anarion | Fic: Sunday Sights

Title: Sunday Sights
Words: 1101
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: voyeurism?
Pairings : Sherlock/John
Beta: the wonderful

verityburns
Disclaimer: Sadly the characters are not mine and no money is made (that would be sooo cool!).

Summary: This is set in the same verse as Sunday, the story verityburns lovingly calls 'The brain-melter'. It was supposed to be a one-shot, but then I saw this amazing picture (NSFW!!!) by livia_carica and I couldn't stop myself. So now there is a second part. :)

Find 'Sunday' here

Sunday sights

Sherlock tries to open the door to 221B with fingers numb from the cold and damns himself for dashing out of the flat without his coat. But there was a lead to follow and he wanted to be back before John woke.

It is Sunday, John’s day off, and since that Sunday a few weeks back Sherlock has been hoping that something similar would happen again. He is not sure what exactly he is hoping for, but he tries to spend every waking minute of John’s free day in the flat.

The last weeks were confusing on many levels. On the one hand there are these feelings he is suddenly aware of, feelings for John, feelings he doesn’t know what to do with.

On the other hand there are bodily reactions he hasn’t had for years: wet dreams and an early morning hard-on. He ignores these, as he is used to ignoring all of his body’s needs like hunger, tiredness and exhaustion. But then again, John forces him to tend to these needs sooner or later.

Because Sherlock needs someone to remind him that sleep helps when he is so tired that he can’t think anymore or that food is the solution for not fainting after climbing up the stairs.

Since John doesn’t know about this special need though, he can’t tell Sherlock what he should do in this case. Maybe Sherlock should tell him, presented as a more general problem of course? John is a doctor, he would help. Maybe he would even be eager to help, who knows? He did yell Sherlock’s name after all.

But then it could’ve just been a one-off and Sherlock is not ready to risk their friendship upon this inconclusive amount of data. So he hopes for a repeat that will give him more data every Sunday.

Now he hopes that he is not too late and John not awake yet.

He finally manages to unlock the front door, walks up the steps to their flat silently and opens the door to the living room without a noise. His eyes scan the room as he enters and what he sees makes him freeze instantly.

He stares. Speechless. His brain refusing to process the sight in front of him.

Can you imagine Sherlock speechless? Well, there is only one person in the whole wide world capable of rendering the great Sherlock Holmes speechless, capable of reining his brilliant brain to a full stop – John Watson.

So here is what he sees: Said John Watson, wearing Sherlock’s coat and apart from that - nothing. Lying dropped across Sherlock’s armchair, eyes closed and one hand on his cock. His very hard cock.

Sherlock slowly, silently, softly walks a few steps closer, until he is standing behind John’s armchair. Watching. Breathing. Who knew that mere breathing could take such an effort?

He is stunned at how beautiful John looks with his face flushed, his breathing elevated and his chest heaving. Of course he has seen most of John’s body without clothing before, but never like this: naked, vulnerable, lost in his own world.

He starts drinking in all the details, the way John’s nipples stand up, the slow movement of his fingers on his cock, the soft fluttering of his eyelids and the occasional appearance of his tongue to wet his lips.

Then John bites his lip, moans softly and his free hand grabs the coat. Sherlock suddenly very, very much wants to touch. He grips the headrest instead and tries to concentrate on what John is doing to pleasure himself.

John, who is now moaning and rocking his hips and occasionally arching his back. At some point while watching Sherlock, who is looking positively flustered by now, has started pressing his groin against the armchair without even noticing.

Sherlock stares as John’s hand moves faster and he is groaning and God this feels good – he suddenly realises that he has pressed his own hand against his erection and he can’t remember doing that.

He pulls his hand away (it takes effort) and is about to grab the armchair again when John softly moans his name. Sherlock’s eyes fall close against his will and when his brain recovers from the short-term overload he sees, with horrified fascination, that his hand is back.

While breathing was an issue a few minutes ago he now seems unable to get enough air into his lungs. Interesting.

John’s hips and his hand move in a steady rhythm and he starts making small ‘Oh’ noises that go straight to Sherlock’s erection. His legs are shaking and when a small spurt of pre-cum leaks from John’s cock, his knees nearly give in.

It takes a while for Sherlock to realise that the needy whimpers come from his own throat. His free hand shoots up and covers his mouth. Luckily John seems not to have heard it.

John is moving his hand frantically now and his moans turn into small sobs. Sherlock bites his lip to stop himself from groaning and moves his own hand faster.

Some far away part of his brain registers the heat coiling in his groin and the tingling in his fingertips and toes (wow, even his toes?) but the main part is busy with ‘Oh God, how can this feel so good? Oh God, oh God, close, I’m so close...’

And then John almost lifts off the armchair and he positively roars Sherlock’s name and Sherlock is falling, falling, falling, hand clinging to the chair to stop himself from crashing to the ground.

When he opens his eyes again, he sees John, lying spent on the armchair, a small puddle of come on his belly, eyes closed, still breathing hard, his cock slowly softening and Sherlock is filled with such a longing that he cannot stop himself from whispering ‘John’ under his own still ragged breath.

John slowly opens his eyes and smiles at him, which confuses Sherlock a lot. Shouldn’t he be angry? Because Sherlock is pretty sure that what he just did is against every etiquette one can think of.

But John is smiling. And then he says, speech still slightly slurred, “So. You like watching.”

Sherlock has to close his eyes for a moment and remember the breathing part in order to not faint this instant. Because this? Too much.

When he opens his eyes again, John has moved. He is standing right in front of Sherlock, completely naked, the coat shed on the armchair, and God, does he look perfect.

His next question knocks Sherlock’s recently recovered composure out again.

“What about touching?”

Next chapter

--------------------------
AN: I already have ideas for a next part, which features Sherlock trying the same in John's jumper. I am still hoping that Livia paints that as well. You know, for ahm... reference!

Also, Maria? See how low I stooped? I mentioned the toes. *hides in shame*

.

Current Mood: recumbent

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

atlinmerrick.livejournal.com

Oh dear FUCKING god. Yes. Yes. Yes.

I...what?

Um. Yes.

And, um Livia has painted that picture you're hoping for. I've seen it. She hasn't posted it yet though.

Also *fucking hell* darlin' this was sexy. And unexpected, how it developed. What an excellent last line.

From:

Fic: Sunday Sights

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