanking him back by his hair, turning him about, and placing his elbow on the space between Sherlock's shoulder blades. The wool coat crumpled on the floor, and John let out a soft sob as he pushed Sherlock down, bent him over the desktop, his paperwork fluttering to the floor, scattering in all directions. Sherlock's hands were white knuckled on the far edge, and John stood back, one hand still pressing him down face first. He surveyed his work with a surge of pride. Sherlock was quaking, bare legged and begging, his shirt hanging from his forearm, arse in the air, scarcely covered in black lace panties. The round, smooth globes of his arse ducked below the lace hemline, inviting, and John took a moment to etch this picture into his memory forever. His name fell from Sherlock's bruised, swollen lips like honey. John please fuck me, please fuck me, fuck me fuck me fuck me... He would never forget the sound of it as long as he lived. John knelt briefly, digging his thumbs into Sherlock's hips roughly before tearing the panties from those slender hips. The rip echoed in the eerie stillness of his office, broken only by Sherlock's pornographic mantra.

Sherlock couldn't stop begging John, he needed it, he was so scared that John was just going to toy with him more. Suddenly he felt fingers press into his mouth. He knew what he had to do without John telling him. Sherlock sucked the digits; he was very adept at doing this sort of thing by now. He felt John shudder behind him as he flicked his tongue across those gorgeous fingers, wetting them as much as he could. He felt used, abused, beaten, owned, loved, tortured, and as horny as fuck. Sherlock couldn't help but move back a little; grind his arse into John's erection libidinously, savouring every jolt.

John nearly came as Sherlock's tongue began to slide, wet, thick, and warm between his fingers. He'd only given him two, but... fuck it felt so good... John shoved two more into his mouth, and began thrusting his rock hard cock against his arse, teasing, hungry for the glorious tightness that awaited him. Sherlock was still moaning and whimpering as he sucked John's fingers, eager and desperate, and John pulled them out with a loud groan. "Don't fight it, Sherlock," he whispered, hands shaking as he pressed two fingers against the red, flexing entrance. "Fast now. Ahhhhhh..." John inserted the digits, very swiftly, and Sherlock stiffened. John pet his back, his cock so hard it hurt, it literally hurt, so fucking bad, between his sturdy legs. "More, Sherlock?" He began to fuck him with those fingers, grinning maniacally at the string of cursing and cries that his lover let loose.

Sherlock's mind burst, he screamed and cried out, pushing against the fingers, rocking against them with all the force he could manage. 'More! More! Oh fuck! Oh God! Oh hell! Jesus Christ! Fuck me! More! Shit! FUCK ME! Harder! Harder! Harder!' Sherlock barely registered the hand on his back. He couldn't even string more than two words together at one time.

Another two fingers. John knew it was cruel. Fuck, it had to hurt. He wasn't being gentle, and he wasn't taking his time. But... His mind drifted momentarily to a dozen moments in their bedroom, Sherlock taking him with hardly any prep at all, Sherlock using all five, ALL FIVE of his fucking fingers to stretch and tease John into a humiliated, but extremely satisfied pile of mush...

The riding crop.

John snarled again, and thrust the fingers in deep, laughing as Sherlock screamed into his forearms, his body welcoming and licentious. John fucked him once, twice, and then pulled all four out, replacing them with his purple, engorged cock. "Ready, Sherlock?" he grated out.

Sherlock nodded, practically sobbing from the pain and the need and the overwhelming pleasure. His arse hurt like hell, his thigh stung, his nipples were swollen and red, his lips were bruised, his cock was so hard it hurt, and oh god yes, he wanted more.

John smirked at his back. He had fulfilled his promise, Sherlock was completely undone, and he hadn't even fucked him yet. Sherlock couldn't speak, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but nod and moan and spread his legs. John massaged his buttocks for a few seconds. He did love him. Loved him more than his own soul. He sighed happily, one hand on the back of Sherlock's neck, holding him down, one on his hip, keeping him steady... and John rocked forward, his thick cock piercing Sherlock's lean body, forcing its way inside the velvet tunnel, wet and caressing. John's head fell back and he shouted, the pleasure so great, so unnerving, he barely kept his balance. Seated inside Sherlock Holmes, he was utterly and completely free. There was nothing else... no one else... but the squirming wonder of carnality as he began the rhythm, rotating, undulating, and Sherlock met him, thrust for thrust. "Yes... fuck yes, Sherlock... Talk to me, tell me how it feels to be fucked in the arse, tell me."

White stars were exploding in Sherlock's vision. John was pounding against him and hell, if Sherlock wasn't pushing back every time. The sounds of laboured breathing, skin slapping against skin, the wet sound of John's cock sliding in and out, the low, seductive murmur of John's voice, giving Sherlock a command. Sherlock had to obey. 'Feels..oh gaaaaaaddddddfuuuccccckkkk! It hurts but, ah! Ah! Good! Better..goo..great..fuck! Fan..taaaas...oh fuck! John! So good, so hot!' Sherlock's arms felt like jelly, his cheek was pressed hard against the smooth desktop, his cock was so close. So close. John kept thrusting into him, every time Sherlock widened around him, ate him up, begged for more. Being fucked in the arse by John Watson was one of the best fucking feelings in the world, and Sherlock would have gladly admitted that if he could only articulate.

"Fuck yeahhhh," John ground through grated teeth, a wide smile plastered on his face as he looked down, watching himself impale that white body, and he grabbed a headful of dark curls, twisting it. Sherlock cried out, his face turning so John could see the frozen ecstasy on Sherlock's exotic features, and John reached around, once more torturing his abused nipples as he rode him. This was… brilliant. The best thing that had ever happened to John in his entire life, and he had an ashtray from Buckingham Palace. So that was saying something. "Sherlock, you're mine, my whore, mine," he gasped, and Sherlock gave a low, pleading growl in agreement. John shuddered, his thrusts quickening, and becoming swiftly frantic. So good… Sherlock's tight body spasmed around him, and he slapped his palm against one smooth, satiny leg, laughing and choking with pleasure as Sherlock jolted, crying out. "Fuckkkk, you love that, don't you…" He groaned aloud as Sherlock nodded, almost imperceptibly. John saw it though, and he smacked him again. And again. And again, until Sherlock was sobbing into the desk. John felt his heart twist. His lover was waiting… for permission. He bent, resting his head for one moment on his back, his cock continuing to piston in and out, hard, oh, so very hard and fast. "Yeah, Sherlock, fuck... ooooh... I want you to cum for me, all over my desk; let me see you cum for me, just from my big cock plowing your arse... Now, Sherlock..." John leaned down, biting his ear, and he sounded to himself like a mad man. Completely deranged, and dangerous. Very dangerous. "NOW SHERLOCK."

Sherlock felt himself be lifted by his hair, he did not fight, he could not fight. John had overpowered all of his senses; John had filled up the hard drive that was Sherlock's brain. He registered John's voice in his ear, cum... Sherlock obeyed. He let loose, he hadn't even realised he'd been holding back. All over the desk, reaching the floor, even. He could feel John still thrusting into him and it propelled him even more, again and again, his seed spurted out over the furniture until with one final moan, his body seized up and he collapsed back into John. He could feel the sturdy arm in the middle of his back, still grasping onto his hair, still pulling, his other hand was still bruising and abusing Sherlock's poor red nipples. It was glorious.

John felt Sherlock cum, felt the tightening of his muscles all over his straining body, felt the rush of air fill his lungs, felt his heart stutter. Then he was shooting, thick white sperm all over John's hand, his arm, the desk, the carpet, his computer, his paperwork. The sight was without a doubt the most grotesquely delicious thing John had ever seen, a twisted, beautiful testament to their love. Sherlock did not scream, but froze with his mouth open wide, gaping, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, and as John slid in that final time, Sherlock sagged against him, whimpering. The sound pushed him over. "OHH FUUUUUUCK!" John shrieked to the walls, clutching his lover's body close, and he unloaded into Sherlock, pulse after pulse, burning and divine. It was, truly, the single most enlightening experience of John's life... to be buried deep within Sherlock Holmes. They collapsed together on the top of the desk, gasping for breath. Neither spoke for several minutes.

The two of them lay there, breathing in tandem, hearts pounding, heat slowly dissipating. Sherlock loved this, John's cock inside him, the semen trying to ooze out around it. 'John...' he said slowly, after what seemed like forever, 'I have never begged before in my life.'

John snorted against his back, nestling closer, his arms winding around him in a possessive embrace. "Hm," he hummed with a little smile and a great deal of self satisfaction. "Can't say that now, can you?" He pressed his cheek to the small of his back, muttering under his breath. "Bloody bitch could take lessons from me."

Sherlock chuckled weakly, and let out a long sigh. 'I lo-' suddenly a moaning noise erupted from his phone. 'Who the bloody fuck is texting me?' He hissed angrily, not wanting to push up, only wanting to stay here with John. Sherlock groaned. 'Off. Now.'

Playtime was over. John sighed and rolled off of him meekly, scurrying for soft paper towels. He cleaned himself up as best he could as Sherlock knelt, searching for his mobile amidst the pile of clothes on the floor. "Who is it?" he asked softly, moving to give Sherlock the same gentle treatment.

Sherlock swore, half tempted to toss the damn electronic out the nearest window. 'Fucking Lestrade reminding me the fucking dance starts at fucking eight.' He snarled. Sherlock had completely forgotten about the whole thing. 'John,' he looked at John, 'do I have to go?'

"Yes," John said simply, having done with his cleaning ministrations. He buttoned Sherlock back into his shirt, tucked it into wrinkled trousers, replaced his jacket and coat. "Lestrade has been kind to you, Sherlock. He doesn't ask much. You'll go, make an appearance, dance with a few female constables, and come home. To me." John stood on his toes and kissed Sherlock's full lips lightly. "Come on, I'll walk you out."

Sherlock muttered darkly as John kissed him and gently but firmly took him by the elbow and led him out of the room.

They made their way down the hall, through the waiting room, and John glanced at reception. Sarah and the nurses were huddled, holding patient files, murmuring to Margaret. John smiled to himself. Thank God for thick walls. There were no patients waiting, and he wondered briefly if he would be able to take off early after all, surprise Sherlock at the dance. The thought pleased him. He walked him to the lift, and found himself looking up into those icy eyes, shyly. "Love you," John said, his cheeks pink. Had he just shagged Sherlock in his office? Violently?

Sherlock couldn't help but smile at the demure expression. He loved John so much. His arse was a testament to it. Sherlock would have never let anyone else treat him like that, never let anyone else touch him like that. 'I love you, too.' He briefly leaned down and rested his head against John's. 'I love you, too.' Sherlock inhaled deeply before straightening up. 'Are you sure you can't come? I'll dress as dashing as I know how; I'll sweep you off your feet in front of everyone.' Sherlock grinned cheekily. He knew the answer and deep down it made him a little sad, a little nervous, but he also knew that when he came home John would be there with a cup of hot tea and probably an offer for a massage.

"I can't, Sherlock, I'm sorry." John had no intention of telling his young lover of his plans. He'd take off early, go put on the only suit he owned, and surprise Sherlock at the dance. Maybe... maybe this time, he'd allow Sherlock to sweep him off his feet. Maybe. He gave him a little wave, and retreated back to the clinic. He was already very late returning from his break.

Sherlock smiled as he watched John march smartly off. He resisted the urge to give Sarah, who had been staring at them the whole time, a wave and a 'hi, I fucked your ex and made him scream louder than you ever could' smile, instead returning her stony look for a good measure before stepping into the lift and descending.

John hesitated in the hallway, then popped his head back in reception. "Sarah... Any chance I can take off in a couple hours? Scotland Yard... um.. thing." She didn't meet his eyes, but nodded, and turned her attention back to the tittering nurses. Several of them glanced his direction, and John flushed. They weren't stupid. And he was still slightly rumpled. And probably looked well-shagged. He turned on his heel and made his escape, back to his office. John stood in the doorway, staring in awe at the mess they'd made. He sighed, closing the door and gathering all the paperwork that had been scattered on the carpet. He would need to sort these. John examined them for signs of... well… After all, Sherlock's cum had been practically everywhere. He grinned, flipping through the pages, noting with satisfaction that most everything seemed in order. As he glanced at two sheets that appeared identical, however, John frowned. Were they duplicates? Did he have two patients with the same name? He needed the charts.

John seated himself at his desk, orderly once more, and he reached to press the intercom button to call for Margaret. His fingers paused.

The red light was on.

The damned thing was already on.

He'd never turned it off from calling reception to advise them of Sherlock's imminent arrival.

His neck heated, and his entire body turned to burning ice. And when he left the clinic an hour later, he did not look back, and did not even make it to the lift before he heard the peals of laughter.