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Chapter Text

John had certainly not been paying attention when they’d accepted the gig. You’d think that after this much time he’d have learned to at least halfway listen. In his defence, there’d been a football match on the telly which was far more entertaining than listening to the Holmes brothers argue. And by the time Mycroft had said his farewells and swept his way out of the flat, it was too late to interject with his own thoughts on the matter.

When Sherlock had explained, John had been confused. Why on earth Sherlock would accept the opportunity to act as undercover security at a wedding is beyond him. But Sherlock had accepted, after having negotiated transportation and sleeping arrangements.

Sherlock assured John that all he needed to know was that in about a month, they needed to attend the wedding ceremony and reception as guests, keeping an eye out for suspicious behaviour. Some prominent duchess or lady of the court was going to be in attendance and though there’d be plenty of security posted in and around the venue, the Crown wanted a few highly undercover attendees in the field, so to speak. Sherlock, as infuriating as he can be, has a knack for observation which far exceeds any well-trained secret service or specialised security lacky, and is thus an excellent candidate for this task. Sure, Mycroft himself would also be in attendance, but he'd be burdened with the loathsome task of being a genuinely invited guest expected to enjoy himself and socialise in lieu of his preferred espionage.

Their instructions were simple, act as wedding guests, don’t draw any attention to themselves, keep their wits about them (i.e., no alcohol, much to John’s chagrin), and pay attention to any nefarious happenings, reporting such suspicions as needed. They weren’t to intervene unless absolutely necessary, and even then they weren’t expected to take on any interference alone. Mycroft wouldn’t cop to whether there’d been a direct or assumed threat, but after one glance over the file, Sherlock had been able to determine that their target had all too often been the victim of stalking and kidnapping plots.

Even with the potential for a bit of excitement, John couldn’t understand why Sherlock would ever agree to this. If all went well, they’d merely be wedding guests enjoying themselves for the evening. If there was action, they were expected to hand off confrontation to the proper security team. It took nearly a week, but John was certain he’d finally been able to tweeze out exactly why Sherlock even agreed to this.

For one, the detective loves to assume new identities. Any undercover roleplay was irresistible, and he’d always jump at the chance to play pretend for the evening. John had seen it in action, the creepy way Sherlock was able to slip into a new role, whether an injured priest, a new neighbour, a security guard, or a mourning friend, he could convince nearly anyone of his plight and wheedle information out effortlessly. That is, until Sherlock got what he needed or decided the path was fruitless, and he’d drop all pretences and abandon the act entirely, leaving a whiplashed and often furious audience in his wake.

Second, and perhaps the most compelling reason for their attendance, the string quartet for both the ceremony and dinner included an incredibly famous violinist that Sherlock was absolutely gagging to meet. John had never seen Sherlock so moon-eyed over a celebrity before, probably because he didn’t particularly care for celebrities in general. But a world-famous Austrian violinist was apparently the key to getting Sherlock to care about another human that wasn’t himself. In the days leading up to the wedding, Sherlock played incessantly, drabbling on about different pieces, their innovative tempos, revolutions in fingering and bow holds, and played for a record breaking ten hours with only a handful of brief rests for tuning, tea, and biological needs.

But famous musicians aside, Sherlock certainly couldn’t pass up an opportunity to make up a new identity for himself, and he was all too eager to drag John along on his brainstorming adventure.

The key was to be as unassuming as possible. John thought this a mighty feat in itself, as there was nothing unassuming about Sherlock. From his name, his intellect, his social capabilities, and even his looks, he was anything but forgettable. But Sherlock insisted they take on entirely different identities and make their life sound as dull as possible. He’d assured John that they’d both be impeccably dressed, but that John was already unassuming enough not to need significant work before the wedding. Ignoring John’s displeased reaction to this observation, the detective was giddied with delight as he explained their new roles to the doctor, like it was bloody Christmas or something.

“You can be John, it’s a common enough name, but I’ll have to switch my identity—might as well go with William, it’s a proper English moniker.” Sherlock babbles, hardly paying attention to John sitting disgruntled in his chair while his eager partner paces around the sitting room.

“I’m not calling you ‘William’—that’s just too bloody weird.” John chuckles, irritation breaking as he’s reminded of Sherlock’s true first name.

“Call me whatever you want.” Sherlock says. “’Will’, ’Dear’, ‘Honey’, ‘Babe’, it’s your chance to don whatever identity you please, might as well make it fun.”

Babe John thinks, chuckling again. “So, we’re meant to be a couple at this event?”

Sherlock nods emphatically. “Homosexual couples are commonplace now; we won’t stick out for it at all.”

John’s heart warms a bit at Sherlock’s insistence that they remain a couple, not paying attention to what Sherlock’s added.

“—figured you’d be a nine and a half, I got myself an eight and a quarter, but we might be able to swing a resize if we move quickly enough.”

“Sorry, what?” John emerges from his brief daze, confused.

“Our rings, John.”

“Rings?”

Sherlock groans. “You would do well to keep up, you know I hate to repeat myself.”

“Fine, fine; just explain the rings once more.”

“It’s expected that married couples wear wedding bands, John.”

John blanches. “But we’re—we’re not married.”

“Our surname isn’t Smith either, but it’s all part of the role!” Sherlock reminds him pointedly.

“John and William Smith?” John muses. “Those have to be the most boring names in the whole of the U.K.”

“Exactly.” Sherlock grins, a coy gleam in his eye. “So drab we’ll blend right in with the rest of the horribly dull guests.”

So, it was decided. Mr. and Mr. Smith, two fine English gentlemen from London. Sherlock had chosen a thin gold band for John’s ring, and an equally thin band for himself in white gold. He didn’t share exactly how long it had taken him to settle on the simple rounded band, unable to suppress the horridly sentimental notion that perhaps one day they’d belong to one another beyond a mere civil partnership. He could tell that John too was attempting to remain nonchalant, but the shadow of an expression that fell across the doctor’s face upon seeing the bands was all Sherlock needed to know about the potential for their future.

Not that Sherlock is keen to admit it, but he bloody loves weddings. The sappy romance, boring speeches, and feigned emotion he could do without, but the vulnerability of the day is a fantastic feeding ground for someone wishing to observe the complex dynamics of human interactions amidst inevitable drama is too good to resist. Not to mention the cake. Or the music and accompanying dancing. Or how dashing John looks in a suit.

Sentiment aside, Sherlock insisted that John’s career as either an army captain or a doctor was far too fascinating for their purpose. He decided that John ought to be in finance, a broad and boring enough field not to generate too many questions. Sherlock would be in consulting, and if the opportunity for questions arose, he’d make up what he did as a consultant. Something told him, however, that no one would inquire much further. Finance and consulting were well-accepted professions for middle- and upper-class folk, and far too dull to invite further elaboration.

Mycroft had informed him to say he, Sherlock, had gone to university with the groom, a Robert Roy, and that they’d lived in the same student housing. John was safe in this farce; he’d never met Robert and could maintain his ignorance. Sherlock was certainly the better liar and was all too excited to practice changing the subject to duller and more energy-draining topics.

At Sherlock’s insistence, they’d begun practicing a simple waltz again. John had nearly forgotten their attempted waltz at Christmas, but Sherlock was all too eager to remind him that they needed far more practice. There had surely been a first dance at their wedding, considering that they were attempting to be as commonplace and traditional as possible for a gay couple. So they practiced frequently, only once colliding with disaster when Mrs. Hudson decided to pop by for a visit.

It took far longer than usual for Sherlock to notice her presence; he was too invested in counting their steps and willing the tension in John’s shoulders to dissipate. It was only the tell-tale snap of a camera shutter that shook him back to reality.

“MRS. HUDSON.” He roared, his fingers clutching John’s shoulder in a vice-like grip. “DELETE THOSE THIS INSTANT.”

John looked up from his fixation on not tripping over his own feet, a mild expression of amusement creeping over his face.

“Such a sweet moment.” Mrs. Hudson coos, tucking her phone primly inside her blouse. “Would hate not to capture that on film.”

“Your bloody mobile is NOT film—” Sherlock attempts to stalk towards her, until John re-establishes a firm grip on his arm.

“Can’t go searching down our landlady’s blouse, Holmes.” John reminds him, much to Mrs. Hudson’s amusement.

Sherlock scowls and settles for storming back to their bedroom, slamming the doors on his way. John can only chuckle, turning off the music they’d been waltzing to.

“I’ll just send this to you and be off.” Mrs. Hudson titters, evidently having gotten her fill of their company. “How do you send a photograph, dear?”

John can’t help but feel a sting of disappointment upon flicking through Mrs. Hudson’s photo library. Her shaky hands hadn’t quite managed to focus on their moving bodies and the entire photo was a blur. That fact, however, was definitely staying between himself and the landlady, just to have something over Sherlock.

Chapter Text

The disguises were coming along easily, and they’d been able to comfortably settle into who they’d be for the evening. John knew this was mostly for his benefit, Sherlock could slip in and out of his characters a bit too easily, while John was hard-pressed to be anyone but himself.

Ever since Sherlock had introduced the plan, John had been busy adapting to what he had deemed a vital part of his disguise—a beard. He hadn’t talked to Sherlock about it but thought now was fine a time as any to experiment with a bit of facial hair, considering he would not be playing himself at the wedding. He’d never let his facial hair grow out before and part of this experiment was out of sheer curiosity.

His beard was growing out a bit greyer than he’d expect or prefer, but any lingering patchiness was filling in nicely and he liked the way the beard defined his jawline. A bit more ruggedly masculine than usual, but John felt that perhaps this symbolised the new identity he was blossoming into. A respectable and well-adjusted man with his own bloody idea of who he was.

It had been quite the year of change so far and though they’d taken a bit of a break from their usual dangerous and exciting casework, they were finding a new rhythm. Every so often John still felt that horrid dread creeping in, leftover from his time in captivity, but the fact that he was alive and sharing such an incredible turn of events with the world’s only consulting detective kept the nightmares at bay. He was even beginning to appreciate the slight ache he’d feel in his shoulder on damp mornings; that lingering discomfort was the product of what brought him to Sherlock in the first place.

For the first time in (what very might well be) his entire life, John felt like an adult. He hadn’t realised how arrested his development had been before. He was intelligent and reasonably socially adept, but he was still attempting to live life like a bloody university student. Now, compared to Sherlock he was thriving, but compared to just about every other adult man in London… between the two of them, it was a bit sad. Takeaway every evening, surviving off tea and pre-packaged food throughout the day… how he ever thought he was a catch for any of his girlfriends was beyond his current understanding.

Beckett had been teaching him how to cook outside reheating pre-made meals and he was finding a soothing rhythm to the act. Cooking certainly gave him something to do when Sherlock was in one of his not-speaking-for-days moods, and it seemed the detective was much keener to regularly consume food when it meant he could nose his way into the kitchen and pass judgement on John’s methods.

They were eating better—and healthier—than ever and feeding Sherlock up with vitamin-rich vegetables and protein-packed main dishes meant John could rest a bit easier when the detective inevitably skipped meals or picked at his food. There had been one failed experiment, switching to almond milk from regular milk, but they’d moved past it and John had been able to convince Sherlock to forgive him with an enthusiastic blow job on the kitchen table.

John was eons away from who he’d been in medical school, infinitely changed from the man who barked orders in the desert, and far from the man he was when he met Sherlock.

No longer just an invalided soldier clinging on to London’s cleverest arsehole, but a self-assured and queer doctor with homeowning responsibilities, a brilliant partner, and a clearer future.

Perhaps after they’d finished with the case he’d finally let Sherlock give his wardrobe an overhaul to suit his new lifestyle. Sherlock was always dragging on about John’s terrible jumpers and hideous button-ups—and if there was someone John wanted to look his best for, it was certainly Sherlock.

•••

As for the most observant man in the world, it took about nine days for Sherlock to notice John had stopped shaving his face clean. In his defence, he had been terribly busy with disguise preparations, vital experiments, and their ongoing interior design tasks and had only noticed the beard when John had been sucking on his earlobe and neck for several minutes.

“It’s just for the case, yes?” Sherlock probes after finally making the connection between the slight rug burned redness on his collarbones and the appearance of John’s new facial hair.

John only hums in response, making his way down the detective’s clavicle to gently bite and suck on each peaked nipple.

“You’ll shave it off once we’re--ohhhhh through with the wedding, surely.” Sherlock mutters, shivering as John blows cool air over each wet bud. “It’s not long term.”

“Depends.” John replies, tracing his tongue down the fine line of hair leading towards Sherlock’s brush of pubic hair. This was John’s favourite spot on Sherlock—if it was possible to have a favourite spot. All hard planes and sharp angles, Sherlock’s body tended to be a bit intimidating, except for the merest softening at the base of his belly. When flexed his muscles remained rock-hard and drool-worthy, but when he was relaxed, like now, and splayed out like an overgrown housecat, John loved to pay extra attention to where the detective’s cologne caught in the very beginnings of his pubic hair, licking and kissing his way downwards.

“Well, you can’t keep it forever.” Sherlock protests, trying not to sound too desperate.

“Who says?”

“I’ve always said I prefer my doctor’s clean shaven.”

“When have you ever said you prefer your doctors clean-shaven?” John murmurs, burying his nose into the crease of Sherlock’s thigh, tracing his tongue through the fine hair scattered there.

“Usually after three days of growth.”

“What about shaving it into a moustache?” John chuckles, sucking one testicle into his mouth, then running his tongue around both.

“Why would you do such a thing?” Sherlock replies, aghast and far too steady for a man whose testicles are being laved upon.

“To look distinguished.” John says, a bit garbled considering the aforementioned testicles.

“Distinguished? Is that another way of saying you’d look ten years older?”

John pops up, nuzzling Sherlock’s erection with his facial hair. “I think I should do it. Get a nice handlebar going.”

“Good lord, John. I do hope this is your sad attempt at humour.” Sherlock frowns down at his partner, considering the odd sensation of John’s beard against his hardness.

“Why are you so against me experimenting with facial hair?”

“You have nothing to hide nor enhance. Aesthetically, it is a lateral move, if not a downgrade.” Sherlock says with a shrug, throwing his head back into the pillows.

“Are you saying you like my face?” John smiles, trailing light kisses up the shaft.

“I’m partial to it, yes.” Sherlock’s eyes have fluttered closed once more.

“Right.”

“You’d also look older. And I know how sensitive you are about your age.”

“You know, I’m not sensitive about my age until you bring it up.”

“Whatever you say, John.”

“We’re two years apart. Barely.”

“For the purpose of disguise—” Sherlock protests, cut off by John’s tongue sweeping over the tip of his prick to collect the bead of precum forming. “For the purpose of disguise, it’s genius—but permanently affixed to your face… not so much.”

“Sounds like you’re jealous.” John lifts one of Sherlock’s legs up towards his chest, tracing his tongue down towards the detective’s perineum.

“Why o-on earth would I be—be jealous?” Sherlock inquires, wrapping one hand around the back of his thigh to hold himself open for John.

“Thanks—you’re jealous because you’re better at growing hair on your arse than on your face.”

“My arse is NOT hairy.” Sherlock spits. “Not compared to yours, anyway.”

John chuckles, adding a bit of pressure to Sherlock’s perineum, teasing his prostate from the outside. “Have you forgotten about last week’s incident?”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, rolling his eyes instead.

See, just a few days ago, during a particularly heated moment of post-shower foreplay, John had eagerly pinned Sherlock down and had gotten quite carried away in stimulating Sherlock’s arsehole with his tongue. However, being that Sherlock is an adult man with an expected and age-appropriate smattering of body hair, John had the unfortunate experience of somehow getting a particularly insistent pubic hair stuck in the back of his throat. Gagging, coughing, and an abrupt end to any further naughtiness ensued, leaving the men amused, but irritated and unfulfilled.

“I didn’t exactly enjoy gagging on your arse hair, mate.” John chuckles to himself, marvelling at their ability to comfortably bicker while his face is buried in Sherlock’s taint.

Sherlock scowls further, albeit still holding himself open for John’s ministrations. “Irrelevant. I could grow a beard.”

“No, you can’t.” John retorts, tongue reaching Sherlock’s arsehole, swirling around the furled opening. “You’re not terribly hairy anywhere else.”

Sherlock grunts, either too distracted to argue or out of counterarguments. John suspects it’s the latter, but wisely accepts his win in silence, rewarding Sherlock with several firmer strokes, peeking his tongue just inside his ridiculous partner. The conversation is dropped and seemingly forgotten about as they continue, intent on chasing their pleasure.

•••

A few days later, John had forgotten all about their facial hair argument and subsequent body hair teasing. However, it’s entirely unwise to assume a disagreement is over until Sherlock well and fully decides it’s over.

And that’s how, on a sunny April afternoon, John finds himself with a stubborn and unamused detective towering over him.

“It’s not that bad.”

“You’re a horrid liar.”

“Am I horrid or a liar?” John expects he ought to feel horrid for lying, but he’s doing his best to stay neutral.

“A horrid, horrible liar.”

“It’s… different… but it’s not that bad.”

“John Hamish Watson, don’t you dare continue this charade.”

John sits stiffly in his chair, arms tightly crossed, and brow intently furrowed. Sherlock stands defiantly before the doctor, hands on hips, cheeks flushed, and a panicked worry painting his face.

“Fine. You look fucking ridiculous.”

“John!”

“You told me to stop lying!”

“You might have some decorum in your honesty.”

“Too late. You look ridiculous.” John repeats, tightening his lips to hold back the smile begging to come forth.

“I didn’t know it would be… so… so…” Sherlock sighs in defeat. “So ridiculous.”

“And what drove you to make this decision?”

“Our conversation.”

“Our conversation.” John repeats, blanking momentarily.

“I’m the one who had a tongue up his arse and you’ve managed to forget?” Sherlock pouts, ever the petulant drama queen.

“I see.” A lightbulb sputters to life within John’s brain. That conversation.

“Can I safely assume you did not enjoy—”

“No. I didn’t. Good deduction.”

“Well, I wasn’t particularly keen on the situation either.” Sherlock quips. “So, I took matters into my own hands.”

“You did not do this yourself.”

“No, but I made the appointment.”

“You just look… so… so weird.”

Sherlock scowls. “You’ve witnessed me in many different states, might I remind you.”

“Sure, but… you look so naked now.” John resists the gale of laughter building inside him and continues staring earnestly at the very naked, increasingly distraught Sherlock Holmes.

The detective stands before him completely nude, having shed his dressing gown in a furious fit of upset. He had arrived home from a mysterious errand and, completely avoiding John’s eye, had made a beeline for their bedroom where he proceeded to lock himself in the bathroom for nearly two hours. When he had finally emerged with damp hair and flushed skin, he made every attempt to avoid John. This backfired, however, seeing John could only focus on the very clean and very nude detective wrapped in a silky dressing gown.

“I suppose I don’t have anything to gag on anymore.”

“I can think of something, Doctor Watson.”

“Not funny. And it was an extremely unpleasant experience, for the record.”

“Yes, let’s ensure life’s stenographer catches that statement.”

“I’m not sure you still have the right to be a smartass.”

“Don’t be rude! I’m in crisis.”

“You’re in crisis? I’m the one who has to look at you.”

Sherlock glares down at John. “This is humiliating!.” He snaps.

“Yes… it is. For you.” John gives in and chuckles. Sherlock tenses, poising to strike, until he looks down at himself once more and smiles sheepishly while John continues to laugh at the unfortunate state in which Sherlock’s nether regions have been left.

Evidently, John’s teasing about Sherlock’s inability to grow a beard (evidence for and against which neither man actually has) versus the modest and age-appropriate amount of body hair he possesses had left Sherlock stewing for long after they’d dropped the subject.

Ever the problem-solver, Sherlock had taken it as a sign to invest in a bit of clean-up as a preventative measure. Unfortunately, his communication skills were particularly lacking that day and somehow, he had ended up leaving the waxing parlour without a single strand of remaining pubic hair.

Now, Sherlock stood in the middle of the sitting room not only starkers, but eerily smooth.

“I just wanted a bit of tidying. A perineal and—”

“Yes, Sherlock.” John quips through his laughter. “I know what you wanted.”

“Clearly the sodding idiot didn’t listen.”

“You’ve gotten a full Brazilian wax.” John giggles, wiping at his eyes.

Sherlock snatches his dressing gown off the floor and covers himself once more, sinking down into his chair with a huff.

“It’ll grow back.” John assures Sherlock once he’s composed himself.

“I understand what follows hair removal, John.”

“You look ridiculous, but it truly is not that bad.” John offers, in hopes that he can set Sherlock’s mind at ease.

“You’re not going to run from me in terror every time I strip now?”

“We’ll just keep the lights off.”

“John!”

“I’m kidding!”

“And I’m in a position to withhold.”

“Don’t punish me for your mistakes.”

Sherlock sinks farther down into his chair, pouting. John regards him, amused. And, as it so happens, the poorer Sherlock’s posture becomes, the more revealing his dressing gown becomes. Sherlock has his eyes closed in deep, displeased thought, his delicate fingers tented in front of his face. John’s eyes, however, trace up Sherlock’s long legs, up to where his carelessly worn dressing gown reveals the delicious junction between his hip and thigh.

“I can hear you salivating from here.” Sherlock quips, though his eyes remain closed.

John rolls his eyes and turns his attention back towards comforting the detective.

“No one knows but us. It’s not as though you’ve gone bald where it matters.”

“No one knows but us.” Sherlock repeats. This does bring a good bit of comfort, knowing that John surely won’t risk publicly unveiling their activities for a humbling joke at Sherlock’s expense.

“You know, I could get one to match.” John jokes playfully.

“Not at all what I mean when I say I prefer my doctors clean-shaven.”

“Do you need new silk pants to go with your newfound smoothness?”

“All attempts at humour aside, silk pants sound lovely.”

“If you say so.” John replies casually, trying to sound nonchalant. However, the thought of a very smooth Sherlock Holmes clad in delicate, lacey pants is not easily dismissed. Perhaps he’d like to don a pair for the wedding, give them something extra to celebrate at the end of the night.

“Sherlock?” John says softly, mind now dancing with filthy imagery.

The detective opens one eye to acknowledge John, who addresses him once more.

“How smooth?”

Sherlock closes his eye again and smiles to himself. “Very.”

Before Sherlock can react, John is up out of his chair and falling to his knees in front of Sherlock. The detective starts, feeling two sturdy hands grip his upper thighs and John’s warm breath play over the inside of his thighs.

John plants delicate kisses up Sherlock’s thigh, moving from one to the other, making certain to tease tantalizingly close to Sherlock’s groin, but pull away before making contact.

Sherlock moans, shifting forward to try and draw John closer, but the doctor resists, trailing his tongue gently up and down the inside of Sherlock’s thighs. He works his way up slowly, barely nudging the dressing gown to the side as he kisses and licks Sherlock’s soft skin.

Evidently sick of the teasing, Sherlock nearly knees John in the face in a spastic fit of flailing, shaking his dressing gown off is shoulders in the process. His cock juts forth proudly, an odd sight given his current lack of pubic hair. But there’s something so mouth-watering about the detective’s freshly bared expanse of skin; John can’t help but nuzzle down further, licking long lazy paths where the root of Sherlock’s prick meets his smooth skin.

Sherlock wriggles beneath him, obviously still displeased with the slow pace John’s taken, and shoots forward, knocking John backwards onto the carpet so he’s splayed out while Sherlock straddles his hips.

“These. Off.” Sherlock mumbles, reaching down to fiddle with John’s flies. “Do keep up.”

John can only smirk lazily and continue to lap up the magnificent sight before him. A nude Sherlock Holmes is already a bloody work of art, but sans-pubic hair he really does look like he’s carved from marble. All miles of pristine white skin, only interrupted now by the shocking pink of his straining cock, drawing the eye like the homing beacon it is.

He lifts his hips just enough for Sherlock to wrestle his trousers and pants down past his bum and behind where Sherlock’s straddling. Then, in one smooth motion, the detective hooks one foot in John’s pants and pushes the whole kit down, extending his leg fully behind him to shove the pants and trousers off of John completely. It’d be impressive if John wasn’t so bloody distracted by Sherlock’s balls now resting snugly against his own and their cocks sliding together, glistening with a sheen of their shared precome.

Sherlock attacks John’s mouth now, covering the doctor’s body with his own and grinding his hips down to keep their cocks in contact.

“How in the hell do you make me so horny?” John says, pulling away for just a moment. “We’re not supposed to be this horny—I feel like I’ve got the stamina of a fifteen-year-old again.”

“Honeymoon phase, they call it.” Sherlock murmurs, moving down to bite at John’s neck. “Let’s not waste it.”

Sherlock leans back onto his heels, still straddling John while he reaches between them and works the doctor’s cock. It’s a delight to watch John’s eyes flutter closed and his breathing hitch every time Sherlock runs his thumb over the sensitive head. He’s right, biologically one would think they’d be slowing down, that ejaculating more than once per day is a pipe dream for two men in their forties. But they’re both so primed and ready that they go off like bloody rockets merely minutes into engaging.

And it certainly seems that Sherlock is aiming to keep a short timeline today—he’s enclosed his fist around both of their cocks and is applying just enough pressure to make this a dangerously short encounter.

“I feel like we’ve wasted so much time—years’ worth, really.” John groans, head thrown back against the floor.

And even though they both want to slow down, they both want to enjoy each delectable moment, John is right. They wasted too much time being blind to one another. And it took nearly three years, a kidnapping, a blood-soaked clue, a miraculous recovery, and a tense Christmas with the Holmes family to bring them together, to convince Sherlock to dip his toes into intimacy.

John’s got one hand toying with the detective’s testicles, rolling them with gentle pressure as the detective continues working their cocks and with the slightest pressure to the sensitive (smooth) skin behind Sherlock’s balls, the detective is coming with a series of huffed moans, coating his hand and John’s cock in his come.

John’s delight quickly dissipates, however, because Sherlock’s hand then disappears, leaving his erection straining and begging for release.

“Wha—” John is about to interject before Sherlock’s swinging his leg over and twisting around to straddle John again, but reversed, shimmying up slightly and leaning forward to present his arse.

John, reading between the lines, dives in face-first, pulling Sherlock’s arse back further and worshipping the impossibly smooth skin surrounding Sherlock’s hole.

Sherlock’s only loosely wanking John now, his grip slick with his own ejaculate, but John is too turned on to give a damn that Sherlock’s being a bit of a selfish git, getting himself off and then shoving his arse in John’s face for yet more pleasure.

But, John quickly loses himself in the tight heat of Sherlock’s arsehole, fucking his tongue deeper and eliciting filthy moans from the man above him.

All at once, Sherlock pulls away and lifts himself up, sliding down just far enough to get John’s cock sliding between his slick arsecheeks and in full view of the doctor.

It clicks then, and John can only hold his breath in anticipation when he realises what a madman Sherlock really is. A bloody genius, yes, but a madman through and through.

Using a combination of John’s saliva and Sherlock’s come, the detective reaches back just far enough to start teasing the head of John’s cock against his slick arsehole. Once, twice, three times he lets John’s cockhead rub tantalising circles around his opening, before finally tilting his hips forward just slightly and allowing the tip to slip inside.

John groans, relishing in the way Sherlock’s arse squeezes around him and relaxes once more, allowing more of him inside.

With aa few calm, deep breaths, Sherlock continues to pulse slightly, lifting himself up and back down incrementally until he’s fully seated, both hands planted firmly on John’s thighs in front of him.

When Sherlock makes to rise again, John stills him with firm hands on his hips, however, stilling his movements.

“Barely any prep—you sure it’s enough?”

“Mind over matter, John, and together we’ve provided an excellent amount of lubricant.” Sherlock smirks over his shoulder and clenches around John. “Just needed to breathe through it for a moment, and now I’m going to fuck you through the floorboards.”

And with that, he begins to rock, head thrown back, leaving John to hang on for dear life and try not to drool at the incredible vision before him of Sherlock’s taut arse greedily swallowing his cock, guided by a sinful mix of saliva, their combined precome, and Sherlock’s come.

It doesn’t take long after that.

With a dozen or so well-timed thrusts, John is coming, Sherlock’s arse like a vice around his spasming cock. And with every spurt inside the detective’s body, John is reminded that his come is mixing with Sherlock’s own inside of Sherlock. It’s like a kinky fever-dream fantasy, one that John never envisioned himself having before. It’s fucking incredible.

And whatever takes over him next, he is certain, but he’s slipping out of Sherlock along with a trail of his own come, and sitting up to shove Sherlock chest-first into his armchair. And in a move that he’d never considered before this moment, he’s kneeled behind the shuddering detective, two fingers assaulting his prostate, and his tongue lapping up their mingling ejaculate from Sherlock’s leaking hole.

Like the fifteen-year-olds they seem to be, Sherlock comes again with a muffled shout, his face buried in his leather armchair, at the same moment John’s free hand closes around his cock.

And if that isn’t a magnificent sound.

Minutes later, they’re both lying, still breathless, on the floor between their chairs, hearts racing and a peaceful, spent silence between them.

Their breathing finally begins to slow, and their hands find one another’s, fingers linking together loosely.

“We’re too bloody old for that.” John murmurs, eyes closed, and a dopey smile etched across his face.

“Clearly not.” Sherlock replies, as matter-of-face as ever.

“Reckon not.” John agrees. “But we will be.”

“We’ll just have to stash lube within arms reach of every square meter of the flat.” Sherlock replies. “Though my ejaculate worked spectacularly for this encounter.”

John chuckles in response. “We’ll scandalise anyone who snoops around the place—poor Mrs. Hudson.”

They share a brief giggle, both dizzy from their releases, before lapsing once more into silence for a few more minutes.

“Love?” John prompts, an earlier thought rearing back into his consciousness.

“John?” Sherlock replies, the barest hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Sentiment

“I have another item to add to your disguise.” John smirks. “We’ll have to do a bit of shopping before the wedding.”

“Mmph.” Sherlock grunts, waiting for John to elaborate.

“To go with your newfound smoothness.” John feels himself blushing at the thought once more. “I reckon I wasn’t joking about getting your something silky.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, but even through closed eyes John can sense the eye roll.

“I’m sure they’ll feel lovely against your skin… and against mine when I get you up to that hotel room at the end of the night.”

Sherlock only shakes his head. “Fine.” He acquiesces. “But we’ll go shopping together and I’ll get a say in the design. And the colour.”

John chuckles. “Fine by me, love. As long as I get to take them off with my teeth.”

To that, Sherlock’s cock stirs once more and he wonders whether John would be amenable to setting a record for them to break.