Chapter Text
It had been a quiet evening so far. Unexpectedly quiet after days and nights of Sherlock moping around the flat, sulking on the sofa, terrorising poor Mrs Hudson and pestering poor him.
John had thought that Sherlock had finally given in to the dry spell of cases since he wasn’t allowed on crime scenes of the Yard any longer. Barely any private cases came in, as people apparently didn’t get as much chance to cheat, to silently disappear, to change identities or to get kidnapped due to the pandemic. Sherlock didn’t like any of those changes.
“What is a pandemic even good for, John?” he had complained one day.
“Love, I don’t think it’s good for anything really.” John had shaken his head at his nutter of a boyfriend.
“If it’s so utterly useless then why invent it in the first place?” Sherlock had whined.
“That’s not exactly how it works. And you damn well know that, you git.” John had huffed about Sherlock’s silly behaviour.
“I don’t care; I don’t approve of it anyway!” Sherlock had pouted and flopped on the sofa for his next round of sulking.
“Well, they — whoever is responsible for this shit — don’t care either,” John had countered and had shrugged, “they didn’t ask for your approval.”
“Welllll,” Sherlock had childishly imitated John, “they most definitely should have. I could have told them that it would be a terrible idea.” The pillow underneath his head had received a punch and the blanket on the other end of the sofa had been kicked off in Sherlock’s wrestle with his dressing gown to wrap himself up like a sushi roll.
“Well in that case, they definitely should have.” John had sighed and hoped that they were done with nonsensical discussions — at least for now, until the next one came up.
With that being the current mood in 221b, in retrospect, John should have been suspicious about the sudden contentment.
Only now, sitting in their respective chairs, enjoying the cosiness of a domestic evening in each other’s company; John reading and Sherlock typing away on his laptop while sipping a G&T each; he realised it had started after the habitual morning with tea and toast and… newspaper.
The moment Sherlock stopped typing and hummed happily behind his laptop, John looked up to discover a wicked smirk on the detective's face. His eyes twinkled mischievously and John knew, this meant trouble.
“Case?” He tried to keep it casual.
“Hmmmhmm,” Sherlock confirmed happily.
“Oh.” It was rather rare to find cases that made Sherlock this level of happy these days. “Must be a good one if you’re this delighted by an in-home case.”
“Who said anything about in-home?” Sherlock literally brimmed with life.
“You’re not allowed out anymore.” John frowned.
“Apparently, I am for this one.” Sherlock grinned. “Seems, none of the Yarders wants to go undercover for this one and there really is no-one as suited as I am. For once, the Yarders are more than willing to let me take center stage.”
Something in that wording struck John weird, but he couldn’t exactly pinpoint what it was. Sherlock was already up and about, hurrying to their bedroom in a flourish, and John almost didn’t get a chance to ask.
“What kind of case is it then?” he called after Sherlock.
The whirlwind of a man stopped short and twirled dramatically to look at John.
“For this one, I have to be a pirate!” He exclaimed, as excited as a child.
“A… pirate?” John frowned.
Sherlock looked at John from under his lashes, lowered his chin and his voice.
“A Purple Pirate, John!”
With that the bedroom door first flew open then was flung shut with a bang and the flat was quiet again.
John felt heat creep to his face. He hadn’t seen the Purple Pirate since their very first night. It was a very very memorable night. He had been so alone and he owed that Posh Purple Pirate so much. She… he… — John chuckled at the realisation that he still mixed the images up in his mind. No matter which, it was all fine anyway, that enigmatic Pirate had entered his life and made him drown in an instant. And saved his life.
John got up and slowly followed Sherlock. He opened the bedroom door and — yes — there it was. In Sherlock’s hands, held up in front of him, was his “disguise” exactly as John remembered it; every little detail — the corset of purple velvet, the metal buttons and embroidery shimmering in the dim light of the bedroom; the lace and leather layered skirt which barely deserved its name; lace tights thin like spiderwebs slung around the hanger, side by side with the sinful and surely illegal lace panties; draped over the bar was the high-necked sleeveless blouse which made John’s gaze skip immediately to the long pale neck it was once clad on.
“Do you remember it?” Sherlock asked, in his other hand holding the high heels by the long laces that reached up to above his knees when put on.
“If I remember it…?” John croaked. He wasn’t quite able to swallow against the sudden dryness of his mouth. 'If he remembered it? Seriously?' “So, ‘taking center stage’ was meant quite literally then?” He hadn’t felt this excited about a case for ages. But then, the excitement probably wasn’t solely about the case. Or rather, not about the actual case at all…
“Yep,” Sherlock only said, popping the ‘p’ as he loved to do, “becoming Miss Pirate again!” and his eyes gleamed. John saw his suspicion confirmed that The Pirate was more than just a disguise for Sherlock.
“And I? I’m mimicking the limping army-doctor again?” John laughed a bit half-heartedly. Would Sherlock even need him on the case? Considering all the current restrictions it was very well possible that John wasn’t even allowed to accompany Sherlock. John felt a bit sick at the thought of Sherlock out in the open in that outfit, for all thirsty eyes to see, let alone all greedy hands to grab. If he thought back to his own reaction to the sight… He swallowed.
“We’re long over the stage of the limping army-doctor, John, aren’t we?” Sherlock pulled him back from his thoughts.
“Are we?” John asked, a bit insecure.
“Of course we are!” Sherlock exclaimed. “Now you’re my pimp!”
John almost choked on his own breath. He got caught in a cough fit until Sherlock thumped him on his back a couple of times.
“Alright?” Sherlock asked, concerned. Face still red, tears rolling down his nose, John looked at Sherlock.
“Your… pimp?” he asked, voice rough from the cough.
“I can try to find someone else if you don’t…” Sherlock said with a frown.
“NO! No, no.” John hasted to interrupt him. “You don’t have to… No.” He shook his head, cleared his voice. “That was just… unexpected.”
“Was it?” Sherlock looked at him incredulously. “Considering the case is about a territory feud between the self proclaimed head of the business and the old-established community of procurers…” he went off on a rant.
“You didn’t exactly tell me though.” John deadpanned.
“Didn't I?” Sherlock looked sincerely surprised.
“No,” John sighed.
“Well, however, our acquaintance comes in very handy now…”
“Acquaintance?” John grunted in disbelief.
“Oh, don’t be like that.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“Like what?”
“Like… that!” Sherlock flailed his arms in John’s general direction. “As if you wouldn’t know that I’d love to be shagged on every possible and impossible surface of this flat now the quarantine ensures us undisturbed days on end, if only tedious inconveniences as refractory periods or your incredibly exorbitant need to sleep wouldn't get in the way. Why do you think I’m in such a mood all the time? Such a wasted opportunity!” he hissed.
John swallowed, at a loss for words, the traitorous heat back on his face. Sherlock though was oblivious to the impact of his words and prattled on.
“What I mean is, that it is very convenient that there’s a helping hand with the costume now as it proved to be quite difficult to put it on on my own.” Sherlock wiggled the tempting object of discussion in front of John’s face.
Only now, seeing Sherlock and the costume of The Purple Pirate side by side, it struck him that he had never seen them together. Which was ridiculous as they were one and the same, but… he hadn’t seen them merge, so to speak. And now, he was supposed to assist. He wasn’t sure if he’d come out safe and sane at the other end of this undertaking…
“Now?” he rasped, incapable to control his voice.
“Of course not now!” Sherlock huffed, as if John had said the dumbest thing ever. “For one, we’d never get ready in time and I’d first need to make some calls to my old clubs anyway…”
“Your old clubs?” John asked, perplexed. But Sherlock just ignored it and continued as if he hadn’t heard.
“... and second,” he said as if it was something they’d talked about endless times already, “you don’t really expect me to put on those tights with my legs looking like this?!”
Sherlock gestured towards his legs, which he most delicately put on display from under his dressing gown now. John wondered, what he was supposed to see as Sherlock’s legs looked like they always did — disgustingly beautifully endlessly long, pale, lean, just the right amount of muscles, covered in fine dust of dark hair. Nothing out of the ordinary. Puzzled, he gazed up at Sherlock, who dangled the tights in front of his face and looked at John through the see-through spider web. He raised his eyebrows and wiggled the tights a bit more until it clicked in John’s mind. See-through tights… legs covered in hair…
His gaze snapped up to lock eyes with Sherlock, who only smirked.
“Exactly, John. We have to do some shopping at the pharmacy tomorrow. And afterwards, you will have the honour of helping me.”
The grin he gave John was quite devilish.
The next morning found John Watson awkwardly strolling the aisle of women’s toiletries at the chemist's. Sherlock bustling about in a flurry of excitement pulled out one product after the other, discussing the pros and cons noisily with John across the shelves as if they were the only customers. John tried hard to become invisible while still showing interest in the new "project" for Sherlock's sake. After all, it was in his Won best interest as well, he just wasn’t able to concentrate on the task without thinking about the implications of the supplies Sherlock gathered. It would be highly inappropriate to indulge in those thoughts in public…
Apparently, he had been lost in memories after all, because he hadn’t noticed Sherlock approaching him.
“Only one more thing, but I really do need your opinion for that. Don’t dawdle, John.” And off he was again.
John caught a glance at Sherlock's shopping basket and frowned.
“Sherlock? That’s not for shaving. Even if it’s obviously meant for legs… you know that, right?” John raised one eyebrow.
“Who said anything about ‘shaving’?” Sherlock countered without slowing his pace.
“You said. Yesterday. That’s why we’re here, right?” John hustled after Sherlock, almost running over an old lady, who complained about the youth of these days and barked at him to "keep his distance" and that he "really should take the risks more seriously" and "that he should ask one of the poor doctors if he still doesn't believe it". John quickly muttered an apology and "yes, poor doctors indeed" and hurried after Sherlock, who hadn't noticed anything of the encounter.
“No, I merely implied that I need to get rid of my overly male body hair.” Sherlock carried on as if nothing had happened.
John was confused, had to rewind his memory to be able to catch on to the conversation. When he did he stopped short; behind him a woman with a pushchair only just avoided crashing into him, giving him an angry glare. 'Yes, yes, social distancing, I know!', John thought and almost rolled his eyes in a perfect Sherlockian way.
"Sorry," he said and grinned and only then realised that it probably wasn't even visible behind his mask.
“Body hair?” he inquired, no longer caring if someone overheard them. “Leg hair, you mean.” John forced out, frowning.
“Body hair I said, body hair I mean.” Sherlock murmured, almost not audible through his skull-dotted mask. He was leaning over and intensely studying the next display of beauty products.
John’s blood first ran cold before heating up to boiling point immediately afterwards. He coughed, looked around, certain everyone was able to x-ray his brain and private parts and deduce his urge to slam Sherlock against the next shelf and rip his clothes off to indulge and enjoy all of that body hair which would come off at the end of the day. That and more...
“Problem?” Sherlock asked without looking at John.
“Nope,” John croaked, not able to master his voice. “Just wondering if you’re really sure you want to… wax it?”
At first, Sherlock didn’t react and John thought he hadn’t heard as he was rummaging in whatever assortment he was looking for. However, when he reemerged with a handful of shiney tubes in bright colours he turned to look at John, all serious.
“Considering we don’t know how long this case will take I can’t risk any stubble… anywhere. And you can fully trust my expertise in this field as it happens to not be the first time I’ll depilate my body.” Sherlock stated as if talking about one of his mould experiments.
John only whimpered silently, hoping Sherlock hadn’t heard.
“Now, come over here, John, and tell me what would suit me better — the “Better Than Sex” mascara or the “Extended Play Gigablack Lash” mascara?!” He looked at his choices, contemplating.
John closed his eyes and tried to breath. ‘Jesus Christ, help me to survive this case!’
“What happened to your other mascara?” he asked weakly.
“Used it all up,” Sherlock said and John winced.
Did this mean Sherlock had used mascara more than once? John had never seen him with it after their fabulous first night. The memory of The Pirate with eyeliner and mascara was still much too vicious to imagine Sherlock putting it on for any other occasion and stay even remotely sane.
‘Christ, Christ, Christ. Jesus Motherfucking Christ!’
Why for the love of God and all deities had they never considered this for their bedroom repertoire? Oh right, probably because John would be dead a thousand times by now…
“John, really… What is it with you today?” Sherlock pulled him from his thoughts. “So… which one?” He wiggled the objects of interest in front of John’s eyes.
“Take the… extended… giga… play…thing...” John did his best to hold it together, but his brain wouldn’t cooperate. There really was only one goal — get that oblivious berk home and show him some extended-giga-play…
At home, Sherlock dumped all his new treasures on the kitchen table and eyed them happily. He picked at them, fished some out and whirled around.
“Time to get to work, John!” Sherlock beamed and rushed to the bathroom without waiting for response.
John, conveniently calmed down again thanks to over-heated tubes crowded by sweaty smelling people, followed him, came standing next to him at the sink and waited to be briefed about the upcoming agenda. When Sherlock started to unpack and inspect various versions and sizes of cold wax strips though, he couldn’t stop himself from intervening. Rembering the totally unnescessary torture some of his girlfriends went through to achieve the desired hairlessness, he couldn’t just wait and watch Sherlock putting himself through hell.
“Sherlock,” he grabbed Sherlock’s wrist, “wait! Experience and expertise and whatnot… you can’t use that on your ‘manly’ legs just so! That’s… insane!”
“I didn’t intend to.” Sherlock reassured him.
“Then what?” John wrinkled his brow in confusion.
“You have that electric hair trimmer, right? That one with the different extensions to adjust the cutting length, you're keeping your beard in shape with.” Sherlock reminded John.
“Yep, as did you before you shaved yours off.” The glare he gave Sherlock was only half real as he loved Sherlock’s smooth skin just as much.
“You know it didn’t suit me as well as it does you. Your very own study confirmed it.” Sherlock smirked, but the way he longingly scanned John’s bearded face took away all the effect of his smugness.
“By two percent, you git!” John laughed.
“I didn’t win though.” Sherlock pouted. “And not winning is unacceptable for me.”
John chuckled. He loved that easy banter and silly teasing between them. His laugh died in his throat though, when Sherlock suddenly turned and pushed him against the sink, towering over him. He leaned down and nuzzled John’s neck and cheek.
“I’m extremely pleased though, that you were the one winning.” Sherlock purred next to John’s ear in his smooth panther voice. “I don’t even dare to imagine you’d shaved your beard off in bruised pride…”
John’s knees went weak and he had to regain some composure when suddenly Sherlock straightened and cheerily, all back to business, said, “Alright, let’s get it over with then.” God, living with this man was one hell of a rollercoaster ride.
Sherlock rummaged in their cabinets until he found the hair trimmer.
“You’ll shorten my hair to a convenient length to wax it afterwards. My research narrowed down to a length of 1,4 to 2 centimetre to get the most effective epilation. So, please, be precise to avoid unnecessary repeats.” he said and pushed it in John’s unsuspecting hands.
“Me?” That came out much too high-pitched for his own liking.
“Of course, John. Do keep up. I told you it’s very convenient to have you here. So, get on with it.”
With that Sherlock started to undress. Very efficient though, no seductive gazes, no teasing lingering. No, it was shirt buttons, cuffs — shirt off. Laces untied, shoes dropped, socks chucked — feet bare. Trouser button popped free, zip lowered, hip wiggle — trousers sliding down. Sherlock stepped out of the trousers pooling around his ankles. Business or not though, it was impossible to ignore that at this point Sherlock was half hard under his skin-tight black boxer briefs. He hooked his thumbs under the waistband and holding John’s gaze he pushed his pants slowly down until he stood in the middle of the bathroom — naked and very obviously aroused.
John was all too aware that the teasing was back full force. ‘Oh, that evil bastard!’ John had one advantage though… He was still fully clothed. Which somehow left Sherlock at his mercy. True to that thought, Sherlock spread his arms and legs, displaying himself, and closed his eyes.
“Do it, John.” Sherlock said and John was certain that the roughness in his voice hadn’t been intentional.
Swallowing, John stepped forwards. The moment he turned on the trimmer and the buzzing sound filled the air, he saw a shiver running over Sherlock’s body. ‘Jeez, this was one crazy kind of foreplay’, he thought even though he wasn’t sure it was really. He definitely wouldn’t mind though; as wouldn’t his cock considering the way the front of his corduroy trousers bulged.
“All of it?” he asked with a thick voice.
“All of it!” Sherlock answered, voice just as affected.
So John got to work. To give himself some time, and spare his mind some seizures, he decided to work from top to bottom. ‘Bottom… no no no, no good… no, brain, no… don’t go there… we’ll never make it otherwise!!!’
At first, to redirect his thoughts, it helped that Sherlock was extremely sensitive, which in case of the armpits meant extremely ticklish.
“Stop wiggling, Sherlock!” John scolded him.
“Then stop tickling me!” Sherlock giggled and squirmed under John’s ministrations.
“You came up with this genius idea though.” He gave Sherlock a stern look. “So now, stay still, Holmes! That’s an order!” John instructed in his best Captain Watson voice.
Red blotches started blooming and spread all over Sherlock’s cheeks and neck and chest. His breathing sped up a bit and his lips parted. ‘Oh yes, the captain’s voice never failed to do its job!’, thought John not without a certain degree of smugness. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Sherlock’s cock had taken some interest as well. Even though Sherlock tried to stand still, he kept squirming under John’s hands. John suspected it was due to decidedly different reasons now though.
Sherlock never took his eyes off John who had now taken to the sparse chest hair. He especially took his sweet time with the fuzz of scattered hairs around Sherlock’s small deeply red nipples. It wasn’t exactly necessary, but John enjoyed how Sherlock’s breath hitched when he grazed the small nubs with the buzzing and vibrating device. They hardened and stood immediately and John couldn’t resist to lean down, put his lips on one of them and suck. The hitch turned into a hiss, then turned into a moan when John added the press and the teasing touch of his tongue.
He realised that he couldn’t avoid taking care of the lower regions of Sherlock’s body any longer. Immediately, he regretted his former administrations when he came face to face with Sherlock’s deeply flushed, desperately hard and already leaking erection the moment he knelt in front of him. His mouth watered and he leaned forward to run his nose along the crease of Sherlock’s groin. He inhaled deeply and his beard covered cheeks scratched along Sherlock’s cock and made it twitch.
"Christ, John…” Sherlock panted. “Keep this up and we won’t get anything done.”
“We have the whole day though.” John mumbled against Sherlock’s skin.
“And we’ve barely started…” Sherlock pointed out half-heartedly. “Maybe… maybe do my legs first? Can’t promise that I’d be capable of standing upright… after…”
“After… what?” John sat back on his heels and innocently looked up at Sherlock. Although his own tenting trousers undermined the effect of innocence decidedly.
“John Watson, you’re an insufferable tease…” Sherlock growled.
“And you love it.” John smirked.
"Unfortunately…” He was still breathing fast.
“So, give me your impossible foot then. Place it on my thigh here.” John patted his leg and Sherlock followed suit.
“What in God’s name can be impossible about a foot?” Sherlock asked puzzled while he wriggled his toes in John’s lap when John started trimming the hairs on his ankle and shin.
“The man it is attached to.” He laughed and got punished for it with a foot rubbing over his groin. Only barely holding back a groan, he grabbed the leg by its ankle, tight, and growled, “Hold. Still.”
After that John continued his task clinically, making his way upwards, without further interruption although the air in the bathroom was still charged. When Sherlock’s legs looked mostly bare even though they remained weirdly stubbly, John made Sherlock turn for an inspection of his work. The moment he was presented with Sherlock’s perfect plush bum he winced internally. Too concentrated on the legs, he had strictly ignored Sherlock’s demand to tend to all the hair. Bum means crease means perineum… holy shit! Well, better get done with it then. Taking hold of Sherlock’s slim hips he stopped him in his turn.
“Stop. Lean over. Brace yourself on the sink.” he demanded, not caring anymore that his voice was rough and dark.
“John?” Sherlock sounded slightly alarmed but complied with John’s instructions without hesitation anyway.
The still buzzing trimmer in one hand, John ran the other up on the back of Sherlock’s upper thigh until he reached the swell of the delicious arse cheek. Caressing the soft flesh with his flat hand he pretended to check for hair. However, the increasing tightness and discomfort in his pants told a completely different story. When Sherlock leaned back into his touch he reflexively steadied him. With both hands though; the handle of the buzzing device accidentally pressed against the bottom of his bum between his thighs.
"Bloody hell, John! You better hurry…” Sherlock rasped, breathing hard.
So, John guided the trimmer first over the plush arse cheeks, from the small of his back down until they merged into the thigh. Over and over again, from hip inwards, alternating between the sides. It was almost meditativ if it weren’t for Sherlock’s silent curses and John’s racing heartbeat. When only the cleft was left unshaved, the image of spreading Sherlock’s cheeks to get access to the dusty hair covering the skin in between, made John groan. He knew he should probably finish his work, which would definitely not happen this way. Besides, having only one hand to hold Sherlock's cheeks apart and one hand to guide the trimmer wasn’t particularly practical. Torn between his task and burning desire, a different much better plan formed in John’s mind. He’d get back to that tempting backside, but all in good time.
“Turn!” he commanded.
“Why?” his brat of a partner dared to scrutinise his instructions, looking over his shoulder with a blush on his cheekbones and heavy lidded eyes.
“Captain's order!” John growled.
As if that was reason enough Sherlock turned and leaned backwards against the sink, his hands holding him up steadily, his legs spread wantonly. He looked down at John, who waited for a confirming nod before he sank the trimmer in the dark nest of curls around the base of Sherlock’s cock. When the hum and the buzz of the device vibrated against Sherlock’s erection his knees buckled slightly and a drop of precome slowly dribbled down the slit and the underside of the glans. Without thinking, John leaned in and caught the droplet with his pointed tongue, flicking the sensitive frenulum on its way.
“God, John…” the detective moaned. “Tell me, why is that case important again?”
“Don’t know exactly,” John murmured, taking hold of Sherlock’s cock, pressing the pad of his thumb against the frenulum, rubbing miniscule circles that made Sherlock’s eyelids flutter. “Something about lace panties…”
“Right, yes, lace panties,” Sherlock hissed. “That’s it. Maybe.”
John now proceeded with trimming Sherlock’s pubes while holding his penis in a tight grip the whole time. He pretended to guide it out of the way to have access to all areas of skin around the base, but with each movement he stroked it deliberately slowly. Judging by Sherlock’s ragged breaths he wouldn’t be able to stand the teasing much longer.
“Left leg. Up. Over my shoulder.” What should have been a demand came out huffed and short of breath.
Sherlock had apparently lost all ability to argue and just followed suit. He wobbled a bit on his legs but John helped him. The moment the hollow of Sherlock’s knee settled over John’s shoulder he abandoned Sherlock’s cock, under very vocal protest and curses, for the sake of fondling and checking Sherlock’s sac for hair in need of a trim. The detective cursed some more only now for different reasons.
Due to the close proximity caused by their position John’s view on the area was a bit blurry and he had to go on by touch alone. He closed his eyes to heighten his senses to ‘better see with his fingers’, which he was good in, being a doctor and all, and rested his forehead against Sherlock’s belly. He had underestimated that also the smell would be much more intense and the scent of Sherlock combined with the noises he made, set John’s body on fire.
The trimmer, which had finished its task on Sherlock’s scrotum at this point, went ignored and stilled in its progress the moment John leaned in and took Sherlock in his mouth. There was no room left in his mind for elaborated technique or a slow build up; he swallowed him entirely in one go until he felt the bristly stubble of the remains of Sherlock’s pubic hair against his nose. The head of Sherlock’s cock pressed tightly against John’s throat, restricting his airways and ‘Fucking. Hell.’ he could feel the vibrations of the trimmer pressed against Sherlock’s perineum transferred all the way to his palate. He groaned around the cock in his mouth and Sherlock bucked his hips and thrusted even deeper into John’s mouth.
“John, come on, please … Jooohn,” Sherlock moaned, the leg carrying his weight trembling dangerously.
John choked slightly, pulled back. His brain supplied with fresh oxygen, he janked the trimmer away from Sherlock’s skin, alarmed he might accidentally hurt him in their uncontrolled movements. He jolted when he suddenly felt one of Sherlock’s hands grabbing his hair in a tight fist.
“Noooo… Joooohn…” Sherlock growled. “Put it back! Put it baaaack!”
Taking hold of one bony hip he stopped Sherlock in his needy thrusts. Flipping the trimmer in his hand he quickly checked there was no danger of cutting the man, before pressing the buzzing blunt handle of the device firmly against Sherlock’s perineum. Sherlock’s deep, long moan it caused nearly did John in. Bobbing his head he met Sherlock’s forceful thrust halfway, his lips tightly wrapped around his lovers straining erection. He sucked sharply each time he pulled back, beads of precome coating his tongue. The vigour of the way Sherlock was now fucking his mouth, desperate for release, let no room for playful tonguing, so he only stiffened his tongue and pressed it against the underside of Sherlock’s cock, trapping and pushing it against his palate, increasing the pressure and friction. True to his expectations, Sherlock started swearing and babbling incoherently.
“God, your mouth… your damn mouth, John. Yes yes no…. ohmygooooood,” the only things John could make of it.
He was desperate to touch himself, his own cock hard as a rock still painfully trapped in his pants, but Sherlock was barely able to hold himself upright the way his leg was shaking; so John reached around his hips to support him. Between the one hand, pushing and circling the vibrating trimmer against Sherlock’s sensitive flesh behind his balls, and the other hand, conveniently reaching so far around to be able to cup the rhythmically flexing gluteus muscles of Sherlock’s arse and dip its fingers into the crease, there was no way for John to get as much as a hint of friction. It almost drove him out of his mind. With no possibility to move, not even to buck his hips to get the sad excuse of stimulation against his pants, trapped as he was under the weight of Sherlock’s leg over his shoulder, he pushed Sherlock deeper, sucked harder, to speed up Sherlock’s approaching orgasm.
He let his fingers slide up and down the sweaty crease of Sherlock's arse until his middle finger rested over his entrance. By now, Sherlock had abandoned all words, his panting peppered with grunts and needy little sounds. John increased the pressure on Sherlock’s rim, rubbing his fingertip over it as good as he was able to with Sherlock’s now erratic movements. The man faltered in his rhythm; the skin underneath John’s hands damp from the sweat elicited by desperation of feeling the release within reach but not being there just yet. Sherlock silently started murmuring again and John realised it was a chant of begging ‘please please please’. His jaw began to ache, saliva coated his chin and he was afraid his dick would suffer severe damage if this took any longer. His fingers moistened from the droplets of sweat gathering between Sherlock’s arse cheeks, John dared to push his finger firmer against Sherlock’s entrance until the muscles gave way and he dipped his fingertip in. Sherlock cried out in pleasure but seemed to linger on the verge of coming, not quite able to let go yet. Without feeling any resistance, John slid his finger deeper, never faltering in his ministrations to Sherlock’s cock. His mind went foggy from feeling the same vibrations, which were pushed against the back of his throat by Sherlock’s dick, now buzzing under his searching digit. He let his finger slide against the smooth and hot tissue, pushed as far as he needed to crook his finger and pushed down the moment he felt the small nub of Sherlock's prostate underneath his fingertip.
Shouting out John’s name for the entire neighbourhood to hear Sherlock came into John’s mouth. Buckling over, his legs turned to jelly and his belly muscles spasming, Sherlock nearly collapsed while John tried to swallow away spurt after spurt of his semen. The moment Sherlock’s orgasm ebbed away John dumped the trimmer, tried to guide Sherlock to the floor next to him as best as possible while simultaneously reaching for his own belt. Breathing harshly, hand trembling, he one-handedly fumbled to get his flies open while holding a limp detective in his other arm. The zipper wasn’t even lowered completely yet when John impatiently pushed the waistband of his pants out of the way. He hissed sharply when suddenly a chilly big hand reached for his dick, pulled it out and wrapped tightly around it.
“Holy fuck…” John growled, his voice rough from the fucking, and threw his head back, eyes tightly squeezed shut.
It only took two, three strokes for him to come as well with a deep grunt, covering Sherlock’s hand in a fair amount of come.
When he was able to breath again, he let himself sag against their bathroom cupboard, pulling Sherlock against his chest. The detective let go of John’s softening cock and wiped his hand on John’s trousers.
“Oi, you git!” John nudged him. “No need to ruin my trousers.”
“I'm not wearing any and yours are hideous anyway.” Sherlock said, as if they hadn’t just shared some mind-blowing and absolutely insane sex.
“Is that so?” John laughed. “Didn’t seem to put you off just yet!”
“Only because you were distracting me with your inept handling of the trimmer.” Sherlock retorted snootily while nuzzling against John’s neck at the same time.
“Oh, I think my “handling” was quite successful.” John smirked, pushed his nose against the mob of curls tickling his chin.
“Well, not entirely true. Maybe your help isn’t as effective after all.” Sherlock said.
“What?” John pulled back and looked at Sherlock.
“If I recall correctly you didn’t finish your task of trimming all the hair; now we have to fix that later. Plus, your distractions did cost us valuable time. Which means we need to proceed immediately.” Contradicting his own words he cuddled against John’s chest and welcomed the doctor’s arms wrapping around him.
“You berk,” John chuckled and hugged his ridiculous partner even tighter. “Right, proceed, we must then. With… what precisely?”
“Wax!” Sherlock exclaimed and sat up, eyes gleaming like a child's at christmas.
“Oh God…” John groaned, burying his face in his hands.