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Their case had left them, three days later, with very little in the way of sleep, or even sanity, it seemed.
Having finally made it from the shower, Sherlock shuffled into the living room, a towel around his waist. A few warm beads of water clung to his flushed skin, which rolled their merry way down his spine or the flat plane of his chest before dropping nonchalantly to the floor. The sound of canned laughter greeted him as he entered the room.
"This one again, John?" he asked, nodding toward John's choice of crap telly. It was one of John's discs of Monty Python's Flying Circus, one of his favorites after an especially ludicrous lack of sleep.
And indeed, John was giggling helplessly into his palm, which was stretched across his face in a failed attempt to contain his mirth. Sherlock smirked to see it--for some reason sleep deprivation usually either made the former army doctor irritable or amusingly tickled at the slightest provocation.
John nodded, still laughing, and Sherlock merely shook his head and took his side of the couch, stretching beside the tittering man. John seemed to have finally been freed from the laughing-curse, and so fought with pleased deep breaths to regain his composure. He let his head droop to rest on Sherlock's shoulder.
After a few moments' silence, Sherlock asked, "Getting sleepy, John?"
As if on cue, John yawned a great, fierce yawn, stretching, and Sherlock used the opportunity to wrap his arms around John's middle.
"Better," Sherlock commented, hard-pressed to keep the satisfaction from his tone. It was a quickly-lost battle, and he lowered his lips to John's neck, who hummed appreciatively. The noise, soft and comfortable and masculine, sent a mild jolt to Sherlock's groin, and he gently raked his teeth across tender skin. John rewarded him with another, louder noise.
"You never did answer," Sherlock murmured against John's skin, ghosting his lips upward from John's clavicle to the back of his ear."I would hate to keep you awake if you were tired," he teased.
"But what would I miss out on, then?" John asked, turning and catching Sherlock's mouth with his own, lazily nibbling the soft, plump flesh he found there. Sherlock used the change in position as opportunity to lean John back on he couch until he was halfway laying atop him, relaxing to allow John the privilege of leading the kiss.
"John," he said after a few long moments, knowing exactly what it was upon which John would be missing out, collected himself. "I want you to--"
"Sit on my face and tell me that you love meeee," crooned the group of comedians on TV with positively inspired timing. John snorted helplessly, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"I'll sit on your face and tell you I love yoo-oou," John sang along, chuckling.
This time Sherlock couldn't help it, and a soft snort escaped him. This snort triggered another case of the giggles for John, which lasted until Sherlock leaned in and distracted him with a thorough snogging once more.
"So, shall we, then?" John asked, mirth still lighting his eyes, as he pushed Sherlock upward, shifting as he did so until Sherlock was pinned beneath him at the opposite end of the couch.
Sherlock grinned up at him, and the look in his eyes made John thoroughly capable of ignoring any further timely interruptions from the television. He wasted no time in shimmying off his jeans and trainers before dropping back onto the sofa with his knees, straddling Sherlock's shoulders. He placed one foot flat on the ground for balance, and leaned forward to press his still-soft cock to Sherlock's cheek.
Sherlock made a small noise in the back of his throat, then, and lifted his hands to stroke the back of John's thighs, the curve of his arse, the tendons where John's legs met his pelvis. The muscles in John's thighs tightened, and his cock twitched, mindful of the attention.
"Take me in your mouth already," John murmured, his voice slightly breathy. Sherlock nodded and craned his neck upward. John waited until his jaw fell slack and he pressed the tip of his half-hard cock to Sherlock's full lips.
"Gorgeous," John muttered.
I love to hear your oralize, when I'm between your thighs-- Sherlock thought. No, focus--
You blow me awaaaay!
Sherlock ignored the song attempting to derail him, instead focusing on wrapping his lips around the glans, running his tongue along the edge of John's quickly tightening foreskin; he could feel John's cock growing already in his mouth, and took the chance to swirl his tongue around the head; John shuddered and rocked gently into his mouth, and by the time he'd nudged the back of Sherlock's soft palate he was completely hard.
"Hnnnn," Sherlock hummed around John's erection, and John's toes curled. He slowly withdrew, the entire universe centered around the lips currently wrapped around his cock, and slid back into Sherlock's mouth once more, thrusting a little more quickly. The soft gag Sherlock emitted as John bumped the back of his throat made it incredibly difficult to focus on anything other than all that gorgeous heat, and the muscles contracting around the head of his cock. His hands found Sherlock's hair, tightening to keep from losing focus of Sherlock and finding his own rhythm, one far too rough for Sherlock to handle or enjoy.
Then there was something else he did to keep from having his way with Sherlock's mouth:
"Sit on my face, and let my lips embrace you," he sang softly, which elicited widened eyes and a raised eyebrow of mild disapproval from Sherlock, until he pulled up one of Sherlock's hands, drawing those slender index and middle fingers into his mouth, which caused the man on bottom to moan softly around John's cock once more. Now he rocked gently, sufficiently distracted enough to focus on the task of pacing himself.
He slid his tongue between Sherlock's slender fingers, as his mind sang along: "I'll sit on your face and then I'll love you truly--"
And then he reached back to stroke Sherlock's neglected prick, hard and pressing against his stomach; the consulting detective's moans nearly made John abandon all pretenses and fuck the lips wrapped around him until he came or Sherlock gagged.
John closed his eyes and slowed himself, and mentally he sang, "Life will be fine if we both sixty-nine..."
But now Sherlock was withdrawing, his cheeks hollowed until he detatched with a soft pop!
Sherlock's occupied hand was clutching John's arse, and he pulled now, bringing his nose and lips flush with the tendon of John's leg in the cleft where leg met torso, licking and nibbling and sucking until John once more worked up a rhythm, his cock sliding fitfully across Sherlock's cheek and into his riot of dark brown curls.
And then Sherlock--that brilliant, brilliant man--did something positively inspired with his tongue as he shimmied down the couch just enough-- and then John nearly came right then and there as he felt slick heat slide back across his perineum, Sherlock dragging his tongue along that precious inch of skin, trailing back to John's arse; he withdrew his fingers from John's mouth and wrapped them around John's cock, working the taut foreskin back over the glans, angling with every other stroke to palm the head, or swipe his finger across the slit, which was slick with pre-come; John nearly ached, it felt that damned good, and he could feel himself teetering, so close--
If we sit on our faces in all sorts of places
And then Sherlock thrust his tongue inward, penetrating a grunting, quibbering John who felt his entire body lock down, his muscles contracting in a single effort, stars exploding behind his clenched eyelids as he shot ropes into Sherlock's tangled curls--
And then Sherlock following right behind, the result of which John caught the majority with his cupped hand; a small dribble dripped to pearl on the man's pale stomach, cooling quickly. Sherlock's abdomen and cock twitched, arcing his hips upward with each spasm.
"and play 'til we're blown awaaaaay!" John's mind supplied, and the sheer ridiculousness of the entire thing was enough to interrupt his post-coital glow with another round of blissful tittering, which Sherlock caught as well, and they fell into a giggling, sticky heap on the couch.
After the laughter resided, John kissed the tip of Sherlock's nose, which was satisfactorily wrinkled by said owner for his efforts. He pushed himself up and crossed to the hall bathroom to snag a flannel for clean-up.
"John?" Sherlock called after him, his tone mildly inquisitive.
"Yeah?" John returned with a damp warm flannel and freshly-washed hands a moment later, offering it to the consulting detective still sprawled on the couch.
"Did you, by any chance, happen to finish while singing that dreadful song from the telly?"
John could only laugh.