#yarrrrrr | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thalialunacy · 3 months

Text

[written for the @calaisreno May Prompts Safari. E-rating, y'all. and schmoopy as hell.]

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15) (16) (17) (18) (19) (20) (21) (22) (23) (24) (25) (26) (27) (28) (29) 30: journey (31)

When next they arrive at Sherlock's parents' house, it's the end of May bank holiday and John is more than ready to hand over his child in exchange for a strong drink.

This, he muses as his wish comes true without even having to be voiced, is the magic of grandparents.

---

He's just coming back from putting Rosie down when he hears surprisingly raucous laughter and the words '... the priest was never quite the same after that, was he?'

He comes to a stop in the centre of the furniture configuration, looking round at various family members with a raised eyebrow. 'Holmeses,' he says solemnly. 'Dare I ask?'

'Oh, absolutely,' Sherlock's mum replies. 'We've had enough to drink that we're starting in on rude stories.' John coughs, and she waves her hand, somehow managing not to spill any wine. 'Not rude like that. Well. Mostly not.'

Mycroft, of all people, lets out what could graciously be called a snort. 'I'll start: John, I must tell you that once, at Christmas, Mother told us her shirt had French letters on it, and then had no idea why Grandfather looked so scandalised.'

John looks to Sherlock, perplexed. 'Condoms, John,' Sherlock explains. 'Eighteenth century Britons called them, among other things, "French letters."'

John swallows his mouthful of scotch. 'Of course.'

'Oh, oh!' Sherlock's mum starts. 'John, there was a time when Mycroft was so worried that baby Sherlock would roll out of bed that he found every blanket in the house and made him a huge nest. Then wouldn't leave his side.'

Mycroft purses his lips. 'I did no such thing.'

'Don't lie to your mother. You were there for days. You nearly suffocated him, you were so worried.'

Sherlock's father chuckles. 'There was also a time, John, that he and Sherlock volunteered to be ushers at church and ended up fighting over which offering plate had the most in it at the end. The Altar Guild was cross with us for months.'

John does laugh at that one.

'Yes, yes,' Sherlock drawls. 'And believe it or not, John, Father frequently used to play hangman with me in the church bulletin during services.'

His mother turns to her husband, genuinely surprised. 'Did you really?'

His father shrugs. 'It was better than the alternative.'

His mother eyes her younger son. 'Yes, that's probably true.' But she doesn't bother hiding her fond smile.

This goes on for quite a while, all four Holmeses using John as their audience to tell increasingly far-fetched stories about their shared histories. John, sat next to Sherlock and making his way slowly through two fingers of fine alcohol, can't help but be charmed. They're ridiculous, and, let's be honest, fairly weird, but they obviously have great affection for each other. Despite what Mycroft and Sherlock might claim.

When there's a lull, he just asks it: 'Out of curiosity, why are you telling me all this? Not that I don't find it amusing, obviously, but… Sherlock?'

John's eyes narrow, his stomach somersaulting, as he realises Sherlock has slid off the sofa and onto both knees, his whole family is situated on various pieces of furniture behind him like a posed picture, and he's got--

'Oh.'

--he's got a rather distinctive item in the palm of his outstretched hand.

'Oh.'

'Yes, very good John, knew you'd cotton on eventually.'

His voice is strong, yet a bit off. John searches his face. 'You're not taking the p--' He glances at Sherlock's mum. '--mickey?'

'Yes,' Sherlock deadpans. 'I gathered my whole very hilarious family of known pranksters to pull your leg in an elaborate and expensive manner.'

'Alright, keep your shirt on. I just-- You're serious. You actually want to get-- be-- married. To… me.'

'If you and Rosamund will have me.'

John feels it like a surge, but tamps it down. 'And Reginald the cat?'

Sherlock is slightly taken aback. 'Obviously. Unless that would be an issue for you, if Rosamund--'

John barks out a laugh, plucks the ring from Sherlock's hand and yanks him back up onto the sofa. 'Oh shut up, you absolute disaster, of course we bloody will.'

Sherlock's mouth curves, but he doesn't fully relax. 'Even though I come with this lot attached?' He waves at his family without looking at them. 'Those stories, I assure you, are only the tip of the iceberg.'

John wants to tackle him. 'You've met my "A-leveled in alcoholism" sister, have you not?'

'Well, yes, but--'

'Shut. Up.' John glances at the rest of the family, feeling his ears turn a bit red at their blatant interest in the proceedings, but clears his throat and grabs the back of Sherlock's neck anyway. 'I love the hell out of you, remember?' he says quietly.

Sherlock's gaze jumps around his face, searching. 'I seem to recall something about that, yes.'

'And if the shit we've gone through in the last decade hasn't broken us--' Sherlock opens his mouth. '--inoperably, hasn't broken us inoperably, then I'm pretty damn sure we'll be fine.' He touches their lips together very briefly, then presses their foreheads together for a moment longer.

Sherlock's mum very cheerfully breaks the moment. 'Wait until Rosie's a teenager to say that, dear.'

'Mum.' John feels Sherlock's groan rumble through him, and can't help but chuckle.

He pulls back, dropping his hand, and gives the family a sheepish but unashamed look. 'We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, I think.'

'Indeed. Life is a journey, not a destination.'

Everyone turns to stare at Mycroft.

He stares back, lifting his chin. 'What? Am I not meant to know Emerson?'

'Are we sure he's not been replaced by a cyborg?' John whispers to Sherlock.

'Who would be able to tell the difference?' Sherlock parries immediately.

Mycroft huffs. 'Oh, please. Go consummate this new relationship status so I can have some peace.'

John clears his throat. 'Beg pardon?'

Mycroft rolls his eyes and stands. 'Shall we fetch another round of drinks before we move on?'

His parents exchange a look, then stand. 'That is a brilliant idea,' says his mum.

'I am rather known for them,' Mycroft says dryly, heading to the kitchen without a glance backwards.

John tries again. 'Beg p--'

Sherlock's mother pats him on the cheek. 'Oh, we have a movie night planned. With lots of explosions.'

'Ah,' Sherlock says, as if this explains everything.

John turns to him with a questioning look. 'The home theatre room,' Sherlock clarifies, his droll tone belied by his slightly pinked neck, 'is at the opposite end of the house from the rooms they've given us for the weekend.'

John considers being embarrassed for half a second, but then decides it's of no use. 'Ta, Holmeses. We'll see you in the morning.'

'Oh, and don't worry about the baby's wake-up,' Sherlock's father adds as he's following the rest out of the room. He gestures at his wife's retreating back. 'This one will take care of her so you lot can be as lazy as you like.'

'As if John is ever--'

John nudges the detective's elbow. 'It's a euphemism, Sherlock.'

'Oh. Certainly.' He nods, once, at his father. 'Thank you.'

---

Sherlock gets up the stairs ahead of him, but they're still yards from the door to their room when he stops and unceremoniously herds John against the wall. John grunts in surprise. 'What? Are you--'

Sherlock's lips stop up his words, and distract him so much he doesn't really clock that Sherlock's gorgeous hands are working efficiently at his trouser fastening… until all of the sudden he does.

'Are you mad?' he manages when Sherlock mouths across his jaw, his hand plunging into John's pants with finesse. John is soft, but he won't be for long at this rate, Jesus. He has to tighten his hold on Sherlock's biceps.

'Of course I am,' Sherlock answers, voice like butterscotch against John's ear. Then he drops to his knees, and John nearly swoons like a Victorian maiden.

'Your family!' he hisses instead, unable to stop a hand from weaving into Sherlock's hair. Not to pull, not this time at least. This time, to just… be there.

'They're all occupied,' Sherlock replies, the words throwing heat against John's now-exposed hip. 'They may be feckless but they still have some propriety left.' He looks up at John, his lips hovering tantalisingly near the tip of the plumping cock he holds in his hands.

'Fuck,' John breathes. 'Go on, then.'

Sherlock needs no more permission.

John has had more illicit liaisons in his life, it's true, but for some reason (he knows the reason) he goes from half-mast to panting to mindless word repetition in a record amount of time.

'Sherlock--' He tries to keep his voice down, so it comes out much more desperate than he'd intended, but fuck it. 'If you keep-- Sherlock--'

He hears--and feels--an urgent sound come from his partner, and looks down, past those fucking eyes, to the hand speedily opening trousers and drawing himself out.

John probably whimpers, that's how fucking hot he finds that view, and in combination with Sherlock's admirable oral efforts, he speeds towards climax at a rate he's not achieved in years. There's a flash of a thought of inadequacy, but it's overcome handily by watching Sherlock fuck his own hand at a near-frantic pace. He does clutch Sherlock's hair, finally, as he comes down his gorgeous throat.

He hears a curse and opens his eyes just in time to see Sherlock ejaculate almost neatly into a handkerchief he must've pulled from his pocket.

He wants to laugh. He pulls Sherlock to his feet, heedless of their state of dishabille, and kisses him, hard. Well, as hard as he can before he does indeed start to laugh.

'I can't believe you did that,' he rasps as he barrels them through the bedroom door, finally. He feels stupid, giddy. Frothy.

'Which part?' Sherlock replies as they shed their already-unfastened clothes and fwump somewhat gracefully onto the bed.

'You bastard,' John groans without heat. 'Despoiling a handkerchief? Getting off where anyone could come walking on by? Proposing to me with your whole family around like a flock of posh geese?'

'What a ridiculous image.'

John rolls over to partially smush Sherlock, who wheezes slightly and wraps his arms around John's torso. 'I'll show you a ridiculous image,' John says, giving his best Randy Lad smirk.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. 'So soon?'

'Maybe. Okay, no, but I can still do some damage, ta very much.'

'Such as?'

John sobers. He drops his eyes to Sherlock's chin. 'You'll laugh at me.'

A long, graceful finger traces around his orbital socket. 'Don't let that stop you.'

'Berk.'

'Such as?'

John just breathes for a moment. Then he reaches out to touch a small nevus on Sherlock's collarbone, then travels the trail to another one. 'Oh, just…' He follows his finger with his tongue, tasting. 'Want to trace the constellations onto you.'

He hears Sherlock inhale, and feels it as his chest rises. Then John finds himself pulled into a long, deep, ridiculous kiss.

'By all means,' Sherlock finally says against his lips. 'I look forward to your very thorough survey.'

John releases a breath, and settles in to get started.

[<3]

#It's gonna be MAY 2024 #BBC Sherlock #MayPrompts2024 #May Prompts 2024 #Johnlock #Here there be sexytimes #Yarrrrrr

41 notes · View notes