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John was over it. He’d had enough warm and soft to last until Christmas. He wanted bitter cold so harsh that his balls went on holiday. He wanted scratchy towels rubbed on him without mercy and wooden straight chairs and olives with the pits in.
Sherlock, however, was staunchly in love, and when he committed to a garment, he married it. He had been in the footy sleeper for three days, removing it to shower, but going so far as to wear it out and about with his coat over it as if people would not notice the little bunnies from calf to ankle. Here is where he did not give the London viewing public enough credit because they did notice and looked at John for explanation. He gave his best medical head shake and people nodded with sympathy, assuming mental illness or adult autism. Nothing in Sherlock’s speech or behavior contradicted that assumption
John had been hugged, snuggled, cuddled, nuzzled, nursed, sucked and slow fucked. Not one for a lot of drama in his sex, he found himself wanting belts, chains, cuffs and a studded collar. He also wanted a big juicy steak rare with a side of rabbit stew and a whole chicken. Sherlock had been deboned.
John’s ankles were freezing but he found that he could not bear to touch socks anymore, not even briefly to put them on. On his feet, mind you, where God attended, and not on his soothed and belabored cock.
“Come on, Sherlock, let’s have it. I’m doing laundry and we’ll put these away for next year.”
Sherlock clutched himself with a manic glance of ‘touch not this baby at my leaking breast.’
“Must I remind you,” John paused in mid sentence, feeling the ‘Stroppy Warning’ flash overhead, “that you were horrified at the sight of them just three days ago.”
“I didn’t know, John. How could I have known such comfort when I was never coddled as an infant?”
Here John snorted, recalling Mycroft’s tales of Baby Sherlock’s staff consisting of a day nanny, night nanny, games instructor, tutor, nap consultant, and personal shopper.
“Well you’ve been coddled now on every flat surface of this flat.” A smirk for two flats in a row. “And the wall and the stairs and the tub. Easter, spring, new life, new beginnings. Off, gimme.”
John’s next blog would read, “Do not put adult toddlers in adult toddler clothing and expect rational behavior.”
“No,” Sherlock said with a dramatic head turn, arms folded, bum stuck out in a pout, although with so much excess fabric, it was hard to tell. There was a decided sag, a harbinger of the Great and Glorious Bum’s eventual fate. From pert to puckered, from firm to flab, from trim to grim. Glory reduced by gravity.
John shuddered. “They go or I go; I’ve already texted Lestrade.”
There was a diva in 221B. “You wouldn’t.”
“Would, could, and should.” John put on his puffy coat over an excessively starched button down and a serviceable wool jumper that would make sheep itch. He left off his scarf and stepped onto the landing where a blast of arctic air made his hair stand on end, and he was chuffed about it. He marched down the stairs whistling “Bridge on the River Kwai.”
Sherlock’s whimper reached him as his hand reached for the doorknob. “I’ll give them up, John, but you have to take them off me. I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“It’s all the same.”
“Damn right on that.”
Sherlock was biting his lip which was the first bit of discomfort he’d had in three days. The wrestling match that followed should have been uncomfortable, even painful, but they were both so well padded and quickly overheated that it was like two marshmallow chicks in a microwave. Huffing, puffing, and posturing but eventually flattened on the floor. They were in the kitchen, under the table where it had all began.
John panted and feinted to the left but couldn’t seem to right himself. He thought of turtles in the sun and impending lorries. He unzipped his parka which sparked a duurty, duurty idea. If he hadn’t been in peril of a diabetic coma, he would never have thought it, but a bell cannot be unrung nor can a gift of fleece be taken back without repercussion or in this case, percussion.
Sherlock’s eyes were glassy as he petted his own arm. Even the bunnies appeared to be seeking escape, their tiny ears at half mast. Someone had to take the bunny by the horns/ears/balls. John Hamish, Hell Yes, Hamish Watson was that someone. He got up and extended a hand. “Come on, love, up you go.”
Sherlock was tousled and trusting. John pulled him in as if for a hug, his gorge rising at the cloying motion of open arms. Then with one sharp motion, John ripped open the trap door and unzipped the zip. He pushed a logy Sherlock over the table and spanked the hell out of ass and his own hand. The slaps punctuated an unprecedented speech, John having learned nothing from trying new things. “It’s not…nice…to disobey…Daddy…when he’s…trying to…do the…laundry.”
The table bounced merrily with each slap. John was as hard as a week old scone. Sherlock was silent but no longer cuddly. Sherlock’s ass, while warm, was not soft. It was a ruby red beacon protruding like a baboon among bunnies. John squeezed that tomato like he was going to cook homemade curry with it. “Will you take them off?”
“No.” Petulant, panting, and purposefully unrepentant.
There may only be one diva at Baker Street but the drama is bipartisan. John had been an integral part of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers Improv Group. He searched the kitchen for props while one hand kneaded a steaming cheek. Kneaded. “Don’t you dare move!” he said, hoping for rebellion.
The utensil drawer held a wealth of odd implements but a failed attempt at pie baking meant there was a pastry cutter available. Not a Wartenberg wheel but close enough for a nonmedical procedure.
Sherlock had been waiting patiently, slumped over the table, until John stepped back and then there was a half hearted attempt to move away so that John could slam him back down. “Your ass is so red,” he said, running his hand across it. “This tool will make pretty white lines in all that red. What should I write? You’re good at puzzles. Tell me what I’m spelling.”
John took his time, took out his phone, and snapped a memory. He trailed his finger around the red heart of Sherlock’s Etch a Sketch ass. “Can you read it, baby?”
Sweat was dripping off the ends of Sherlock’s curls and his voice was strained. “GET, I think? But then I lost focus.”
The combination of punishment and puzzle would need to be revisited but John’s agenda was narrowing. “Very good start. I wrote GET OFF NOW.”
Gripping of the table was emphasized by a groan and an adult hump. John showed Sherlock the picture then leaned in to whisper in Sherlock’s ear. “Something needs to come off and I didn’t mean the pajamas.”
He grabbed the bottle of olive oil from a failed attempt at pasta and lubed all necessary components. The fingers of one hand twisted inside Sherlock while his other fingers pinched Sherlock’s small, twitching pink nipples. He entered and then lay himself over Sherlock so that the itchiest jumper in history was in full and extreme contact with the Magnificent Martyred Ass. Fuel to the fire, water to the drowning, pollen to the allergic.
When John was nearly there, he withdrew and stripped off jumper and starched shirt and finally, his cotton vest. He re-entered, pulled Sherlock back against his bare chest and wrapped the vest around the consulting cock. Sherlock shook his head, drops of sweat flying from the ringlets. He squirmed away, but John was strong and stroppy and past ready.
Through gritted teeth as he pumped, he made the second best speech of his life. “Naughty boys’ cocks don’t get cashmere. Naughty boys’ cocks get cheap white cotton.”
Sherlock growled when he came, and the little rabbits’ ears went from ten and two to five and seven. With a last mighty hump, John pushed the last cloud from the sky and gripped bony hips and laid his stubbled cheek against a razor sharp one.
They were again under the kitchen table. It was the first time that John had stripped buck naked after sex but he was getting hotter by the minute. Sherlock kissed him, biting his tongue and lower lip in the process because soft, sweet kisses were so twenty minutes ago.
Sherlock’s afterglow voice whispered in his ear, “I’ll do the laundry.”
John was nearly asleep when he heard Sherlock come back, bare feet in his sight line. Sherlock was wearing John’s itchy jumper and John’s wee Y fronts. He cocked his hip to support the overflowing basket. “This laundry is very dirty…Daddy.”
John’s head required seven stitches from where it connected with the sharp edge of the kitchen table.