Author: MonkeyBard
Rating: Explicit
Summary: John provides Sherlock with something to occupy him.
Warnings: Plotless smut; suggestions of bondage; toys
Genre: Slash
Date: 27 July 2013
Prompt: Like gold to airy thinness beat: Pick up the book you're currently reading (or the closest one to you). Pick a random page, and find a description or simile. Use that - and be sure to tell us what your original description is, and what's the source.
A/N: '...and the playwright lifted his hand. It was elaborately painted, Eslingen saw without surprise, a bouquet of black and gold flowers running up from his wrist to twine around each finger.' Point of Dreams by Melissa Scott & Lisa A. Barnett, pg 90.
A/N2: Like everything else this month, this is un-beta'd. I point this out because it's long enough that there's a good chance I missed something that a beta-reader could have fixed for me. We shall all just have to deal with it. Un-beta'd smut. Oh dear. ::shakes head::

John reminded himself for perhaps the thirteenth time that the current situation was an improvement over a bored and sulking Sherlock. It was also better than cleaning exploded eyeballs off the inside of the microwave or dissected anything left out on the kitchen table. In fact, if he were to be honest, it was really quite pleasant in many ways. He only wished he'd thought about the longer-term ramifications of allowing Sherlock to cover various parts of his body with intricate henna patterns. The delicate floral designs on his hands and fingers were going to take some explaining at the clinic, particularly if they came out according to Sherlock's plans.

"Keep still!" commanded Sherlock as John squirmed under his hand. "You'll mar the pattern and then you'll be sorry."

"It tickles, Sherlock." The thin trails and dots and swirls of henna had felt fine going onto his arms and hands. His feet and ankles had reacted well, too. Now, Sherlock was drawing an intricate floral-themed mandala on John's belly and the only thing he could do about it was complain. The henna on his limbs was sticky with lemon and sugar and wrapped with tissue, so he couldn't even have scratched his nose if it itched, never mind the danger of damaging Sherlock's meticulous painting on his stomach.

"You'll live."

John rolled his eyes and let his head flop back onto the pillow. It was a good thing Sherlock was so precise with the henna, he told himself. It meant he'd thus far managed to avoid staining the sheets with it. John didn't care to picture the looks he'd get at the launderette otherwise.

"Done!" Sherlock announced at last and sat back to examine his work.

John lifted his head to try to see the finished product--and God but he hoped it was finished--but Sherlock snapped at him again to keep still. Again John found himself staring at the bedroom ceiling, this time while Sherlock applied the warm lemon-sugar mixture to his latest artistic and scientific endeavour.

"How long do I have to lie here before we can unwrap me and I can bathe?" John asked, his patience wearing thin. He reminded himself for perhaps the fourteenth time how this was better than one of Sherlock's legendary sulks.

"With the temperature in here, twenty minutes more are sufficient."

"Great. As long as no one stops by unexpectedly or gets mysteriously murdered in the next twenty minutes, we're golden."

"If you're going to be like that, I'll just leave you here on your own."

"If you do that, I'm getting up and your henna experiment be damned."

Sherlock was trying a method of tinting the henna to get colour variations beyond the normal narrow range while maintaining similar staying time. John didn't expect him to have much success, but then there was that better-than-bored argument again. Which was how he'd ended up sprawled on his back in nothing but his knickers, toilet paper, sweet lemon juice, and henna paste.

"Don't move. I'll be right back."

"Sherlock? Where are you going? Sherlock?" John had visions of camera phones and blog posts, and very nearly sat up, but Sherlock returned in a moment with a pair of scissors. "You don't need those to get the paper off me."

Sherlock didn't dignify his sarcasm with a response. "These were a mistake," he said. He immediately cut John's pants up both sides and yanked them out from under John's bum.

"Those were new!" protested John.

"I'll replace them." Sherlock tossed aside the ruined knickers and regarded John's naked body.

"You're not hennaing my penis," John informed him firmly.

"I wasn't considering it."


"Yes, all right. I was lying."

"Well?" said John after a brief silence. He needed to distract Sherlock from further art projects, and there was no reason not to wrangle something out of it for himself at the same time. "You've got me naked and essentially trapped for the next twenty minutes. I've subjected myself to this experiment for you. It would be nice if you made it worth my while."

Sherlock's lips turned up at the corners in a way that John immediately recognised. His prick recognised it too and began to react accordingly. Sherlock pinned John with a sharp gaze--as if he weren't tied in place with intangible ropes already.

"If you move, I'll stop."

John answered challenge with challenge. "Get on with it then."

Careful not to jostle his artwork, Sherlock knelt between John's spread legs and took John's rapidly hardening cock in his hand.

John heaved a small sighed at the knowing touch, gentle but firm, drawing him to full hardness. He let his eyes flutter shut, focusing on the feeling of hands on him, stroking his shaft and tugging at the hairs on his sac. It took concentration not to flex his hands and grasp at the sheets, or bend his knees and arch his hips. Only Sherlock's very real threat to stop kept him from wriggling under that delicious touch. Usually it was John controlling a situation like this. It was a heady change to be on the other side.

"You're doing very well," Sherlock praised him and he smiled.

"So are you. Keep it up."

Sherlock snorted amusement at his double-entendre. And then John was engulfed in the warm softness of Sherlock's mouth, and neither man was in a position to speak.

Mouth and hands worked together, slicking him up and down. John's heart rate increased and the urge to thrust into that wet heat became an urgent demand of his body. He didn't know how much longer he could comply with Sherlock's command. He hoped he wouldn't have to much longer.

He gasped as Sherlock suddenly slid one long, damp finger into his ass, and then cried out as that finger crooked just so, sending him over the edge into his climax. Sherlock swallowed around his pulsing cock, finger still held exactly where it did the most good.

Eventually, John's muscles relaxed and he felt Sherlock gently release him and slip from between he legs. He must have dozed, for he woke up to find Sherlock seated naked and hard at the foot of the bed, smiling at him.

"That was worth my while," John said with a smirk. "Can I move yet?" There was no clock in easy view and he hadn't a clue how long he'd laid there.

"Not yet. You've been so cooperative, I thought you deserved another reward." As he spoke, Sherlock stroked his own cock with one hand while fingering his favourite toys with the other. "Do you need another pillow, or can you see well enough?"

"I'll manage, thanks." How he would manage not to grab his soft cock and work it up again while he watched his lover's show was a better question.


Sherlock's movements were graceful as always. He turned so that John had a side view of the entertainment. Then he lubed the glass pony plug, and holding it precisely in place, raised himself up enough to sit smoothly down on it. Content with how it was seated in his ass, he next took the sleeve John had given him as a gift for when one of them had to travel without the other. They had both been pleasantly surprised to find it had such delightful applications when they were together, too.

John watched the look of pleasure that filled Sherlock's face as he flexed his ass around the plug. He squirted lube into the sleeve and slipped it over his erection, and his expression took on a dreamy quality. John's tired cock twitched in empathy, but could do no more without his hands, which he'd been forbidden to move.

Resting on knees and one hand, Sherlock grasped the soft plastic toy in his other hand and began pumping in and out of it. John could see the swish of the pony tail's black nylon hair brushing the backs of his thighs with each thrust and withdrawal and imagined how it must feel. His breath deepened and increased in speed as Sherlock neared his apex. John gasped with him as he came into the toy, spilling over into his hand.

Sherlock caught his breath and smiled at John. "That should do."

"Do?" echoed John. "I'd say it did."

"I meant the time." He matter-of-factly extricated himself from his sex toys as he spoke.

"Is it twenty minutes already? Time does fly when you're having fun."

"It's been closer to an hour, in fact. You dozed for nearly forty minutes after your orgasm."

"An hour?!" exclaimed John.

"You can sit up now."

"So you say!" John pushed achingly to an upright position. He was stiff with lying still for -- He totalled up the time. -- nearly two and a half hours! "Why did you leave me here so long?"

"I wanted the colours to have ample time to deepen. Now they've had the opportunity. And you can't say you weren't rewarded for your patience. I do appreciate you, you know."

John couldn't argue with that, especially not when Sherlock was naked, flushed pink from orgasm, and wearing that adorable expression on his face. He capitulated the points. "Come and help me clean all this off?"

"Of course! I have to see how the experiment turned out."

John snorted a laugh. "Of course you do."


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