gayalondiel_bak (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
gayalondiel_bak) wrote2011-05-01 08:17 pm
gayalondiel_bak) wrote2011-05-01 08:17 pm
Fic post: A soldier's life is terribly hard
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Title: A soldier's life is terribly hard
Character/Pairing: Sherlock/John
Length: c.2000 words
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Smut. Unashamed smut.
Spoilers: n/a
Warnings: Outdoor sex.
Disclaimer: The Holmes characters fall in the public domain: This version falls under the creative control of Messers Moffatt and Gatiss, and the BBC. No ownership is implied or inferred. This is done for love only.
Summary: Sherlock, John, a nice day and locale in London once infamous for trysts of a certain variety. Smut with a hint of military kink.
Sequel: Evening Dress
AN: I mentioned to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
irisbleufic that my brain was getting frazzled with fic and I should just write some porn to clear the air. She immediately requested St James’s Park. (While I was writing my own predilection for military trappings came into play slightly).
At this pointxitheta offered to give me a beta, for which I am deeply hugely grateful. Unfortunately that was about half an hour before my most recent BSOD and I had a complete panic and shut everything down. What a horribly rude thing to do to someone. I am so sorry. rabidsamfan proceeded to talk me off the ledge and distract me with shiny things, and has helped me polish the final draft. Here it is.
The spring sun was beating down on Birdcage Walk, glancing off the road and putting an edge of glare in John’s vision. Their appointment at the Treasury, demanded by Mycroft, had taken all of five minutes and entailed quite a large serving of derision from Sherlock. Not wanting to consider his trip completely pointless, John was steering them in the direction of St James’s Park, figuring the walk would do him good. The road was surprisingly empty, although the sound of marching feet and shouting coming from further up the road told him that something was going on at Wellington Barracks. Feeling a touch on his wrist, he glanced down and saw a slender finger tracing the hard nubs of bone in the joint.
“Sherlock?”
Sherlock was smiling down at him, and John wondered if it was the bright sun that was putting that glint in his eye. “John?”
“Are you alright?” Truthfully he looked fine; cool and composed in his suit despite the warm weather, having finally been convinced to leave his heavy coat at the flat. But his fingers continued to explore, now running over the back of John’s hand.
“Oh yes, fine,” Sherlock glanced away. “John. You do know what this street used to be known for?”
“The aviary?”
“Later than that.”
“The barracks?”
“Mundane. Try again.”
“There’s a march...”
“John.”
John frowned, trawling his mind. Birdcage Walk, there was definitely something else. Something that had been whispered and giggled among the cadet force when they had been pulled out of school to see the Trooping of the Colour rehearsals and they had been brought up here afterwards... Surely not?
Sherlock’s fingertips had moved from exploring to stroking gently. Okay, yes.
“No,” he said firmly. Sherlock positively pouted.
“John...”
“No!” repeated John, trying not to laugh. He did take Sherlock by the hand, though, leading him off the street before they reached the barracks and onto the path to the Blue Bridge. On the bridge they stopped, John leaning on the railing looking west over the water, Sherlock standing at his shoulder with his hand playing on the back of John’s neck.
“It’s really quiet today,” John commented, looking around at the deserted paths.
“Something’s happening, though,” replied Sherlock, tilting his head slightly. “Listen.”
John imitated his action, and sure enough he could hear voices. There was a crowd nearby, on the other side of the line of trees lining the edge of the park. From the south he could hear more shouting, and the sound of horses. The answer clicked into place.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“Nearly eleven thirty,” Sherlock replied absently, without looking at his watch. Then his eyes met John’s. “Oh! Do you want to go and watch?”
John shook his head, looking back to the water. He felt Sherlock move closer to him, and then there was breath on his neck.
“You don’t want to go see all the men in uniforms?” he teased.
John chuckled. “Even if I had a thing for uniforms once, don’t you think a few years in the army would have cured me?”
“Maybe. No-one cured me, though.”
“You?” John turned his head to catch a look at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. “You have a thing for the Blues and Royals?”
“Not these uniforms particularly,” muttered Sherlock. “But there’s a certain aesthetic... You’ve never worn your uniform for me.”
“You’ve never asked.”
“Would you then?”
“Maybe.” John felt Sherlock’s hands move to his hips and then he was being spun around, pressed precariously against the thin rail, and Sherlock’s lips were on his. Dimly he registered a couple of men in suits walking alongside the lake. The idea that he should be embarrassed flickered in his mind, but the businessmen were determinedly ignoring them and so he closed his eyes and leaned into the kiss.
When Sherlock finally broke away, they could hear a shouted command and then the sound of horses hooves moving on Horse Guard’s Road. He slipped his arms around Sherlock’s waist. “Do you want to watch?” he asked.
“God, no!” replied Sherlock. “Dull, dull. Did you ever have to do things like that?”
“Me?” John laughed. “Doctor, remember? The worst we had to do was inspection parades.”
“In dress uniform?”
“Normally, yes.”
“You do still have it?” Sherlock’s eyes were gleaming now, and John bit back a smirk of his own. He slipped out from Sherlock’s arms and started walking again, feeling the danger of staying too long pressed close to his lover in public. Sherlock followed, staying well inside his personal space.
As they walked, John couldn’t help but tease him a little more. “I do have it. I didn’t think that would be the one you’d go for, though.”
“Oh?” Sherlock’s voice was casual, but there was a definite quaver under it that John could hear from months of practice.
“I thought you might prefer mess dress. Dark blue jacket with red facings, bow tie, the works. I’d need you in black tie too, of course,” he added as an afterthought, and the sudden image that graced his mind of Sherlock lounging in a black dinner jacket with a bow tie lying untied around his neck, shirt gaping open, sent a shiver down his spine.
“Sounds nice,” said Sherlock, and it was obvious that he had noticed. John fought to regain the upper hand.
“Or there’s desert combat dress. I’ve still got that. That’s what you see on the news, in the Middle East.”
“The camouflage gear?”
“DPM, yes. Trousers and jacket, and a t-shirt underneath. It’s a comfortable uniform. Practical. And flexible. You can get away with rolled up sleeves, or no jacket at all, or...”
“No shirt?” Sherlock had slowed to a halt and was watching him with darkening eyes. Something like resolution crossed his face. John leaned in with a smile.
“Whatever you wanted.”
“You’d wander around the flat in just DPM trousers and boots, if I asked you to?”
“Well,” John glanced around, smiling. “I would hope not to be just wandering around the flat. You know...”
A roll of drums sounded on the other side of the line of trees and John glanced over automatically as the band began to play, a march that he recognised but could not name. Sherlock did not waste the moment. He took advantage of John’s distraction to grab him by the wrist and took off running into a nearby copse of trees. John allowed himself to be dragged and within seconds was pressed against a tree, being kissed fiercely. He kissed back for a few moments but then Sherlock was pulling away, moving back, moving down... oh. Oh.
“Sherlock!” he hissed fiercely.
“No-one’s looking,” replied Sherlock calmly as he unfastened John’s trousers efficiently. “Everyone’s watching the pretty guards.” John whipped his head from left to right, noticing that the copse was bordered on several sides by paths, and all it would take was someone walking by who was paying attention... But then Sherlock’s lips were on him and all rational thought flew away.
He dropped his head back and just focused on the waves of sensation rippling through his body as Sherlock kissed and licked and sucked. Hands pressed at his hips, holding him against the rough bark as he tried to restrain the urge to thrust. Then fingers were curling around the base of his cock, moving in perfect synchronicity with lips and tongue. John felt his mouth drop open and stuffed his fist between his lips before he could let out a cry that would surely give them away. The urge to buck and shudder was rapidly getting to be too much to control. John scrabbled for Sherlock's free hand and tugged on it, pulling it across, so that Sherlock's arm was braced across him from hip to hip, so that John could let go, loving the feel of the restriction.
He knew that Sherlock was a generous lover, capable of both long drawn-out lovemaking and inducing amazingly intense three-minute orgasms. This had to be the latter, although John had lost track of time completely in the rushing intensity of it. His hands came down to grip Sherlock’s hair tightly, probably painfully, but that only seemed to spur Sherlock on and he sped up, building the pressure of pleasure within John until collapse became inevitable and he was falling, falling, losing all control as he pulsed and shuddered and clung to Sherlock like an anchor, biting down hard on his tongue to prevent himself from shouting out loud.
Sherlock slid up his body as his breathing slowed, clever hands putting John’s clothing back together even while he pressed a hard kiss to his lips. The moment he was lucid enough John reached down in between them with a still trembling hand and brushed where Sherlock was hard. He almost fancied he could feel him throbbing through his trousers. Sherlock gave a quiet moan.
“John...”
“The band’s still playing.” John tore his eyes away to glance around. There were a few people now on the far side of the lake, but even if they looked... What would they see? Two men kissing? They probably wouldn’t look harder. And suddenly he realised he didn’t care if they did. “No-one’s looking,” he whispered, snaking his hands around to grip Sherlock’s hips and pulling him near.
“Really, John...”
“Sherlock, come on. For me.” John tightened his hands, pressing Sherlock as close as he could and feeling the moment where Sherlock gave in and began to thrust, slowly. “Please,” he whispered.
Sherlock gave a whimper and began pushing against him harder and faster. His head dropped to rest on John’s shoulder, panting out little gasps, moans and wordless pleas. John could feel heat and hardness through the layers of fabric between them and just held on, guiding Sherlock through the now frantic pace. He whispered in Sherlock’s ear, small entreaties and encouragements, and then with a sudden thrill of inspiration began describing half-formed images of what they could do, what Sherlock could and would be allowed to do with an army doctor wearing desert combat dress. Sherlock pressed his mouth against John’s neck and came with a strangled cry as the music moved from the Mall to Birdcage Walk and the crowd began to disperse back into the park.
John held Sherlock tightly and half-carried him down so they were collapsed together on the roots of the tree. He guided Sherlock back until their foreheads were pressed together and felt Sherlock’s hands running up his sides to grasp his shoulders, before one moved to his neck and stroked gently. On the paths around them tourists were moving, chattering loudly in several languages. With any luck anyone looking into the copse of trees would see two men, undoubtedly lovers, but just sitting there doing nothing more untoward than having a quiet moment together.
Slowly Sherlock’s breathing came back under control and he pulled John in for a kiss that was at once chaste and passionate. A couple of girls passing giggled and looked back at them but John was happy to ignore them. Sherlock smirked, a sure sign that he was back within himself.
“So, John, Birdcage Walk was known for...”
“Shut up.” John shook his head. “And don’t even think about making a habit of this.”
“You didn’t have fun?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
Sherlock grinned at him. “Of course. I wouldn’t want things to get boring for you.” He pushed himself to his feet and dusted the grass and dirt from his knees before reaching a hand down to pull John up. With a final check to make sure they were presentable they returned to the now busy path and walked on.
Sherlock insinuated his hand neatly under John’s arm and held it as they walked, the old-fashioned gesture suiting him perfectly. “Besides,” he said as they approached Australia Gate, “there are plenty of other parks in London.”
Title: A soldier's life is terribly hard
Character/Pairing: Sherlock/John
Length: c.2000 words
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Smut. Unashamed smut.
Spoilers: n/a
Warnings: Outdoor sex.
Disclaimer: The Holmes characters fall in the public domain: This version falls under the creative control of Messers Moffatt and Gatiss, and the BBC. No ownership is implied or inferred. This is done for love only.
Summary: Sherlock, John, a nice day and locale in London once infamous for trysts of a certain variety. Smut with a hint of military kink.
Sequel: Evening Dress
AN: I mentioned to
irisbleufic that my brain was getting frazzled with fic and I should just write some porn to clear the air. She immediately requested St James’s Park. (While I was writing my own predilection for military trappings came into play slightly). At this point
xitheta offered to give me a beta, for which I am deeply hugely grateful. Unfortunately that was about half an hour before my most recent BSOD and I had a complete panic and shut everything down. What a horribly rude thing to do to someone. I am so sorry. rabidsamfan proceeded to talk me off the ledge and distract me with shiny things, and has helped me polish the final draft. Here it is.The spring sun was beating down on Birdcage Walk, glancing off the road and putting an edge of glare in John’s vision. Their appointment at the Treasury, demanded by Mycroft, had taken all of five minutes and entailed quite a large serving of derision from Sherlock. Not wanting to consider his trip completely pointless, John was steering them in the direction of St James’s Park, figuring the walk would do him good. The road was surprisingly empty, although the sound of marching feet and shouting coming from further up the road told him that something was going on at Wellington Barracks. Feeling a touch on his wrist, he glanced down and saw a slender finger tracing the hard nubs of bone in the joint.
“Sherlock?”
Sherlock was smiling down at him, and John wondered if it was the bright sun that was putting that glint in his eye. “John?”
“Are you alright?” Truthfully he looked fine; cool and composed in his suit despite the warm weather, having finally been convinced to leave his heavy coat at the flat. But his fingers continued to explore, now running over the back of John’s hand.
“Oh yes, fine,” Sherlock glanced away. “John. You do know what this street used to be known for?”
“The aviary?”
“Later than that.”
“The barracks?”
“Mundane. Try again.”
“There’s a march...”
“John.”
John frowned, trawling his mind. Birdcage Walk, there was definitely something else. Something that had been whispered and giggled among the cadet force when they had been pulled out of school to see the Trooping of the Colour rehearsals and they had been brought up here afterwards... Surely not?
Sherlock’s fingertips had moved from exploring to stroking gently. Okay, yes.
“No,” he said firmly. Sherlock positively pouted.
“John...”
“No!” repeated John, trying not to laugh. He did take Sherlock by the hand, though, leading him off the street before they reached the barracks and onto the path to the Blue Bridge. On the bridge they stopped, John leaning on the railing looking west over the water, Sherlock standing at his shoulder with his hand playing on the back of John’s neck.
“It’s really quiet today,” John commented, looking around at the deserted paths.
“Something’s happening, though,” replied Sherlock, tilting his head slightly. “Listen.”
John imitated his action, and sure enough he could hear voices. There was a crowd nearby, on the other side of the line of trees lining the edge of the park. From the south he could hear more shouting, and the sound of horses. The answer clicked into place.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“Nearly eleven thirty,” Sherlock replied absently, without looking at his watch. Then his eyes met John’s. “Oh! Do you want to go and watch?”
John shook his head, looking back to the water. He felt Sherlock move closer to him, and then there was breath on his neck.
“You don’t want to go see all the men in uniforms?” he teased.
John chuckled. “Even if I had a thing for uniforms once, don’t you think a few years in the army would have cured me?”
“Maybe. No-one cured me, though.”
“You?” John turned his head to catch a look at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. “You have a thing for the Blues and Royals?”
“Not these uniforms particularly,” muttered Sherlock. “But there’s a certain aesthetic... You’ve never worn your uniform for me.”
“You’ve never asked.”
“Would you then?”
“Maybe.” John felt Sherlock’s hands move to his hips and then he was being spun around, pressed precariously against the thin rail, and Sherlock’s lips were on his. Dimly he registered a couple of men in suits walking alongside the lake. The idea that he should be embarrassed flickered in his mind, but the businessmen were determinedly ignoring them and so he closed his eyes and leaned into the kiss.
When Sherlock finally broke away, they could hear a shouted command and then the sound of horses hooves moving on Horse Guard’s Road. He slipped his arms around Sherlock’s waist. “Do you want to watch?” he asked.
“God, no!” replied Sherlock. “Dull, dull. Did you ever have to do things like that?”
“Me?” John laughed. “Doctor, remember? The worst we had to do was inspection parades.”
“In dress uniform?”
“Normally, yes.”
“You do still have it?” Sherlock’s eyes were gleaming now, and John bit back a smirk of his own. He slipped out from Sherlock’s arms and started walking again, feeling the danger of staying too long pressed close to his lover in public. Sherlock followed, staying well inside his personal space.
As they walked, John couldn’t help but tease him a little more. “I do have it. I didn’t think that would be the one you’d go for, though.”
“Oh?” Sherlock’s voice was casual, but there was a definite quaver under it that John could hear from months of practice.
“I thought you might prefer mess dress. Dark blue jacket with red facings, bow tie, the works. I’d need you in black tie too, of course,” he added as an afterthought, and the sudden image that graced his mind of Sherlock lounging in a black dinner jacket with a bow tie lying untied around his neck, shirt gaping open, sent a shiver down his spine.
“Sounds nice,” said Sherlock, and it was obvious that he had noticed. John fought to regain the upper hand.
“Or there’s desert combat dress. I’ve still got that. That’s what you see on the news, in the Middle East.”
“The camouflage gear?”
“DPM, yes. Trousers and jacket, and a t-shirt underneath. It’s a comfortable uniform. Practical. And flexible. You can get away with rolled up sleeves, or no jacket at all, or...”
“No shirt?” Sherlock had slowed to a halt and was watching him with darkening eyes. Something like resolution crossed his face. John leaned in with a smile.
“Whatever you wanted.”
“You’d wander around the flat in just DPM trousers and boots, if I asked you to?”
“Well,” John glanced around, smiling. “I would hope not to be just wandering around the flat. You know...”
A roll of drums sounded on the other side of the line of trees and John glanced over automatically as the band began to play, a march that he recognised but could not name. Sherlock did not waste the moment. He took advantage of John’s distraction to grab him by the wrist and took off running into a nearby copse of trees. John allowed himself to be dragged and within seconds was pressed against a tree, being kissed fiercely. He kissed back for a few moments but then Sherlock was pulling away, moving back, moving down... oh. Oh.
“Sherlock!” he hissed fiercely.
“No-one’s looking,” replied Sherlock calmly as he unfastened John’s trousers efficiently. “Everyone’s watching the pretty guards.” John whipped his head from left to right, noticing that the copse was bordered on several sides by paths, and all it would take was someone walking by who was paying attention... But then Sherlock’s lips were on him and all rational thought flew away.
He dropped his head back and just focused on the waves of sensation rippling through his body as Sherlock kissed and licked and sucked. Hands pressed at his hips, holding him against the rough bark as he tried to restrain the urge to thrust. Then fingers were curling around the base of his cock, moving in perfect synchronicity with lips and tongue. John felt his mouth drop open and stuffed his fist between his lips before he could let out a cry that would surely give them away. The urge to buck and shudder was rapidly getting to be too much to control. John scrabbled for Sherlock's free hand and tugged on it, pulling it across, so that Sherlock's arm was braced across him from hip to hip, so that John could let go, loving the feel of the restriction.
He knew that Sherlock was a generous lover, capable of both long drawn-out lovemaking and inducing amazingly intense three-minute orgasms. This had to be the latter, although John had lost track of time completely in the rushing intensity of it. His hands came down to grip Sherlock’s hair tightly, probably painfully, but that only seemed to spur Sherlock on and he sped up, building the pressure of pleasure within John until collapse became inevitable and he was falling, falling, losing all control as he pulsed and shuddered and clung to Sherlock like an anchor, biting down hard on his tongue to prevent himself from shouting out loud.
Sherlock slid up his body as his breathing slowed, clever hands putting John’s clothing back together even while he pressed a hard kiss to his lips. The moment he was lucid enough John reached down in between them with a still trembling hand and brushed where Sherlock was hard. He almost fancied he could feel him throbbing through his trousers. Sherlock gave a quiet moan.
“John...”
“The band’s still playing.” John tore his eyes away to glance around. There were a few people now on the far side of the lake, but even if they looked... What would they see? Two men kissing? They probably wouldn’t look harder. And suddenly he realised he didn’t care if they did. “No-one’s looking,” he whispered, snaking his hands around to grip Sherlock’s hips and pulling him near.
“Really, John...”
“Sherlock, come on. For me.” John tightened his hands, pressing Sherlock as close as he could and feeling the moment where Sherlock gave in and began to thrust, slowly. “Please,” he whispered.
Sherlock gave a whimper and began pushing against him harder and faster. His head dropped to rest on John’s shoulder, panting out little gasps, moans and wordless pleas. John could feel heat and hardness through the layers of fabric between them and just held on, guiding Sherlock through the now frantic pace. He whispered in Sherlock’s ear, small entreaties and encouragements, and then with a sudden thrill of inspiration began describing half-formed images of what they could do, what Sherlock could and would be allowed to do with an army doctor wearing desert combat dress. Sherlock pressed his mouth against John’s neck and came with a strangled cry as the music moved from the Mall to Birdcage Walk and the crowd began to disperse back into the park.
John held Sherlock tightly and half-carried him down so they were collapsed together on the roots of the tree. He guided Sherlock back until their foreheads were pressed together and felt Sherlock’s hands running up his sides to grasp his shoulders, before one moved to his neck and stroked gently. On the paths around them tourists were moving, chattering loudly in several languages. With any luck anyone looking into the copse of trees would see two men, undoubtedly lovers, but just sitting there doing nothing more untoward than having a quiet moment together.
Slowly Sherlock’s breathing came back under control and he pulled John in for a kiss that was at once chaste and passionate. A couple of girls passing giggled and looked back at them but John was happy to ignore them. Sherlock smirked, a sure sign that he was back within himself.
“So, John, Birdcage Walk was known for...”
“Shut up.” John shook his head. “And don’t even think about making a habit of this.”
“You didn’t have fun?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
Sherlock grinned at him. “Of course. I wouldn’t want things to get boring for you.” He pushed himself to his feet and dusted the grass and dirt from his knees before reaching a hand down to pull John up. With a final check to make sure they were presentable they returned to the now busy path and walked on.
Sherlock insinuated his hand neatly under John’s arm and held it as they walked, the old-fashioned gesture suiting him perfectly. “Besides,” he said as they approached Australia Gate, “there are plenty of other parks in London.”