trillsabells: (Slash)
[personal profile] trillsabells
Title:The Prize
Author: [ profile] trillsabells
Beta: [ profile] jupiter_ash
Rating: NC17
Length: This Chapter 6600, overall nearly 100k
Spoilers: None
Summary: On 29 January 2010 an unknown Event wiped out 98% of the population. This is the story of the survivors, four months on. Based on this prompt here
Warnings (for entire fic): Starts with the death of over 6 billion people and goes downhill from there. Death, destruction, disease, violence, fire, plane crashes, slavery, graphic sex and serious consent issues

Chapter 1 : Chapter 2 : Chapter 3 : Chapter 4 : Chapter 5 : Chapter 6 : Chapter 7 : Chapter 8 : Chapter 9 : Chapter 10

They didn’t talk about it, that was the best thing, Sherlock thought. All his previous sexual partners had spent the morning after – or on occasion the very next minute – dwelling on rules and boundaries and definitions. In contrast, he and John seemed to slip into the new aspect of their relationship with such natural ease it was as if it had always been meant to be.

Admittedly, John did act a little strangely the next morning. The other man seemed quieter than usual, almost skittish. At first he thought it might be some overhanging nervousness as to the consequences of the previous afternoon’s incident. But then it occurred to him that it might be John’s way of being concerned over the new shape of their partnership. He didn’t want their day-to-day relationship to change, he liked it exactly how it was, so he attempted to show John this by acting exactly the same as he always had. That seemed to do the trick and it didn’t take long for John to get the message. They didn’t need to talk about it. That was brilliant.

For some reason that message seemed to need repeating after the second night in John’s room. Had John not expected there to be a second night? Had John thought he wouldn’t want to have sex with him again? He made sure to spend their third time disabusing John of that notion completely.

The sex only got better. Their first few times were brief and awkward; barely more than fumblings in the dark. But as time went on he got more used to John’s body and John to his. He learned those spots that would have John squirming, the perfect touch to break John’s silence into delicious moans, the best way to flex his hips and drive John straight to the brink but not over. John appeared to grow more confident as well. At first the other man seemed almost afraid to touch him, as if it was off limits. But soon he had the doctor pulling at his hair when he sucked him, holding tight enough to cause bruises as he rode him, and just exploring his body with wandering hands while he kissed him. He couldn’t help but notice that John never initiated contact, but once he got the other man going there was no stopping him until they were both satiated.

They fell into a kind of routine, like a proper couple, Sherlock couldn’t help musing, pleased. He didn’t visit John every night. The other man always seemed so tired the next day, even when Sherlock started visiting early in the evening so there would be plenty of time for John to sleep afterwards. Besides, they were both busy people and neither of them were exactly teenagers anymore. Still, two or three times a week he would go to John’s room, strip off completely then climb into the bed and strip John of his clothing as well. Although the bed was bigger than his own – the main reason why it was far more practical to use John’s room rather than his own – it was still narrow and awkward so it tended to be easier for him to remain physically on top although, once they branched out in terms of sexual style, who was technically topping would switch between them.

Afterwards he would almost always leave immediately, giving John one final goodnight kiss. Once or twice he had been so relaxed and John’s bed had been so warm and gorgeous that he had fallen asleep, sprawled across John’s body. It had been the most refreshing slumber he had ever had but he could tell instantly the next morning that John hadn’t slept a wink. The other man was obviously unused to sleeping with another person. He supposed that it would actually be better to spend every night sleeping with John to allow the doctor to acclimatise to it but most nights he wasn’t tired or he had experiments to run. Only when he truly needed revitalising did he allow himself the luxury of John’s company while he slept. John must have sensed that need because the doctor never threw him out in order to get a better night’s sleep for himself. Never even raised the issue the next morning. It was perfect.

John was perfect.

It even started to spill out into his day-to-day life. It was as if since he had stepped up his relationship with John everyone’s IQ scores had magically jumped ten points. Logically he knew that couldn’t possibly be true but the number of times he lost his temper at someone’s complete idiocy on a daily basis dropped so dramatically that he was almost tempted to reach that conclusion. Every colour seemed brighter, every day seemed warmer and everything just seemed less irritating in an unquantifiable way.

As far as he was concerned, things couldn’t get better.


It could be worse was such an overused phrase. Mainly overused by people who either couldn’t quite comprehend how much worse their situation could get, or who could only imagine a ridiculous worse scenario like if there were snakes in the room or if there were laser guided sharks honing in on them.

John had once had a four year old child die in his arms after she had been trampled on and then abandoned by her own mother, two feet away from her own front door in London. When he said it could be worse, he knew exactly what he was talking about. So when it came to the situation with Sherlock, it most definitely could be worse.

He was a doctor again, able to use his skills to keep life going on a daily basis – and even save it from the brink on occasion. He had food, warmth, shelter and fresh water. He had, if not friends, then affable acquaintances he could socialise with, drink coffee with and play football with. He had a man who let him be a witness and sometimes even a participant in his genius. Who taught him to treat the outside as a grand adventure rather than a battleground. Who made him laugh harder than he had in a long time. On top of all of that he was alive and no one seemed about to put a bullet in his head.

When the only cost being asked of him was sex with an attractive and enthusiastic man whenever and however that man decided to have it, then he could say with authority that it could be much worse.

When it came to the sex it most definitely could be worse. Sherlock, to his surprise – or it would have been had he ever thought about it before it happened – turned out to be a generous lover. He seemed as, if not more, concerned with John getting off than with himself. It was almost possible for him to imagine that he had chosen this and as time passed and Sherlock got more adventurous that’s exactly what he found himself doing.

He remembered the first guy he had genuinely found attractive. He had been at university. Coming from a boys’ grammar school it had been the co-ed environment at university that had truly awakened his sexuality. But unlike many of his contemporaries it had woken up for both women and men. Sex was suddenly on the table and as well as finding it in the form of new female classmates he had started to look at old schoolmates in a different light. And so his early experimentations had mostly been with friends that developed into more rather than new ‘conquests’. That remained the case until his third year when Aiden Hayes walked into the Student Union Bar.

Aiden had been as exotic as his name, tanned but with fair hair, muscled, square chinned and the kind of deep dark eyes you could lose yourself in. John had taken one look at him and thought ‘wow’ for the first time in his life.

He had known instantly that he wanted to go up to Aiden, buy him a drink, flirt with him in a casual and yet determined way that would eventually lead first to some serious snogging in the corridor and then back to his flat where they would fall into bed, giggling and panting in equal measure. Someone could have produced a full on double feature porno from the plans he had made the instant he set eyes on Aiden Hayes.

None of it happened of course. He never went up to Aiden in the bar that night and only found out the other man’s name later when he spoke to the student Aiden had been visiting, who confirmed that Aiden had only been there one night. Instead, Aiden was left to feature in some of his more graphic and, with a little self-stimulation, rather satisfactory fantasies where all his plans had come to fruition.

In many ways, with Sherlock it was more like his previous relationships than with Aiden; friends that developed into something more sexual. He hadn’t been attracted to Sherlock the instant he saw the other man; he hadn’t exactly been in the right circumstances. But when Sherlock climbed into his bed in the dark without saying a word he let himself put Sherlock in Aiden’s place in his mind. Imagined that he had seen Sherlock across a crowded bar, flirted with him, snogged him in the corridor then taken him back to his room. He imagined that he had made some of the decisions at some point.

It had never been a particularly convincing a fantasy; he didn’t have that good of an imagination. But it was usually enough to keep him going until Sherlock’s clever hands took away all thought. It was enough to make sure he didn’t start shouting, didn’t throw Sherlock off. He didn’t want to risk everything he had, the new life he had been building, by upsetting the one man who stood between him and Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft Holmes who had already tried to kill him once and would have even more reason to if he were to upset Mycroft’s beloved little brother. So he put his mind somewhere else so he could be sure to respond and reciprocate exactly how he was expected to.

Outside of the bedroom nothing changed. Sherlock still showed up whenever he felt it, still shared his thoughts, deductions and experiments. Still chatted and joked with him over dinner, took him to the most random places all over the Enclave, put on impromptu violin recitals, watched films and TV programmes with him and whined whenever John had a football practice. Sherlock didn’t demand any more affection, contact or obedience than he had before. It was as if there were two Sherlocks, one for the light and one for the dark.

Only once did Sherlock show a possessive side during the day. It had been just under two weeks after their first time and John had been in the canteen having his morning coffee with Seb. The colonel had been going on about one of his fairytales again, some rumour he’d heard about a place out in the sticks called ‘The Farm’ where everyone lived in harmony and worked together and there was plenty to go around to everyone. The kind of place which sounded very tempting but also very unlikely. Still, Seb had felt strongly about it – apparently the discovery that there had been a conspiracy within his own team as he had suspected had encouraged him to trust his instincts more - and was barraging John with questions about whether he had ever heard of it during his time on the street and whether he knew if it was real or not.

It was at that point that Sherlock had showed up.

Sherlock had come over to the table, given Seb a brief scathing glance, then appeared to decide to ignore him and focus on John.

“I want you, come on.”

John heard Seb give a quiet whistle and mumble, “Here, boy.”

“Can it wait?” he asked, vaguely waving his half full mug of coffee.

“No, I need your assistance, it’s very delicate and needs two people to handle it,” Sherlock said, grumpily.

Seb scoffed but John ignored him. It was just a reaction to the accidental innuendo, he didn’t think Seb knew at all. No one seemed to.

“Come on,” Sherlock insisted.

John reluctantly downed as much coffee as he could take in one mouthful and got up to follow his… whatever. Behind him, Seb made the ‘whipped’ noise. John decided ignoring him was still the best plan of action.

As soon as the canteen doors had swung shut behind them Sherlock stopped abruptly and turned to look at him with a firm expression.

“That colonel,” Sherlock said. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with him lately, haven’t you?”




One month! It had been a whole month since Sherlock had followed his brother as Mycroft led Private Fisher away, only to be stopped by the guards at the doors to the holding cells. He had argued and persuaded and shouted and bribed to try and get into the room, but had been rebuked soundly. Eventually, Mycroft himself had come out and informed him that he would receive a copy of the interrogation but wouldn’t be able to interview Fisher himself. That was unacceptable. What with the encryption the incoming phone calls to Fisher’s phone had used his tracking software hadn’t been able to provide him with anything other than an untraceable mobile number and the text of a few messages that had simply said ‘Time you called in, Aaron, Petey misses you’. He needed to ask Fisher a few questions of his own if they wanted to get any remotely useful information and he had told Mycroft that at length but his brother had remained firm.

It had taken four weeks for Fisher to break – honestly, you just couldn’t get the quality of truth serum these days – and three more days to persuade Mycroft to let him ask his own questions.

Mycroft had furnished the report, as promised, but it had been discarded aside so he could go in with no preconceptions. Most of it wouldn’t be any use anyway. Mycroft would want to know how Fisher had been recruited, how long he had been furnishing information, what sort of information he had been passing on, whether there were any more men on the inside that they didn’t know about etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Blah, blah, blah. Sherlock wanted to know about the doctors and mechanics being taken off the streets and whether there was a connection to the collectors near Thorpe.

John seemed rather shocked when he told him they were going to see Private Fisher. The doctor had probably forgotten the man existed it had been so long since his arrest.

Unsurprisingly, Fisher didn’t look well. As Sherlock sat down opposite the Private, with John taking the seat next to him, he couldn’t help noticing how pale Fisher looked, as well as the bags the Private had gained under his eyes. Still, there were people on the streets who looked much worse. At least Fisher was being fed regularly.

Sherlock sat and observed for a moment, arching his fingers together as he composed himself. He sat still and silent long enough for Fisher to start fidgeting and for John’s gaze to burrow into the side of his head.

“What’s four oh seven seven,” he said, after about five minutes of silence.

Fisher met his eyes for only a second before looking down at the table.

“It’s just a code, I dunno.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything.

“There are just these codes,” Fisher continued after a while. “I don’t know what they mean; I just heard them from time to time. Like Holby and Quinn and Dolittle and that one.”

“Who did you hear saying the codes?”

“I told the other-“

Sherlock abruptly waved him into silence. He didn’t need to know what was in Mycroft’s report. Obviously the other insiders would know more than Fisher, otherwise they wouldn’t have set the Private up for this fall. How was it helpful to know that someone he wasn’t currently interviewing and wouldn’t get to for some time had the information he wanted?

He needed what little information Fisher could give him on the matter and that all came down to one source.

“What about Petey? Did he ever use them?”

Fisher looked annoyed at the reference to his brother. “No, he never said anything about what they were doing. Nothing important, just day-to-day stuff, you know? I told the other-“

Again, not interested.

“Did Petey ever talk to you about the people they were bringing in?”

Awkwardness seeped into Fisher’s annoyance. “He didn’t talk about people. Not about what they were doing or where they got them or anything. I didn’t… He would never….”

Sherlock let out a tsk of irritation. Fisher’s guilt over his brother working with collectors, of helping the collectors himself in his brother’s name, didn’t concern him. Was just a hindrance to the information he wanted. He was therefore glad when Fisher lapsed into silence, actually thinking about what he was saying for once.

“Sometimes he would talk about deliveries. Having to sort them out or unload them and things. I never asked what was in them and he never went into detail.”

The man had clearly tried to maintain the illusion that it was items rather than people. The capability for normal people to delude themselves really was endless.

“Was there any mention of special deliveries?”

Fisher shifted in his seat. Skirting this close to the human cost of his brother’s actions was making him clearly uncomfortable. Good.

“Yeah. Yeah, he used that exact phrase and everything. Wasn’t very common but once or twice he’d mention a special delivery that they’d just got in and he hoped that would mean his lights didn’t flash all the time. Or one that they’d been expecting that hadn’t turned up.”

“But he never mentioned doctors or engineers, mechanics, electricians, plumbers, anything like that?”

“No, he never said anything about what the deliveries were. He did mention a doctor once. Mentioned he’d been patched up, didn’t say why, and that she was nice. Pretty. Joked that he’d get hurt again to have another go at her. That was the only time he ever mentioned doctors, I swear.”


Sherlock turned to look at John who was staring at the table curiously and had said the word speculatively as if trying to find out what it felt like in his mouth. After a moment John seemed to sense his gaze and looked back up at him, frowning.

“Quinn,” John said, still looking thoughtful. “Dolittle. They’re both doctors. And Holby is a hospital.”

“Where?” Sherlock demanded immediately.

Was it important? It had to be important. How?

“On TV.”

Sherlock’s heart sunk. He had honestly believed his friend was onto something but if this was just some stupid popular culture reference-

“Holby City, it’s a TV programme, and so is Doctor Quinn, Medicine Woman. Doctor Dolittle is a book. The codes, they’re all-“



God, he could kiss the man. He almost did.

“I theorised the codes might be in reference to missions or attempts to get hold of the people of interest,” he said, his whole attention now on John who was watching him with the most wonderfully attentive eyes. “But what if they actually refer to the person. Each code refers to the individual doctor. So Quinn refers to a female doctor. Holby-“

“Could be any doctor, I think the show was just general medicine. But Dolittle wasn’t a proper doctor at all, he talked to animals.”

“A vet then,” Sherlock said, putting aside the ridiculousness of the concept for the confirmation that these collectors had animals of some kind. “What about four oh seven seven?”

“MASH,” John said with certainty. “I used to watch it as a kid. MASH four oh seven seven, it was about a medical unit in the Korean war-“

“An army doctor.”

He watched the implications of that dawn across John’s face with an awe he didn’t think would ever fade when it came to things relating to John Watson.


“We know they made an attempt to get hold of you.”

They were never going to get another chance. He wouldn’t let them.

“I’m four oh seven seven?”

“The group who tried to grab you and Henry are the same that set up the M25 attack and planted men inside this base,” he waved briefly at Fisher who was looking utterly perplexed by the whole conversion. “They are very organised. How could I have missed this?” He turned back to Fisher. “How did I miss this? Did you pass them anything about me?”

Fisher looked panicked. “No! Except… before. Right before I…” he looked around the cell. “I had to tell them whenever the team went out and you were going out the same time as us so I had to tell them. Not where you went or anything, I couldn’t, I didn’t know. But if I didn’t tell them and they found out-“

“Yes, yes,” he waved Fisher into silence again. “I’m sure you told the interrogation team about your motivations in detail.”

“But the only trouble we ran into that time was Henry and David,” said John, “who had nothing to do with the collectors. I don’t think they’re interested in you.” John gave a wry grin. “Try not to be too offended.”

He brushed off the humour that replaced the brief dent to his ego and jumped to his feet.

“But they knew about you,” he said, pacing. “I have a comprehensive database of the whole of London and even I didn’t know about you. This level of organisation couldn’t have just come out of nowhere. Look at this place. The government have been working on this programme since the Cold War and even that had a basis in Second World War complexes and plans made as far back as the Napoleonic Wars. These collectors didn’t come out of nowhere. In order to have the contacts, the reputation and the coverage to pull all of this off they must have been a serious force long before the Event. So who are they?”

He turned back to the stunned looking John and Fisher and slammed his hands down on the table.

“Tell me who they are.”

“I don’t know!”

“Give me a name.”

“They didn’t tell me anything. I don’t know.”

“A name!”

“I don’t know!”

Sherlock whirled away from the table, his mind a buzz. He had to speak to Mycroft, find out if MI6 had been aware of anyone before the Event. But first he had to be fully prepared. He couldn’t expose himself to his brother without first having all the relevant information. He needed to know when and how Fisher had been recruited – there was no point asking the man, all that information would be in the notes from Mycroft’s interrogation – anything that could narrow down who was organising all this. Then, if Mycroft couldn’t furnish a name, he would have to go out on the streets and talk to his contacts there. Find out who was making a big name for themselves in the city’s underworld shortly before the Event.

He had to find out. Had to discover how something this big could have been hidden in his city without him knowing about it. Even a name would do. Who had bested him? Who had beaten him at his own game?

Fisher now irrelevant, he swept out with nothing more than a backwards call for John to follow him. With the rush of a soon-to-be-solved case running through his veins he fiercely clamped down on the traitorous thought that it could be the last case he would ever have to solve.


Sherlock joined him for dinner that evening with a look of grim determination that John was able to translate as, ‘I have just spent time with my brother who is a colossal arsehole’. It was a look John knew well and sympathised with completely.

“How’s Mycroft?”

“Useless,” Sherlock said, stabbing at the meal in front of him with venom. “He could tell me there was a big name starting to make itself known – which is completely obvious from the evidence – but couldn’t tell me what that name was. We’re going out tomorrow.”

The last sentence was said bitterly and John found himself smiling at the image of Sherlock begging his brother to be allowed out to play but being told to wait until light the next morning. The image was rather helped by the fact that Sherlock was clearly sulking about it.

“You’ll have to find something else to entertain you for tonight,” he said between bites of steak and kidney pie.

“How am I supposed to give anything else my full concentration with the case at the forefront of my mind?”

Sherlock waved his hands around his head in a frustrated gesture that made it look like he was physically fighting through too many ideas.

“Well, switch it off then?”

Sherlock gave him an astonished look and John realised what an impossible notion he had just given voice to.

“Why don’t you watch a film with me? I’ve got ‘The Thirty-Nine Steps’ out on loan, it’s an absolute classic.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as if suspecting a trick. “I’m out of biscuits.”

John laughed. “I’m sure we’ll make do.”

They both returned to their meals, Sherlock attacking his with a little more relish than usual as if eager to get on to the film.

After dinner they had to go to John’s room to pick up the DVD. Once there John didn’t see the point of going all the way back to the lab like they usually did when they watched something in the evenings together when there was a perfectly serviceable bed right there. So he hopped on the bed, rested the portable DVD player on his stretched out legs and patted the covers beside him. It wasn’t until Sherlock’s comfortable warmth was rested against his side that he realised what he had done.

It was the first time John had ever invited Sherlock into his bedroom and the first time in three weeks that Sherlock had ever been in his bedroom for something other than sex. What the hell was he doing?

Then, ridiculously, he found he couldn’t hold in a giggle. What they seemed to be doing was dinner and a movie. They were having a date first for a change. He’d never had a date with a man before and now he was having one with Sherlock? It was… he let out another giggle.

Sherlock stared at him incredulously, no doubt confused as to what he was finding so funny about the DVD start screen. He quickly pressed play.

Maybe Sherlock wouldn’t want to have sex? No, there was no way Sherlock was going to hold back when he had practically offered himself up on a plate. He was just going to have to watch the film and then try to enjoy himself.


The film, like many of John’s choices, was utterly ridiculous. Did that submarine just rise up in the middle of a loch? Preposterous.

He pointed it out to John who laughed and said he had never noticed that before. There was something off about the laugh, though. It was a little strained and as the film reached its conclusion John seemed to get more and more uneasy.

As soon as the credits were over Sherlock snapped the lid of the portable DVD player shut and placed it on the floor. He reached over to John’s shoulder and squeezing said.

“You’re tense, let me help.”

John turned towards him and he let his fingers drop to the buttons on the other man’s shirt, undoing them one by one. His eyes remained locked on John’s the whole time. His lover’s eyes were calm but searching, as if trying to read his thoughts through his pupils. He only dropped his gaze when all the buttons were undone and he could push the shirt off of John’s shoulders and spread his hands across John’s chest. He ran his fingers across the flesh there, admiring the way John had filled out since he had come to the Enclave, looking much better now he wasn’t half starved.

It was strange, the number of times he had seen John naked in the light, the number of times he had tasted John’s bare flesh in the dark, he had never done this. Never undressed him like a present when he could take in the sight of every inch being slowly revealed to him and not just the feel.

“Lie on your front,” he said.

John immediately kicked off his shoes then pulled off his socks before turning to lie flat on the bed. Sherlock smiled at John’s manners and followed suit, pulling off his own shoes and socks before kneeling up on the bed to straddle John’s waist.

He slipped his hands across John’s back, feeling the tight muscles. John was always so tightly wound up, like a spring ready for action at the slightest moment. Sherlock wasn’t sure John had ever relaxed completely since he had come to the Enclave. Knowing John as he now did he would suspect it had in fact been longer than that; since before the Event, most likely before John had even been shot.

As he pushed his hands in and started to unwrap the muscles with long, smooth movements he thought that maybe he could do something about that. The thought made him feel powerful, to have someone as mighty as John come apart under his fingertips.

It took only a few minutes of his attentions for John to give a low moan of pleasure.

“How are you so good at this?” John asked, muffled by the pillow. “And why haven’t you done this to me before?”

Sherlock let the smile take over his face, knowing that the other man couldn’t see it.

“It’s all about anatomy,” he said, rubbing small circles into John’s clenched shoulders, making sure to be delicate around the old bullet wound. “Knowing the layout of the muscles, how they are connected and how much pressure is required,” he pushed in forcefully with his thumbs causing John to yelp in pain then exhale a blissful sigh as the pressure was released, “to tame them.”

He made his way steadily downward, eliciting increasingly obscene groans from the man underneath him that sent sharp stings of arousal down his spine. He would think John was doing it deliberately if it wasn’t for the way the other man was practically melting into the mattress. The more relaxed John seemed to become the more tense Sherlock became – or at least one part of him became.

He reached around John’s front to undo his trousers and John shifted up to allow them to be pulled down. The movement brushed his growing hardness against the curve of John’s backside and he unwillingly let out an obscene moan of his own.

God, he couldn’t believe how hard he was. He wondered if it would be possible to come from the noises John was making alone. He wondered if he could make John come by just talking. There wasn’t much dirty talk in their sex life, perhaps they should introduce some as an experiment.

No, focus. John’s trousers.

He pulled them off of John’s hips then John flattened himself back down as he moved to one side to pull them all the way down.

He climbed back over John and returned to the massage, this time concentrating on the area of lower back that had just been exposed. John let out a contented sigh and shifted against the covers as if trying to burrow further into them.

Sherlock smiled. How lucky had he been to find this man in the ruins all those months ago? How wonderful was John to let Sherlock into his bed night after night? How much did he love the man underneath him?

He planted a kiss on the base of John’s spine then smiled at the small gasp this induced. He continued to work at the taut muscles with his fingers while at the same time lathering the sensitive spot with his lips and tongue. Both soothing and working John up at the same time.

John let out a small, “ah!” as a knot was smoothed out then his arm lifted to tug on the loose folds of Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock couldn’t help agreeing. Far too many clothes. As he climbed off the bed to undress, John turned his head to watch him with eyes clouded by drowsiness and the rise of lust. Sherlock undressed slowly, trying to give his lover a show. It was so against the norm for them to be like this, to have this kind of openness, he wanted to savour it. Then again his trousers really were getting uncomfortable. He stripped them and his boxer-briefs quickly, letting out a sigh of relief as his cock was finally allowed free. John’s eyes immediately seemed to lock on it. Sherlock stood still a moment, recalling that it was the first time his lover had really seen it. Felt it, squeezed it, tasted it, been breached by it, yes, but in the light John always kept his eyes politely above waist level. He wasn’t now though. Sherlock revelled in the attention, pleased that they were still finding new things to do with their relationship, still keeping from getting bored.

He was never going to get bored of John, he was determined. The very idea was simply inconceivable.

He stroked himself languidly, still putting on a show for John. Soon though, he grew impatient and decided that contact was needed right that instant. He reached for the lube he had taken to storing in the gap between John’s bed and the laundry basket then switched off the lights so they wouldn’t have to worry about getting up if they were too exhausted later before climbing back onto the bed.

His first task was to plaster himself against his lover’s side and seize John’s lips in a kiss he had been waiting all day for. John returned it as enthusiastically as always, digging fingers into Sherlock’s hair and pulling him closer even as Sherlock ravaged John’s mouth with his tongue.

His second task was, naturally, to rid John of the final barrier between them, namely the pair of offending underwear. As one hand tore them away the other slipped under his lover’s body to grasp John’s penis and squeeze. John hardened quickly under his fingers and whined a little when he took his hand away. More soon, he promised with a silent stroke to John’s thigh.

Returning to his previous position of straddling his lover’s legs he resumed the massage; concentrating, teasingly, on John’s arse, caressing his buttocks and skimming the hole with his fingers. He took it slowly, gently. His own erection throbbed for attention, for contact, but he concentrated on John, only John. On showing the other man just how much he cared through every touch, every kiss and every breathless cry. He was richly rewarded when, after pausing a moment to apply lube to his fingers he circled the hole with featherlike touches before pushing the very tip of the digit inside.

“Oh god!”

John spoke! Okay, it was more like a moan than actual speech but it was amazing. Eager for more, he pushed the finger in further.

“Oh guh!”

How much would it take to have John cry out his name? God, if he could get John to cry out his name as he came across the sheets he would be a very happy man indeed.

He pushed, stretched and opened before slipping in another finger then crooking them at the perfect angle to-

“Oh good-“ John shouted before flattening himself back against the pillow and continuing, muffled, “God. Oh god.”

No, no, no, he wanted to hear it!

He reached one arm around John’s waist to lift him up onto his knees then moved John’s head from his pillow – taking the opportunity to plant a small kiss on John’s ear as he did – in order to steal it away. He decided to use it to prop up John’s arse into a comfortable position before returning his fingers to John’s hole and started to scissor them.


Why was God getting all the credit here?

John’s whimper as he removed his fingers sent so much heat coursing through his body that he had to take a moment to compose himself before reaching for the lubricant again. Smothering some over his fingers he reached around John to grab his cock, his lover thrusting wantonly into his hand at the slightest touch. He kept up strokes that were achingly slow, even for him, and lay himself across John’s back, using his other arm to hold him tight to his chest.

“Say my name,” he whispered.


So breathless, so needy, so perfect.

“If you want it you have to say my name.”

He gave a slight flick over the head with his thumb.

“Guh- Sherlock!”

John’s neck was too irresistible, he had to taste it, lick it, kiss it. John gave a heated sigh and tipped his head to the side so he could reach more easily and he couldn’t resist a momentary joy as he thrust his hips for gorgeous friction. He couldn’t hold off much longer.

“Do you want me?” he said. “You have to say if you want me.”

“Yes!” John shouted. “Sherlock, yes!”

He wasn’t going to hold off any longer. Ignoring John’s frustrated whine as he pulled away completely he grabbed for the lubricant again, fumbling with it in his desperation. At least they weren’t using a condom; he wasn’t sure he had the time or the remaining brain power to get one on but thankfully they were both tested to stringently ridiculously often they didn’t need one.

Finally he slicked himself up then, with a swift push, entered John.

They both gasped at the sudden sensation. The warmth, the tightness, the feeling of John all around him, he had waited too long it was too much. Propping himself with one hand and wrapping the other around John’s chest he paused for a moment, controlling himself, panting atop of John, feeling John’s heartbeat through his palm. Then finally he moved.

As he thrust he slid his hand back downwards to stroke John in time, twisting and squeezing and timing his hits against John’s prostrate to maximise John’s vocalisations.


“Say it, John, say it.”


“Oh just you, just you, going to make me come.”

“Sherlock, I’m gonna, I’m gonna.”

“Please, John, please!”


He was helpless, utterly helpless to resist as John contracted around him, screaming his name like it was the only thing in the world, filling John and knocking all the breath out of his body.

He collapsed against John’s back, wanting nothing more than to melt into the other man, feeling as relaxed and boneless as if it had been him having the massage. There was no way he was going anywhere else tonight.

He hummed contentedly, slipped out of John and tilted himself onto his side on the bed beside the other man. When John turned over Sherlock smiled lazily at him and pulled him into another kiss. A soft one this time, just their lips caressing each other.

Chapter 12

Author's Note: Next chapter will be Saturday while we all brace ourselves for the tears to be shed on Sunday.
This year’s Annual (well we did it last year, one more go and it becomes a tradition: FACT) Sherlock Holmes Anniversary Meetup is taking place in London on 28th and 29th January and I’m going. It was such fun last year so I really would encourage all of you who can to come along. Details can be found here.

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