Dr John Watson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
docwithablog) wrote2019-01-22 04:16 pm
docwithablog) wrote2019-01-22 04:16 pm
open post.
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With Johnny there had been (even just a subtextual) struggle for dominance, as if they weren't hooking up on equal terms and, supposedly, they weren't, because Johnny knew what he was doing, whereas John was fumbling blindly (though, come on, it isn't exactly rocket science). At least, it certainly wasn't between Johnny and him. Here, it's a different dynamic. He knows Sherlock, maybe not intimately, but close enough, you should think. He knows how the other man moves his hands when he speaks, every line he draws with his fingers, he knows the way his hair falls (much too prettily, meticulously styled) across his forehead and he knows the exact kind of look he gets in his eyes when he encounters something exciting (in relation to a case, sure, but don't tell him it's going to look different now).
Frankly, he should have seen this coming, shouldn't he? This, Sherlock's lips harsh and wet against his own, the gradual pool of heat in the pit of his stomach, despite his earlier bout of -- shagging. Since he knows Sherlock, he should have known this, too, but watch him get surprised by the shortcomings of his own unused brain and the limitations to his, if you ask Sherlock, average intellect. Watch him get surprised and not truly mind.
John speaks Sherlock, after all. John speaks Sherlock well enough to translate and not to need a translation himself. He is pretty much fluent in Sherlock and doesn't that sound outright dirty... ]
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Right now? There's need. Oh, there's definitely... need. He shifts against John a bit restlessly, his hand against his neck feeling equal parts hot and incredibly physical, the need for touch growing exponentially which is no wonder because, well. Decades. He groans into the kiss and runs his hands up John's arms to rest his palms against his broad shoulders, fingers not quite digging in. Angling his head slightly, he pushes his tongue against John's lips but he doesn't force it, why would he, they're snogging in Mrs. Hudson's hallway, for God's sake. Regardless of how much territory they cover now, surely they won't actually be done, afterwards.
And if they are, well, at least they'll both know. For sure, this time. The thought does leave him feeling slightly cold, however, and he pushes it aside forcefully, saves it for later if - when - if - it'll be needed. For the sake of further processing. There's always a way forward, isn't there, regardless of most outcomes (actual, physical death being the sole exception), though he does know. What he'd prefer. He thinks about that picture again, John and John-the-Second, post-shag. His fingers tighten - roughly - in John's jacket. ]
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So, he isn't thinking about every single way this may go wrong, instead parting his lips more and letting Sherlock snog him with tongue now, the hand grabbing the other man by his hair dropping down the side of his face, down the side of his neck, over shoulder and then, chest, shirt, softness versus something not quite as soft, right? Muscle, outline of pecs and midriff, further down, stomach. It's all so flat, he notices, and he could be missing breasts and the natural fat deposits women build up through their teens in a way men don't, but he doesn't and possibly it's a puzzle for them to solve, isn't it? Why John Watson really doesn't mind that Sherlock is very obviously not female, yet he isn't really thinking about it. Sherlock feels firm and warm beneath his touch and it's good, it's so bloody good, fat deposits are for other people than them, right now, here. It's fine (and well beyond).
A slight intake of breath, sucked in during a brief second of them parting before crashing right back against each other, and John stills his hand somewhere along the prominent line of Sherlock's midriff, his other hand still straddling him by the base of his neck, arm caught between the door and his back. He's feeling decidedly overheated now, the pooling warmth in the pit of his stomach nothing like the base drive he'd felt at the hotel Johnny had taken him to. This is physical, sure, it's very physical in fact, but it's also more and that makes the entire difference. When he finally draws away, a little (really, he isn't exactly eager to leave), he's exhaling in heavy, hot gulps of air, his lips feeling slick and pulsating, something else much further south definitely pulsating noticeably, too. This time, he doesn't try to hide it, instead meeting Sherlock's eyes in the darkness of the hallway.
Hiding it would be a lost cause, of course, we're talking about Sherlock here, and besides, it isn't necessary. He can tell. ]
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Meeting John's eyes, watching how the shadows fall in funny patterns across his face, he swallows something that, logically speaking, is probably partial nervousness, partial hunger. He isn't hard yet himself but it's definitely building up, well on its way. For some obscure reason (well obviously, his neurons firing implies a connection but right now, like this, with John standing so close to him and the taste of his mouth still vivid on his tongue, he can't quite put his finger on it), he thinks about his third case. One millisecond - flashes of facts, of scenes and connections, like flipping through the pages of a well-worn book - but then, the whole thing narrows itself down inside his head. It was just him, back then. It was... just him. He liked it fine that way or so he'd thought. Except right now, he can't even stand this slight intermission. He can't stand the thought of John backing away and leaving them cold, though he wouldn't stop him if he did (which, to some extent, makes the feeling worse).
Swallowing again, almost convulsively and hating how transparent it makes him (to John, too, though luckily he does tend to fail as an observer), he flattens his hands against John's shoulders and gives him a slight push backwards, nothing hard or forceful, just a nudge. When he speaks, his voice sounds rougher than usual, like he's finally gone that one step too far and eaten his cigarettes. ]
We should go upstairs.
[ He doesn't say - together - though he'd rather like to think it's implied. Walking just a bit stiffly, he disentangles himself gently from John's touch (more, you imbecile, not less, his brain screeches and he's almost slightly embarrassed), slipping around him and heading for the stairs. His skin feels overheated beneath his shirt and he wants to get it off, now (but not, as it were, now). He wants John's off too, except this is a game with complicated rules and skipping ahead can be catastrophic, so for once, he doesn't just flat-out say it. In fact, he doesn't say much of anything - it's all internal dialogue at this point, cluttered and difficult to make sense of. ]
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It's a fluid parting, too. Sherlock nudges at him to move away which he does, a step or so back, stiffly, and then the other man slips around him, heading for the stairs. John turns his head, following him with his eyes. He's a dark tower among the shadows of the hallway, a tall showcase of coat and too much fabric, too little -- well, nudity, let's be real. Way too little nudity, if you're asking John and he should probably question himself, but he doesn't and that in itself is rather a nice state of being. We should go upstairs, Sherlock says and doesn't add together, but John isn't stupid, he can do the math. He catches the implications at play. This is one of those things they're definitely doing as -- two people, a pair, a couple (?). Together. Together.
So, he straightens up, squares his shoulders as he turns around completely and follows Sherlock up the stairs. His steps are carefully measured, because he's half-hard in his trousers and it's not exactly comfortable, is it? Besides, there's very limited space on the staircase and Sherlock's coat takes up half the room with its billowing which seems to fit the picture of -- mystery and coolness and cheekbones, yes? Indeed. John smiles. He smiles at Sherlock's back, although he won't see it. If not because of it.
Okay, they're doing this. It seems. The door to the living room is currently an obstacle to be faced, but John lets Sherlock lead the way inside, moving up behind him in the doorway, staying close enough to catch his scent on the coat, noticing how he's actually managed to ruffle the man's hair a bit at the back and if that's not perfection in every way, he really doesn't know what is. ]
PSA: I'm not mounting anymore stairs tonight.
[ His voice is a mutter, but loud enough for Sherlock to hear. Well, there it is. He's not going up the stairs to his own bedroom, he's heading straight (or maybe not all that straight after all) for Sherlock's, it's closer and he won't have to drag his feet up another flight, just getting here has done a job on his cock. ]
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He finally glances at John over his shoulder, turns slightly sideways and shrugs out of his coat. It's heavy enough to slide off his frame with ease and he ought to hang it away properly but instead, he simply tosses it over the sofa, managing to keep all of it off the floor. The flat smells of smoke, of experiments gone awry, and the kitchen looks a complete fright, the way it does around him. Scattered thoughts, scattered belongings. He sets off towards his bedroom, leaving his coat behind in the living room, knowing full well that John is bound to follow him, as he's done since the very beginning. ]
Then, do try to keep up.
[ Spoken without much rancour, though there's more than a hint of impatience shining through, born from weeks of dancing around an all-but inconceivable problem. He's not quite certain they're heading for a solution tonight, either. More data required. He touches his lips with the back of his hand, doesn't wipe them but simply touches. They feel damp, still. He can taste John on his tongue as well (pints - and the barest whiff of vodka and cranberry juice - probably courtesy of John-the-Second) and it's making him feel so incredibly short-sighted. This, he thinks, is another reason why he's kept himself free from... romantic entanglements. Apart from making very little sense to him, they tend to elicit so many feelings and he doesn't know what to do with those. Not normally and not now, either. Thus, he steps inside his bedroom and goes to stand by his window, looking out. And waiting. ]
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He stays quiet, glancing over at Sherlock's unmoving silhouette. Frowning, he shrugs out of his jacket, dumps it on the floor, because they can pick up the pieces in the morning, right? In every way that matters. Clearing his throat, though it lacks the awkwardness of earlier, John licks his lips and shrugs slightly, both shoulders up to his ears, trying to loosen up the knots in his back. There's a tightness about his entire body right now and he needs it gone, because -- he doesn't want it like that, he wants it -- he just wants it. Different. Usually, if Sherlock had been some girl he was seeing, he'd try to joke it away, make her relax, make her play along, but between Sherlock and him it's no game (really, games aren't their forte to begin with) and thus, he can tell there's another strategy needed. Aren't they done with pretenses? Don't they need the direct route from here?
With another shrug of his shoulder, the left and it pulls a bit at his old wound, John moves over behind him. Sherlock's tall enough that he can't really see much of whatever the other man's looking at, but he's at a perfect height to lean in and balance himself with a flat hand against the small of Sherlock's back, running his lips over the jut of vertebrae visible beneath the skin at the base of his neck. The spinal column is such an irregularity, structure-wise, it seems if nothing else fitting. ]
We can't all have London's road system crammed into our heads, Sherlock, some of us need to just go by instinct.
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His mind is still pending, however, contrary to his usual proclamations, he'd be prepared to venture a guess; that in the end, eventually, they'll align with each other quite perfectly. And isn't that just a suitable description? He breathes in, breathes out, loses count of the glass irregularities. Some of us need to just go by instinct. God, how terrible. How utterly strange.
And yet, here he is, trying to do exactly that. ]
I... yes.
[ He looks down. Then, he turns against John, the sudden lack of skin-on-skin contact another odd echo, lost for now but present, still, in his neural network. He reaches out again, one hand landing lightly on John's shoulder (the right one, bullet to the left, and he hadn't truly known, even if he said so, John knew he hadn't known but he'd humoured Sherlock anyway) and trailing upwards slowly, following the lines of his neck to the back of his head. There's a slight coarseness to his hair as it slips beneath his fingertips. Contact re-established, he thinks, just as he leans down and kisses him again, harder, more roughly. Insistently. In a few seconds, he'll be walking them backwards towards his bed unless John sets them off first - it's not a matter of sequences or order, just two possibilities, thrown into the air because surely, between the two of them, they can afford the liberty. ]
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Fine, it'll be like this, will it?
Eyes shut, lips parting and tongue slipping over Sherlock's lower lip, he starts backing up against (what he sincerely hopes is the direction of) the bed, hands coming up to bury into the fabric of the other man's prissy shirt and dragging him forward, with him. He smells like an intricate map of his day so far, like smoke and burned beetles, disinfectant and a slight hint of soap, very little fresh air, you could basically map out Sherlock's every move today just by the smell of him (but then again, that's why he has a tendency to sniff people, however inappropriate it is). That's how he gets his stories. His data. John just really -- well, loves the laboratory-ish feel of it, how his work hangs around him even now, even here. How you can't escape it and you'd be a right fool to want to, to try.
He tastes familiar, too. Already, he tastes like -- well, he's not going to say it, no. There's no reason to jinx it.
The back of his knees making contact with the edge of Sherlock's bed, John comes to a halt, their chests sliding up against each other through the fabric of their shirts. He pushes his tongue in between the other man's lips, craving that heat, the warmth of him while he fumbles for a moment for the buttons on his shirt, beginning to unbutton it from the middle and down. Sherlock will simply have to fix the upper half of the row, won't he, isn't that the heights he usually frequents anyway? Bloody beanpole. ]
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Raising an eyebrow at John - How do you dress yourself in the morning?, it says, quite plainly - he unbuttons the rest of his shirt. As he slips it over his shoulders, down his arms and off, he realises that this is significantly different from two days ago, back when he walked around shirtless in the kitchen to test out John's response to his body. Right now, the variables really are... all over the place. He can hardly gauge them all, let alone control them. As he drops the shirt onto the floor, a heap of cool green against the floorboards, he straightens slightly and gives John a look. It's not a challenge. Really, he doesn't know what it is, but there's heat behind it. Intent.
Without further ado, he crouches down to untie his shoes because they're Italian leather and very unlikely to accept him trying to just wrestle his feet out of them, unloosened. It takes him all of five seconds (Sherlock was seven years old before he learned to tie and untie his own shoes - too much other data to care about, too little incentive to acquire this particular skill, at least until it became outright embarrassing, letting Mycroft tie them for him). As he straightens up again, he slips off his socks and stands there, barefoot, the air in the bedroom cool. There's a draft, he thinks, from the window. Definitely leaky. He doesn't much feel it, never has, though there are patches of goosebumps rising along the length of his arms and shoulders. ]
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Aaaaaand -- it doesn't really help, when Sherlock then proceeds to crouch down to untie his shoes, bringing himself on a rather perfect level with John's cock which is coming back to life after its journey up the stairs in tight jeans. He swallows thickly, deciding that he should really do something with himself in the meantime, just to bring attention away from how he's slowly hardening in his trousers again, breathing deeply through parted lips while stepping out of his own shoes and socks messily, kicking them off to the side to join the ranks of Sherlock's shirt, his socks and his shoes. It's cool in the bedroom, like there's a draft somewhere and although he's far from cold, he can see goosebumps rising on Sherlock's shoulders, his arms, his -- nipples hardening slightly and isn't that just lovely? Lovely. Great. He licks his lips and meets the other man's eyes when he's straightened up fully, shifting from one foot to the other. Impatiently. He need to get out of his shirt, honestly (keep up, keep up), but he'd much rather keep looking.
After all, it feels like there's half a lifetime he hasn't yet actually seen, doesn't it? It feels like Sherlock is making up for it, wholly. ]
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Either that, or he's busy contemplating something thoroughly taxing for the average mind, such as the meaning of life.
Sherlock rates it a 98/2 probability mostly because he's never actually had anyone lose their focus so completely, just because he took his clothes off in front of them. Hard to know anything for certain when you're crossing uncharted territory. ]
John.
[ He steps closer. Closer yet. Then, close enough that he could kiss him again just by leaning forward (and down, because John is quite short) another inch, he reaches out and hooks his fingers into the waistband of the other man's jeans. A slight pull towards himself, feeling the hardness of John's erection against his thigh - and the thought of it, of John just standing here, gawking at him because he... wants him (he's counting on the 98 rather strongly here) is making him hot all over, heat pooling in his lower stomach, his cock hardening in response. Distantly, he reminds himself that this thing could very well spiral out of control to an extent as to become irretrievable, pushes the thought firmly aside and flips the button on John's jeans open. ]
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[ What it is, exactly, that he knows, he wouldn't be able to tell you, even if you asked politely and he were actually inclined to answer. It's just one of those things you say, apparently, when Sherlock Holmes hooks his fingers in the waistband of your jeans and pulls you up against him, half-hard cock and everything. John breathes in once, a long drag of air, then exhales just as deeply, slowly, looking up and meeting the other man's eyes. Blue. Very blue. Also, he's still very half-naked and there are pale expanses of chest and dark nipples and there's the column of neck, along with broad shoulders... In sum, there's Sherlock and they're standing so close that John could lick a trail from his collarbone to the thin stretch of skin covering his pulse point without having to move his head much at all. Tempting.
Instead, he reaches down and catches hold of the hem of his own shirt, deciding that they'll have to cooperate on this one like they do on pretty much everything else, thus Sherlock can undress the lower half of his body (he's absolutely more than welcome to, as a matter of fact) and John will deal with the upper half and they'll be done in a flash, right? Not that they're in a hurry, sure, but his cock is feeling very constricted and very needy and sometimes a man has to listen to his privates. Blinking, John drags the shirt over his head quickly, pulling his arms out of the sleeves and throwing the club-stinking piece of fabric off to the side, quickly forgotten in the shadows. The draft is making the hairs on his arm stand on end -- or that's Sherlock's doing, too, the reactions are difficult to tell apart. Whether you're too cold or too hot, really, sometimes your body doesn't distinguish very well.
Raising both eyebrows, he catches Sherlock's eyes, waiting for the other man to do his part -- well, besides looking good enough to eat, he's got that covered already. For some reason, his mind skips back to that night at the swimming pool, Sherlock ripping the bomb vest off, tearing at his clothes and John feeling the actual, very physical relief of not being strapped into his own looming death, telling him that he was glad there was no one around to see. People would talk. People will talk.
People do little else, Sherlock had replied and they'd laughed, somehow making almost dying not that bad of an experience. Honestly, he could have used the man around in Afghanistan. He could have used someone like him, long before... But they're here, now. It's fine. It might even be better than fine. He leaves Sherlock to fight his jeans on his own, reaching out with both hands and pressing them against the other man's stomach, fingers splayed out, palms overheated, fingertips digging in as he drags them downwards, thinking that he really shouldn't be the only one to lose his trousers in the process. ]
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One, hard push and he's shoving John's jeans down his thighs and really, from this angle, there's only one way to finish the movement - he is, after all, not a small person - so he drops to his knees in front of the other man and pulls the fabric downwards. He realises he's close enough to press his cheek against the hard bulge in John's underwear and refrains only by virtue of following a different plan, one that's going to lead to the same basic end result with fewer risks of awkwardness - such as, stumbling in your jeans whilst getting a blowjob. For example. He misses John's hands on his body already, though. That's a drawback he hadn't thought to consider.
All the same. Hands following the lines of John's thighs, his skin warm and slightly damp beneath his palms, he pushes the fabric down his legs, over hard knees, down the back of his calves, all the way to his ankles. His breathing remains steady, if a little bit too quick, as his brain starts mapping out everything about John's body worth acknowledging which (to nobody's surprise, surely) turns out to be, literally, everything. He doesn't take very long, the fabric pooling around John's feet and leaving him to step free of it on his own account. Instead, he sits back on his haunches and looks up at him, realising how rarely this actually happens - he's used to looking at John from up above, isn't he? Where John seems to position him, too, because he's such a fallible, stupid, lovable person and it's really quite hard not to get... accustomed to it. ]
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It occurs to him that although he basically (and really, basically might be the perfect word for it) shagged someone four hours ago, the experience now compared to then is so vastly different that it doesn't feel even remotely alike. Getting a quick handjob up against a hotel door by a stranger who didn't matter simply doesn't hold up to the visual of Sherlock (of all people) half a movement from sticking his face in his crotch. John breathes in, breathes out, then forces himself to step out of his trousers mostly by instinct, a courtesy, because the other man went to the trouble of getting them there.
It's not as fumbling as he might have expected it to be, this, them. Everything considered. John having slept with a man a total times of one (1) and Sherlock -- being married to his work, like he said back then, when it all began. Women, not his area. No boyfriend. John has just assumed that sex wasn't his thing, though he's learned from Sherlock himself, of course, that assuming is second only to trusting in faultiness. Meeting Sherlock's eyes when the man looks up at him, the angle of his face really putting those cheekbones on display, doesn't it, John shifts again, one foot to the other, jeans pushed well enough out of the way not to become a liability. At this point, he's so hard that half doesn't cover it anymore. Regardless, he smiles, slightly, doesn't really hesitate before reaching out with one hand and running his fingers through Sherlock's hair, from his bangs to the back of his head, one long caress of his hand. Whatever book the man has picked this particular trick up from, it's working and isn't that how he prefers his experiments anyway? ]
If this is what it's like having a short friend, I'm getting myself one.
[ He keeps a perfectly straight face, only one eyebrow quirking and not in the slightest. ]
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I'm very sorry. [ His voice comes out uncharacteristically breathy as he inches closer. ] Without the coat, John, you won't be getting anywhere.
[ He leans in, kissing the skin right above John's left knee, lips running up the inside of his thigh slowly. It's a brief touch, really, but the scent of sex - of arousal, sweat and naked skin - settles on his tastebuds all the same. If he were ever in any doubts as to whether or not he'd been endowed with a chemical set-up for these types of situations (sex - just say it, for god's sake), he'd be noting down a rather strong affirmation right now. He knows, of course. But not like this, never like this. He draws back after a few seconds, only inches away from the lining of John's underpants. He's almost forgotten about his own arousal, like he forgets about his bodily needs in general whenever his mind is otherwise occupied. Whilst trying to have sex with John, though, he probably should be paying at least some attention to them. Mind and body. Always connected, yes, but the balance is different.
He gets to his feet, taking care not to stumble about in the process. He needs these trousers off, now, and he's doing it himself because they've got buttons (well, one, singularis, who cares) and they don't have all night. Thus, he makes quick work of them, pushing them off along with his socks until, like John, he's down to his underpants. And then, he pauses. Looks at the other man again, gaze sharpening slightly in the darkness, the remnants of streetlight from outside flickering through the window and leaving John curiously lit, here and there, shadows and light. He likes that look on him. The quiet but undeniable restlessness of it.
Swallowing, he crosses the distance between them, puts his hands on John's naked shoulders and pushes him backwards. Onto the bed, he hopes, but he's not actually forcing as much as urging. Whilst he can certainly drug John for the sake of science (and has, more than once, though the man's yet to notice because the experiments were failures), he's not about to push him about. In a fair fight, he'd lose for the very same reason, too. Against this man, he is at least to some extent defenseless and there's a proof worth noting - that they both love risks. That they are indeed both addicted. ]
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[ And that is as far as John gets, because Sherlock leans in and kisses the skin above his left knee, lips running up the inside of his thigh, slowly, slowly, making goosebumps break out and a very slight twitch happen in his pants. His breath comes out in a gasp, the sound echoing in the silence, like a ghost of something unsaid in the stillness of the room. He doesn't know what he'd imagined, really, he might not have imagined anything specific at all, but a part of him is somewhat disappointed when Sherlock draws back and gets to his feet, growing taller than him once more. If nothing else, then just because being on his knees suited the man well (definitely better than John would have thought, say, a month ago), where you have to look down to hold his gaze rather than crane your bloody neck. However, he does make good use of this expansion to his range of movement, crawling (and naturally he'd need to crawl out of them, tight-fitting as they always are) out of his trousers and abandoning them along with his socks to the darkness across the floor, the entire process as efficient as you'd expect of him which is no doubt why he didn't leave it up to John, though John's got a steady hand and very nimble fingers when it counts. Which Sherlock knows, there's nothing left to prove in that regard.
In the faint light from the streets outside the windows, they're looking at each other in a play of shadows, a comfortable quiet settling between them again. Like a starting point, as well as an intermission and, somewhere ahead, it will undoubtedly define the finishing line, too.
John's eyes run down Sherlock's front like that, not really lingering, but taking him in as a whole. Certainly too thin, that's his professional opinion, but also certainly doable, as his body agrees. So, he doesn't move when Sherlock walks up to him, doesn't move when he puts his hands on his shoulders, doesn't move until he's being urged backwards, the bed right behind him and it seems the next logical step, to draw backwards until the back of his knees make contact with the edge of it. The rest comes naturally, sitting down and sliding into a halfway reclining position, keeping himself up on one elbow, reaching out with his free hand to close his fingers around Sherlock's arm and tugging him along. They'll probably end up a sprawl of limbs at some point anyway, why not sooner rather than later? He's very much in favour of increased physical contact now, more intimacy, because they need to start calling things by their actual names. "Friends" is wearing thin as a concept, when John's so hard it's beginning to hurt with Sherlock not far behind either, he noticed before. What they're going to call themselves henceforth, time will tell, but there must be available alternatives.
Have you seen the Oxford dictionaries? Huge. ]
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Come on.
[ He emphasises his words by reaching out, fingers curling around John's wrist and pulling him closer, down towards himself, trying to avoid their legs getting all entangled and probably failing. But really, they're hardly going to get anywhere with one of them, hovering over the other (astral sex? ugh. some people truly are insane), and John's bound to show him differently if it doesn't work for him, surely. Regardless of how much he'll accept on a daily basis as Sherlock's flatmate, he's not by any means a pushover. He tries to imagine actually wasting his time, getting physical with someone like that and quickly dismisses the thought as completely and utterly ludicrous.
They've reached an interesting state of equilibrium, the two of them. John, with his limited experience in terms of sleeping with his own gender (I'm not gay, he says, and Sherlock quite agrees, because really, John may not know too many things but regarding this, his own proclivities, at least, he ought to be the only available expert), Sherlock with his limited, sexual frequency. Drugs, yes and thank you, because they tend to be a wholly solitary indulgence. Sex? Is complicated. A chemical redundancy. So here they are, then, balancing each other out which is so typical, he can't help but smile at the thought, a very understated expression that fades before it reaches his eyes. ]
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Okay, so obviously it's not actually the coat's fault, how he works his cheekbones when flipping up his collar, it's just a thing, because his hair emphasises their sharpness in much the same manner, making John want to kiss him again and nothing's been stopping him so far, least of all Sherlock, so there. He makes a non-verbal sound, leaning down and pressing his mouth to the other man's, not really waiting for the build-up this time, they've passed that point already, right, instead simply parting his lips and slipping him the tongue. Sherlock's mouth is hot and wet and it feels -- no less incredible than it had the first time. Except, lo and behold, John is much less drunk now and can actually take a certain pleasure in it.
Eyes falling shut, he keeps his weight on his side, running his free hand down Sherlock's left arm, following it from shoulder to elbow before changing directions and instead pressing it flatly against his midriff. Here's the thing about John Watson, John Watson really likes foreplay which has always been a very good preference to keep, because women (...), but without making comparisons he likes the pace they've struck now, Sherlock and him, he likes that he's unmistakably hard, but not rushing, not yet. He likes that Sherlock doesn't make a repeat of Johnny who'd been jerking him off before he'd even been out of his pants. He likes this. Maybe he should be surprised, maybe he shouldn't.
Slipping his hand further down, fingers sliding beneath the waistband of Sherlock's underpants and hooking in the fabric lightly, he inhales heavily through his nose, breaking away from the kiss once more and pushing his mouth against the side of Sherlock's neck instead, lips parted, tongue licking a heated traill from earlobe and down. ]
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He probably shouldn't be thinking about this doing sex - another one of his problems, certainly, he can't rightly just shut it off, now can he - but even as John's hand travels across his stomach, dipping lower and slipping beneath the hem of his pants, he can't help but shift a bit restlessly against him, wondering whether they're doing this as an extension of their normal status quo - or whether they'll be waking up to a new world tomorrow. The past month certainly hasn't been all that different from normal but then again, they've been very purposefully fighting this thing off. Badly, yes. Certainly. But they've tried.
Biting his lip and re-focusing, he tightens his hand slightly around John's arm for a second before running his palm up over his shoulder, settling near the nape of his neck. Every pressure of John's body against his, be it the slide of naked skin against naked skin or his fingertips, ghosting over his lower abdomen, is making him simultaneously less perceptive and more desperate for clarity. It's an impossible enterprise, searching for answers when you don't even know where to look, and as he pushes up slightly against John's hand, he gives up trying to make sense of it for now, knowing full well that he'll be doing some extensive follow-up when they're done and - biologically, he'd like to state, for the record - incapable of caring much either way. ]
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It's good. He likes it, he likes it a lot, in fact.
Cock straining against his own underpants, John manages to angle his fingers enough to slip Sherlock's down over his hard-on without any too embarrassing incidents of catch me if you can. He inches to the side, baring the other man's lower body in an effort to push the right now rather offending underwear down his thighs, waiting for Sherlock to take over and finish the process himself. He's very talented at finishing processes, even when he shouldn't, even when it involves spiking John's coffee or leaving him behind at a crime scene without a backwards glance, but if nothing else you can always count on Sherlock to lead you towards the finish line and if there was ever a time the finish line looked more appealing than now, John can't remember it (though, to be fair, right now he doesn't even remember three hours ago very well).
He pushes back against the other man's lips, the muscles of his arm, then his shoulder and his neck flexing beneath his grip when he tilts his head to the side a little to meet the kiss. From this angle he can't actually see much, when he glances down, there's a flat expanse of chest and a hint of stomach, but the rest is obscured and he swallows thickly, shifting to the side a little to catch sight of Sherlock's cock that he's currently busy freeing and the funny thing (well, funny's a deceptive word, he supposes) is that not even once during his -- thing with Johnny, did he look down. Not once. ]
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Besides, with John taking up so much of his direct line of vision, surely he can be forgiven for a slight amount of disorientation. That, and the fact that the feel of his lips is driving him to complete distraction. Eyes blinking shut (again - when did he even open them in the first place?), he shifts up against him more fully again, ignoring their tangle of limbs for the sake of body contact, heat, the slight dampness of skin, and if he shifts his hips like this - oh god - the hard length of his cock sliding up against John’s thigh, the friction making him gasp out against his lips. He can’t remember when he last got off without the help of his hand - it’s a bodily urge, really, and in general he’ll satisfy it as quickly and as time-efficiently as he can because it tends to mean so very little in any case.
Though he’s loath to associate himself with romantic inclinations of any sort, he’d be an idiot - well and truly - to file this away with the rest of his meaningless, bodily experiences. For one thing, he can’t currently stop sensing John, from his scent to the firmness of his skin to the strength of his muscles and the weight of his body against his; there’s no immediate categorisation, it’s just a slew of inputs and he’d classify it as sensory assault if it didn’t feel so bloody good. Thus, he kisses him back almost ferociously, teeth gracing his bottom lip completely on purpose and his nails digging into his back. Shifts his hips again, just so, because he doesn’t know whether John’s actually planning on touching his cock to get him off and he’s not going to beg for it, either. Freeing one hand, he reaches down between them and cubs him through his underpants, pressing his palm upwards, a slow, rubbing-motion. ]
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The other man gasps, John frowning slightly in concentration while returning to the kiss he left behind, meeting the sheer pressure of Sherlock's mouth, the hint of teeth (and is that nails against his back, bloody hell) with a firm push of tongue, up against the underside of Sherlock's. It's wet and hot and his cock is so undeniably present against John's thigh that he can't think about anything else, not even the way his own cock is straining against the cotton of his underpants, fighting for its freedom and haven't they all been there, mate?
Shifting underneath his weight, Sherlock frees one hand and reaches in between them, cupping John's cock through the fabric and rubbing up, making John break away from the kiss to pant hoarsely against his cheek (stupid cheekbone stretching out beneath his lips). The man's hand is bigger than he's used to, the long expanse of palm and outstretched fingers and he could probably jerk him off with ease -- It's a rush through his system, an actual, aggressive forward motion of his hips, along with the hard pumping of blood that makes his skin burn, John more or less shoving his own hand downside Sherlock's to press his sweaty palm against the other man's jutting hipbone. Deciding to just start from the -- root of the matter, he runs his hand in one searching motion over the bulge of balls to the base of Sherlock's cock, curling his fingers around it loosely, softly, his knuckles sliding along the heated skin of his own thigh in the process.
They're lying so close together that they're practically breathing in one another's exhalations, circulating air, their combined scents and tastes, between them and it feels -- homely. It feels safe. Even if John has absolutely no idea what he's doing, it still feels better than with Johnny earlier tonight and by no means does it feel worse than any woman he's ever slept with. Something he might have to wonder about. After. Later. ]
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It hits him suddenly. Here they are, in his bed, and John's probably done experimenting (dull sex with dull people apparently doesn't appeal to him - who would have thought?), though it's hard to say what they're calling this, in turn. To Sherlock, it's definitely not an experiment, has ceased being anything even approaching it for a good many hours. For one, he's got no idea what he'd supposedly be testing out. He can't tell his variables apart. There isn't anything to hold it up against, perhaps aside from the empty nothing that came before John. He's not so certain he truly wants to compare the two.
Drawing in another breath, this time deeper and less trembling, he pulls his hand away, pushing John slightly to make enough room for him to bring it up to his lips. He meets John's eyes for a brief moment, knowing full well that his expression isn't quite as cool as it normally is (blown-out pupils, for one thing - for certain - and then, there's the fact that he can't seem to catch his breath), then licks a heavy trail across his palm. He can taste John's arousal on himself already, as surely as he can smell it between them, and in response, his cock gives a happy jerk between John's fingers that he really can't be responsible for at this very moment. Instead, he reaches down again, unceremoniously, and pushes his hand underneath the waistband of John's underpants. His palm glides slickly over the hard length of John's cock, from head and all the way to its base. It doesn't take much more than a twitch of his wrist to free him from the confines of fabric and at this point, if John can't tell he's done this before, he really should be shot.
Non-fatally. Obviously. ]
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Between his fingers, Sherlock's cock twitches lightly, just a happy jerk which makes him tighten his grip a little around the other man's shaft. He reminds himself that he really should have spat into his palm before taking hold of it, for the same reason that Sherlock is undoubtedly licking his hand now, moisture, slickness, slide, but he forgot and he doesn't get a chance to mirror Sherlock before the other man has reached down again, slipping his hand quite effortlessly into his underwear and gripping his length, a tight, wet glide of palm against already damp skin all the way down to the base.
John forgets to breathe. Head falling forward, he can't seem to get the air deeply enough down his lungs, exhaling harshly through his nose while fighting (fighting) not to add any ridiculous sound effects to his surprise. Shit, it's good. It feels absolutely right -- and Sherlock even manages to wrench his way out of John's pants one-handedly which is actually quite a feat and obviously, so very obviously, not beginner's luck. It reminds him of how Johnny had squeezed his hand down the front of his jeans like the room wasn't a very limited affair, like it was no big deal, like he'd done it a thousand times before and he questions, not for the first time tonight, how much exactly he should have read into girlfriends not being Sherlock's area back then. Not that it matters. What was it John himself had said in response, it's all good. Probably rings truer now than ever, to be honest.
As it is, he needs to get his palm wet. It'll be better that way and he needs it to be exactly this good for Sherlock, too. By now, he has given up on not simply breathing through his mouth, and releases Sherlock's cock to raise his hand -- first to his own mouth, but mostly on a whim he quirks an eyebrow and turns his attention on Sherlock, pretty much shoving his open palm in his face with a trembling, hoarse-sounding: ]
Care to sign this one, too?
[ He even gives his hand a little shake, Sherlock's own scent probably stark in his nostrils like this and you're welcome. He can thank him later, in the same way John fully intends to show him his gratitude in return. ]
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