Fic for Novadiab10: Long Distance Call
Jun. 6th, 2012 10:41 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
holmesticemods posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
holmesticeTitle: Long Distance Call
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
novadiab1o
Author:mme_saberage
beta: Thanks to the wonderfulthekumquat, all remaining mistakes are mine.
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit (more-or-less public) phonesex.
Summary: John is left home, and he doesn't take it too well.
Note: Dearnovadiab1o, if that was you commenting anonymously to your sign-up entry, I'm very sorry, I saw the comment too late and thus didn't take it into account. I hope you enjoy your fic nonetheless!
John Watson isn't prone to lying to him, that's a fact as certain as any Sherlock Holmes knows .
John would never lie to him. Yet, the impression dawns on Sherlock that, just maybe there are invisible asterisks to John's truths, cross-referencing inaudible footnotes, turning "It's all fine“to "It's all fine*“.
* Except you leaving me behind.
Or maybe even: "It's all fine. 1,2“
1 Except you leaving me behind.
2 EVER, you fucking bastard.
At the moment, the detective is leaning towards the second option, having just had a raging John on the mobile who certainly wasn't averse to swearing. "In an unusual explicit way“, Sherlock contemplates; and wonders just what else the doctor has picked up in the army.
Interesting.
The train ride being boringly uneventful and the suspect asleep for over two hours now, perfectly visible from the detective's seat and (boringlyboringlyboringly-who-gave-you-permission-to-even-exist) motionless, Sherlock allows his mind to wrap itself around John again.
His John, he notes with a greedy satisfaction that seems to originate directly in Sherlock's stomach, because even though all this is new and unsettling and surprising, surely that kiss grants Sherlock some kind of exclusiveness, some kind of claim over his flatmate.
It had been more than one kiss, actually – seven – over the last two weeks, one time even leading to a short episode of prolonged intimacy on the couch; an episode Sherlock counted as one kiss not because their lips had never parted, but because Sherlock had stopped counting once his heartbeat had moved from his chest to his head and then – ohgodjohnyesyes – downward.
Sherlock feels his treacherous body react even now, quickly pulling his bag on his lap and forcing his thoughts elsewhere.
John calls again in the evening. (Suspect awake for approx. fifty minutes, reading the tabloids and consequently failing to solve the page twenty puzzles.)
What Sherlock wants to tell his flatmate is this:
- That the suspect's Soduku Killer remains unfinished because the difference between 37 and 24 is not and will never be 23, and how he is immensely proud to have kept it low and not SHOUTED THE FACT OUT because, honestly.
- That he wishes John was here, because it is boring and Sherlock could deduce clever things about other passengers and John would not get tired of calling him brilliant until they arrived in Prague, or Warsaw, or even Vladivostok.
- That he hopes John doesn't have a good time at home, at least not more than he would if Sherlock was there.
- That what they had done yesterday, that that had been... impressive.
What Sherlock actually tells John consists mostly of this:
"Yes". "No". "John". "Mhm" – due to the fact he is too close and risks being overheard. He knows it is crucial not to draw attention to himself, so he actually can't say anything much, the so-called conversation mutating to John talking and Sherlock listening.
He gets the irritating feeling John relishes that far more than he should.
"Well, Sherlock, I take it you still have five more hours to Prague, and you are bored to death, because there is absolutely nothing happening?"
"How would you know?"
"It was either that, or your phone would be dead because you ended up killed, floating lifeless in the fucking sea..."
"John – "
"... without me being there to save your sorry arse again. Really Sherlock, how could you..."
"John-!"
"...how could you go after him without me? Were you thinking ANYTHING at all...?“
"I was in a hurry!"
"You could have called me, Sherlock. I would have left the hospital immediately."
"Next time, I promise."
"You make sure there is a next time."
"I will."
"That is not the end of the matter. We will discuss this when you get back."
Sherlock rolls his eyes.
"Do you want me to bring something from the Continent? " he tries. "Milk?"
It does not have the desired soothing effect.
"You are going to regret this, Sherlock, I mean it."
Suddenly there is almost a touch of smugness in his friends grin as he changes the subject: "Actually, Sherlock, you know what? I don't mind being in the warm, cosy flat instead of a cramped train. And I think I'm taking your bed tonight."
"Are you?"
"It smells of you."
Oh, John., really. Sentiment.
"Also, I'm going rub myself off on your dressing gown like there's no tomorrow."
The people sitting nearest to Sherlock give him a startled look as he makes a sound as if he has just choked on his tea.
He can physically feel John grin.
The detective, on the other hand, sounds rather flat as he finally replies:
"You can't... – you are not... are you?"
"Serious?" John licks his lips. "Deathly. And you know what I'll fantasise about? Us on the couch yesterday. Me nibbling on your lip, tracing wet stripes over your cheekbones down your neck, and you getting so hard from it that your cock is actually leaking." John laughs softly. "Did you think I wouldn't notice? Don't even try denying it, Sherlock, I saw the wet spot on your trousers. Quite eager, I must say. Lovely."
Sherlock feels a hot rush spreading over his neck and ears. "John, you can't... you can't do this now. I'm hanging up."
"And go back to five more hours of boredom? I don't think so."
Damn the man. Damn the low purr in his voice, damn the readiness with which Sherlock's body already molds to John's will.
"Are you hard again?"
And he was, achingly so. He was glad he'd put the bag upon his lap earlier, even if it did nothing to ease the tension beneath it.
"Maybe."
Another laugh. "Me too. So let me think, oh yes; I'll touch myself to the thought of you and all the things I'm going to do to you once you come back, because do you know what? I think the rumours are true, about you being rather... inexperienced. Soon I'm going to cross a line, maybe I'll not even notice when it happens, but you will, because I'm going to do something to you, something no one else in the world has done to you before."
Knowledge is power, and Sherlock can't believe it is actually him speaking when he hears his raspy voice replying: "You have already crossed that line."
Now it is John's turn to make a choked noise. "Sherlock... oh god."
There is a ruffled noise, and the detective's brain, in faint distance, like an echo, fills it in. Trousers. Zip.
Sherlock is amazed that his intellect still works, because most of his blood has painfully gathered elsewhere.
When he hears John's breath hitch over the phone, and there is blunt, slick movement, Sherlock's eyes flutter shut and he angles his hip up just so the bag on his lap gives the smallest amount of friction. He bites his lip. Oh god, indeed.
John begins to speak again, voice deep and interrupted by quick breaths, but otherwise steady. ("How on earth does he manage that?“ Sherlock wonders, and finds that even his inner voice whimpers.)
"I will," John continues, and Sherlock can't stop listening; he just can't. "I will make you come without even touching your cock. I will... I will open the first buttons of your shirt, and I'll expose your shoulder, touch naked skin underneath, and I'll slowly lick my way along your collarbone, biting down on the spot where your shoulder meets your neck, and then I'll breathe upon the very spot, again and again. It's a sensitive spot, your neck, isn't it?
Will you make these small noises for me, just like yesterday, when I sucked your bottom lip? I hope you will, because they turned me on immensely."
Breathe. Breathe. Keep it low. Sherlock repeats the words inside his head like a mantra, trying to drown the frantic beating of his heart and the the urge to reach between his legs.
"And just when I suck your tongue inside my mouth again, because you really enjoyed that, didn't you, I will scrape my thumbnail over your nipple and softly bite down."
Mercy, John, stopitstopitstopit.
"Do you think it will take anything more than that to make you come in your pants?"
Sherlock shivers. Given his state from the pure description of it, probably not.
"You can whimper against my shoulder while the waves of orgasm hit you, and I'll just... I'll just carry you through."
"Yes," Sherlock says tonelessly, just " Yes."
"I'll let you catch your breath, and gently stroke your hair, because I'm not sure you realise this is nothing to be ashamed of. In time, you'll last longer."
Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut. He needs to look indifferent, but his ears are burning and he knows his face is red and blotchy.
"Fine. Have you had your revenge?" he murmurs.
John laughs. "Well. Don't forget my needs demand attention, too. So as soon as you've gathered your wits again, we are going to find out exactly what you can do about that."
There is a pause again, Sherlock hears nothing but rustling of fabric in the background, until John groans.
"I want to come all over your trousers, mix my seed with yours. I want ... to ... touch you, I want to squeeze.
Oh.. god... Sherlock.. I want you.. I want you to lick me clean, I want to feel you, I want to spend myself inside you, want to warm your insides with my come, I'm going to massage your belly afterwards, going to rub it in, god.. god.. Sherlock.. I... nnngh –"
Johns voice is cut off and all Sherlock hears are animalistic moans that make his own breath catch.
If only he could.. just a bit... but it is impossible.
After a long silence, he hears John's voice on the phone again: "Are you.still there?"
"Mm."
"I think I just ruined your dressing gown."
Sherlock gives a breathless chuckle. "I'm hoping to be home by Tuesday."
"Yes, I really hope you are. And I won't even wait until you burst into the living room. I'll have you right there on the stairs to our flat. See you, Sherlock, and take care."
There is a beep, and the call is cut off.
Sherlock feels sweat pooling in his neck, and he desperately wishes for any possibility to relieve the unbearable tension in his groin.
He takes a deep breath. No chance. John is going to regret that.
For now, he can do nothing but to try and focus on willing it away.
When the detective is finally able to follow coherent thoughts again, he wonders if John means what he had said about the stairs. It is unlikely, really; there is the matter of their landlady, and besides, how would John know when to expect him home?
Then again, Sherlock thinks with no small satisfaction, that John Watson really isn't prone to lying to him.
Recipient:
novadiab1oAuthor:
mme_saberagebeta: Thanks to the wonderful
thekumquat, all remaining mistakes are mine.Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit (more-or-less public) phonesex.
Summary: John is left home, and he doesn't take it too well.
Note: Dear
novadiab1o, if that was you commenting anonymously to your sign-up entry, I'm very sorry, I saw the comment too late and thus didn't take it into account. I hope you enjoy your fic nonetheless!John Watson isn't prone to lying to him, that's a fact as certain as any Sherlock Holmes knows .
John would never lie to him. Yet, the impression dawns on Sherlock that, just maybe there are invisible asterisks to John's truths, cross-referencing inaudible footnotes, turning "It's all fine“to "It's all fine*“.
* Except you leaving me behind.
Or maybe even: "It's all fine. 1,2“
1 Except you leaving me behind.
2 EVER, you fucking bastard.
At the moment, the detective is leaning towards the second option, having just had a raging John on the mobile who certainly wasn't averse to swearing. "In an unusual explicit way“, Sherlock contemplates; and wonders just what else the doctor has picked up in the army.
Interesting.
The train ride being boringly uneventful and the suspect asleep for over two hours now, perfectly visible from the detective's seat and (boringlyboringlyboringly-who-gave-you-permission-to-even-exist) motionless, Sherlock allows his mind to wrap itself around John again.
His John, he notes with a greedy satisfaction that seems to originate directly in Sherlock's stomach, because even though all this is new and unsettling and surprising, surely that kiss grants Sherlock some kind of exclusiveness, some kind of claim over his flatmate.
It had been more than one kiss, actually – seven – over the last two weeks, one time even leading to a short episode of prolonged intimacy on the couch; an episode Sherlock counted as one kiss not because their lips had never parted, but because Sherlock had stopped counting once his heartbeat had moved from his chest to his head and then – ohgodjohnyesyes – downward.
Sherlock feels his treacherous body react even now, quickly pulling his bag on his lap and forcing his thoughts elsewhere.
--------
John calls again in the evening. (Suspect awake for approx. fifty minutes, reading the tabloids and consequently failing to solve the page twenty puzzles.)
What Sherlock wants to tell his flatmate is this:
- That the suspect's Soduku Killer remains unfinished because the difference between 37 and 24 is not and will never be 23, and how he is immensely proud to have kept it low and not SHOUTED THE FACT OUT because, honestly.
- That he wishes John was here, because it is boring and Sherlock could deduce clever things about other passengers and John would not get tired of calling him brilliant until they arrived in Prague, or Warsaw, or even Vladivostok.
- That he hopes John doesn't have a good time at home, at least not more than he would if Sherlock was there.
- That what they had done yesterday, that that had been... impressive.
What Sherlock actually tells John consists mostly of this:
"Yes". "No". "John". "Mhm" – due to the fact he is too close and risks being overheard. He knows it is crucial not to draw attention to himself, so he actually can't say anything much, the so-called conversation mutating to John talking and Sherlock listening.
He gets the irritating feeling John relishes that far more than he should.
"Well, Sherlock, I take it you still have five more hours to Prague, and you are bored to death, because there is absolutely nothing happening?"
"How would you know?"
"It was either that, or your phone would be dead because you ended up killed, floating lifeless in the fucking sea..."
"John – "
"... without me being there to save your sorry arse again. Really Sherlock, how could you..."
"John-!"
"...how could you go after him without me? Were you thinking ANYTHING at all...?“
"I was in a hurry!"
"You could have called me, Sherlock. I would have left the hospital immediately."
"Next time, I promise."
"You make sure there is a next time."
"I will."
"That is not the end of the matter. We will discuss this when you get back."
Sherlock rolls his eyes.
"Do you want me to bring something from the Continent? " he tries. "Milk?"
It does not have the desired soothing effect.
"You are going to regret this, Sherlock, I mean it."
Suddenly there is almost a touch of smugness in his friends grin as he changes the subject: "Actually, Sherlock, you know what? I don't mind being in the warm, cosy flat instead of a cramped train. And I think I'm taking your bed tonight."
"Are you?"
"It smells of you."
Oh, John., really. Sentiment.
"Also, I'm going rub myself off on your dressing gown like there's no tomorrow."
The people sitting nearest to Sherlock give him a startled look as he makes a sound as if he has just choked on his tea.
He can physically feel John grin.
The detective, on the other hand, sounds rather flat as he finally replies:
"You can't... – you are not... are you?"
"Serious?" John licks his lips. "Deathly. And you know what I'll fantasise about? Us on the couch yesterday. Me nibbling on your lip, tracing wet stripes over your cheekbones down your neck, and you getting so hard from it that your cock is actually leaking." John laughs softly. "Did you think I wouldn't notice? Don't even try denying it, Sherlock, I saw the wet spot on your trousers. Quite eager, I must say. Lovely."
Sherlock feels a hot rush spreading over his neck and ears. "John, you can't... you can't do this now. I'm hanging up."
"And go back to five more hours of boredom? I don't think so."
Damn the man. Damn the low purr in his voice, damn the readiness with which Sherlock's body already molds to John's will.
"Are you hard again?"
And he was, achingly so. He was glad he'd put the bag upon his lap earlier, even if it did nothing to ease the tension beneath it.
"Maybe."
Another laugh. "Me too. So let me think, oh yes; I'll touch myself to the thought of you and all the things I'm going to do to you once you come back, because do you know what? I think the rumours are true, about you being rather... inexperienced. Soon I'm going to cross a line, maybe I'll not even notice when it happens, but you will, because I'm going to do something to you, something no one else in the world has done to you before."
Knowledge is power, and Sherlock can't believe it is actually him speaking when he hears his raspy voice replying: "You have already crossed that line."
Now it is John's turn to make a choked noise. "Sherlock... oh god."
There is a ruffled noise, and the detective's brain, in faint distance, like an echo, fills it in. Trousers. Zip.
Sherlock is amazed that his intellect still works, because most of his blood has painfully gathered elsewhere.
When he hears John's breath hitch over the phone, and there is blunt, slick movement, Sherlock's eyes flutter shut and he angles his hip up just so the bag on his lap gives the smallest amount of friction. He bites his lip. Oh god, indeed.
John begins to speak again, voice deep and interrupted by quick breaths, but otherwise steady. ("How on earth does he manage that?“ Sherlock wonders, and finds that even his inner voice whimpers.)
"I will," John continues, and Sherlock can't stop listening; he just can't. "I will make you come without even touching your cock. I will... I will open the first buttons of your shirt, and I'll expose your shoulder, touch naked skin underneath, and I'll slowly lick my way along your collarbone, biting down on the spot where your shoulder meets your neck, and then I'll breathe upon the very spot, again and again. It's a sensitive spot, your neck, isn't it?
Will you make these small noises for me, just like yesterday, when I sucked your bottom lip? I hope you will, because they turned me on immensely."
Breathe. Breathe. Keep it low. Sherlock repeats the words inside his head like a mantra, trying to drown the frantic beating of his heart and the the urge to reach between his legs.
"And just when I suck your tongue inside my mouth again, because you really enjoyed that, didn't you, I will scrape my thumbnail over your nipple and softly bite down."
Mercy, John, stopitstopitstopit.
"Do you think it will take anything more than that to make you come in your pants?"
Sherlock shivers. Given his state from the pure description of it, probably not.
"You can whimper against my shoulder while the waves of orgasm hit you, and I'll just... I'll just carry you through."
"Yes," Sherlock says tonelessly, just " Yes."
"I'll let you catch your breath, and gently stroke your hair, because I'm not sure you realise this is nothing to be ashamed of. In time, you'll last longer."
Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut. He needs to look indifferent, but his ears are burning and he knows his face is red and blotchy.
"Fine. Have you had your revenge?" he murmurs.
John laughs. "Well. Don't forget my needs demand attention, too. So as soon as you've gathered your wits again, we are going to find out exactly what you can do about that."
There is a pause again, Sherlock hears nothing but rustling of fabric in the background, until John groans.
"I want to come all over your trousers, mix my seed with yours. I want ... to ... touch you, I want to squeeze.
Oh.. god... Sherlock.. I want you.. I want you to lick me clean, I want to feel you, I want to spend myself inside you, want to warm your insides with my come, I'm going to massage your belly afterwards, going to rub it in, god.. god.. Sherlock.. I... nnngh –"
Johns voice is cut off and all Sherlock hears are animalistic moans that make his own breath catch.
If only he could.. just a bit... but it is impossible.
After a long silence, he hears John's voice on the phone again: "Are you.still there?"
"Mm."
"I think I just ruined your dressing gown."
Sherlock gives a breathless chuckle. "I'm hoping to be home by Tuesday."
"Yes, I really hope you are. And I won't even wait until you burst into the living room. I'll have you right there on the stairs to our flat. See you, Sherlock, and take care."
There is a beep, and the call is cut off.
Sherlock feels sweat pooling in his neck, and he desperately wishes for any possibility to relieve the unbearable tension in his groin.
He takes a deep breath. No chance. John is going to regret that.
For now, he can do nothing but to try and focus on willing it away.
When the detective is finally able to follow coherent thoughts again, he wonders if John means what he had said about the stairs. It is unlikely, really; there is the matter of their landlady, and besides, how would John know when to expect him home?
Then again, Sherlock thinks with no small satisfaction, that John Watson really isn't prone to lying to him.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2012-06-06 09:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-09 04:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-09 04:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-06 09:42 pm (UTC)Holy smoke, that was some heated dialog. Excellent torture. I was right there with the aching, wishing Sherlock could be back at Baker Street immediately.
This part slew me:
"...I think the rumours are true, about you being rather... inexperienced. Soon I'm going to cross a line, maybe I'll not even notice when it happens, but you will, because I'm going to do something to you, something no one else in the world has done to you before."
Knowledge is power, and Sherlock can't believe it is actually him speaking when he hears his raspy voice replying: "You have already crossed that line."
Now it is John's turn to make a choked noise. "Sherlock... oh god."
DEAD. Stopped my heart for a moment. Really.
I'll be in my bunk....
no subject
Date: 2012-07-09 05:05 am (UTC)And thank you very much for commenting, it means a lot!
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Date: 2012-06-06 10:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-09 05:02 am (UTC)Also, I think you were commenting quite often and in detail on peoples fic and I just wanted to say that I think that's really great of you.
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Date: 2012-06-07 02:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-09 04:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-07 05:25 am (UTC)So. Damn. Hot.
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Date: 2012-07-09 04:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-08 02:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-09 04:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-18 09:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-09 04:47 am (UTC)Thanks for commenting!
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Date: 2012-10-16 07:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-19 01:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-19 02:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-19 05:40 pm (UTC)