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In retrospect, the idea that the bite wouldn't take seems ludicrous. Especially right now, the way their lives have become so perfectly entangled, so evenly balanced. John stares at himself in the mirror, peering over his shoulder at the fading purple bruise, the scabbing tooth marks.
There's an oddly pleasant symmetry to it - the scar on John's left shoulder, the one that brought him to Sherlock in the first place, and now the mate on his right shoulder, binding them together for good. Something about it puts him in an uncommonly good mood. It's not as if he'd been in a particularly bad one before, but the bonding is putting an unexpected spring in his step.
It's not going to change anything, he insists to himself. Sherlock's still going to be an insufferable git, John's still going to be angry at times. But John is shocked at how pleased he is by it all. He'd always rebuked the idea of bond bites as antiquated, possessive Alpha bullshit, but right now he just feels loved. Cherished.
He struts down the hall without bothering to put a shirt on. Sherlock's lying on the sofa, fingers steepled under his chin, clearly lost in thought. Generally, there's an unspoken rule of When Sherlock is working don't interrupt Sherlock for sex but right now John feels like he could conquer the world. He marches across the lounge, lifts Sherlock's feet off the sofa, sits down, and drops them into his lap.
Sherlock opens one eye and peers quizzically at John, studying his face for a moment.
"Someone's in a good mood. Do we have a case?"
"Dunno, do we? Looks like you're pretty busy thinking about something."
"Mmm." Sherlock's grunt is an affirmative, but a vague one. Absently, John runs a hand over the top of Sherlock's long, bony foot. "Distracting, stop it." He wiggles his toes, but otherwise makes no motion to move his foot, which John takes an invitation to most definitely not stop it.
He runs one knuckle under Sherlock's calcaneus, causing his foot to twitch. John can tell he's trying to look impassive, disinterested, but the corner of his mouth pulls up a fraction. Compelled, John lifts Sherlock's leg gently. Sherlock doesn't fight it, so John dips his head and kisses Sherlock's ankle. Sherlock can't disguise the small gasp that escapes his mouth as John parts his lips and traces his tongue around the bony protrusion.
John runs his fingers along the underside of Sherlock's calf, causing gentle friction against the delicate wool fabric. He glances up, noticing the subtle distending of the front of Sherlock's trousers. Clearly his advances are not as unwelcome as Sherlock is trying to pretend they are. John chuckles, warm breath dusting across the arch of Sherlock's foot.
"I could stop. You know, if you... want me to."
There's a low grumble from the back of Sherlock's throat, and for a moment it almost looks like he's going to take John up on his bluff. Instead, he throws his arms over his head and arches his torso up off the sofa, chest straining his already-tight dove grey shirtfront.
"Mmm, thought not." John presses one more kiss the to top of Sherlock's foot before crawling over him, settling down with one knee on either side of Sherlock's hips. He rocks back, arse grinding pointedly against Sherlock's growing erection.
"John, really? Is something the matter?"
John blinks, confused for a moment. He stops rocking, stilling his hips against the warm heat of Sherlock's cock. "Why would something be the matter?"
"You're not due for a heat for another..." he pauses, glancing at his watch, "seventeen days, three hours, and twelve minutes, give or take."
John rolls his eyes, smiling fondly at Sherlock's ridiculous precision.
"M'not. In heat."
"So... why..." Sherlock flaps one hand in the general direction of their hips, at John's own increasingly girthy erection, straining the front of his jeans.
"What, am I not allowed to randomly want to be fucked by my big, gorgeous, possessive Alpha mate?" He leans forward, toying with the buttons on Sherlock's shirt.
Now it's Sherlock's turn to roll his eyes. "You hate being fucked." He spits out the last two words in an uncanny sarcastic imitation of John at his most ranty. John smiles, rutting pointedly against Sherlock's cock as he works open the buttons of his shirt.
"Don't hate it. What I hate is the assumption that it's all I'd want. That it's all I'm good for. There’s more to life than alpha-cock-goes-into-omega-arse. And you've never, not once made me feel like that. Sometimes sleeping with a proper genius has its benefits. If only I could get you to stop leaving fingers in the toaster."
Sherlock braces his feet against the sofa and bucks his hips up, grinding into the soft curve of John's arse, and John groans softly. "That was one time. Once!"
"And it's bound to happen again," John scolds gently. "Now shut up and fuck me like a good Alpha." With that, he pops the last straining button on Sherlock's shirt, pulling it open and exposing the creamy flesh of Sherlock's chest. Impulsively, still clutching the two sides of the shirt, he leans forward and kisses Sherlock, hungrily sucking on his plump lower lip. Startled, Sherlock gasps, and John takes advantage, slipping his tongue into Sherlock's mouth.
John feels Sherlock's hands, strong and broad and warm, gripping his lower back; feels his own erection, hot and heavy now, pinned between their bodies; feels the pounding in Sherlock's chest against his own as he closes the space between them further.
"I..." Sherlock pants out, clearly already more aroused than he'd let on, "I would love to, but you're making it difficult for me to remove my trousers."
Clumsy with lust and anticipation, John scrambles into a sitting position away from Sherlock's legs, and they both make hasty work of divesting themselves of their trousers. Sherlock shoves his, along with his pants, down to the foot of the sofa while sliding his shirt the rest of the way off his arms, and John dumps his jeans unceremoniously on the floor.
Once they're stripped down, John leans back and takes a moment to appreciate the glory of Sherlock, nude and reclined and wanting. His chest is flushed and blotchy, his eyelids already heavy with desire, his cock erect and bright red, curving eagerly away from his body. John will never tire of seeing Sherlock so hungry and discomposed.
John clambers back to his perch astride Sherlock's hips, rubbing his bare arse against the warm, velvety skin of Sherlock's erection. The slippery feel of pre-come at the head rubbing against his over-heated skin makes John's throat tighten. He groans, bending down to kiss Sherlock again. Sherlock's hands stroke up and down the length of John's back, seemingly without aim, until his fingers find the raised, tender skin of the bite mark.
"Mine." Sherlock's voice is rough and possessive, and it goes straight to John's cock. It twitches eagerly, trapped between them, and John groans.
"Get on with it, would you?"
Sherlock smirks. "Are you absolutely certain you're not going into early heat? So demanding." Under his heavy lids, his eyes sparkle with mischief as he gently rocks his hips, slipping the head of his cock into the cleft of John's arse.
John feels the head nudging insistently against him, hot and smooth. His internal muscles clench and relax, but without the hormones of his heat, his body doesn't welcome the intrusion quite as eagerly as it would otherwise. He reaches over Sherlock's head, fumbling at the end table, and finds a small bottle of lubricant in the drawer. He's not sure which one of them had the foresight to leave it there, but he's eternally grateful. Sherlock nips at John’s armpit as he’s stretching, and John gasps. That shouldn’t be as hot as it is.
For once, John is thankful for the quirks of his anatomy that mean he won't require as much preparation as an Alpha or Beta would. He resettles himself and kisses Sherlock again. Lips still pressed tightly against Sherlock's, heart pounding, he manages to pour a decent amount of lube into his palm. He reaches around himself and slicks Sherlock up. Sherlock gasps into John's mouth, and John groans, as if in some sordid reply.
Once the head of Sherlock's cock is liberally coated, John slips a finger into himself, more to comfort himself than anything. Already, the muscles are relaxing. He's not leaking, body not preparing itself the same way it usually would, but the tight ring opens easily.
Groaning, impatient, Sherlock writhes under John, prodding him insistently with each roll of his hips. John's just as eager. Gripping the base of Sherlock's cock to hold him steady, John repositions himself and sinks smoothly down onto Sherlock.
For a moment, neither of them move, simply savoring the union, the tight heat, the meeting of nerve endings where their bodies become one. John runs his tongue one last time across Sherlock's upper lip before sitting up, readjusting himself, sighing as Sherlock's cock breaches even further into his body.
John's voice is ragged, breathy, as he breaks the silence. "Fuck me."
"Was that an order, Captain?" Sherlock smirks, but his voice is equally frayed with need.
"Shut up, Sherlock. Shut up and fuck me already."
For once in his life, Sherlock obeys without further argument. He wraps his hands tightly around John's hips, tight enough that there will likely be bruises tomorrow, but right now John couldn't give a fuck. Holding onto John as if for dear life, Sherlock rolls, a slow, steady undulation that seems to start in his chest and end at his feet. The motion rocks his cock slowly out of John's arse, leaving John suspended and hollow for a fraction of a second, before slamming deeply back into him.
John lets out a sharp gasp as Sherlock repeats the motion, rocking fluidly in and out of him several times before holding still again.
"Did I say you could stop, Sherlock?" He reaches down, gently stroking Sherlock's cheek before dragging his nails sharply across the thin skin of his throat, just over his pulse point. Sherlock whines and bucks his hips again, falling into a more steady thrusting rhythm now.
John may be the one getting penetrated, but there's no debate about who is in control here. It feels fucking fantastic, Sherlock pounding deep into him, stretching his muscles with that thick cock. John's own cock bounces freely, hard and leaking and neglected, and just as he's about to take himself in hand, Sherlock shifts slightly and the head of his prick grazes across John's prostate.
Panting, John rolls his hips back and forth, grinding against the root of Sherlock's cock. Eventually, they fall into a rhythm, John rocking steadily against each upstroke. John leans forward, licking and nipping at the pale column of Sherlock's throat.
His orgasm builds slow and steady, coiling tightly around John's spine, blurring his vision softly around the edges. He sits up, leaning back, and Sherlock grabs him tightly, shifting back against the arm of the sofa and pulling John forward, still buried deeply inside of him.
"Harder, fuck, Sherlock." John groans, slamming his arse down, impaling himself. Sherlock hisses, arching up and sliding into the tight heat deep inside of John. The stretch is glorious, and John throws his head back. He blinks, glittering beads of sweat collecting in his eyelashes.
Their pace builds, John's pulse racing and Sherlock's thrusts getting increasingly erratic. The slow ache in John's belly builds, the hot tight need to come, but despite the glorious feeling of fullness, he knows that this won't be quite enough to bring him off. John shifts, looking down at Sherlock's face, contorted in beautiful agony as he reaches for John's throbbing prick.
It's the sight of Sherlock straining, twisting himself into an impossible curve, that does John in. His tongue, sharp and wet and pink, darts out from between those beautiful lips, fluttering so close to John's cock. Groaning, John takes himself in hand, fist tightening around the thick, flared base. Without the presence of his own heat hormones to confuse his body, he's not forming a proper knot, but the tension feels blissful nonetheless.
Sherlock bucks wildly under him, burying himself deeply in John's arse, and John tips his hips forward with a groan. He angles his cock downwards, and Sherlock manages to flick his head over the swollen head. He parts his lips hungrily, desperately trying to take more of John into his mouth, and the sight proves to be too much for John to handle.
"Christ.. fuck... Sh'l... Gonna..." He spits out a strain of broken half-words, curses and endearments all at once, and bites his lip. He can feel himself contracting around Sherlock's cock, every muscle in his body bearing down, locking them together as he comes violently. Sherlock's face is still precariously close to the head of his own prick, and John manages to force his eyes open long enough to see his own climax splattering across Sherlock's eagerly parted lips. Groaning, he bucks, rocking, deeply impaling himself on Sherlock. The motion jerks his hips and the last wave of his orgasm splatters across Sherlock's cheek, over his eyelashes.
Within moments, Sherlock comes with a shout, fingers digging almost painfully into John's arse as he rises up off the sofa, impaling John, flooding him with wave after wave of come. John's prick twitches once, twice, as it softens, settling limply against his thigh.
"Mm, now, what were you saying about me giving up control?" John smirks, running two fingers across Sherlock's cheek, over his lips, smearing the filthy mess of spunk across his blotchy skin. Sherlock moans, parting his lips, and John slips two fingers into the welcoming heat of Sherlock's mouth. The image before him, Sherlock eagerly sucking John's come off his fingers like this, is nearly enough to get John hard again. For a moment he almost wishes he were in heat after all.
Exhausted, he shifts his hips, groaning sadly as he feels Sherlock slipping out of him, followed by the hot, sticky evidence of their intimacy running down the inside of his thigh. He flops backwards onto the sofa, heedless of the mess they're no doubt going to make.
Sherlock lifts his head off the sofa, his face flushed and his hair damp with sweat. John thinks he looks beautiful. He strokes Sherlock's foot again, this time with no ulterior motives. Sherlock twitches, giggling and looking up at the ceiling. He wipes his face with the back of his hand, attempting to scrub off the last of the cooling ejaculate before it sticks to his face.
"For a crack shot, your aim is abominable."
Smirking, John runs a hand up Sherlock's calf, rubbing the muscle lightly.
"You're assuming."
"I never assume, the evidence is clear." Sherlock gestures limply to his sticky eyelashes.
"You're assuming I wasn't aiming for your face."
Sherlock looks up at him, wide-eyed. "John Watson, you are revolting."
"Says the sticky man lying naked on my sofa." Grinning, he reaches for a box of tissues and leans over, gently wiping Sherlock's face. "Maybe, next time, we'll do this in bed."
"Maybe, next time, you'll learn not to accost me in the sitting room."
John closes his eyes, letting his mind drift to filthy images of Sherlock, spread open and bent over his chair, Sherlock pinning him against the soft velvet flocking of the wallpaper...