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[ The discrepancy is almost tangible, now that Sherlock's had his hair cut, bringing him appearance-wise back to what he looked like prior to his great mission out in the big, damn world. If you don't take his scarred back into account, of course, although John assumes Sherlock isn't likely to let anyone come close enough to have a look at... his back -- or all the things that aren't immediately noticeable, like his apparent fear of letting anyone near with sharp objects, something that basically led him to let his hair grow Tarzan-style for a good couple of months. Because he was afraid of -- yeah. Yeah.

Two days later, the man's been hanging around the flat mostly, no interesting cases -- well, not interesting enough must be the verdict, there have certainly been a few potential clients by, though they were quickly shown the door, because -- does Sherlock even need an excuse to be rude to people at this point? Dull, boring, they're really just convenient excuses while he waits for the next big fish.

Standing with his back to the door, John's busy drying off his hair, having just stepped out of the shower where he's spend a generous amount of time thinking about what will be the easiest way to engage Sherlock in anything not case-related. His blues have become more a sort of slump and aren't, obviously, always related to cases anymore either. They're just there, like dead periods.

You'd think he'd had enough of those. That they both had. ]

[ He's on his back, on the sofa, staring at nothing. So many stupid, helpless people in London, wanting his assistance for stupid little problems that he couldn't possibly solve without dying of boredom. He sighs. Scowls. Notes, distantly, that the water has stopped running in the bathroom.

The sense of sheer, unadulterated monotony is making his head hurt. His thoughts are racing ahead of him, trying to latch onto something that'll keep him grounded just a bit, just enough. He thinks about coke. Then, inevitably, he thinks about Bolivia and pushes the rest away, firmly. God, but there's nothing, though logically he knows - eventually, there'll be another case. Someone will be murdered in a slightly interesting fashion or Mycroft will call for him to crack a code or --

He gets to his feet, gaze suddenly alert. Looking around the sitting room quickly, he spins on his heel and runs for the bathroom, throwing the door open. ]

John, have you seen --

[ ... my book on cryptography? he wanted to say, but the sentence dies in his throat. He stands stock still in the doorway, staring openly at John's naked backside, his firm buttocks and the line of his back. The exit wound on the back of his shoulder. John's crouching slightly forward, thighs parted enough that Sherlock can glimpse his balls amidst his sparse, blond pubic hair. His brain short-circuits. So naturally, he just stands there, every central function offline, perhaps except for one. A very particular one, at that. ]

[ Presumably, Sherlock can move very quickly and very quietly or he wouldn't have survived playing bloody MI6 agent for two years, but as it is, here -- John hears him pretty much barging down the hallway and thus, expects the door to be thrown open, though it does happen fast enough that he doesn't have time to turn around or -- move, really. So, instead he's wholly aware that he's standing very much with his arse on the line, the way he's bending over slightly in his efforts to get his hair dry which doesn't, let's be completely honest, require much. Army cut and all that.

So, John straightens up slowly when Sherlock's initial question dies out, turning around, not really bothering with trying to cover himself up, because 1) he needs the towel, he's still wet and 2) what's the point? Maybe two years and a couple of months ago, he'd have cared that Sherlock saw him starkers, but with how things have progressed -- well, seems a natural extension, yes? Eventually. Not in a hurry, not rushing, but eventually, you'd think... you'd hope...

He raises an eyebrow. Starts drying off his arms, shoulders, chest. ] Have I seen what? [ Since they're still Sherlock's messes, he probably hasn't seen much of anything, but under any circumstances, he is currently noticing how you look absolutely ravishing in your shirt and painted-on trousers and gawking expression, Sherlock, that's a new one.

The smile is less an expression and more a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Well, then. Hello. ]

[ Oh God, John, you terrible man. Sherlock stares some more as he turns around, his brain processing arse, curve of buttocks, nice, hip, pelvis, ohgodtheentirefrontofthemanohdon'tlooksouthdon'tlook -- ]

Er.

[ He grabs onto the door with one hand, just to steady himself. After all, were he to keel forward, he might just end up with his head in John's naked, naked crotch and why would his brain do that to him, why would it conjure up those images?! Sherlock blinks, heat rushing south to his cock, and without thinking about it, he pulls the dressing gown tighter around his front, cradling the fabric in his other hand like a lifeline.

The past many days, they've alternated quite fluently between touches, kisses and the typical status quo (aka the life they've established way before they introduced intimacy into the mix - or whatever it is). They still sleep together. It's nice, it's very nice, and sometimes, Sherlock thinks it might even keep him tethered to reality, that he'd be floating away without it. He hasn't really thought about doing anything else with John. Doesn't want to make things up in his head, not when he's got the real deal. But right now, his mind is definitely storing data for later use, for private use and he can't look away, he can't make himself, it's all of John and John is... ]

Okay. [ He might be unobservant, but he isn't blind. Noticing the way Sherlock grabs onto the door first and then -- pulls his dressing gown tighter around himself, John draws his own conclusions quite easily and quickly finishes drying off his legs before wrapping the towel around his waist in a couple of smooth drapes and tugs. Mostly for Sherlock's sake, of course. Though, it's not like he -- is completely unaffected either, is it? Come on. Sherlock's getting hard, just knowing Sherlock's getting hard over him is wank material for days. ] Listen, I don't know what you keep in your stacks or -- what you've moved where. Use your mind to, I don't know, conjure it up, if you can't find it.

[ And with that, he crosses the distance between them, brushing past the other man in the doorway, close enough that their shoulders brush or, well, try with -- a good rub up against each other, that should define it nicely. It isn't a dare or a challenge, John doesn't do that -- in bed, it's not a stupid game, after all, but it could be a promise, he supposes, if Sherlock wants it to be. That's always the question with him, right? Does he want what he really needs and John will pose the no doubt mind-boggling idea that Sherlock needs to get laid and he needs to get laid soon and seeing as -- they're currently doing something reminiscent of a relationship, perhaps John's the one who'll have to make it happen.

Padding into the sitting room, still rather half-nude, his smile widens a bit. Not a bad prospect, mind you. ]

[ John's talking about - something, what, something Sherlock's looking for? No clue whatever that might be because John's walking past him, brushing past him, mostly naked still, apart from the towel around his waist (how nice of him to cover up, exhibiting the worst timing in the history of anything). Sherlock doesn't move much, except a small, pathetic shuffle to the side, blinking straight ahead and staring at the empty air where John's naked arse was displayed, twenty seconds earlier. He swallows. His cock is rock-hard, which is... well... come on, it's a naked body, he stares at those often enough, doesn't he? When they're... dead. And completely unimportant, aside from the case they represent.

Where as John, obviously, is John.

Listening to John's footsteps as he pads into the sitting room, Sherlock realises there's only one thing he can possibly do right now. Ever since that disastrous wet dream of his, he's been masturbating a lot more often than ever before (meaning, at least thrice a week), hoping to avoid a similar incident by taking the edge off before bed. He's attempted not to think about John at all, not even imaginary John, but it's an uphill battle and eventually, it was the choice between going to bed unsated and hoping for the best (no) or letting his mind go rough for a few minutes to avoid creeping John out. He'd gone for the only one that truly made any sense to him, the whole mess being, at its root, entirely illogical and complicated.

So, in he goes, very quickly indeed, shrugging out of his dressing gown and dropping onto the bed, shuffling onto his back. The door's almost closed, it's fine, it'll do. He palms himself through his trousers almost desperately, cupping his cock and trying not to gasp at the friction. Fuck. He unzips, lightning fast, and pushes his hand beneath the hem of his trousers and pants, his palm too dry but whatever, it's fine, he'll just - he closes his fingers around the shaft and gives it a long, hard squeeze upwards, allowing himself to think about John's cock, big and heavy, the foreskin silky-looking and soft. Then, he imagines John's face if he were to press his tongue against it and bites his lip. Hard. ]

Edited 2019-10-01 18:41 (UTC)

[ Ending up in the sitting room mostly naked with a half-hard cock and nothing, really, to do there perhaps wasn't the brightest idea he's had and he knows what Sherlock would conclude from it, if Sherlock weren't busy trying to suppress his body, rioting against him. Down the hallway, John hears the other man practically fleeing into the bedroom and there's only a second in which he wonders what's up, didn't he need -- oh. Oh. Sherlock is going to -- wank. Sherlock is going to touch himself and possibly, probably think about John's naked everything while doing so and John's just standing here, staring at their chairs, showing off a grand expanse of chest to the flats on the other side of the street through the sitting room windows.

No. No, no, no. That's not how this is going to play out.

Licking his lips, he turns slowly, moving back down the hallway, finding the door to the bedroom (Sherlock's, well, theirs currently) standing ajar. Better be a bloody invitation, Sherlock Holmes, he thinks to himself, pausing outside it for a moment and taking a deep breath. All right, maybe this is it, maybe this is the time, maybe -- fuck, he has no idea what he's getting himself into, he's never -- with a man -- before. Naturally, this isn't just any man, it's Sherlock and that might eventually make things easier, if not complicate them so much more, Jesus.

He pushes the door open, steps inside. Stops.

Sherlock's lying on his back on the bed, one hand shoved down the front of his trousers, the unmistakable hint of movement visible beneath the fabric and it goes straight in John's own body, there's a heavy rush of heat in his abdomen and dropping, yes, good, he's --he's -- Would you look at that, he's walking slowly, slowly around the bed, to the foot of it, stopping where he's got the best view of the other man, eyes focused very obviously south. He could ask whether Sherlock needs assistance, but honestly -- they usually work better when Sherlock asks for it himself.

God, John wants to hear him ask for it. ]

[ He's licking John's cock, trying to imagine the taste of it (the glans of the penis is a mucocutaneous boundary, it'll be wet and salty, with that undertone of John's personal scent, perhaps multiplied by the heat of his body, the sweaty dampness of his skin), his hand pulling at his cock roughly. It shouldn't be satisfying, his erection feeling cramped and aching beneath his boxers, trousers still stuck around his hips. But all the same, his lower body feels almost aflame with it, with need, and he's just about to spit in his hand when something - that permanently alert-part of his brain - makes him look up.

He stares at John, staring at him. For a long moment, he doesn't know what to do, his hand completely still around the length of his cock, his mental images dissipating at the sight of the other man, always more real and truer than anything his insufficient mind can conjure up.

If he'd been stupid(er), Sherlock would have wondered why John was standing there but as it is, he just swallows, audibly, and shifts onto his elbows. Things re-arrange themselves a fraction in his mind. John, moving back in with him. Sleeping with him. Kissing him, touching him. Doing all of that, despite knowing what Sherlock dreams about at night. The evidence is, honestly, staggering. But Sherlock hasn't been wanted before, not in truth, not enough for someone to follow him anywhere at all, and John has followed him into death and beyond, too. This is unknown territory and all he can do is clear his throat, pulling his hand from his trousers slowly. He meets John's gaze. The man looks completely calm, steady as a rock, and it's lovely. It's so terrifyingly lovely. ]

John, may I... [ Pause. He presses his lips together, takes a deep breath. Continues, voice steadier now: ] I'd like to suck you off.

[ His cock jerks with enthusiasm and he shifts again, onto his knees. ]

[ He's completely lost in it, in whatever he's imagining, whatever's going through his mind, it's swallowed him up while he jerks himself off and it's one of the hottest things John's ever seen in his entire life and he's been sexually active since he was, what, 16. He's so completely lost in it that he doesn't notice John entering or placing himself by the foot of the bed, looking at him, staring, because he's eating him up with his eyes, the movement of shoulder, the definition of musculature in his arm, the stupid, bloody motion underneath the fabric of his fly. His cock feels almost quivering hard beneath the double layer of his towel which only manages to tent very nicely, very charmingly at the strain. Good, very -- good. He licks his lips again, gaze following the concentrated features of Sherlock's face, his soft lips, his closed eyes, all of that...

As he raises his hand, probably to spit in his palm, he finally looks up and sees him. John doesn't move, doesn't stop staring, taking in the other man's face, his eyes that are as indescribable now as they've ever been, if not more, by virtue of everything being a tad bit more confuddled these days. This entire situation an altogether lovely case in point. Sherlock withdraws his hand (don't do that, don't stop, you idiot) and eases up on his elbows and they're just -- looking at each other, really, the air shifting and heating up between them. John's breathing has turned decidedly more shallow now.

I'd like to suck you off, Sherlock says and there's a rush of something in John's ears, something that drowns absolutely everything else out, his heart skipping a beat and his cock jerking -- and the towel's really just in the way now, but he just got the perfect excuse to fix that, right? Perfect. It's -- perfect. On the bed, Sherlock shifts onto his knees and John wants to touch him, reach out and ruffle his hair, be close to him. Closer. Christ, does he want him to suck his cock right this very instant.

Swallowing heavily, he reaches down and pulls the towel off, dropping it on the floor, his hard as all hell cock very, very happy with its freedom. Very happy with Sherlock, too. Sherlock's voice, asking him. For God's sake. John steps, rather stiffly and altogether inelegant, around the corner of the bed, placing himself along the side of it, because it's a better height, shouldn't give anyone any bad back pains. ]

Get down here, then.

Edited 2019-10-01 19:35 (UTC)

[ John swallows heavily and drops his towel. His cock - oh God. Sherlock stares at it for a long moment, his own body responding with a rush of warm, heady arousal as his eyes follow the line of the shaft, the foreskin nicely retracted and the head glistening. Get down here, says John and places himself in the best possible position. Typical John Watson, isn't it, finding the direct route, the one that'll give him the perfect aim. Hah. Sherlock takes a deep breath, then crawls on his hands and knees, trousers restricting his movements slightly. Doesn't matter, doesn't -- He stops. Inches away. Looks up at John, conscious that if he were to push his nose one inch forward, just so, he'd be touching John's hard cock with the very tip of it.

God, but he wants to do more.

Tilting his chin slightly sideways, he reaches up with his right hand and folds his fingers around the base of the shaft. His mind is screeching at him to never, ever wake up from this marvelous dream he's clearly having (what an expertly crafted illusion, a true magician!), as he leans in, closer, closer, until his lips are close enough to drag over the soft underside, his breath ghosting out on a trembling exhalation. He swallows hard. Remembers suddenly, very vividly, when he'd tried to imagine this during his travels and failed, having absolutely nothing to go on. He'd tried to imagine the scent of it (going by scientific facts, primarily), the length or the width (going by memory of John's crotch-area, which took him somewhere but not far enough) but ultimately, the lie had been too terrible. Too reminiscent of loneliness. Blinking hard, he draws back slightly and looks up at John. He doesn't let go. ]

Do you mind it without?

[ Expecting John to catch onto the what without further prompting. ]

[ Oh, yeah, condom, right. Right.

Normally, John does in fact mind. He'd be a pretty horrible doctor, if he preached safe sex to everyone who stops by long enough to listen and then didn't practice it himself. Besides, with his sexual history, he'd be stupid not to always, always, always remember to use a condom, he's simply had too many partners to -- be sloppy about something like that. Unless he really wanted chlamydia or gonorrhea, of course. Sure.

Looking down at Sherlock now, however, his entire system overheated from arousal and his hands clenching into fists at his sides to keep himself just somewhat in check, the feeling of the other man's breath and lips up the underside of his cock burning through his lower body, he -- well, he does care, but if you consider it, he hasn't had sex for just over a year now and nothing's manifested itself, so he's undoubtedly clean and Sherlock -- well, Sherlock -- John has absolutely no idea whether the other man has slept around during his two years abroad and he should be concerned about that, about not knowing, but he simply, quite simply isn't. To be fair. ]

No, it's -- [ A deep inhalation. His voice sounds hoarse to his own ears, but then again -- he is one and a half second from getting his cock sucked, you'll have to excuse him. ] -- fine, it's fine.

[ If anything, he'll -- get their blood work done tomorrow, get them both checked so they can catch it early, should there be any need whatsoever. Really, it should be no problem, it should be -- Fuck, he just wants Sherlock's mouth on his cock already, for God's sake. Another, deeper intake of breath and he reaches up with one hand, running his fingers lightly through the other man's hair, neatly cut now, his curls all bouncy and soft between his fingertips. He doesn't pull or push, just rests his hand along the curve of Sherlock's skull, fingertips digging into scalp just slightly for the sake of a proper grip. ]

[ For a second, he's worried that John will say yes and make him scramble for a condom. He's never actually had sex without protection before but then again, he's never had sex with John and he wants the full experience now, every sensory input, every scent and every taste... But while John's a doctor, he's not a particularly careful man, at least not once there's a potential thrill waiting for him. A risk worth taking. Thus, he's not all that surprised when the other man merely curls his fingers in his hair and tells him that it's fine.

It tends to be, between the two of them.

Sherlock indulges for a moment in the feel of John's fingers resting against his scalp, that slight hold, a semblance of order. He angles John's cock slightly and leans in, running the tip of his tongue from the base and all the way to the glans. Then, he does it again, this time flattening his tongue fully against the width of the shaft. John's taste explodes in his mouth, warm and musky. His cock gives a jerk in his pants and he reaches down to push his trousers down a bit, below his hips. Eyes open and focused, he runs his tongue along the ridge of foreskin, pressing against it, brain categorising absolutely everything down to the smallest detail. ]

[ Fingers tightening a bit in Sherlock's hair, John looks down at the other man when he leans in, angling John's cock for better access before running the tip, just the tip, just the tip, for God's sake, of his tongue up the underside of his length, from the base and all the way to the glans and there's a noticeable tension to the muscles in John's thighs when he really, truly does his utmost not to push forward or force it, don't -- force it, shit. He can do slow. Come on, he prefers slow -- sometimes, yeah, but right now all he wants is for Sherlock to hurry the fuck up and -- oh, oh, okay, then. Good, very good. That works, that definitely -- works.

Sherlock runs his tongue up the underside of John's shaft again, this time flattening it fully against the whole damn width and John hears his breath stuttering out of him, while he shifts to keep the blood in his feet flowing freely. If he were to keel over now, that would be horrible timing, really horrible timing and he remembers from the army, doesn't he? Weight off the heels, shift, shift. Sherlock's busy pushing his own trousers down below his hips with one hand, eyes open and gaze sharp while he proceeds to -- Jesus, Sherlock, that's -- well, fine, good, ridge. John swallows hard and blinks a couple of times, angrily, to keep his posture, to not thrust forward, not push in. This is good, it's very good, it's enough. Scratch that, it's plenty --

Licking his lips a bit nervously, he shifts again and it isn't the stupid blood flow this time, it's to keep his tense as all hell thighs from jerking forward, his entire crotch area pretty much burning. The visual isn't exactly helping either. John thinks he might never have seen Sherlock look better and he's bloody well survived the purple shirt. ]

Edited 2019-10-02 18:00 (UTC)

[ He could have kept going for another five minutes at least. Easily. But as he licks another wet stripe up the underside of John's cock, he realises that the other man's shifting around because he's tense as a board, muscles in his thighs and buttocks visibly straining (and what a sight that is, save for later). He pulls back, gaze furrowed slightly as he looks the other man over. Considering.

Then, he raises himself up on his knees a bit, enough to get a better angle before leaning down and closing his lips over the head of John's cock. He sucks it into his mouth and bends down, taking him in, inch by inch, until he can feel the glans pressing against the back of his throat. Realisation hits, hard and sudden: he's sitting here, on his knees, with John's cock lodged between his lips. Immediately, his cock feels almost thrice as hard as before, his lower body burning for release, and it's so hot, it's so good. John's wider than he'd imagined, perhaps not quite as long, and it's a lovely combination, exactly right. He groans. Pulls back, feeling the long, hard slide of flesh and muscle against his tongue and lips, every sensation shooting straight into his blood. Drugs, he realises. I'm high again.

He shoves his free hand into his pants again and starts jerking himself off roughly. He almost can't feel it for the multitudes of inputs, his conscious processing struggling to catch up with his nervous system. Breath shuddering out of him on every intake, he starts bobbing his head slowly up and down, John's cock sliding into him and out, in and out. ]

[ When the other man pulls away, really, the entirely wrong way to go, Sherlock, God damn it, John looks down at him, watches how his features change, focusing, thinking and honestly, it's a fearsome sight to behold, Sherlock Holmes inches away from your cock, thinking. John means, come on.

Except. He proceeds to raise himself up on his knees enough to -- angle himself better to lean down and close his lips around -- oh God, John feels his knees actively buckle as Sherlock sucks the head of his cock in between his lips, the heat of his mouth absolutely staggering, the wetness, the slide of tongue, inward, inward, shit. And the man keeps -- going, too. Lets the whole, hard length of John's cock push into his mouth until John can feel the glans push against the very back of the man's throat and the thought alone, let's not even talk about the sensations here, is enough to make his vision blur around the edges. He stares down at Sherlock, watches the tight ring of his lips around the shaft of his cock, the way he pulls back (groaning, good, yes, good), the friction, the -- John gives up, gives up on keeping still, a slight moan escaping him as his hips want his cock back inside Sherlock's mouth, his pelvis pushing forward, just slightly, he does catch himself, right, just -- a little --

Because with an impressive knack for multitasking, Sherlock has pushed his free hand into his pants again and started jerking off, the motion beneath the fabric very telling and there's something unbearably hot about it, John thinks, if he'd really been in any state to think much at all. It's almost too much to be able to see it turning the other man on, sucking him off like this, on his knees on the bed, bending in over his lap, yeah, just like that. ]

Fuck -- [ His voice sounds equal parts strained and dropping, low, low, low. ] -- fuck, Sherlock.

[ John moans slightly, the only audible sign of whatever effect Sherlock's currently having on him, aside from the pattern of his breathing. At least until he says his name, sounding like nothing Sherlock's ever heard (or imagined) before, his voice low and rough. It's intoxicating. Sherlock breathes in through his nose, quickly, before sucking his cock back into his mouth. It seems to be an acceptable rhythm for John, though he might need it a bit faster in order to climax - a bit more intense, a bit firmer... Sherlock shuts his eyes, working his cock with his free hand clumsily until he finally gives up on multitasking for now and drops his hand to the bed, keeping himself upright instead. The sudden lack of friction is an afterthought, really; all he can truly think about is John's cock in his mouth, the taste of him on his tongue (sharp, salty, maybe a tad bitter). The sounds he makes, subtle but very real and very present, as Sherlock sucks him off.

Nope, God, he needs to keep touching himself. At least, he needs to -- mouth pausing somewhere midway down John's shaft, he reaches down and frees his cock from his pants, pulling it out. It bobs slightly against his midriff, leaving small trails of stickiness on his shirt tails. His trousers are riding low on his hips but he doesn't pull them down or away, a very small but insistent part of his brain reminding him that John doesn't need to see everything when he's in the middle of a blowjob. Later, maybe. Possibly.

Brow furrowing slightly in renewed concentration, he gets back to work. This time, he sucks John as far into his mouth as he can without triggering his gag reflex and folds his fingers around the part of his shaft that he can't quite swallow. Creating a nice, snug little tunnel, he moves his head up and down, faster now, keeping his lips as tight as he can without his teeth getting in the way. His focus narrows down to this, to getting John off, to make it as good for him as possible, and for once, his brain actually manages not to tumble off track, to get caught up in distractions. He doesn't have to think about why. It's obvious, isn't it - there's simply nothing he'd rather be focusing on.]

[ It's -- very, very good, the rhythm Sherlock falls into eventually, after freeing his cock from his pants and -- leaving it be, why would he do that, come on, he wants to see you jerk yourself off (!) -- his hand on John's cock curling around the shaft, creating the really lovely, really convincing optical illusion that he's taking it all in at once, the entire damn length of him and John's groaning, louder now, his hips jerking slightly at the intensity of it. The visual, sure, the visual's hot -- Sherlock on his knees, his cock poking out, bobbing against his stomach, leaving dark splotches on his shirt tails, very hot indeed, but the sensations are even better. The long, wet slides of Sherlock's mouth, the heat of him, the burning, overwhelming heat as he moves his head back and forth, faster now, faster, faster, fuck.

John bends his head, keeping his eyes open, forcibly, while trying to breathe and failing rather spectacularly. His exhalations are shuddering, his inhalations shallow, his lungs never feeling quite full. At the edge of his mind, he wonders whether this is the first time for Sherlock as well, whether he's given blowjobs before (and to whom, God, John doesn't know whether to congratulate them or beat them up, possibly both at once), but then Sherlock strikes a really great angle, pushing against something with his tongue and John's knees go weak and he stops thinking altogether. It doesn't matter if Sherlock's done it before, he does it very well now, doesn't he? It doesn't matter -- doesn't matter -- all that matters is -- ]

You need to suck it, Sherlock, I really -- need you to -- [ His voice is hoarse and breathless and he's not actually in any state to properly finish a sentence, Sherlock will have to forgive him, sorry. Gasping for air, he adds, mostly as an afterthought: ] -- yeah, I need you to touch yourself.

[ It's building up gradually, the warmth in his groin, the tightness of his balls and he just needs him to add that extra dimension of stimuli, to really -- shit -- Without much actual consideration, John buries both hands now in Sherlock's hair, pretty much yanking at it and it's soft between his fingers, springy, curly, dark when he looks down, the contrast rather blatant, pale fingers, black hair. And Sherlock's swallowing him down and it's good, Jesus, it's good. ]

[ Eloquent, he wants to comment, but even Sherlock knows what they say about speaking with your mouth full. Instead, he allows the meaning of John's breathless words to go straight past the barrier of thought and into his body. The underlying sense of command, instruction for... for a sexual act, and it ought to piss him off as in all other areas of life but instead, he gasps loudly, scrambling to wrap his free hand around his cock again. He has to shift to manage it, enough to put his weight fully onto his knees.

Then, as he pulls at himself without even half a thought to the pacing, to drawing things out, to... anything, really, he tightens his throat, looks up at John and sucks, his cheeks hollowing at the strain. The taste of him intensifies, something that must be pre-cum slipping down his throat and his fingers feel equal parts painful and lovely in his hair, it's - it's all incredibly... hot, incredibly intense and he can't - oh, God...

On a strangled moan, he feels his own climax suddenly washing over him, his cock pulsing between his fingers as he spends himself on the duvet. It takes him completely, utterly by surprise but all the same, he doesn't let up, doesn't stop sucking John's cock, taking breaks only to move his mouth up and down the shaft. His climax settles within his limbs heavily, pleasantly, and it truly is a bit like being high on some alien substance. He can feel (and see) himself drooling down John's length and it probably ought to make him feel repulsed by his own lack of control but instead, all he can think about is John's cock in his mouth, the wetness of his glans against the back of his throat. He hums. It's a very low, very deep sort of sound, rumbling up from his throat. ]

[ The man who never obeys a command if he can at all help it (I'd like to see you try, yes) -- well, he obeys, starts jerking himself off without much finesse to it, just harsh, fast strokes of his hand down his own shaft and John watches, watches, for God's sake, it's almost killing him. When the other man hollows his cheeks and sucks at his cock, the entire feeling of suction going straight into his system, making everything positively reverberate, quiver, John's about ready to -- well, it's so close, so very close. His hips are working against the heavy motion of Sherlock's head, back and forth and although he isn't really thrusting, he's pushing forward just slightly, because he can't not, look at the man, look at him, fuck. He's drooling down his length, he's pretty much just worshipping his cock with his mouth and if you thought Sherlock would do that for anyone, anyone (else), then you'd be stupider than a brick.

He gasps when Sherlock comes, audibly, the moan a heated exhalation around his shaft and the head of his cock and John groans, too, matches him fully, his hips jerking forward angrily at the entire display. Cum shooting out over the duvet, between Sherlock's long, stupidly long fingers and yet, he just keeps up -- doesn't stop -- oh God, please don't stop, Sherlock, he can't, he's almost --

The humming does him in, to be quite honest. It's not just the sensation of it, the vibration, but the sound makes his vision blacken around the edges and he moans, loudly, bending his neck and closing his eyes and feeling his balls draw up harshly as he -- fuck, he should probably have warned him, shouldn't he? It isn't very polite at all to just -- come in your partner's mouth, in case they're not the swallowing type -- not that John's ever had to deal with those kind of considerations before, because -- condoms, yes, but this and he's -- he's coming and it's so good, his knees wobble a bit and one of his hands drops to the back of Sherlock's neck, fingers curving there, not quite holding him in place, just -- holding on -- Jesus, for dear life. It's a long, outdrawn orgasm and he's gasping halfway through it, sweat running down the side of his face and fuck, for fuck's sake, Sherlock.

Shit. ]

[ It takes John another couple of shallow thrusts into his mouth - and yes, that's less than delightful, the tip of his cock hitting Sherlock's gag reflex and making him draw back just a fraction - before the other man finally groans, his balls drawing up visibly before his cock starts pulsing. Sherlock focuses on the feel of it, the throbbing sensation between his lips, as John spends himself in his mouth. His cum is a thick, gooey mass and it tastes quite salty. It's not unpleasant, he thinks, and keeps it in his mouth while he follows John through his orgasm, drawing back only when he's certain that the man's got to be on the brink of overstimulation.

He pops John's cock out of his mouth with a wet sound and, gaze somewhat distant in thought, he passes his cum back and forth on his tongue for a few seconds before swallowing it, registering the different sensations as it passes over his taste buds. Hm. Definitely getting the bitter after-taste at the back of his tongue (might be worth it learning how to deep-throat, in case John ever wants to do this again; additionally, remember to touch the slit with tip of tongue next time - provided there is one, oh God, don't just assume, do not assume - must be extra-salty, definitely worth a try).

Blinking slowly, he finally lets himself fall back onto the bed, trousers around his thighs and his cock soft and spent. He can't think about anything but sex right now. John's taste. Smell. Girth. He shuffles backwards on his arse until his back hits the headboard and just sits there, limp like a rag doll, cum all over his shirt and lips. He feels... immensely done. Just... finished. He stares off into space, wiping off a trail of semen from his bottom lip with a trembling hand. ]

[ It feels like -- forever, basically, it feels like it doesn't stop, Sherlock's tongue doing -- something -- there's heat and wetness and then, there's almost too much of it and finally, finally Sherlock pops his cock out of his mouth, cum clinging to his lips and John just stares at him, tiredly, gaze less than focused, really. His arms drop to his sides, fingers curled loosely into fists. His breathing eases into something deeper, slower. His heart rate slows down, too. His entire body is spent now, he couldn't do anything but what he does, even if he wanted to -- and luckily, he doesn't and what he does is to unceremoniously drop down on his knees on the mattress, crawling over next to where Sherlock is leaning against the headboard, legs sprawling, arms sprawling, fingers buried in the sheets. He's got a shin placed probably in the middle of Sherlock's puddle of cum, but it's fine, he doesn't care, it's -- fine. Come on.

Turning his head slightly, so he can look up at the other man, finding him in the middle of wiping off some cum from his lower lip, John raises a very tired, very non-argumentative eyebrow and rolls over on his side, putting his entire well-spent front on display, his cock quickly losing hardness between his legs. Oh, well, it did commendably. Sherlock did well, too. He should undoubtedly tell him that, if he wants this to be a repeat performance. And Christ, does he want a repeat. He's actually just busy figuring out when they'll be able to do this next. Obviously, he should be ready again in a few hours, but on a slightly grander scale, he means. He wants -- something slightly more long-term than just an hour from now, doesn't he? Doesn't he just. ]

This isn't going to be once under a blue moon, right? [ He isn't even attempting to sound nonchalant about it. The transition from being friends to being people who slept together, then people who kissed and touched and -- yeah, it was easy, but this is a slightly bigger step forward and he wants them to be on the same page about it. He wants the tone to be properly set and if nothing else, Sherlock should be able to appreciate that, as a musician. ] It was too good for me to wait until next time you accidentally walk in on me starkers, Sherlock.

[ The dip of the mattress - the rustling of clothes, the scent of John increasing slightly along with the smell of sex, semen and sweat - Sherlock registers John's approach on all parameters save the visual. How he crawls up next to him, his movements slow and heavy, speaking of post-orgasmic bliss. He doesn't glance sideways, his gaze still distant, though the realisation brings his mind closer to the surface. John, drawing nearer. John, who's just spent himself inside his mouth. They've... oh. He blinks. Hard.

Then, John tells him, in his typically romantic-but-blunt fashion, that he'd like them to... do this again, possibly with some sort of regularity and Sherlock suddenly remembers Azerbaijan once again, the promises made to empty air in a clear-cut reflection of John, speaking over his gravestone, asking him for just one, more miracle. I'll give it to you, he'd thought and in his Mind Palace, John had told him to prove it.

He pinches his left thigh. Hard. The memory dissipates, and he glances sideways at John, focusing with an effort. ]

You'd like to?

[ He manages to squash a pitiful little really? and licks his lips. The taste of the other man bursts though his system again, another dose, another high. ]

I mean - [ Ugh. Shut up. ] - I wouldn't mind.

[ This time his eyebrow does arch somewhat. The man -- wouldn't mind? Really? Shit, Sherlock, that's pitiful.

Nevertheless, John finds himself smiling, shaking his head and easing down onto his back again, hands folded behind his head. Okay, then, apparently they're the kind of people who do this now, they're the kind of people who have sex and mind you, in some constellations you'd call that a relationship, if nothing else then friends with benefits, yes? However, here -- between them, getting anal about the terminology is probably only as beneficial as their bodies make it out to be, because they still both vividly remember how things played out with Moriarty, he's sure (I'll burn the heart out of you). Getting involved with your hyper-intelligent, crime-solving detective -- friend (and that's really in lack of a better word for the time being, they'll come up with something -- else) probably isn't all that advisable, but when did John Watson ever care about anybody else's advice? Is he supposed to start now of all times, after a very good, very satisfactory blowjob? No, he doesn't think so either. ]

Good, because I'm blowing you next time.

[ His eyes have already fallen shut and he inhales deeply, shifting into a more comfortable position, fully planning on just -- yes, going to sleep would be good, would be very good. Fuck, he's so spent. Having spoken the words, however, he does have to give a thought of admiration to Sherlock's utter skill. You'll just have to hope that he can do something similar, having never been anywhere near a dick with his mouth before which is honestly a pity, thinking about it. If nothing else -- and of this, John's completely sure, Sherlock will be very good at letting him know what to do, what works and what doesn't and Jesus, does he look forward to that part of the process.

No, truly. That part and any other part of it, too. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

psl.

the thirteenth.

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