docwithablog | open post.

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[ John favours him with a slight smile and a really bad joke (it's got to be a joke), but the touch of his hand is making him a lot less likely to comment with something scathing or cruel. Instead, he shrugs very slightly, shifting from one foot to the other, gaze slipping from John's face down his bare chest and stomach. And further. ]

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. ]

The coat --

[ 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. ]

[ John follows along, as John is wont to do. He tugs at Sherlock's arm to pull him along and this time, it's a system of flawless back-and-forth, Sherlock dropping to his knees on the mattress, the sheets rustling beneath them. The bed's unmade, naturally, why wouldn't it be, and as such, they aren't messing up any pre-existing order by getting comfortable side by side. He ends up mostly on his side, lying down more fully than John, who's maintained some high ground still by resting on his elbow. Looking up at him, Sherlock holds his gaze for a moment. This is one of the reasons (one of several) why he never bothers with sex - it's an endless analytic hellhole, trying to decipher who's doing what at which turn, who's waiting on who, which body parts are going... where. This time around, he skips most of it, going only as far as to deduce that between the two of them, it's really only a matter of who acts first, the rest of the story tends to write itself. Doesn't it, John? ]

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. ]

[ They end up next to each other on the unmade bed, because you wouldn't rightly expect Sherlock Holmes to make his bed like a grown-up (or, if you would, you'd be a fool), John resting on his elbow and Sherlock lying down beside him, striking some kind of balance that isn't disturbed until Sherlock says come on and closes his fingers around John's wrist, pulling him down on top of him (and even then, the balance only settles into something else, a different distribution of weight). He follows along willingly, frowning while trying to settle into a comfortable position, their legs entangled and fronts sliding over one another, naked chests pressing together and stomachs and lower bodies -- and John holds himself up slightly with one arm against the mattress next to Sherlock's shoulder, the man's hair a mess of dark curls against the sheets, framing in his face, turned towards him. His lips curve in a smile, briefly.

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. ]

[ The pace kicks up a notch without slipping into hurried or desperate which is quite a relief. Though he's got a sharp brain, it's not actually keeping up at its usual speed of processing right now and with John taking his sweet time, at least he isn't actively falling behind. Instead, his mind is being positively flooded with hormones and thank god everything in there's so thoroughly connected or he'd be without a sensible thought when John licks a trail from his earlobe and down his neck. He cranes his neck slightly, into that warm, wet touch of his tongue and runs his hand up John's arm, fingers locking tightly around his biceps. Shifting slightly on his back, he turns his head enough to press his lips against whatever he can reach of John's head. Warm skin, hair, the faint smell of burberry (aftershave, lasts around three hours, never meant to make it home with anyone, obvious). He inhales, greedily.

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. ]

[ A sharp tint of Everyday Life w/ Sherlock Holmes is still clinging to Sherlock's skin, the smell of something burnt (beetles, the man said, no need to think too much about that), as well as disinfectant and a more neutral soap-like scent attacking John's nostrils when he runs his lips down the side of his neck, but there's also (at this point, naturally) the smell of sweat and him, darker and duskier than his cheekbones and perpetually young features might have fooled you into expecting. John breathes in deeply, filling as many as his currently activated sensory organs as possible with the presence of him, tongue tingling from the soft taste of his skin, the back of his neck tingling from his touch. He's pretty much everywhere, but with Sherlock, you'd be stupid not to know -- that's how it works. That's what he does. This is how they do it, apparently.

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. ]

[ Seeing as John obviously isn’t planning on moving enough to finish the motion himself, Sherlock takes the hint from him with a fluency that doesn’t usually characterise their interaction - they aren’t relying on obscure social cues at this very moment and he’s glad of it, because he hates stumbling towards the finish line in all aspects of life. Shifting his hips and reaching down with his free hand, he pushes his underpants down the rest of the way and notices only afterwards what an absolute relief it is, to be free from their restraint. With some rather inelegant shuffling of feet, he kicks them off completely, possibly kicking John in the process because he’s got really long legs and they’re basically all over each other, him and John, it’s rather hard to avoid touching, for better and for worse.

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. ]

[ Losing his underpants is somewhat of a struggle under which Sherlock manages to kick John not just once, but twice with his longer than is undoubtedly legal legs in the efforts to rid himself of the offending item of clothing. Not that John cares, he's much more focused on craning his neck to look down, waiting for the other man to shift forward enough that he can get a clear view of his cock as it -- slides up against his thigh, well, okay then, there's both touch and visuals at play now, the visual honestly surprisingly appealing, again, dr. John Watson isn't used to having an opinion about cocks, especially not cocks pressing in against his leg, but since it's Sherlock's (and since it's honestly a very attractive cock, but what would you expect, have you seen the man it's attached to) and since they're here, on Sherlock's bed, he'll admit that it's rather a tantalizing feeling, heated and damp and hard.

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. ]

Edited 2019-02-16 14:45 (UTC)

[ Oh. He sucks in a startled breath as John's fingers close around the length of his cock and his hips still, as he takes a moment to gather his composure. He's got large hands, John, large and relatively sturdy, capable of handling both medical tools and assault rifles with equal competence; and as of now, he's adding surprisingly gentle to the list of attributes, you wouldn't honestly know about the rest of the list if this was all you knew (good thing they met in a lab at Bart's, really, and not like this - his John-deduction would have been a lot less impressive). He lies still, breathing in and exhaling shakily.

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. ]

[ He is about to do something, is John, really, move, when Sherlock withdraws his hand again, making the muscles in John's thighs tighten in response as he does his best not to thrust forward too obviously at the sudden lack of touch, of stimulation. A slight shove to make room and John watches, transfixed, while Sherlock lifts his hand to his lips -- and licks a heavy trail across his own palm, gaze skirting away from John's while he does so, his blue eyes only showing off their dilated pupils for a second, but it's enough, the recognition of need going straight in his blood (not to mention, Sherlock is licking his palm, isn't he, where's John supposed to be looking, how is he supposed to react).

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. ]

[ He's about to set a rhythm of some sort, manages a slow slide up the length of John's cock when the man lets go of him (don't do that, why would you do that) and he's about to complain, he really is, when John does something utterly unexpected. Isn't it beautiful - the unexpected? Just so. For a good many seconds, he just stares at the hand in front of his face and John smells of him, almost irrevocably so, it's rather good. This whole, entire thing. Eyes narrowing slightly, he meets John's gaze head-on. Care to sign this one, too? Such a John-thing to say, really, bloody action hero. One deep breath, then another, the scent of arousal and sex making his blood pound faster yet - then, quite succinctly, he pulls his hand way from where it's currently resting between John's shoulder blades (leaving five half-moon shaped marks in its wake, though they won't notice that until morning). Grabbing hold of the other man's wrist firmly, he pulls it closer to his mouth, leans in and licks his palm. Slowly. And steadily.

He doesn't mind the taste of his own sex overly much, though he's quite quick to distinguish between what's his and what's John; there's an spiced-up kind of saltiness to him, something clean but insistent and he's got no other words, really, for what is, ultimately, just a mix of inherent and contextually-induced chemical connections. He's making things up, he realises very belatedly, and draws back slightly, the taste of skin and sweat heavy on his tongue. Fantastical thoughts. Mirages. Tomorrow, no doubt, he'll have to scold himself very thoroughly for giving into flights of fancy just because he's suddenly so very close to getting off with John, just because he's been wanting to do that for a lot longer than the past month and pushed it aside as both commonplace and impossible.

For now, however, he'll take his rush and enjoy it for what it's worth, for as long as it lasts. ]

Can't help you with the next bit, though. Best get moving.

[ He's forcing some semblance of calm and stability into his voice, but it still sounds ragged to his ears. Breathing coming out distinctively shallow, his balls already tightening up almost painfully, he starts jerking John off more readily now, his hand running up and down the shaft of his cock, keeping the foreskin pulled up, his thumb rubbing firmly along the underside. He's going by assumption rather than experience, here; if, percentage-wise, this is how most men prefer their handjobs (some google-research may or may not feature into this assessment), surely there's a good chance John will be satisfied, too. And if not, well, he can let him know. They are, after all, within speaking distance. ]

[ For a long moment, the other man just stares at his hand like he doesn't know what to do with it and there's a deadpan second in which John wonders whether he'll have to explain the idea further, after all, Sherlock can be pretty dim, they're talking about the man with no knowledge of the solar system here. And of course he means dim in the relative sense, since Sherlock is undeniably very clever and very amazing and what have you, but also a complete, arrogant sod. Finally, as if to prove a point, he grabs hold of John's wrist with his free hand, leaning in and licking a very hot, wet trail up his palm, the movement slow and steady, deliberate. Rather sexy, too -- and Sherlock knows it, you can tell, just as John's body definitely knows. His balls are tightening up between his thighs and Sherlock's fingers around his shaft are pretty much leaving him burning up. He hears himself breathing out, a long, ragged exhalation, before pulling his hand out of the other man's grip, just in time for Sherlock to start sliding his other hand up and down again with a nonchalant (if very breathy), best get moving.

He can't help him with the next bit. Because the next bit... obviously...

Swallowing thickly, John has to concentrate very hard (very hard, indeed) on reaching down between them, curling his now plenty-slick fingers around the base of Sherlock's cock and dragging upwards, feeling the actually very -- appealing contrast of soft, soft skin and the hardness of the erectile tissue underneath. He blinks a few times, finding it difficult (borderline impossible) to actually focus on establishing anything just remotely resembling a rhythm when Sherlock is jerking him off. So very efficiently. A half-groan as Sherlock's thumb rubs up along the underside in that way which usually gets him a tiny bit dizzy, his field of vision narrowing down noticeably, everything turning transparent and unimportant around the edges, his world suddenly consisting largely (only) of Sherlock's hand on his cock and his body stretched out below his own. Keeping himself up on his arm, muscles straining visibly in his upper arm, John is feeling sweaty and damp and overheated and -- very, very turned on, more turned on than he's been in ages and he had sex four hours ago.

Well, he knows whom to thank.

The second groan is louder, deeper and he bends his head enough to catch Sherlock's bottom lip between his teeth, hoping to God that kissing the other man will help him keep quiet. His hips are beginning to push forward at an interval now, a series of quite desperate thrusts, trying to meet Sherlock's hand halfway there, halfway there... His other hand, fingers tightening around Sherlock's cock, hasn't struck a rhythm yet, but he has managed to angle his wrist enough to add some speed to the pacing of his sliding motions. Some friction to every glide. The silence is echoing from the very telltale sound of skin slapping against skin. Handjobs are audibly recognisable things, after all.

John likes it. Oh, he likes it very much. ]

[ Well. There's another statistic for you, it seems. Lip tingling, Sherlock breaks the kiss after a few seconds, very much breathless, and watches John's face, gaze sliding down, past his trembling arm and his upper body, damp with sweat. Downwards, even further, to where their hands are moving very much out of sync, Sherlock setting a somewhat even pace while John's clearly in need of some relief before he can adequately contribute. His touch is sending small but significant shock-waves through him, however, and to be quite frank, Sherlock's not entirely displeased that John can't quite keep up just now, not for sake of gloating but because it leaves him better prepared to continue without losing concentration. Leaning his head back, brow furrowing lightly, he quickens the motion of his hand just a fraction, not to rush but to effect. Though he isn't looking at him, he can feel (feel, feel, feel, how insufferable, but right now he'll have to accept it) how John's falling apart slowly on top of him, and the thought is, quite honestly, intoxicating.

It doesn't surprise him that John's the type to keep quiet - or at least attempt it. He's not a man to toughen down out of nowhere, it's not just related to his time as a soldier, either. It's a character trait. Sherlock's not altogether sure about the science related to personality traits and temperament but surely, people are biology first and foremost, before anything else. He tightens his grip slightly around John's cock, just as his palm passes over the head, slipping downwards again immediately after. Repeat. And again.

He files that fact away along with all the rest, the veritable arsenal he's got on the other man, data that he doesn't know what to do with, except to keep assembling it. He can't stop, after all, one might as well request that he stop existing, and just because he's not like John - the differences are so many and so varied that he wouldn't know where to start with that particular list - he gasps out loud when John's hand manages a particularly perfect slide down his cock, perfect pressure, perfect pace, and it's just a little but so long as he keeps it up, it will certainly be too much, as well. He's sweating as well, the sheets feel crumbled and overheated beneath him. And John, above him, warm enough to leave him senseless. ]

Edited 2019-02-16 19:10 (UTC)

[ Breaking the kiss after a few seconds and all but gasping for breath in its wake, Sherlock leans his head back, working blindly with his hand on John's cock which is really more than John can manage right now, the other way around, he's well aware and really not too proud to admit it, either. As far as keeping up any of the aspects of a really good handjob, he's doing a (if not piss-poor, then at least) rather average job of it. Sorry, Sherlock, in a moment -- Especially as the other man's grip on his cock tightens, falling into a very distinctive rhythm of palm sliding over the head (the glans getting a nice taste of friction that way, it's truly maddening, who bloody well taught him that anyway), John sort of loses it. Gasping well before Sherlock does, because he manages to land a good (lucky) stroke, John bucks up against the other man's hand, thrusting into the heated, tight space between his fingers, meeting every repetition of the movement that he's got on offer, seeing as it's driving him up the wall, sweat running down the back of his neck and pooling in the dips of muscle along his shoulders. Oh, it's good, it's bloody amazing and Sherlock better not decide he needs a case now, because if he runs off anywhere within the span of the next minute, John will hunt him down and shoot him dead. No doubt about it. No doubt whatsoever. Don't joke with a man and his orgasm.

His every exhalation sounding loud and harsh in the relative stillness of the room, John swallows thickly and looks down at Sherlock, narrowing his eyes while he follows the outline of his features - brow and nose and lips and stupid cheekbones, yes, it's all there, no part of his face has escaped him since they begun, so they better end it on the same note, everything intact, right? He groans, louder this time around, and drops his head enough to rest his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder, trying for the blind approach and just kind of feeling out his cock between his fingers. It's hard and hot and if he uses his thumb the same way Sherlock did, maybe there's another lucky stroke in the mix somewhere. He really enjoys the feeling of him, though, the volume of it, a different kind of weight than his own and the smoothness beneath his fingertips. How many times has he denied being gay since he started living with Sherlock and here he is, waxing poetics about a cock, but then again, it isn't just any cock, it's Sherlock's and honestly, if he's gay for Sherlock, John Watson will be grandly okay with that.

Balls tightening up rather forebodingly now, he breathes out against the outline of Sherlock's clavicle and shifts forward abruptly, his hips working mostly on their own at this point. It's really only bearing in one direction now and it's fine, it's good, it's -- very good. Who'd have thought, but it is and he definitely not one to turn down a good thing. Without Sherlock he'd still be on his own and that's possibly the dreariest thought he could come up with in a near-climax situation, so he abandons it and focuses on -- meeting -- Sherlock's fingers -- just right. ]

Edited 2019-02-16 20:19 (UTC)

[ There's a shift, slight but significant, as John starts thrusting into his hand, looking down at him for a moment before dropping his forehead against his shoulder. His hair tickles Sherlock's jaw and if he turns his head a fraction, his lips as well. So he does. He doesn't let up on the rhythm of his hand, mostly because they seem to be reaching some sort of unspoken consensus now and god, John's getting it too, isn't he, he's probably... thinking less, doing more... as is really the best look on him in all situations... Sherlock groans, loudly, lips trailing aimlessly across John's brow until there's hair in his mouth. He doesn't care. It tastes like John, really, without any hints of the shampoo he uses in the shower; there's a faint trace of smokiness to it, though, from the club no doubt. Mouth stilling against John's temple, he shifts his hips upwards and John's hand is currently at the most perfect angle for this, it hits all the right notes every time... every time...

He can feel his balls drawing up now (has to be approximately 60 seconds away from orgasm now, him, not John, John is closer yet, surely or maybe he's once again managed to fall into step with him, how does he do that, how), eyes screwing shut as he uses his other hand to grasp onto John's shoulder, fingers digging into his skin and pulling him closer. Yes, his body is definitely racing towards climax now and he's not about to pause it, really, when has he ever waited on anyone, but he makes sure to slip his thumb across the naked head of John's cock a few times, smearing precum along the shaft, just to speed him up. Yes, for him it's a fundamental condition more than it is situational or rare - that he tends to be the first (to come first, haha, ugh) in most matters because he's faster than most other people, that it leaves him mostly alone, too, because most other people can't be bothered to play catch-up every second of their lives.

When his orgasm finally bursts out of him, long, pulsing sparks of pleasure racing down the length of his cock, spilling over John's hand and between their bodies, he's got his eyes closed and his hand firmly working John's cock, mind going blissfully blank. For the briefest little second, exceptionally unimportant in the grand scheme of things, all he can really think is John because the man is everywhere at once. Enough even, that he breathes out his name, his hand tightening almost convulsively against his shoulder. There's nothing but blank emptiness behind his eyelids, though, and he lets himself drown in it just now, saving all eventual regrets for later. As with a very decent high, there's a low afterwards and he's no less prepared to face it now than when he actively chooses it. This time, however, it's not wholly up to him and it's very hard to figure out if the thought's a comfort or just flat-out terrifying so he doesn't waste any time on it. Pushes it aside. And waits for his muscles to come down. ]

[ It isn't exactly necessary, John is pretty sure he'd have climaxed without the additional burst of pleasure as Sherlock uses his precum to smear along the shaft of his cock, but John certainly welcomes it all the same. That extra bamf. That extra rush of heat and pleasure -- as well as his balls drawing up forcefully as he comes in long, harsh jerks against the other man's palm, spending himself in spurts of cum between Sherlock's fingers, leaving strings of it across his lower body. Sherlock's lips are pressing in against his temple, his nearness a comfortable scent in his nostrils, the heat of his body, the feeling of his breath messing up John's hair, though it's nowhere near a length where it'll truly suffer from it, unlike (say) Sherlock's own. John is breathing raggedly in against Sherlock's shoulder, leaving his skin moist from his exhalations, his arm finally giving up the battle it's been enduring this entire time, giving out at the elbow and leaving him pretty much sprawled out on top of him, no real support to uphold any distance between their bodies. Which is fine, he supposes, Sherlock just came, too.

They weren't completely in sync, but definitely closer than John has ever managed with any of his other sex partners and for someone who was fumbling his way through the entire thing, he thinks a round of congratulations is in order, really, maybe a pat on the back. Besides, Sherlock's cock feels sticky and spent in his grip now (he's not been a good doctor today, they should definitely have used condoms for this) and there's an echo of his name hanging between them, in the other man's deep voice, because Sherlock breathed it out just a second ago, with a softness that's otherwise uncharacteristic of him. Facts and figures, for Sherlock Holmes. Never anything that sounds remotely like poetry.

Waiting for the last tremors of the other man's orgasm to subside, John doesn't withdraw his hand right away, but when he does he dries it off blindly in the sheets, turning onto his side before reaching up to press a still sex-reeking palm to his face. His breathing has calmed down a bit. He doesn't sound like an ad for the London Marathon anymore. If anything, he sounds like he's been jogging after Sherlock all afternoon and that isn't strictly wrong either, so he'll take it. He'll take this. He lets his hand fall away from his face and glances at Sherlock across the really unimportant distance between them currently, licking his lips and wondering whether he's at a position where he can fully trust the use of his voice again. His entire body feels forcibly relaxed, his muscles buzzing from endorphins and whatever else kind of crap his system is releasing right now. What does he know, he's only a professional. ]

If I ask you why we haven't done this before, will you be able to not answer me honestly?

[ He comes down from it gradually, forcing his eyes open mostly in response to John's question. His hand feels sticky with cum, as does the sheets and his lower abdomen but he can't be arsed to move or wipe it off, so he leaves it to dry in splotchy patterns instead. They'll need to shower in the morning anyhow, it hardly matters now. Breathing returning only slowly to its regular rhythm, he glances sideways at the other man, gaze raking over his features for a few seconds. Sated, most of all. Licking his lips, alright, a tinge of something else in the afterglow, possibly 1) missing-condom regret or 2) just general bafflement at having done this when about five weeks ago, it wouldn't even cross his mind. None of those are truly worrisome issues and he leaves them hanging (unless, of course, John-the-Second came with STDs in which case John-the-First will lose absolutely every point he's managed to gain tonight), clearing his throat and glancing upwards at the ceiling. What he wouldn't give for a cigarette right now... ]

I am always able. [ He shrugs. ] You already know why, can't see why I'd waste my time pointing it out. [ In his mind, he ticks the boxes anyway: social norms and expectations; the effect of trauma on sexual identity and personal narratives, a drive towards the safety in what's already known and familiar and accepted; you think you want normalcy, john, but that doesn't mean you need it. He sighs, audibly. ] The non-honest answer would be that I don't know.

[ He stretches lazily, feet almost popping off the bed in the process. As a natural consequence of orgasm, he feels incredibly, bonelessly tired and he really ought to go and wash up somewhat, do something to prepare for bed but he's already in it and in less than a minute he'll be half-asleep, so really. He stays exactly where he is, his shoulder touching John's front, the smell and feel of him everywhere still in his sensory systems, taking up space in a way that John so rarely does otherwise. He can allow it now. Of course he can. All thoughts of tomorrow - of onward, of consequences and regrets - feel distant, like his brain's given up on executive functioning for the night altogether. He shifts closer to John, just a fraction. ]

Edited 2019-02-16 22:09 (UTC)

[ They're a mess of spunk and sweat and other sexual leftovers (though, hopefully still STD-free, he'll have to remind Sherlock to get tested tomorrow, that'll be an interesting one for Molly to run), lying next to each other not not quite touching. Neither of them is really getting ready to go anywhere, though, the bathroom or -- well, if John should have any inclination to drag himself up the stairs to his own bedroom, it's well and truly buzzed out by the laziness clinging to his every muscular fibre. Sherlock shifts closer, just a tiny bit, and John greets him with an arm reaching out, landing a bit uncoordinated still across his midriff. It's not a tug (or a hug or anything like that), but it's an accommodation, him grabbing onto the last remnants of physical intimacy before it's gone, along with the moment. Sherlock's stomach is splotched by cum and John doesn't even try to avoid getting his forearm dragged through the ruins of their unsafe sexual escapades, that's how many fucks he gives about his own STD-worries. Nothing to be done about it now, after all. Besides, Sherlock smells like a rather intriguing mix of the two of them and since you can't rightly get that scent bottled, it's a matter of staying close while it lasts, isn't it? John drums his fingers a bit restlessly against the other man's lower ribs, you can count those things, really, that's how thin he is. ]

Anyway, it was nice.

[ You already know why, Sherlock says, because no, he can't not be everyone's least-favourite and drunkenly honest uncle (or in John's case, sister, though drawing parallels between Sherlock and Harry is really not a very attractive thought right now, everything considered) and he licks his lips again, shifting so his head finds a more comfortable rest against the mattress, smelling very much like shagging, but what did he expect? That he'd come home from war and not dream of a nuclear family, come on, it's part of the package, the concept.

That he'd have the very good fortune to meet someone like Sherlock? Perhaps such a thought was even more far-fetched than the first, back then. ]

[ It was nice. Says John and settles down next to him, one arm slung across his midriff. He frowns for at moment, considering the weight of John's arm, the proximity, the smell of sex still heavy in the air and his words, of course, he doesn't miss those, even though he doesn't rightly know what to think of them. Nice. In what way? He doesn't ask because they're post-orgasmic and nobody wants to take a quiz when they've just spent themselves so thoroughly - all the same. He'd like to know. In fact, he could possibly lie awake for quite a while if he were so inclined (he's not), pondering all possible answers and getting nowhere in the process because no one can tell him but John. John said it. He owns them. The implications. Blinking slowly this time, feeling both sated and worried and incredibly sleepy, he glances sideways at John for a long moment before turning his head away. He likes the way he drummed his fingers against his skin before, he decides. There was something sensible about it.

Nice is a good word for what they've just done, supposedly. If you don't want to truly understand anything about it. He shifts, feeling suddenly restless, then breathes in deeply, forcing his body to relax. He's craving sleep and considering how rarely this happens, he might as well take the chance and be well-rested tomorrow. He finds himself shifting just a bit closer yet, enough that their bodies end up lined against each other on the bed, legs entwined somewhat again, the scent of sex hanging heavily in the room around them.

Staring straight ahead into the darkness for a long moment, he makes a swift decision: he'll memorise what he can (everything) and then, if it turns out to be nice just this once and never again, he'll be... Well. He'll have it. And that's that. ]

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