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John throws himself sideways onto the couch next to Sherlock, laughing and trying desperately to catch his breath.
“One day, Sherlock…” He pants, leaning against the armrest. Sherlock finds the hitching of his breath and the pink on his cheeks absolutely fascinating. “One day you are going to get us both killed. Did you see the size of that lead pipe?”
Sherlock shifts his weight, leaning in close to John. “But that day wasn’t today. We’re alive. Vital, exhilarated.” Without a moment’s hesitation, he reaches out and strokes the warm flush of blood under John’s skin, tracing his cheekbone. Even in the dim light cast by the street lamps outside, the sudden dilation of John’s pupils is obvious.
Encouraged, Sherlock leans forward, one hand bearing his weight next to John’s hip, the other at his good shoulder, pinning him to the couch. He stares into John’s eyes, unfathomably deep and blue, waiting for some sort of signal. Stop, or keep going…
There, a nearly-imperceptible nod of John’s head, a quick lick of the lips. His restraint all but gone, Sherlock leans forward, pressing his mouth hungrily against John’s, their legs hooked together. Sherlock’s not entirely sure what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. John’s always seemed so solid, so strong. To feel him suddenly soft and pliable like this, under Sherlock’s lips, under his hands, is overwhelming. Sherlock moans softly, feeling John’s mouth open to welcome his tongue. The inside of John’s mouth is warm, completely alien but infinitely familiar. Sherlock curls his tongue, feeling John’s respond in kind.
They lie there, entangled, tongues and lips playing against each other for what feels like an eternity, and Sherlock feels himself hardening in his trousers. Without thinking, he rocks his hips against John’s, a heavy and pleasant warmth grinding against him, making it clear John’s enjoying himself just as much - if not more so - than Sherlock is.
Curious, Sherlock trails his hand away from John’s shoulder, down his torso, and finds his way to John’s groin. Lips still sliding and pressing against John’s, he cups John through his trousers, and is rewarded with John moaning into the kiss and instinctively raising his hips, pressing himself into the warmth of Sherlock’s hand.
Abruptly, as if he’s been jolted, John pulls back, breaking the kiss. Startled, Sherlock pulls his hand away from John’s erection. “We should stop, Sherlock. This…” He bites his lip, and Sherlock has to refrain from kissing him again. “You don’t want this. It’s the adrenaline.” A shadow crosses John’s face as he extricates himself from Sherlock’s grip and darts out of the sitting room and up the stairs to his bedroom, leaving Sherlock frustrated, aroused, and more than a little perplexed. What had scared him off? He’d clearly been enjoying himself.
Scowling, Sherlock stomps into his room and throws himself onto the bed. He may not be too experienced at all this, but it’s clear that John had been reciprocating, had been enjoying himself. Why did he stop? Irritably, he punches his pillow a few times before burying his face in it, eventually falling into a fitful and unsatisfying sleep.
Several tense, awkward days pass and neither of them mention what happened on the sofa that night. The breakfast table has become the territory for a strange war of attrition - John has stopped making toast and coffee for Sherlock unless he outright asks for it. When he does, he makes a point of placing them smack in the middle of the table, avoiding any accidental contact with Sherlock. Sherlock, in turn, makes sure to give John his space and avoids touching him at all.
Sherlock tries to tell himself that nothing has changed, but he knows it not to be the case. It would seem that he’s done irreparable damage to their friendship. It’s somewhat confusing to him that he doesn’t know how to fix it, and even more confusing that he cares so much.
It comes as an enormous relief when Lestrade comes barrelling up the stairs a week later, too harried and distracted to notice the awkward tension flooding the flat.
“Can you boys come? We need you.”
Sherlock nods, and feels a strange pang in his chest. Will John still want to tag along? Will being stuck in a taxi together make things worse? He turns, about to tell John he’s welcome to stay here if he prefers when relief floods him. John’s already shrugging on his coat, grabbing his keys and phone off the coffee table. At least this hasn’t changed.
The case turns out to be painfully simple - a case of petty jealousy gone wrong when a young mistress accidentally poisoned her lover instead of his wife. Sherlock can’t help but preen smugly as John sings his praises while he rattles off the painfully obvious deductions. As he’s wrapping up, Sherlock briefly debates grabbing a cab while John fills out dull dull dull paperwork. He tries to tell himself it’s because he needs peace and quiet, but acknowledges he’s simply being a coward. Instead, he waits until John is finished with Lestrade, and nods imperiously at him in the direction of the main street.
John’s face splits into a grin as he trots up to Sherlock’s side, and the two of them flag down a cab together. As they tumble in, Sherlock makes it a point of “accidentally” leaning in too close, “accidentally” brushing his hand against John’s leg. John, of course, sees right through Sherlock’s ploy, egging him on with a drop of his eyes, a slight smirk, a tiny nod.
It’s all Sherlock needs and he’s on John again, crushing their lips together as he slides his hands into John’s jacket. Encouraged by the muffled moans John’s making, Sherlock peppers a trail of kisses along his stubbled jaw, working his way down to John’s throat. His other hand finds its way into John’s shirt, pressing against the small of his back. John gasps, his own hands fumbling blindly against Sherlock’s thigh, frustratingly close to the growing hardness there, but never quite making contact.
The cabbie clears his throat loudly, and it’s enough to make them pull apart.
“That’ll cost you extra, boys. Cleaning fees and whatnot.”
“Sorry, sorry.” John, ever the polite one, flushes bashfully and straightens up in his seat. Sherlock finds himself distracted by the flush across his cheeks, the one he knows he helped cause. John glances sidelong at Sherlock, who nods and turns to face front too. They’ll be home soon enough, can pick up where they left off. Or so Sherlock thinks.
John apparently has other ideas, because as soon as the cab pulls up to 221 Baker Street, he darts out and rushes straight up the stairs to his bedroom on the top floor, leaving Sherlock to pay while trying unsuccessfully to adjust himself discreetly in his trousers.
The morning following the second time proves to be even more insufferable than the first. Stupid John, stupid emotions. Sherlock scowls to himself, stomping across the sitting room and plucking irritably at his violin. All the while John seems to be making a point of avoiding Sherlock, even going so far as to duck down the stairs from his bedroom and into the loo while Sherlock has his back turned. Whenever Sherlock’s on the main floor, John stays ensconced safely in his bedroom, only venturing out to shower and run errands. Even then, he seems to be waiting until Sherlock’s in his own bedroom just in case.
It all comes to a head when Sherlock gets a phone call from Lestrade. He whirls about, getting his coat and scarf, checking his phone several times, knocking over a coffee mug. He debates picking it up but if John can be juvenile and irritating right now, so can Sherlock. He shoves the mess out of the way with the toe of his shoe and stalks towards the door. John is standing on the landing, looking unsure of himself. His jacket’s in his hands, but he’s made no move to put it on.
“Were you, uh, going out then?”
“Lestrade. Case.” Sherlock flips his phone in the air in a way that’s intended to look nonchalant but probably just seems anxious.
John pauses, biting his lower lip in a way that drives Sherlock absolutely batty. The urge to kiss John, to pin him against the wall, is nearly blinding.
“Don’t need me then?” John looks hurt, fragile, and tiny.
“I just thought…” Sherlock fusses with the end of his scarf for a second before furiously straightening it, angry with himself for being so obvious. “I thought you’d prefer to stay here. But you’re welcome to come if you want.”
“Do you want me?” Is it Sherlock’s imagination, or is there a trace of hope in John’s voice.
“I’d be more efficient if you were there.” The undercurrent of don’t make me say it, don’t make me say I need you hangs heavily in the air between them. John purses his lips, making a funny little pensive face, and nods. He smiles hesitantly at Sherlock for the first time since the taxicab, and shrugs his jacket on.
The cab ride itself is awkward and silent, but Sherlock can’t feel any outright animosity from John. Just mild agitation. Nonetheless, it’s a relief when the cabbie pulls up to the address Lestrade texted, and Sherlock jumps out of the car, ducking into the alley that’s been cordoned off with police tape.
Lestrade casts a glance from Sherlock to where John is still standing by the cab and shrugs before ushering Sherlock into the crime scene. When they get to the end of the alley, Sherlock understands why he’s been called. There’s a body hanging upside-down from a fence, throat slashed and blood draining into a bucket. He hears John’s footfalls falter as he comes up behind Sherlock.
“Lestrade, could we have a few minutes alone with the body? I need to concentrate.”
Resigned, the DI nods and steps away, shouting at the rest of the Yarders to clear out and be quiet. Immediately, Sherlock is on the body, examining the bindings holding it up, the gash across the victim’s neck, and the ground around the bucket. John shifts his weight awkwardly, apparently feeling rather unnecessary.
Sherlock is completely absorbed in the body when he hears the scuffling footsteps and the aborted yelp from John’s direction. He drops his magnifier and spins around, finding himself face-to-face with a thickset man with a shaved head. The man’s got one arm wrapped around John’s waist, the other holding a large butcher’s knife at his throat. John, to his credit, is wide-eyed and pale, but otherwise calm.
Studying the bastard, looking for weak spots, Sherlock is silent for the moment. Before he has the chance to speak or act, the thug opens his mouth.
“If it ain’t the great Sherlock Holmes and ‘is little pet. So glad you came out to meddle.”
“Let him go.” Sherlock’s voice is low and flat, the close brick walls of the alley muffling it. “…Please.”
“I don’t think I wanna let ‘im go. Not yet. Don’t move, either, or I’ll have to give the good doctor a very close shave.” The thug chuckles, displaying an alarming set of bad teeth.
John locks eyes with Sherlock, grim determination on his face. If anything, John’s acceptance of the situation spurs Sherlock on. He’s at an impasse though - if he tries anything, he’ll put John at an even greater risk.
“What do you want from me? Let John go and I’ll come with you.” His voice is brittle and hard, a knife edge dragged across a glass.
“I need your ‘elp, detective.” He spits out the word detective, making it clear he’s meant it as an insult. “I need you to forget whatever you’ve done found here.” As if to emphasise his point, he draws the blade across John’s throat, lightly but still enough to break the skin.
“DROP IT!” Lestrade’s shout echoes across the alley, startling the criminal enough that he actually does drop the knife. As soon as he’s unarmed, John pulls his arm back, driving his elbow into his captor’s solar plexus. He falls to his knees, winded. Within seconds Lestrade is on him, gun drawn. The arrest is quick and efficient, within thirty seconds he’s been cuffed and thrown into the back of one of the police cars.
Lestrade turns to them, running a nervous hand through his grey hair.
“I thought you two were being too quiet, something seemed fishy. Glad I checked. You need someone to look at that?”
John smiles weakly, wiping the blood from his throat. “Thanks. I’m fine, just a scratch.”
Sherlock pulls up close to John, closer than he probably should, but he can’t help it. Part of him wants to wrap John in his coat, in his arms, right here in front of everyone, but he has no idea how John would react, so he refrains.
“Are you… are you alright?”
Eyes wide, John nods. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Just need to clean my throat off. I think I’m going to head back home. You can finish up here.” His voice wavers slightly, and the decision is made for Sherlock.
“Nonsense. Can’t have you bleeding out on the way home. Lestrade, this case can wait, I need to accompany John back to the flat.”
Lestrade smirks knowingly, earning a furious glare from Sherlock before he guides John carefully toward the street to flag down another cab.
When they’re safely ensconced in the privacy of the taxicab, Sherlock puts an arm around John’s shoulders. Thankfully, John seems to relax and lean into the contact, rather than pulling away. Impulsively, Sherlock kisses the top of John’s head. Realising what he’s just done, he pulls away, but John seems to be craving the touch, the comfort, and nestles further into the safety of Sherlock’s arms.
John’s breath is warm and steady on Sherlock’s throat, and something about the intimacy of the situation sends all his blood running south. Sherlock debates taking initiative and pushing the situation further, but remembers how bashful John was last time they got frisky in a cab. He can’t resist one more quick kiss to the top of John’s head though, inhaling deeply. Layers of familiar scents, comforting ones like John’s shampoo and the faint whiff of black tea that always seems to surround him; below that the bitter tang of sweat and adrenaline, John was more nervous back in the alley than he’d admitted; and under it all a muskiness that’s still slightly foreign to Sherlock, but so incredibly compelling.
The rest of the ride is quiet, comforting, Sherlock’s not expecting anything more from John just yet. Let him relax for a bit, there will be time back at the flat. When the cabbie pulls up outside, John disentangles himself from Sherlock’s embrace and steps out, paying quickly.
Sherlock follows him inside, finding John standing on the second landing. His face is blank, unreadable.
“John? Are you going to step inside?”
His eyes downcast, John glances up at Sherlock through the thick fringe of his lashes and he looks so vulnerable. Sherlock digs his nails into his own palms to prevent himself from pinning John against the wall and stealing a frantic kiss.
“Sherlock, I think I should just go upstairs. You gonna be okay tonight?”
Oh. Sherlock’s heart is pounding, his hands trembling. His back is damp and clammy, curse this useless body for betraying him. John’s cheeks are flushed, his pupils dilated, but Sherlock finds himself unable to tell whether it’s due to adrenaline and dim light or something more. He keeps hoping it’s arousal, and then internally kicking himself for relying on hope. Hope is weak. Hope is fallible.
Sighing, he nods.
“You’ve had a long day. You must be tired. Goodnight, then.”
Could there be a flicker of disappointment there? Before he has a chance to over-analyse the look on John’s face, Sherlock spins on his heel and stalks into the sitting room. John’s footsteps up to his bedroom are slow and heavy, and Sherlock fights the impulse to go back out there.
Irritable, he paces the sitting room for a bit, all the emotions of the past few days crashing around him. Desire, frustration, comfort, panic, loss. All whirling around together with John at the core. He throws himself onto the sofa, scowling. Absently, he runs his fingers over his lips, remembering the soft, yielding sensation of kissing John. Before he’s even realised it, his other hand has made its way down his body, lightly stroking the front of his trousers. He’s not hard, not yet, but it wouldn’t take much.
With a groan, he pulls his hands away. He’s not going to sit here and have a rather confusing wank on the sofa. Not when he could be getting to the heart of the matter. Mind made up, Sherlock stands up and strides purposefully up the stairs, nudging John’s door open with his toe.
John’s sitting up in bed. He’s mostly undressed, in his vest and pants, but the light is on and his face is scrunched, anguished. It’s clear he wasn’t asleep.
“John?”
“Sherlock.” It’s not a question, it’s an acknowledgement.
“I think it’s time we have a discussion.”
John laughs, the sound harsh and fragile in Sherlock’s ears.
“I think the usual phrase is ‘We need to talk.’ Followed by ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’”
Sherlock blinks, perplexed. “That is what I said, isn’t it?”
John’s face softens, and he laughs again, but this time the sound is much softer, more genuine. “Never mind, Sherlock. Sit?” He gestures to the small wooden chair next to his bed, but Sherlock ignores it in favour of sitting on the side of the bed. Closer to John. Warmer. Smells nice up here, like him.
“John, I’m confused. What do you want from me? Why do we keep ending up on the sofa, but stopping? Is it unsatisfying? You know I’m not so good with this sort of thing.” Sherlock finds himself picking at the seams on John’s quilt and frowns, stilling his hand.
“I think you need to figure out what you want, Sherlock. What exactly are you expecting from… whatever this is.” John draws a line between the two of them with his finger, as if he hadn’t been clear enough. Sherlock snorts before composing himself.
“Should I have not touched you? You seemed to be enjoying it whenever we let things get that far.”
“That’s not it, Sherlock. I was enjoying myself.”
“As was I. What’s the problem then? Why stop?”
“Because what happens when you’re done enjoying yourself? What happens when you get bored?” John sighs, his shoulders curving inward, as if he’s trying to protect himself, or make himself smaller. “I know how you feel about relationships, Sherlock. I can’t do this.”
Sherlock pulls back, still confused, and irritated with himself for feeling that way.
“So, it’s not the sex that bothers you. It’s… the idea of casual sex?”
“Mm, excellent deduction there.”
“But you seem to have no problems spending the night with women you barely know.”
The frown on John’s face is utterly perplexing.
“There’s a difference, Sherlock. I don’t live with them. I don’t spend all my time with them. I don’t…” He sighs, biting off his words. “It’s just. It’s not as complicated. There’s fewer emotions involved.”
Sherlock blinks, trying to convince himself that he’s misunderstood, that he’s letting his stupid, stupid emotions get in the way again.
“Why would it be any different with me?”
John looks pained, as if he doesn’t want to spell it out but knows he has to. “Because I’m already falling in love with you, you giant clot.”
Sherlock’s brain, for once, is silent. It makes the furious pounding of blood through his ears even louder. He sits there, staring blankly at John.
“Sherlock? Say something?”
“Sorry. Confused. John… this… I don’t have a lot of experience here.” Suddenly the ceiling is incredibly fascinating. Sherlock stares up at it, studying the cracks, the water marks, anything not to have to look at John’s face.
“So, you… um… Irene was right? You are a vir—”
“No!” Sherlock snaps, suddenly feeling the need to defend himself. “It’s been a while, I admit, but I’m not entirely inexperienced. College. You know. It just got confusing and distracting. Nobody was willing to separate the physical from the emotional.”
The pained look on John’s face makes it clear this is not what he wanted to hear. “So, that’s what you want then? Physical, but not emotional?” He pulls his knees closer to his body, protecting himself against some unseen force.
“No, no no no. That’s not what I meant. Not this time.” Sherlock runs his hands through his hair, manic and lost.
“What do you want, Sherlock? We can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep doing this.” John’s voice falters, tremulous in his throat.
“I want you, John. All of you. Not just this.”
“Look at me, damn it, Sherlock.”
He does. He tilts his head back down, and John’s moved slightly closer. Close enough that Sherlock could just lean forward and kiss him. Is that what John wants?
“You want me?” Suddenly John’s fingertips are on Sherlock’s cheek, four distinct points. His touch is incredibly soft, feather-light, but burning hot. Sherlock closes his eyes and leans into the contact.
“I do, John. Everything. The emotions, the mess, for you. With you. Worth it.”
John’s fingers trail down Sherlock’s cheek, his touch electric and setting Sherlock’s skin on fire. As he drags them down, catching Sherlock’s lip with his index, Sherlock lets out a quiet gasp. The thrum of blood in his ears is nothing now, nothing compared to the pounding blood in his groin, the hot hungry feeling in his belly.
“If we do this, Sherlock, we do it all. No more fooling around and then acting like nothing’s changed.”
Sherlock traps John’s finger between his teeth, grazing lightly over the soft pad. Their eyes lock, and he sucks gently for a moment before letting go.
“John, everything’s already changed. But yes.”
John lunges forward, startling Sherlock with a charged kiss. They’ve kissed before, those times on the couch, but not like this. Sherlock’s eyes are still open, and he takes a moment to study John’s lashes, his eyes shut under heavy lids, the faint wrinkles across his brow, before giving in to the kiss. Behind the slide of lips, the crush of tongues, there is a torrent of things they’ve both been unable to say. A promise, a vow.
Sherlock reaches up, hands fumbling as he wraps one around the back of John’s neck, the other fluttering awkwardly between his shoulder and the side of his head. John breaks the kiss, laughing warmly as Sherlock gasps for air.
“Relax, Sherlock. Just let your hands go where they will. And for God’s sake, breathe.”
How can John expect Sherlock to just breathe when it feels like all the air’s been sucked from his chest. The space between them suddenly seems enormous, and gaping, and Sherlock grabs the front of John’s vest, pulling him in close again. John tilts his head slightly, expecting another kiss, but instead Sherlock runs his tongue along the side of John’s throat.
He tastes of salt, of sweat, still faintly of adrenaline, and the feel of his stubble under Sherlock’s tongue is like nothing Sherlock’s ever known before.
Pulling back, Sherlock murmurs. “John, I would like to join you.”
“Join me where, you madman? You’re already here.”
“In your bed. I would like to get into bed with you tonight.”
John, impossibly, flushes even deeper, the red on his cheeks spreading down towards his throat. “I think I’d like that, on one condition.”
Of course, there’d be a condition. A proper date first? Do they need to discuss condoms? Obviously they do, but tonight? How far is this going? Does he want Sherlock to get tested? Oh god, does he want to meet Mummy?
“Stop thinking, you. You’re just wearing too much clothing. Those trousers look like they’d chafe.” John smirks at the palpable relief in Sherlock’s sigh.
Suddenly the buttons on his shirt seem too tight, too tiny, and he finds himself fumbling, hands trembling with the barely-suppressed need to touch, to caress. John stills Sherlock’s hands with his own, pressing them against his chest, against the furious pounding of his heart.
“Here, let me.” Slowly, reverently, John unbuttons Sherlock’s shirt, pulling the tails out of his trousers and sliding it off his shoulders in one smooth motion. Emboldened, Sherlock reaches out and grabs the hem of John’s vest, the soft ribbed cotton exhilarating under his over-sensitised fingers. Catching on, John shifts and raises his arms, allowing Sherlock to pull it over his head.
Smirking, his confidence back in full force, Sherlock stands up and turns to face John. He makes a show of cupping the fullness in his trousers before undoing his zip and sliding his trousers down with his thumbs. He’s debating making a production of stepping out of them completely when John giggles again. It’s a throaty, eager, delicious laugh, and it’s all Sherlock can do to get out of his trousers as quickly as possible to get back into John’s arms.
“Are you always this cheerful in bed, John?” Sherlock grins, reaching out and stroking the stubble of John’s cheek as he lowers himself into the soft warmth of the bed. John welcomes him eagerly, neatly slotting their legs together and wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s torso. They both gasp softly as their hips pull close, their erections straining their pants and brushing lightly against each other.
He feels John’s fingers lightly trailing along his side, thrumming over the ridges of his ribcage. “Not usually quite this giggly, no. Having company helps.”
Another low moan escapes Sherlock’s lips as John’s hands find their way to his arse, fingers insinuating themselves under the elastic of his pants. He slides even closer to John, grinding their cocks together with more intent now, as he pulls him in for another eager, sloppy kiss. Sucking hungrily on John’s tongue, on his lower lip, Sherlock lets his hands find their way to the strong, solid expanse of John’s back.
He finds himself marvelling at the way John’s shoulder blades fit perfectly in his hands, the way John’s hip bones slot flawlessly with his own, as if this spot, right here, is where they were meant to spend the rest of their lives. An anatomical anomaly, considering how different their bodies are, one Sherlock is more than eager to explore in depth. How else will they fit together?
With a gasp, Sherlock’s eyes fly open to meet John’s as he feels a gentle hand surrounding the throbbing, desperate heat of his erection. It’s not the first time John has touched him, but it’s by far the most intimate. He releases his grip on John’s shoulders to grip his own pants as he wriggles out of them. Once he’s got them down around his thighs, he reaches for John’s. With another smirk and a nod, John encourages him while still running his fingers up and down Sherlock’s prick, and Sherlock slides his pants down too, low enough to be out of the way.
Suddenly the gap between them, mere centimetres, seems like a hugely insurmountable chasm. Wrapping one hand around John’s torso, gripping him by the arse, Sherlock pulls them even closer. The motion traps John’s hand, stilling it, and presses them together from chest to knee. Sherlock can feel John’s length against him - hot, hard, and already slick with desire. Every rush of blood makes John twitch against him, and Sherlock groans, feeling his own penis throb in sympathy.
John throws his head back, panting eagerly, and Sherlock can’t resist pressing his mouth against the expanse of skin. Encouraged by the moans he elicits, he parts his lips, tracing his tongue over John’s prominent adam’s apple. John whimpers and arches his neck up, and Sherlock can’t help sucking hard, feeling the throb of blood under his tongue. In responses, John groans and bucks his hips up, grinding even harder against Sherlock’s.
Their slight differences in length combined with the prominent and impressive curve of John’s shaft causes the head of his cock to rub against Sherlock’s fraenulum as he thrusts, pulling his foreskin down to expose his glans, swollen and flushed. The motion makes them both writhe and gasp. Losing control of his impulses, Sherlock rocks his hips to increase the friction.
“Fuck, Sherlock. Touch me. God. Give me your hand.” Sherlock opens his eyes to study John for a moment. The flush of arousal has spread from his cheeks to his throat, and judging by the heat and sweat between them, down to his chest. His eyes are hooded, heavy with desire. He peers up at Sherlock from beneath the fringe of his lashes, and Sherlock is lost.
Overwhelmed, hazy with need, all Sherlock can do is comply with John’s request. He insinuates one hand into the tight, fever-hot space between their bodies, feeling John twine their fingers loosely. Gripping Sherlock’s hand, John guides them to the combined thickness of their cocks, still rubbing slickly together. Together, they wrap their hands around each other, forming one unbroken circle and increasing the friction between them, turning frantic, fumbled rutting into something sharp and solid and glorious.
It’s as if every nerve ending in Sherlock’s body is suddenly connected directly to the root of his erection. From the hard, dark nubs of his nipples, rubbing across John’s chest, to the tips of his toes, one foot gripping the sheets and the other stroking the back of John’s calf. Every tiny brush of skin against skin, the burning trails of John’s fingertips down his spine and across his arse, they can all be read in the thrusting, throbbing, twitching, leaking of his cock.
There’s a sudden tightening in his abdomen, a cascade of sparks up his spine, and Sherlock can hear the change in pitch of his own moaning, far-away and alien in his ears.
“John. Oh god, John.” He stammers as his hips judder forward again, orgasm building rapidly.
John apparently reads Sherlock’s needs in his babbling, in his body. He picks up the pace, sliding their coupled hands up and down furiously as they both rock their hips against each other. He buries his face in Sherlock’s throat, dragging his teeth over the soft, pale skin there, and suddenly Sherlock is coming, wracked by full-body spasms as he spills out over their hands, their cocks, their abdomens.
He’s gasping for breath, vision hazy, barely aware of John’s own tremors and moans as he climaxes moments after Sherlock. As the aftershocks subside, Sherlock rolls onto his back, limbs loose and heavy. He catches John staring at him out of the corner of his eye and grins.
“That was…”
“Mm, it was, wasn’t it?” This sets off another cascade of giggles from John, albeit languid, sleepy ones this time.
“This bed. S’comfortable. Staying here.” Sherlock mumbles, burrowing his face into John’s pillow.
“I suppose I have no say in the matter?” John’s wheedling, but there’s still laughter in his voice. “At least let me clean you off.”
Sherlock relents with a grunt, rolling his hips to allow John to wipe him down gently but efficiently with a tissue.
“Sherlock, are we… is this alright?”
“I expect so. Now do shut up and let me sleep.”
And he does let him sleep. And it is alright.