docwithablog

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Well, in that case...

[ He looks around the shower stall once, mostly as a visual confirmation of Sherlock's words, because -- honestly, the thing is huge, the other man could probably lie down on his back in here and not touch walls with neither his feet nor his hands. As such, John steps inside, fully, and closes the door after himself before turning towards Sherlock, the first stray droplets landing across his brow and cheeks at the movement. It's warm, comfortably heated, really and Sherlock is, furthermore, very naked, all bare chest (almost no chest hair) and flat, hard stomach and crotch and -- thighs... The left bears a -- burn, an old-fashioned cattle burn, badly healed, definitely not treated very well, if at all, the skin raised and aggressively red still and how has he not seen this yet, they've fucked twice since Sherlock came back, the man must have gone to extremes to keep it -- hidden from him, oh. Oh. John blinks. Then, he blinks again and looks up at Sherlock's face, his curls hanging flatly around his head now, the water plummeting the back of his head and down his backside from this angle.

Scooting over isn't necessary, sure, but something certainly is, yes?

Swallowing heavily, he steps forward until they're basically just pressing up against each other, chest against chest. He's in perfect height to rest his chin on Sherlock's shoulder, stupid beanpole that he is, and turn his head to the side until he's nuzzling in with his nose against his earlobe, mouth moving over the side of his neck. He remembers the photos Sherlock sent, his weird row of selfies that made no sense outside of the context -- the very sexual context, the very scientific approach to pointing out his erogenous zones, you'd have to expect that from him, right? Good. John is a fast learner. Anatomy was always a strong suit of his anyway.

As such, he flicks his tongue over Sherlock's pulse point, when he finds it (carotid artery), second stop on the pulse taking ladder, not that he's keeping count now, come on. ]

[ He watches as John stares at him, at it, and swallows. If one looks closely (but why ever would you want to?), the outline of a messy M can still be gleamed from the burn. Whether it stands for Maupertuis or Milošević or hell, even Moriarty (that would be fittingly sadistic and certainly not implausible) has been left up to individual interpretation. Bloody generous, isn't it. Sherlock looks away and just as he does, John steps closer, closer, closer, until he's flush up against him, their naked chests pressed together while the hot water beats down upon them. He breathes in harshly, water dripping down his nose and chin.

When John rests his chin on his shoulder, Sherlock feels most of the tension in his upper body drain away. He curves one arm around the other man's waist and pulls him closer, turning his head slightly to the side as John flicks his tongue over his pulse point. One thing you have to give the man, even if he's not the most observant of the lot - he's a careful learner, curious and detail-oriented enough to ask the right questions and fast enough to run with what he gets. Sherlock loves this about him. He hums, a deep, low sound of approval.

Like this, he very nearly forgets. About the scars, about his enforced hiatus, about the grief John had to suffer as a consequence. Instead, he simply lets himself drown a bit in the feel of John's naked body against his, hard and steady. The physical sensation of being grounded in the present. With another hard exhalation, he runs his hand up John's back, fingers curving lightly against the back of his left shoulder. ]

[ Sherlock's arm slips around his waist, one hand running up his back, fingers curving against his left shoulder -- exit wound, still tangible, scar tissue and his breathing sounds harsh, long and outdrawn exhalations. He tastes like hard water and skin (salty, musky) and John kisses his way up along his jawline, the jut of his jaw still too pronounced, even for the man with the stupidly sharp cheekbones. They need to eat more roasted pig, clearly. Hell, John will approve of him just eating some bloody doughnuts. Anything. Drawing back after a moment, he hears his own breathing tearing out of him, shallow and fast, eyes running down over Sherlock's face, the lines of it (John isn't the only one to have grown older, although age looks better on the other man, sure) before he leans in and presses their lips together, his own parting instinctively as he exhales warm and wet against the other man's mouth.

Pushing his hands, fingers spread wide, against the upper slope of Sherlock's shoulders, John runs his palms down over his upper arms, grabbing hold, fingers digging in and his weight shifting. He leans close enough to feel the hard outline of the other man's pecs against his own chest, noticeable musculature and water everywhere, dripping down between their bodies, the tiles flooding between their feet. There's a spray hitting him on his right temple and it should probably annoy him, but he's really that much more focused on the feel of Sherlock's bottom lip as he slips his tongue over it, pushing in, in, in, the heat of his mouth overwhelming and drowning out just about anything else.

Meanwhile, he moves his left hand, feeling his shoulder flex at the motion -- drops it down to Sherlock's elbow, thumb caressing the thin skin on the inside of it softly, because Sherlock is sensitive and there are definite positives to that, right. ]

[ The beating of the water against the tiles swallows up the sounds of their breaths as John leans in and kisses him, his lips softer than you'd ever expect from a man like him. It's nice. Sherlock leans into it, parts his lips a bit and coaxes John's tongue into his mouth with the tip of his own, just taking advantage of the other man's initiative. His mind keeps registering sensory inputs - close to, as opposed to perimeter based - meaning the glide of John's fingers down his upper arms, the pressure of his wet chest against his own. And seconds later, John's thumb running over the skin on the inside of his lower arm, the feeling wholly electrical as his neurons shoot, repeatedly, his body growing steadfastly warmer in response.

His cock is thickening against John's thigh and his hips jerk forward very slightly, seeking friction. It's a very automatic response and he doesn't try to fight it, seeing as sex is a frankly pointless exercise if you detach yourself from it. Instead, he feels his breath shudder out of him, into John's mouth, as the head of his cock slips wetly against John's groin. He sighs. Bites down gently on John's bottom lip, the taste of him warm and familiar in his mouth.

Fingers slipping over raised scar tissue, following the pattern curiously for a second, he draws his hand around John's body, following the curvature of his ribs, down his side and around to his front. He forces a small bit of distance between their bodies, just enough to reach up and press his thumb against John's left nipple, tracing a ring around the dusty-pink areola before rubbing over the nub again, back and forth. His breath catches in his throat. ]

[ Sherlock coaxes his tongue into his mouth and John breathes out heavily through his nose, pushing into the heat of him, the wet, warm slide of muscle against his own tongue making his entire body heat up. As he feels Sherlock's cock harden against his thigh, the man's hips jerking forward in search of friction and slipping up wetly against John's groin, his own cock responds almost automatically, growing half-hard and sliding up the length of the other man's right upper leg when John shifts his hips forward a little. All muscle and hardness and, fuck, it's so good, you'll have to wonder how he could live in an undoubtedly practical, but regardless rather incomprehensible denial all these years. Against his lips, Sherlock's sighing, before biting his lower lip gently, making John's system feel definitely overstimulated, but in the inherently sexual way that you'd be an idiot to bemoan, yes. Very much an idiot.

When the other man's fingers slip around to his general chest area, making room to move by drawing away and -- don't do that, you complete cock, really, very complete, very cock, John's fingers digging into his upper arms now to keep him pressed up against him, John angles his head for better access, slipping his tongue over the tip of Sherlock's, over his bottom lip, back in, penetrating his mouth very pointedly. It isn't until he feels the other man's thumb tracing a ring around his nipple, rubbing over the nub repeatedly and -- the sensation very stark, the wetness of the water making it a fluid, erogenous slide of skin against skin and his body reacts by a bloody surge of heat through his lower body, his cock growing harder noticeably. He groans into the kiss, drawing back reluctantly and stepping back, not away, okay, just enough to push both hands down over Sherlock's stomach, following the line of midriff, hard, somewhat defined, and the (distinct) flatness of abdomen, navel and happy trail, fingers spreading out to touch as much skin as possible while the direction is definitely going south. ]

I suppose I did promise you a blowjob.

[ Raising an eyebrow slightly, he glances down between them, voice low, hoarse as he follows the route of his hands with his eyes, their cocks a very undeniable presence between them, mirroring each other quite happily. Well, he's been looking forward -- and nothing really does beat the joys of bathroom tiles beneath your knees. ]

[ John takes a little moment to catch onto his intentions, pressing his tongue into Sherlock's mouth in a very clear protest before he finally registers the stimuli against his nipple and groans into the kiss. It's quite possibly the hottest sound he's ever heard and he makes sure to save it for later, as John draws out of the kiss, leaving Sherlock's lips wet and tingling. He can feel John's cock against his abdomen, growing harder at a generous speed, and he looks down between them. The sight of the other man's cock triggers an instant memory of the wide glans pressed against the back of his throat, the taste of precum and skin heavy on his tongue... He exhales. Roughly.

Then, John talks about blowjobs, as if latching directly onto his train of thought and Sherlock stares at him through the water, running his free hand through his curls absent-mindedly and trying to get the strands out of his eyes. God. God, John's... mouth... around his...

Oh. His cock twitches between them, more than ready to participate. ]

Are you -- [ What, sure? Don't be ridiculous. Sherlock tries again, voice less shaky around the edges this time around: ] Yes. Yes, John, get on that.

[ He gives John's nipple a slight pinch, just for emphasis. Just to prove that he is not, in fact, as terrified as he feels. He's never had a blowjob in his life and the mere thought of it - the tightness of John's mouth, the... slide of his tongue... He shuts his eyes hard, forcing his thoughts to a screeching halt as he plunges them into darkness. Surely, he can't actually mess that up - so long as he doesn't choke the other man or come in his eye or, well. Whatever. ]

[ Yes, John, get on that, Sherlock says and he looks up again at the other man, raising an eyebrow at him and managing a small smile, much less apprehensive than he actually feels. Okay, then, he'll get on that, Sherlock, shit. Shaking his head once, he withdraws his hands from Sherlock's lower abdomen, reaching out with his left to support himself against the side of the stall while he slowly, very slowly, very gradually lowers himself down on first one knee, then the other, because he's not actually 20 anymore, is he? Far cry from it, even. The water falls from the shower head in large droplets that get into his face and his eyes specifically from this angle and he has to blink a few times to get used to the onslaught of it. Finally, though, John looks up at Sherlock again, the whole, hard, long length of his body, his cock pretty much at facelevel like this and isn't that interesting, isn't that inviting. Breathing in deeply, he inches forward on his knees (ow, ow, ow, tiles) and pushes his hands flatly against the other man's hips, guiding him back against the stall's nearest wall. It's not a request, but it's nicer than an order -- because trust him, John Watson does orders just fine. ]

Don't make me bloody sir you, Sherlock.

[ Licking his lips, maybe slightly unnecessarily, seeing as he gets plenty of water straight into his face as it is, he reaches down with his left hand and closes his fingers around the base of Sherlock's cock, mostly fully hard at this point, supporting the underside of it with his thumb. It's a bit of angling work, isn't it, finding the right -- point of intersection, but eventually he feels somewhat confident in the various possible meeting points between his mouth and Sherlock's cock, so he inclines his head and leans in, pressing his tongue flatly against the underside of the shaft, following it upwards towards the head slowly, mostly to get a feel for it. A taste.

Because he has no idea what to expect, he only knows the taste of his own, after all, and Sherlock's tastes less like cum, still, let's be real. Very fresh, lots of water, undertone of something salty and musk-like, that distinctive Sherlock flavour, he's learning little by little. And as he analyzes this, John thinks -- somewhere at the back of his mind, that he should have done this ages ago. To Sherlock, definitely, but just -- in general. He should have taken the plunge, before it became a question of taking the plunge or drowning on land.

Probably. ]

[ John doesn't exactly... drop to his knees, as such, but he lowers himself down - one knee, then the other - and looks up at him. The fact that John's face is now inches away from his cock is doing all sorts of strange things to Sherlock's mental connections, his brain screeching conflicting orders at him, such as - 1) put it in his mouth - 2) poke him in the face with it! - 3) runrunrunrunyou'regoingtoembarrassyourself - and meanwhile, he just lets himself be pushed backwards against the wall. He blinks, dumbly, as John tells him not to - well, all right but in his current state Sherlock's not sure he could make you do much of anything, let's be real. He stands there, legs slightly spread, and looks away for a moment, trying to collect himself.

But then, there's John's hand against his cock, fingers closing around the base, and he manages to keep still only by not-inconsiderable force of will. He turns his head away from the water spray, trying to breathe more freely, but then John leans in and licks a trail up the underside of his cock and he can't breathe, silly thought, he can't breathe at all -- ]

Oh, oh!

[ He leans back more fully against the wall, slipping one, trembling hand into John's hair and running his fingers idly down the back of his head. It's a caress, not a hold, he can't possibly think about holding on or any such commonplace nonsense, all he can really register is the lingering heat of John's tongue against his shaft. He wants to look at the other man but can't quite bring himself to do it, gaze locked on the tiled floor instead, aimlessly. ]

[ Sherlock makes the loveliest noises, really.

John half-smiles, finishing his trail near the ridge of foreskin and draws back, looking the other man's cock over for a minute, up close, very -- up close. Not that he's actively been imagining Sherlock's dick, to be honest, but there might be certain situations where the thought has tickled his fancy, let's put it that way and he might have imagined it -- longer, slimmer, when actually it's of a very average erectile length, really, nicely shaped, he could add healthy-looking, but that would be a bit not good... A deep breath though his nose, his cock more than interested at this point, Sherlock's taste still lingering sharply on his tongue. John leans back on his haunches, stabilizing himself on the floor and lets his gaze run further down, over crotch area (dark pubic hair, though not as dark as the curls on his head, lighter, browner, thinner), over his right thigh, his left -- John halts for a second, just a second, taking in the details of the cattle burn now that he's within its immediate vicinity, supposedly. It's an M. They've branded Sherlock with a bloody M. Things that would definitely wound the man's pride more than the actual branding would wound him, physically, yes? Shit.

Then, his eyes narrow and he leans in closer, catching the head of Sherlock's cock between his lips, keeping his teeth well and truly out of the way and breathing out heavily against the heavy curve of it, all moist, hot breath, before slowly, slowly, slowly, sucking it into his mouth, taking in another inch, two of his length, though he has to go -- really God damn slow, because he's getting used to the feeling of it along the way... Penetration. John's really not used to being penetrated. It feels weird, good, but weird. Unfamiliar.

Hot. Very hot.

His cock hard as wood at this point, he shifts on his knees (ow) and bends his neck, letting the length of Sherlock's cock disappear into his mouth, bit by bit until he can't actually take him any further without gagging and that would be unfortunate, come on. He draws back, saliva hanging in strings from his lips. He doesn't pop it out, however. He goes right back in. Repeat. ]

[ John draws back and because he's that kind of person, because he can never quite help himself, he looks down as the moment stretches on. Just to see whether John... whether he'll get it or not. For some reason, there's a weight in his chest waiting to be resolved on that particular issue and he understands now, as he watches John watching him that it has to do with shame. Many things associated with his return, with John's fate in the in-between, have this one theme in common. Shame, yeah, and different varieties over the same, stupid tune.

John looks, then disregards.

That's. Ah.

Sherlock look at him, the carefully neutral expression on his face giving way to wonder, open and mostly unadulterated, as John simply sucks the head of his cock into his mouth, a good part of his length following immediately after. The sensations explode in slow-motion through his groin, balls, up his spine, into his brain, as he watches. The wetness, the tightness of his mouth, it's - it's -- ]

Hell.

[ His voice comes out completely strangled. He tightens his hand against the back of John's head and forces himself to keep still, though every instinct in his body is yearning for more of that tightness around his cock, to push forward, to take, to claim. He sucks his bottom lip in between his teeth. Chews on it, mindlessly, and spreads his legs. All thoughts of the scarring on his leg (on him, generally speaking) go south along with most of his blood supply. He brushes water out of his face with his other hand, frowns, then hits the button on the panel behind him. The spray turns into mist, dusty and warm, the small LED lights from above glittering in the droplets. ]

[ While John familiarizes himself with the weight of his cock on his tongue, Sherlock does something to the water, turning it into misty droplets hanging heavily in the air and that's nice, that's good, very clever, Sherlock, very clever.

Making a noise of utter enjoyment, he pushes his tongue up against the underside of the other man's cock while he takes him in again, running it along the shaft, feeling out the intricate outline of veins and -- when he draws back again, the ridge of foreskin, the curve of the head, glans, slit, the taste of precum very recognisable there, good, very good. Folding his fingers around the part of his cock that he can't swallow, remembering what the visual did to him back when Sherlock was on his knees, sucking him into his mouth, John begins a slow bobbing motion of his head, letting the other man's cock slide into his mouth as far as it'll go a couple of times, the rhythm is probably not quite there yet, not fast enough, not even enough, but he'll get there, he just -- upping the pace a little, he eventually draws back, until just the head's inside his mouth, resting on his tongue and he hollows his cheeks and sucks, gently, running the tip of his tongue up along the slit.

God, he could get used to this.

The taste and feel of it, sure, but really -- it's more about the way Sherlock's spreading his legs, fighting not to push forward with his hips, not to just shove it in, the way he says hell, all strangled and hoarse and deep as -- well, deep, his voice is very deep and John will have to live with the fact that he can't touch himself right now, his fingers elsewhere occupied, but it's a close call and his cock is straining against his abdomen, leaving sticky trails in its wake. ]

[ Oh. Oh. Sherlock's breath keeps catching in his throat, his fingers curling uselessly against the back of John's head before he slips his hand downwards, unto the plane of his shoulder. He holds on for dear life, as John starts bobbing his head up and down. The sensation is terrifyingly stark - the wetness, the constant friction against the glans. He gasps. Watches, as his cock disappears between John's lips again and again, realising with a strange sort of clarity that yes - yes - John Watson is, in fact, on his knees in front of him, giving him a blowjob. They're here. They're together. He screws his eyes shut and looks up, the mist settling on his face, along his cheekbones and lips.

God, this is incredible.

When John pushes his tongue up along the slit, he actually groans (moans) out loud, shifting in place and pushing inwards, just a bit, just - he's trembling from holding back, his free hand curled into a fist against the stall wall. He swallows harshly, controlling his hips, his lower body straining from effort. All the same, after another few seconds, his hips jerk forward again - and again - along the width of John's tongue. He manages not to push deep but he can't - oh, he needs it harder, he needs it... ]

Faster, John, please. [ Brow furrowed, he cradles the other man's shoulder. ] Please just -- oh God.

[ He'll probably end up saying this quite a few times, John imagines, but Sherlock moaning is honestly the hottest sound he's heard, ever, deep and guttural and vibrating in what little space is left between them. He shifts on his knees (ow, ow, doesn't matter, go on) and leans in closer, sucking the other man's cock further into his mouth -- helped along quite generously by Sherlock himself, pushing in between his lips, just a little, so he can feel the long, wet, heavy slide of flesh over his tongue and he groans, audibly, finally just letting go of Sherlock's cock to grab his own, giving it a long, hard jerk and breathing out shakily on a pullback.

-- Scratch that, the hottest sound he's ever heard is definitely Sherlock saying please and meaning it so unreservedly.

His hand having dropped from John's head to his shoulder, he's holding on for dear life, evidently, and John looks up at him around his mouthful, unspeakable amounts of heat and a certain fondness probably evident in his gaze, while he does as he's being asked, so very nicely, right? For God's sake -- he starts moving his head against the motion of Sherlock's hips, pushing against him, lips tight around his shaft for every thrust the other man makes. He takes him in faster now, the sounds of his sucking wet and slurping and saliva is dripping down Sherlock's length, pooling by his balls, looking very tight, very -- fuck, yes, very that. ]

[ And there goes his last reserve. John looks up at him and there's something in his eyes, the way he looks at Sherlock, that says amazing and fantastic and Sherlock can barely remember what his stupid, scarred body looks like now, honestly, all he can think about is the wet suction around his cock and the way John's looking at him. He's been very convinced, in his adolescent years as well as later, well throughout his twenties and thirties, that he'd be alone forever and good riddance, too. In retrospect, it's almost incredible how stupid he'd been to hope for something like that.

He moans again, louder now, and thrusts very shallowly inwards, the stimulation immense and over-powering. He can't feel anything beyond the heat and wetness surrounding his cock, the tightness in his balls. Oh, oh - it's too much, it's too -- ]

John!

[ It comes out loud and keening and this, alone, should probably hurt his pride. It doesn't, though. Pride, in essence, is a concept created as a false stronghold against reality, against your own weaknesses and failures. Before he left, he had too much of it. Now, with everything that's happened? He's quite happy to call out John's name in the quiet, to let it shatter the stillness between them. He gasps again, his muscles twitching, and suddenly, his orgasm explodes out of him. He doesn't manage to warn John, he can't even manage a coherent thought; instead, he spends himself soundlessly, mouth agape and breath stuttering out of him in small, desperate huffs of air. It's the most powerful orgasm he's ever had. ]

[ The way Sherlock says his name makes something inside him practically melt, okay, he isn't even ashamed to admit it, it makes something ache and vibrate and beat and feel bloody well alive. He keeps the pace up, feeling the first pulsations along the shaft of the other man's cock and he seems to know what's coming (quite literally) before even Sherlock does, because the other man doesn't manage any warning whatsoever. One moment he's thrusting into John's mouth, the next he's ejaculating, long, hot spurts of cum shooting along the back of John's tongue and he -- well, he can't really do much but swallow, can he? Not like he's going to spit it out, come on, that's just rude. Even if he usually doesn't have all that many reservations in regards to niceties, of course.

Fact is, it doesn't bother him, it simply doesn't. The feeling of Sherlock's cock, climaxing between his lips, is intoxicating and he's jerking himself off, slow, hard strokes of his hand, nothing that'll make him come, just -- it'll take the top off.

Groaning, he sinks -- and sinks, and sinks, the taste not particularly pleasant, but not particularly revolting either. Neutral. Tart. Finally, when the first signs of flaccidity starts to set in, John pulls back slowly, his jaw aching quite -- noticeably, yeah, you might call it that and sits back on his haunches, smacking his lips to get the worst stiffness out of his temporomandibular joints. Shit. Shit. He glances up at Sherlock.

Then, slowly, very slowly and very stiffly, too, he gets to his feet, supporting himself against the shower stall's nearest wall in the process. Because it's a process, if you ever saw one. His poor knees. ]

[ Body riding a positive rush of chemicals, Sherlock takes a long moment to react as John struggles to his knees, having swallowed his cum (meaning that it's now inside John, dissolving into his chemical set-up and the thought is making him dizzy). He blinks slowly, every muscle in his body feeling heavy, depleted. Then, movements sluggish, he reaches for John and pulls him close by the waist, all the way in, until they're flush against each other, John's hard cock pressing against Sherlock's lower abdomen. He realises only now that he's breathing hard, as if he's run a bloody marathon. His brain is fighting to keep him upright, his legs wanting very badly to simply give in and leave him in a pathetic pile of limbs on the floor.

He straightens slightly. Freeing one hand, he reaches behind himself and presses the fancy soap dispenser blindly, coating his palm before reaching between them, quickly and without preamble. He curves his hand around John's stiff cock and starts jerking him off, movements fast and slippery. He'd kiss him simultaneously but quite frankly, he can't focus enough to do so, his post-orgasmic neurochemistry leaving him a quivering, trembling mess. It's a matter of priority, now and surely, getting John off is on top of the list, now that reach orgasm and come in John's mouth has been well and truly taken care of.

Thus, he simply rests his chin on John's shoulder, breathing slowly and evenly against his neck while he works his hand up and down, pressing his thumb over the bared head softly on every up-turn. ]

[ The taste of Sherlock lingers, clinging to the back of his tongue, the roof of his mouth and he licks his lips a couple of times as the other man pulls him close, flush up against his front. His cock is positively aching where it slips up against his lower abdomen and John shifts from foot to foot while Sherlock coats his palm in soap and reaches down between them, curling his fingers around the shaft. The heat of his hand, practically burning the both of them up, right, at least that's what it feels like, makes him sigh out in a very genuine show of relief and he eases into the most comfortable position he can with Sherlock's chin resting on his shoulder, turning his own head slightly to press his forehead against the side of the other man's face.

His strokes are long and even and he runs his thumb over the bared head on every upturn which is, to be quite frank, bloody amazing and the soap makes all movement slippery and smooth, John's hips quickly falling into a rhythm of pushing forward, in against the other man's palm, thrust, thrust, thrust. Christ, it's so good.

The damp mist makes every place where they touch moist and slick and the sound of Sherlock's hand, skin against skin, slapping together wetly, fills the quiet between them along with John's harsh breathing, in, out... His eyes have fallen shut at this point, he's just pushing back against Sherlock in every way that matters and he's so close, so close, so close. Honestly, he was close while sucking Sherlock off, this is just extra, for God's sake.

A loud groan as he angles himself a bit and Sherlock touches him just fucking so and everything is white behind his eyelids for a moment. So close. A shuddering inhalation: ]

Shit, Sherlock...

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