The storm came out of a clear blue sky, rolling in over the city like an alien menace from Doctor Who and seeming to throw a shadow over all of Edinburgh.
Sherlock and John ducked into a niche that was half-hidden in the side of the old stone building. It had once held a doorway that had been bricked over at least a century ago.
"I wonder how long it will last," mused John, not really minding the abrupt change in the weather. The summer had been a scorching one, a record-breaker, and the sudden downpour came as a relief. A case had brought them to Scotland. John's insistence on a bit of a holiday had kept them there after the case was complete.
"Long enough," said Sherlock.
John was about to ask what he meant when Sherlock rounded on him, yanked him close, and kissed him. John responded with equal fervour despite his surprise. It was rare that Sherlock expressed emotion in public, never mind affection, but at the same time he was fond of stealing moments of passion just beyond the range of witnesses. John had mostly given up worrying that they'd be seen or caught in the act. Sherlock had an uncanny knack for knowing exactly how far they could go, how much they could get away with, before circumstances turned against them. Of course, it had led to more than a few awkward moments (for John) and quick deflections (from Sherlock) and uncomfortable delays until they could finish what they'd started (for them both).
John invariably found the pay-offs were worth the inconveniences.
When Sherlock's hand found its way past John's zipper and inside his pants, John jumped like he'd been touched by a live electrical wire. (And yes, he knew what that felt like.)
"Sherlock--" he warned and glanced out at the narrow street. No one was in sight as the rain continued sheeting down. Huge drops hit the pavement so hard that they bounced, splashing up and spattering their feet and the hems of their trousers.
Sherlock cut off further protest by claiming John's mouth again, dipping his tongue inside to tickle the roof of John's mouth. John shivered. God, he loved when Sherlock did that, and of course Sherlock knew it.
When they finally came up for air, John was gasping and lightheaded. The hunger in Sherlock's eyes was like a laser straight to John's cock and his already throbbing erection, if possible, grew harder still.
"Condom," muttered Sherlock urgently.
"I'm a doctor, not a boy scout," protested John half-heartedly, at the same time he reached for his wallet and pulled out the foil packet Sherlock naturally knew was there. This wasn't where or when he'd expected to use it, but trusting Sherlock's instincts in these matters, he was willing to go with it.
Sherlock released his hold long enough to rip open the packet and toss the wrapper aside. John took the moment to shove his jeans and pants down to free his cock. Sherlock grabbed hold and rolled the condom over his erection. John shivered again, fighting his approaching orgasm. Adrenaline caused his heart to race, his pulse pounding from his ears to his prick to his toes.
Another packet appeared in Sherlock's hand. John never saw where it came from and frankly didn't care. He recognised the tiny sachet of lube from the box they kept at home. So handy and inconspicuous for short trips. He handed it over and it was John's turn to tear off the tip while Sherlock shimmied his trousers and knickers down.
Sherlock turned and placed his hands flat on the stone wall. He bent at the waist, offering his ass -- that pale, round, perfect ass -- to John.
John smeared on the lube and, conscientious and a bit mischievous, tucked the empty packet into Sherlock's trouser pocket. Sherlock leaned into his touch and John gripped his lover's hips in both hands.
He pressed the head of his slicked up cock against Sherlock's opening, moving cautiously at first until he felt Sherlock pushing back onto him. He entered that tight, hot hole in one long, aching, slow thrust until he was seated to his base. He heard Sherlock's soft groan, so familiar and so thrilling.
John spared a speedy glance back out at the street. Not a soul was in sight. They might have been the only people in the city. The only people in the world.
He pulled back to the very edge of withdrawal, and then plunged back in. Another groan from Sherlock was his only guide. Barely audible through the pounding of the rain on the cobbled street, but enough. He was familiar with every nuance of those noises, knew what to listen for and how to adjust to the barest change in tone.
His next thrust led to a deep sound, almost a growl. That was his cue and he took it. John reached around and grasped Sherlock's hard prick in one still-slippery hand, and began to stroke and thrust in time.
Sherlock rode the rhythm, inside and out, his head dropping between his outstretched arms. His hands grasped at the stone wall until his knuckles turned white. His moans came faster and deeper, and John increased his speed.
John felt his climax take him and in that moment, Sherlock came, too. Muscles tightened around John's cock as Sherlock's prick pulsed with his release. Warm wetness spilled over John's fingers as he spent himself in the ass of his lover.
John lay forward onto Sherlock's back, letting the taller man, and the wall he leaned on, take a bit of his weight as he came down from his orgasm. Finally, his breath and heartbeat normalising, John pulled out and leaned his back on the opposite wall of the narrow niche. He dug awkwardly into a pocket for a packet of tissues he'd picked up at Tesco that morning.
"You said you're not a boy scout," quipped Sherlock, his baritone particularly husky. He turned and mirrored John's pose, careful not to trip over John's feet.
John removed the soiled condom and wrapped it in a tissue as he spoke. "Shut up or I won't share. You can walk back to the hotel with your junk hanging out for all I care."
Sherlock laughed at the lie and accepted the offered package. He used the first two tissues to clean his prick and then took a third, which he pressed into one palm before doing up his trousers.
John noticed the smear of red on the white. "What did you do to your hand?" he demanded, buttoning his flies and reaching out for Sherlock's injured hand with his empty one.
"There's a sharp edge on that stone." Sherlock tipped his head in the direction of the offending bit of masonry. "I failed to observe it until I was beyond caring."
"You should be more careful."
"Walls don't come with safety instructions."
"You wouldn't read them if they did. We should get back." The rain had eased and the sun was breaking through and scattering the clouds. "Get that cleaned up properly." It wasn't the only thing in need of proper cleaning, but in John's medical opinion, it was the most important.
Sherlock turned his hand in John's until they were clasped with the bloodied tissue between them. "It was worth the wound." He leaned in for one more long, hot, dirty kiss before releasing his hold and stepping into the wet and shining street.
John rolled his eyes. He reclaimed the discarded condom wrapper from the ground and followed him. He dropped the wad of dirty tissues and wrapper into a rubbish bin he passed at the corner.
He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. "Are you glad now I insisted on a day off before going home?"
Sherlock pursed his lips, barely glanced at John, and said, "Yes." He picked up his stride.
John grinned to himself, accepting the win in silence. He jogged to catch up with Sherlock's long stride and they joined the growing bustle on the Royal Mile.
A/N: Since no one's posted another amnesty fic from the first 24-hour porn challenge, I figured the rest of the prompts were fair game.
A/N2: In keeping with the spirit of the challenge, I collected the rest of the unused prompts yesterday afternoon, wrote this fic yesterday evening, beta'd it myself this morning, and am now posting it--all in under 24-hours. Naturally, all typos, errors, or other weirdnesses are therefore entirely my own.