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  Too Long 
 by bironic  

 "Good news, Colonel," Wilson said as he opened the door to his office,
where his new patient was waiting. "All your..."

He trailed off. The man sprawled in the chair across from his desk wasn't
the sort of spit-polished, straight-spined, silver-haired gentleman he'd
been picturing when he'd received this file for confidential review. Quite
the opposite: with his shock of cowlicked black hair, five o'clock shadow
and languid posture, Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard looked more suited
to a magazine ad than the Air Force. Still, there was no mistaking the
coiled power in his body; Wilson found his gaze wandering appreciatively
to the Colonel's arm, slung over the back of the chair, where the sleeve
of his black t-shirt rode up to display capable-looking biceps--down the
muscled forearm to his wrist, oddly vulnerable beneath a large watch--to
the jeans low around his hips, emphasizing a long torso and trim waist--to
his thighs, spread a little too far apart to be decent.

"Hey, Doc," the Colonel said--drawled, really, and Wilson fixated on the
man's mouth, full to puffiness, the upper lip perfectly bowed. "Call me
John."

Wilson cleared his throat, subtly moved Col--John's file in front of his
pants, and walked over to shake the man's hand. "John," he amended, and
tried not to stare at the intelligent and slightly worried hazel eyes that
met his. He took his seat carefully and placed the folder on the desk
between them. "As I was saying, it's good news. All your tests came back
negative." A tension he hadn't noticed drained from John at that. "Your
tumor is benign, and it's small, self-contained and in an easily operable
location. I'm referring you to an excellent general surgeon..."

The rest of the consult went by in a haze of lips and eyes and spread
thighs and the outline of what was cradled between them, distracting him
whenever John shifted in his chair; sinuous and frequent, and if he hadn't
known better, Wilson would have thought he was doing it on purpose.
Conversing on autopilot, he barely registered when John thanked him for
his time and expertise and said he was going to have it taken care of by
one of the military surgeons back home. By the time they were done
talking, Wilson was sweating.

"Thanks again, Doc," John was saying. Wilson watched him get to his feet
and tried to decide whether to strategically adjust his lab coat and see
him out or risk being rude and stay where he was to save himself from
embarrassment.

Too late; John leaned forward to shake his hand again and Wilson half-rose
automatically to meet him. This close, his desperation must have shown in
his eyes (or maybe it was the perspiration beading at his temples and nose
and palms), because John glanced down at Wilson's crotch, and those sinful
lips parted with what Wilson could only assume was shock and disgust.
Wilson was stammering out an apology--"I'm so sorry, this is incredibly
inappropriate, you're entirely within your rights if you want to file a
complaint against me," something along those lines, God--before he
realized that John wasn't backing away or even glaring at him in
accusation, but was instead taking his time as his gaze meandered back to
Wilson's face. When he finally got there, there was a look in John's eyes
that mirrored his own, naked want and the urgency of need too long
suppressed. Wilson fell silent, his pulse quickening and his groin
tightening at the unexpected echo of desire.

John was still holding his hand, trembling a little now, and he began to
circle his thumb over Wilson's knuckles; no possibility of
misinterpretation there. When Wilson offered no resistance, John looked
deliberately at the door. "Is it locked?" he asked, voice gone low and
gravelly.

"No one will come in without knocking," Wilson managed, and John licked
his lips, and Wilson swallowed audibly, and that was all it took: John was
around the desk by the time Wilson stood up the rest of the way, his chair
hitting the bookcase hard enough to rattle diplomas and trophies, and then
John took Wilson's head in his hands and they were kissing, unrestrained
pressure and stubble and heat and John's nose squashed against his,
unbearably good.

Between hard, wet, frenzied kisses, Wilson gasped, "We
really--shouldn't--" But he was grabbing John's head with one hand to hold
him in place and shoving the other up under his shirt through soft chest
hair to finger a nipple.

"I'm not your--patient anymore," John replied, teeth scraping around
Wilson's mouth, and the rasp of arousal in his voice went straight to
Wilson's dick. Their arms tangled as John yanked his lab coat down his
arms and off, and then his elbow nearly sent the coat stand toppling to
the floor as John pivoted and shoved him against the wall. The poster
frame dug into his shoulder but he hardly felt it, he was so focused on
pressing his tongue back into John's mouth and getting his hands up John's
shirt again to stroke the hardening, silky skin that made John gasp
against his lips. John was working at his tie and then that came off, too,
and the top few buttons of his shirt were undone, and John was sucking at
the skin over his collarbone, where the marks wouldn't show.

John pushed his crotch into Wilson's, making them both draw apart just
enough to breathe heavily, damp hair and foreheads pressed together.
Wilson reached for John's fly. "Let me--" he started to say, but John had
already dropped to his knees and was unfastening Wilson's belt and pants
with a scrambling haste that made Wilson suspect he'd been right before
about how long it'd been since John was able to do this. "Okay, that works
too," he said, and hissed with relief as John tugged down Wilson's
underwear so his erection sprang free. Then John rucked up his dress
shirt, took him by the hips, held him firmly against the wall, and went
down on him without preamble.

Merciless suction and heat; Wilson closed his eyes and groaned and let his
head thunk back, hands curling into fists at his side; it'd been months
since he was last with anyone, the longest dry spell of his adult life,
and longer than that since he'd had a blow job, let alone one as fierce as
what John was giving him, and longer still since he'd allowed himself to
have one from a man. John zig-zagged his tongue across the underside of
Wilson's dick as he took him in again, and after he'd successfully stifled
a moan, Wilson looked down so he could watch the spiky dark head bob
steadily forward and back. John's eyes were closed, and he was making
tiny, low noises deep in his throat each time he pulled back. He stilled
Wilson's reflexive thrusts without any seeming trouble, barely a ripple of
muscle visible in his arms as he continued to hold Wilson secure and draw
him to a quickly approaching orgasm.

A scant few minutes in John's eager mouth and Wilson was ready, more than
ready, sweating and shaking as his climax built until it was inevitable.
He touched John's head as gently as he could to warn him, gasped,
"I'm--John--" but John didn't pull off, just tightened his hands on
Wilson's hips and sucked him in again, and again, and Wilson's breath
caught and he curled forward and came into John's mouth, bucking
ineffectively into that immovable grip.

John pulled off and swallowed, immediately releasing Wilson in favor of
unbuttoning his own jeans and shoving a hand inside. Through his usual
post-coital sluggishness, Wilson watched as John braced himself against
the wall with one arm and jacked himself swiftly with the other. John's
eyes were still closed, lashes dark against his flushed cheeks, his
lips--deep red, slick and swollen now--open wide as he breathed harshly,
his hand working frantically under the denim. Wilson stroked that soft,
messy hair with the hand he hadn't moved from John's head; John pressed
his face into Wilson's bare stomach, and within seconds he was coming,
groaning into Wilson's skin.

John's hand slowed, then came to a rest, and gradually their breathing
evened out. Wilson let his hand drop to his side with a final caress. John
sat back and wiped himself clean with a tissue from a box they'd knocked
to the floor earlier. He did up his jeans and got to his feet, helping
Wilson tug and tuck himself back to normal.

"Thanks," John murmured when they were both set to rights, though still
looking flushed and somewhat disheveled. "I don't get to do that where I'm
stationed."

His eyes were bright; Wilson kissed him, a brief, gentle press of lips. "I
don't usually... either," he said, a little lamely, but John seemed to
understand. "Thank you, too."

At the door, they shook hands again. "Be sure to call for a consult if
you're in town again," he said, mindful of people in the hallway. John
smirked at the line, but he let his hand trail along Wilson's as he
stepped past him through the door.  
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ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of
Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House
(and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property
of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I
am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive
no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement
nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the
show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.