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[docwithablog]

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[acuriousincident]

[ 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. ]

[docwithablog]

[ 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?

[acuriousincident]

[ 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. ]

[docwithablog]

[ 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. ]

[acuriousincident]

[ 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. ]