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John stares out the front window of Angelo's, resolutely studying the way the light reflects off the dripping rain. He is absolutely, positively not staring at the way that light dusts Sherlock's cheek, not examining how the orange glow of the streetlights warms the halo of his dark curls.
Sighing, John looks down at his plate. He stabs at a ravioli, and is about to put it in his mouth.
"I think we should pursue a more intimate relationship." Sherlock's voice carries quietly across the table, low and smooth.
John splutters. Thankfully the ravioli is still hovering on his fork; he just ends up spitting air in Sherlock's general direction.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock?" He puts the fork down and stares at Sherlock, who has John pinned in a scrutinising gaze.
"Maybe I was unclear, John. Let me simplify it." Sherlock smirks. John rolls his eyes, but gestures for him to continue. "I want to fuck you."
John isn't sure what he'd been expecting, but that definitely wasn't it. Sherlock's voice is an obscene rumble from deep in his throat, nearly subvocalised. John finds himself wondering if he's heard wrong. A slow, wide grin creeps across Sherlock's face, as if he can read John's mind.
"Yes, John. You heard me correctly." Still smirking, Sherlock peers at John through the fringe of his soft, dark lashes. John squirms in his chair, trying to avoid the heavy sensation in his crotch, the slow thickening of his prick.
"Where... where'd this all come from, Sherlock?" John's voice is ragged and thick and he takes a gulp of water in an attempt to clear his throat. His hands are shaking as he puts the glass down. It's not as if he's averse to the idea of sex with Sherlock - rather the opposite, he's been entertaining the idea in private for months now. But John's not sure if this is all some sort of ruse, some sort of experiment. He'd always imagined he'd be the instigator, that Sherlock would be willing, but overwhelmed and naive. It's a little unsettling to have the tables turned so drastically.
"It's the logical progression of things." John opens his mouth to argue, but Sherlock reaches across the table and presses a finger against his lips, silencing him. He's done it before, shut John up like this, but tonight the contact is electric. John quiets and stares at Sherlock. "You're attracted to me - don't argue, I know you are. I find myself reciprocating, which was unexpected but not entirely unpleasant. We already live together, we've seen each other at our best and worst. I find you significantly less annoying than most people. Sex is the next logical step."
John clears his throat again and chuckles nervously. "Such a romantic, you are." Sherlock rolls his eyes but John continues, undeterred. "No, seriously. Coming from you that's nearly a proposal on one knee with roses and champagne. It's just..." he looks down and fusses with the napkin on the table, feeling the heat of Sherlock's gaze on his cheeks. "It's a lot to take in suddenly, I mean, we haven't even kissed and you're talking about..." he pauses, mustering up the courage to say the words. "About fucking me."
The corner of Sherlock's mouth creeps up. "What if I were to kiss you, then? What if I were to slam you hard against the wall, pin your arms up over your head, and fuck your mouth with my tongue?"
John groans, and drops one hand into his lap to palm his erection - throbbing and aching at this point - without even realising it. Something about hearing those words come out of Sherlock's plush lips, in that deep voice of his... it's the most exquisite pornography John's ever experienced. He's all but forgotten that they're sitting in a restaurant.
"Mmm, and then what, John? I'd press my body against yours, feel your thick, throbbing cock dig into my hip. I've seen you in your pants, I know what you're hiding down there. How many times do you imagine I've thought about you, impaling me with that huge cock of yours?"
John bites his lip to stifle an incredibly mortifying whimper. He's certain his cheeks and the back of his neck are bright red at this point, but he's transfixed. He knows he should tell Sherlock to stop, kick him under the table or something. But he can't. Instead, he just shifts his weight and takes a few deep breaths to calm his pounding heart.
"After I'd fucked your mouth with my tongue, maybe I'd drop to my knees in front of you. I know you fixate on my lips - don't deny it. I bet you'd love to see them wrapped around your cock. I want to know you, John. Every inch of you. I want to become intimately familiar with the musky smell of your crotch, to study the raised veins on your prick with my lips. Would you like that?"
Overwhelmed, John merely nods. He's not sure what the proper etiquette for this sort of thing is - should he be telling Sherlock similar things? He's not sure he's even coherent enough to string five words together. Thankfully, Sherlock seems to understand.
"Or maybe I'd strip us both down - trousers off, pants off. One thing you don't know about me yet, John... When I'm aroused, I produce copious amounts of pre-ejaculate."
John shivers, wriggling in his chair as his cock twitches against the confines of his pants. Those words, so clinical, shouldn't sound as hot as they do. But bloody hell, Sherlock could read the phonebook in that voice and it would be arousing. He shifts his weight again, sliding further under the table in an attempt to hide himself under the white linen tablecloth. He’s incredibly grateful for the protection it affords right now, however minor it may be.
"Oh, um, do you now?" He cringes inwardly, realising how banal he sounds, but Sherlock smirks again.
"Mmhmm. The front of my pants are soaked through right now. I'm positive I could just strip us both and sliiiiide against you, spreading it all around. Grind the length of my cock against yours, pulling your foreskin down with each stroke..." Sherlock's voice has dropped again, to a rumbling, gravelly whisper. "Maybe even slide right into your arse. You've got a fantastic one, John. You hide it under those baggy jeans, but I fucking love your arse. I've dreamt of fucking it. Tight and hot and perfect. Thrusting until you're a quivering, whimpering mess under me.”
Closing his eyes, John bites down on his lip as he imagines the pictures Sherlock is painting with his words. John hasn't come in his pants since he was a teenager, and even then someone had been touching him. And yet, he's starting to realise it's a legitimate risk right now. He grits his teeth and looks pleadingly at Sherlock.
"Please, Sherlock..."
"Please, what? Please continue? Please drop to my knees under the table and free your throbbing cock from the confines of your trousers? Please suck you until you come furiously down my throat, with everyone in the restaurant watching you? I bet it's glorious, John. Bitter and sweet and musky and absolutely fucking delicious."
John digs the heel of his hand against the base of his cock, trying to subdue himself somewhat. It doesn't work. He closes his eyes again and turns his head away from Sherlock.
"What are you thinking?" Sherlock's voice has taken on a level, almost hesitant tone entirely at odds with what he's just been saying. When John looks up again, Sherlock is studying him intently, almost as if he’s a new puzzle or experiment. John realises Sherlock is nervous, wondering if he’s gone a little too far. Shit.
"I am thinking..." John manages to cough out, his throat dry and sticky. "I am thinking we should go home. Right now."
The gleam in Sherlock's eye is mercifully back, filthy and predatory. John's not sure his knees can handle getting out of his chair right now. Sherlock smirks at him.
"John, that's the best idea you've had all week."