Fic: Just a Taste (Complete)
Title: Just a Taste
Links: AO3
Rating: NC-17
Status: Complete
Author: 30percent
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Word count: 2486
Disclaimer: Not mine, alas.
Summary: The sixth day, it's an eclair. They don't have eclairs lying about the flat as a general rule, so John must've nipped out to the shops for it. Sherlock circles it for long moments, but it's dark and lovely, and finally he can't resist. The chocolate is rich and dark against his tongue, and his eyes close of their own accord.
Written for the 24-hour porn challenge at the (brilliantly titled) community come-at-once. In this case, it was more like an several-hour porn challenge, since my day job doesn't include writing porn, alas. This is by far the most I've written in a single evening, though, so that was exciting. :D
Thanks very much to the war-ers in #antidiogenes, the lovely Interrosand for the last-second beta-ing and cheerleading, and Mydwynter for pointing out that I'd been tagged - I likely would've gone to sleep without ever noticing if it hadn't been for him. Curses, LiveJournal notifications!
Anyway, onto the story. My prompt was "eat me," courtesy of swissmarg. I hope this counts. :)
***
John picks up the night shift at the clinic for two weeks.
Sherlock scowls and waves his hands about and brings his best arguments to bear: “what if a case comes up?”, and “what if I need assistance in my experiments?”, and “when will we watch that awful telly you prefer?”, but John is unmoved.
“Look, we’re short-staffed, and Sarah needs me. It’s the least I can do, after we nearly got the woman killed.”
Sherlock scowls. “That was hardly your fault.”
“Well, no, but it was yours, but I don’t think it’s likely you’re going to pick up the night shift.” John raises his eyebrows in irritatingly exaggerated patience.
Sherlock collapses onto the sofa, crosses his arms, and grumbles. In a dignified manner.
John sighs. “If something comes up -- something important -- just text me like you always do. It’s not any different than daytime duty.” He reaches over and ruffles his hand through Sherlock’s hair, fingers warm against Sherlock’s scalp.
Sherlock gives him a studying look. John meets his gaze innocently.
It’s true -- Sherlock never has any trouble enticing John away from his daytime responsibilities, so why should evening be any different? But no John in the flat, whiling away the evening hours with an awful paperback and endless cups of tea and that distracting tap of his fingers on his thigh is oddly discomfiting.
He doesn’t respond.
***
The first evening, it’s leftover curry.
John has departed for the clinic, leaving Sherlock to his own devices. He’s reading over dull cold-case files, as the contemporary criminals of London haven’t seen fit to exert themselves as of late.
Long, too-silent minutes pass, and finally he throws the file to the floor in a fit of irritation. He stalks into the kitchen, intent on starting that experiment on livers he’s been postponing due to the unavoidably horrendous smell.
Instead he sees a takeaway box, centred neatly on the kitchen table. A note lies propped against it, perfectly legible despite John’s frankly hideous scrawl. “Eat me.”
Sherlock picks up the index card, flips it over. Nothing more.
He’s tempted to ignore the instructions - eating won’t really be unavoidable until tomorrow at least - but something about that note is impossible to ignore. He tucks the card into his pocket and pulls a fork from the drawer, eating the curry cold. The microwave is too much of a bother without John here.
***
The next day, John leaves two biscuits and a cup of tea.
The third day, it’s yoghurt. Sherlock bins it, because yoghurt is foul. But he keeps the note, anyway.
The fourth day, it’s a stir-fry John’s made, fresh.
The fifth day, it’s a chocolate bar.
The sixth day, it’s an eclair. They don’t have eclairs lying about the flat as a general rule, so John must’ve nipped out to the shops for it. Sherlock circles it for long moments, but it’s dark and lovely, and finally he can’t resist. The chocolate is rich and dark against his tongue, and his eyes close of their own accord.
***
Lestrade finally brings him evidence of an intriguing crime on the sixth day. Sherlock pins photos and notes and maps to the sitting room wall, brings in witnesses and friends and family members for interviews. But no criminals are ripe for the apprehending quite yet.
On his third day without sleep, his eyes turn gritty and his train of thought turns unacceptably slow. He pulls out his supply of nicotine patches, slaps three onto his forearm, and leans back onto the sofa to contemplate this problem.
He awakens with a start, files strewn about him, the room dark.
John leans over him, fingers ghosting over his jaw. “Go back to sleep,” he murmurs.
Sherlock wants to argue, but instead he turns his face into the warmth of John’s hand, and his eyes drift shut of their own accord.
As he drifts off, he feels the warm brush of John’s lips against his forehead, and he sighs.
***
On the eleventh day, Sherlock solves the case. It’s simple, in the end - no more than a case of marital jealousy. No need to even call John in for a chase or two. It’s all horrifically mundane.
That evening, John leaves behind a bottle of rather nice whisky. This time the note says “drink me.” Sherlock sits at the kitchen table and contemplates the unopened bottle for long minutes.
Finally, he stands up and retrieves a tumbler from the cupboard, setting it down on the table with a decisive click. He pours two fingers of whisky, careful not to spill a drop. He knocks it back in one slug -- no sense in doing anything by half measures. He pours another shot, and carries the glass and bottle into the sitting room with him.
He might as well get comfortable. He sprawls out on the sofa, and sips his drink. He sighs and lets his muscles relax. This really could be worse.
The whisky makes everything seem possible, even as he frowns at himself and insists there’s nothing truly different about the world now that he’s consumed a few servings of alcohol. But the buzz of energy under his skin doesn’t abate.
It’s half-past twelve when he hears John’s steps on the stairs, and his pulse quickens.
He stays put on the sofa, running his thumb over the smooth, cool glass of the tumbler.
The sitting room door opens, and Sherlock’s muscles tense. The room is quiet and the silence remains unbroken, even as John drifts toward him.
The cushion sinks as John’s weight settles next to his hip. John’s voice is hushed in the darkened room. There’s a long pause before he speaks. “So? What did you think?”
The words slip out of Sherlock’s mouth before he can stop them. “It made me think of you.”
John’s eyes grow dark, and his hand slips forward to run a thumb over Sherlock’s bottom lip. His voice goes soft. “Really?”
Sherlock huffs, even as his eyes are pinned to John. “I suppose that was your intention?”
“Well, I’d hoped.” John’s voice is low.
John leans forward, movements slow and easy, and brushes his lips over Sherlock’s, as if to taste the whisky he’d drunk.
He pulls back just far enough to meet Sherlock’s gaze, his eyes roaming over Sherlock’s face as if searching for permission.
Sherlock wraps a hand around the nape of John’s neck and pulls him in for another kiss, deeper and wetter than before.
This time, when they pull back, they’re both breathing hard.
Sherlock licks his lips, and watches John’s gaze drop to his mouth. “It’s not the first time I’ve thought of you.”
Sherlock can see John’s eyes grow dark and the pulse speed up in the hollow of his throat, and it’s enormously satisfying. “Oh?”
Sherlock reaches up to run a thumb over the line of John’s jaw. “Yes.” He slides his fingers into John’s hair and considers his next words carefully, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “I’ve imagined you fucking me.”
John’s mouth falls open, and Sherlock continues. “I’ve tried using... artificial stimulation. But the results haven’t been...satisfactory.”
John’s face goes slack and he does nothing but stare at Sherlock for long moments. Then his fingers tighten around Sherlock’s wrist, and he speaks, voice rough. “Show me.”
***
John can’t stop touching, fingers sliding over hot, smooth skin, even as they stumble toward Sherlock’s bedroom. His only consolation is Sherlock is just as desperate, slipping his hands under John’s shirt and biting at his neck and undoing his trousers all at the same time.
John’s got the easier end of the bargain, shoving Sherlock’s dressing gown off his shoulders and tugging at his pyjama pants until they pool on the ground. They leave a trail of clothing as they go.
John stumbles out of the last of it as they reach the bed, peeling his socks off and flinging them to the corners of Sherlock’s bedroom, likely never to be seen again.
The backs of Sherlock’s knees hit the edge of the bed, and John spins him around and presses his front to Sherlock’s back, running his hand down Sherlock’s torso and brushing over his erection as he bites at his neck. “What do you use?” he murmurs, low in Sherlock’s ear.
Sherlock jerks against him, and then gestures at the drawer under his bed. “Down there.”
John lets his arm fall, and Sherlock leans down toward the drawer, retrieving lube and something John can’t quite see.
Sherlock leans over the side of the bed, bracing one forearm against the mattress, and John sees him slick lube over a long, narrow dildo. He can’t help but run his hand down Sherlock’s spine at the sight, and Sherlock moans.
“Yes.” John leans over Sherlock’s naked form, close enough to feel the heat of his body. He breathes against the nape of Sherlock’s neck. “Show me.” John’s breath is ragged, but he doesn’t touch.
Sherlock’s eyes close in anticipation as he reaches around to rub the toy along the crack of his arse.
John’s command is muffled and inarticulate, but Sherlock understands immediately.
Sherlock shifts, and then sinks the dildo deep, gasping at the sensation. John’s breath is fast and labored in his ear. “Harder.”
Sherlock groans, and obeys, hips grind helplessly against the edge of the mattress.
John is panting, now. “Is that the biggest you have?”
Sherlock shakes his head, still leaning against the mattress, and groans low and deep.
“Show me.”
Sherlock removes the toy slowly, then rouses himself enough to lean toward the ground, rummaging in the drawers under his bed until he finds something larger. This one is almost as large as John, and John fists his hands in the duvet on either side of Sherlock’s hips.
John reaches up and wraps his hand around Sherlock’s. “Let me?”
Sherlock nods, pressing back against John.
This time John spreads lube over the toy, then presses it carefully into Sherlock, sliding his hand up Sherlock’s thigh and over his arse to press against the small of his back as he slides the toy deep. He stills, running his hand over Sherlock’s back, panting with the effort to keep from moving.
Sherlock’s voice sounds rough and unused, but unmistakably commanding. “Again.”
John pulls the dildo back and then slides it back in, deeper and firmer than before. Sherlock groans into the duvet.
John leans forward to bite Sherlock’s earlobe. “Is that all you want?” His voice is raspy and unfamiliar to his own ears.
Sherlock groans, and shakes his head no.
John pulls the toy out, and Sherlock hisses in frustration.
John grinds his cock against the cleft of Sherlock’s arse, then collapses forward onto his forearms, his body pressed against Sherlock’s back. “Do you want me?”
It’s meant to sound confident, but instead his voice betrays him, voice rough and hesitant.
Sherlock shifts, hips pressing back toward John. “God, yes.”
John groans, and grabs his cock and presses it to Sherlock’s hole, still slick and open and ready.
He presses his hips forward in one long stroke, gasping at the sensation. Sherlock groans and presses back toward John.
John sinks forward, long drugging strokes as he grips Sherlock’s hips and gasps. He loses himself to the sensation, Sherlock panting under him. He moves one hand to Sherlock’s shoulders, sliding down his spine until he presses his palm against the small of Sherlock’s back.
He thrusts twice more, and then stills with a groan.
“Turn over,” he gasps, and pulls out, cursing at the loss of sensation.
Sherlock rolls over, his usually graceful movements stilted and fumbling. His cock is stiff and flushed, bobbing over his stomach.
John hooks one arm under Sherlock’s knee and lifts it over his shoulder, positioning himself and sliding deep in one smooth stroke. Sherlock’s back arches and his hips lift off the mattress as he gasps John’s name.
John leans forward, his free arm planted next to Sherlock’s head. He meets Sherlock’s gaze as he sinks deep. “Like this?”
Sherlock’s eyes grow unfocused, and his fingers dig into the small of John’s back. “More.”
John’s hips snap forward, and Sherlock’s back arches. “Touch yourself,” he murmurs in Sherlock’s ear.
Sherlock gasps and reaches down, fisting a hand around his cock. His eyes drop shut, and he groans, a low vibration John can feel in his chest.
John leans back to grip Sherlock’s hip tight, his own hips snapping forward, and then he’s lost, pumping deep and hard as Sherlock’s hand blurs over his own cock, lips parted and eyes closed, head tilted back as a flush comes over his chest.
And then Sherlock is coming, hips bucking and cock twitching, as semen splatters across his chest and he tightens maddeningly around John’s cock.
Sherlock’s eyes are wide and dark, and his lips are parted and he’s splayed out under John: it’s the best thing John’s ever seen, and he reaches down to run his thumb over the slick patch on Sherlock’s stomach, and then licks his thumb clean.
Sherlock’s eyes widen, and then he’s reaching forward to wrap a hand around John’s neck, tugging him forward until he collapses over Sherlock, weight braced on his elbows as they kiss, a hot, slick slide of tongues and lips and teeth.
John slips one arm under the small of Sherlock’s back, and thrusts forward again. Sherlock wraps his thighs around John’s hips and pulls him closer, and John gasps and slides his lips down Sherlock’s jaw to bury his face in the crook of his neck as he moves faster and deeper.
He’s gasping Sherlock’s name with every thrust, now, and he fumbles for Sherlock’s free hand and grips his palm, pinning him to the mattress. He bites at the salt-slick skin of Sherlock’s neck in a desperate bid to stay grounded even as liquid heat builds in his spine.
Sherlock pulls him closer and his voice is a low rumble in his ear. “John.”
His thrusts turn ragged and then pleasure is pulsing through him as he sobs into Sherlock’s neck.
For long moments, he’s aware of nothing but the scent of Sherlock’s skin and the heat of his body and the sweat drying on their skin.
Gradually his breathing slows, and he loosens his grip on Sherlock’s hand. “Sorry. Getting heavy,” he mumbles, straightening limbs that have gone weak with pleasure to lean backward, pulling out carefully.
“Mm. Not... intolerable,” Sherlock rumbles, eyes half-closed and looking quite thoroughly debauched. It’s a fascinating look on him.
John slides up the mattress, gripping Sherlock’s wrist and tugging lightly. “C’mon.”
Sherlock grumbles, but obliges, rolling over to crawl up the bed and collapse onto John, a dead weight.
John lets his fingertips drift over Sherlock’s spine as sleepy lassitude overtakes him. He thinks about questioning their new arrangement, but Sherlock sighs against his neck and he brushes a kiss over his hair instead.
Everything can wait until tomorrow.
Links: AO3
Rating: NC-17
Status: Complete
Author: 30percent
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Word count: 2486
Disclaimer: Not mine, alas.
Summary: The sixth day, it's an eclair. They don't have eclairs lying about the flat as a general rule, so John must've nipped out to the shops for it. Sherlock circles it for long moments, but it's dark and lovely, and finally he can't resist. The chocolate is rich and dark against his tongue, and his eyes close of their own accord.
Written for the 24-hour porn challenge at the (brilliantly titled) community come-at-once. In this case, it was more like an several-hour porn challenge, since my day job doesn't include writing porn, alas. This is by far the most I've written in a single evening, though, so that was exciting. :D
Thanks very much to the war-ers in #antidiogenes, the lovely Interrosand for the last-second beta-ing and cheerleading, and Mydwynter for pointing out that I'd been tagged - I likely would've gone to sleep without ever noticing if it hadn't been for him. Curses, LiveJournal notifications!
Anyway, onto the story. My prompt was "eat me," courtesy of swissmarg. I hope this counts. :)
***
John picks up the night shift at the clinic for two weeks.
Sherlock scowls and waves his hands about and brings his best arguments to bear: “what if a case comes up?”, and “what if I need assistance in my experiments?”, and “when will we watch that awful telly you prefer?”, but John is unmoved.
“Look, we’re short-staffed, and Sarah needs me. It’s the least I can do, after we nearly got the woman killed.”
Sherlock scowls. “That was hardly your fault.”
“Well, no, but it was yours, but I don’t think it’s likely you’re going to pick up the night shift.” John raises his eyebrows in irritatingly exaggerated patience.
Sherlock collapses onto the sofa, crosses his arms, and grumbles. In a dignified manner.
John sighs. “If something comes up -- something important -- just text me like you always do. It’s not any different than daytime duty.” He reaches over and ruffles his hand through Sherlock’s hair, fingers warm against Sherlock’s scalp.
Sherlock gives him a studying look. John meets his gaze innocently.
It’s true -- Sherlock never has any trouble enticing John away from his daytime responsibilities, so why should evening be any different? But no John in the flat, whiling away the evening hours with an awful paperback and endless cups of tea and that distracting tap of his fingers on his thigh is oddly discomfiting.
He doesn’t respond.
***
The first evening, it’s leftover curry.
John has departed for the clinic, leaving Sherlock to his own devices. He’s reading over dull cold-case files, as the contemporary criminals of London haven’t seen fit to exert themselves as of late.
Long, too-silent minutes pass, and finally he throws the file to the floor in a fit of irritation. He stalks into the kitchen, intent on starting that experiment on livers he’s been postponing due to the unavoidably horrendous smell.
Instead he sees a takeaway box, centred neatly on the kitchen table. A note lies propped against it, perfectly legible despite John’s frankly hideous scrawl. “Eat me.”
Sherlock picks up the index card, flips it over. Nothing more.
He’s tempted to ignore the instructions - eating won’t really be unavoidable until tomorrow at least - but something about that note is impossible to ignore. He tucks the card into his pocket and pulls a fork from the drawer, eating the curry cold. The microwave is too much of a bother without John here.
***
The next day, John leaves two biscuits and a cup of tea.
The third day, it’s yoghurt. Sherlock bins it, because yoghurt is foul. But he keeps the note, anyway.
The fourth day, it’s a stir-fry John’s made, fresh.
The fifth day, it’s a chocolate bar.
The sixth day, it’s an eclair. They don’t have eclairs lying about the flat as a general rule, so John must’ve nipped out to the shops for it. Sherlock circles it for long moments, but it’s dark and lovely, and finally he can’t resist. The chocolate is rich and dark against his tongue, and his eyes close of their own accord.
***
Lestrade finally brings him evidence of an intriguing crime on the sixth day. Sherlock pins photos and notes and maps to the sitting room wall, brings in witnesses and friends and family members for interviews. But no criminals are ripe for the apprehending quite yet.
On his third day without sleep, his eyes turn gritty and his train of thought turns unacceptably slow. He pulls out his supply of nicotine patches, slaps three onto his forearm, and leans back onto the sofa to contemplate this problem.
He awakens with a start, files strewn about him, the room dark.
John leans over him, fingers ghosting over his jaw. “Go back to sleep,” he murmurs.
Sherlock wants to argue, but instead he turns his face into the warmth of John’s hand, and his eyes drift shut of their own accord.
As he drifts off, he feels the warm brush of John’s lips against his forehead, and he sighs.
***
On the eleventh day, Sherlock solves the case. It’s simple, in the end - no more than a case of marital jealousy. No need to even call John in for a chase or two. It’s all horrifically mundane.
That evening, John leaves behind a bottle of rather nice whisky. This time the note says “drink me.” Sherlock sits at the kitchen table and contemplates the unopened bottle for long minutes.
Finally, he stands up and retrieves a tumbler from the cupboard, setting it down on the table with a decisive click. He pours two fingers of whisky, careful not to spill a drop. He knocks it back in one slug -- no sense in doing anything by half measures. He pours another shot, and carries the glass and bottle into the sitting room with him.
He might as well get comfortable. He sprawls out on the sofa, and sips his drink. He sighs and lets his muscles relax. This really could be worse.
The whisky makes everything seem possible, even as he frowns at himself and insists there’s nothing truly different about the world now that he’s consumed a few servings of alcohol. But the buzz of energy under his skin doesn’t abate.
It’s half-past twelve when he hears John’s steps on the stairs, and his pulse quickens.
He stays put on the sofa, running his thumb over the smooth, cool glass of the tumbler.
The sitting room door opens, and Sherlock’s muscles tense. The room is quiet and the silence remains unbroken, even as John drifts toward him.
The cushion sinks as John’s weight settles next to his hip. John’s voice is hushed in the darkened room. There’s a long pause before he speaks. “So? What did you think?”
The words slip out of Sherlock’s mouth before he can stop them. “It made me think of you.”
John’s eyes grow dark, and his hand slips forward to run a thumb over Sherlock’s bottom lip. His voice goes soft. “Really?”
Sherlock huffs, even as his eyes are pinned to John. “I suppose that was your intention?”
“Well, I’d hoped.” John’s voice is low.
John leans forward, movements slow and easy, and brushes his lips over Sherlock’s, as if to taste the whisky he’d drunk.
He pulls back just far enough to meet Sherlock’s gaze, his eyes roaming over Sherlock’s face as if searching for permission.
Sherlock wraps a hand around the nape of John’s neck and pulls him in for another kiss, deeper and wetter than before.
This time, when they pull back, they’re both breathing hard.
Sherlock licks his lips, and watches John’s gaze drop to his mouth. “It’s not the first time I’ve thought of you.”
Sherlock can see John’s eyes grow dark and the pulse speed up in the hollow of his throat, and it’s enormously satisfying. “Oh?”
Sherlock reaches up to run a thumb over the line of John’s jaw. “Yes.” He slides his fingers into John’s hair and considers his next words carefully, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “I’ve imagined you fucking me.”
John’s mouth falls open, and Sherlock continues. “I’ve tried using... artificial stimulation. But the results haven’t been...satisfactory.”
John’s face goes slack and he does nothing but stare at Sherlock for long moments. Then his fingers tighten around Sherlock’s wrist, and he speaks, voice rough. “Show me.”
***
John can’t stop touching, fingers sliding over hot, smooth skin, even as they stumble toward Sherlock’s bedroom. His only consolation is Sherlock is just as desperate, slipping his hands under John’s shirt and biting at his neck and undoing his trousers all at the same time.
John’s got the easier end of the bargain, shoving Sherlock’s dressing gown off his shoulders and tugging at his pyjama pants until they pool on the ground. They leave a trail of clothing as they go.
John stumbles out of the last of it as they reach the bed, peeling his socks off and flinging them to the corners of Sherlock’s bedroom, likely never to be seen again.
The backs of Sherlock’s knees hit the edge of the bed, and John spins him around and presses his front to Sherlock’s back, running his hand down Sherlock’s torso and brushing over his erection as he bites at his neck. “What do you use?” he murmurs, low in Sherlock’s ear.
Sherlock jerks against him, and then gestures at the drawer under his bed. “Down there.”
John lets his arm fall, and Sherlock leans down toward the drawer, retrieving lube and something John can’t quite see.
Sherlock leans over the side of the bed, bracing one forearm against the mattress, and John sees him slick lube over a long, narrow dildo. He can’t help but run his hand down Sherlock’s spine at the sight, and Sherlock moans.
“Yes.” John leans over Sherlock’s naked form, close enough to feel the heat of his body. He breathes against the nape of Sherlock’s neck. “Show me.” John’s breath is ragged, but he doesn’t touch.
Sherlock’s eyes close in anticipation as he reaches around to rub the toy along the crack of his arse.
John’s command is muffled and inarticulate, but Sherlock understands immediately.
Sherlock shifts, and then sinks the dildo deep, gasping at the sensation. John’s breath is fast and labored in his ear. “Harder.”
Sherlock groans, and obeys, hips grind helplessly against the edge of the mattress.
John is panting, now. “Is that the biggest you have?”
Sherlock shakes his head, still leaning against the mattress, and groans low and deep.
“Show me.”
Sherlock removes the toy slowly, then rouses himself enough to lean toward the ground, rummaging in the drawers under his bed until he finds something larger. This one is almost as large as John, and John fists his hands in the duvet on either side of Sherlock’s hips.
John reaches up and wraps his hand around Sherlock’s. “Let me?”
Sherlock nods, pressing back against John.
This time John spreads lube over the toy, then presses it carefully into Sherlock, sliding his hand up Sherlock’s thigh and over his arse to press against the small of his back as he slides the toy deep. He stills, running his hand over Sherlock’s back, panting with the effort to keep from moving.
Sherlock’s voice sounds rough and unused, but unmistakably commanding. “Again.”
John pulls the dildo back and then slides it back in, deeper and firmer than before. Sherlock groans into the duvet.
John leans forward to bite Sherlock’s earlobe. “Is that all you want?” His voice is raspy and unfamiliar to his own ears.
Sherlock groans, and shakes his head no.
John pulls the toy out, and Sherlock hisses in frustration.
John grinds his cock against the cleft of Sherlock’s arse, then collapses forward onto his forearms, his body pressed against Sherlock’s back. “Do you want me?”
It’s meant to sound confident, but instead his voice betrays him, voice rough and hesitant.
Sherlock shifts, hips pressing back toward John. “God, yes.”
John groans, and grabs his cock and presses it to Sherlock’s hole, still slick and open and ready.
He presses his hips forward in one long stroke, gasping at the sensation. Sherlock groans and presses back toward John.
John sinks forward, long drugging strokes as he grips Sherlock’s hips and gasps. He loses himself to the sensation, Sherlock panting under him. He moves one hand to Sherlock’s shoulders, sliding down his spine until he presses his palm against the small of Sherlock’s back.
He thrusts twice more, and then stills with a groan.
“Turn over,” he gasps, and pulls out, cursing at the loss of sensation.
Sherlock rolls over, his usually graceful movements stilted and fumbling. His cock is stiff and flushed, bobbing over his stomach.
John hooks one arm under Sherlock’s knee and lifts it over his shoulder, positioning himself and sliding deep in one smooth stroke. Sherlock’s back arches and his hips lift off the mattress as he gasps John’s name.
John leans forward, his free arm planted next to Sherlock’s head. He meets Sherlock’s gaze as he sinks deep. “Like this?”
Sherlock’s eyes grow unfocused, and his fingers dig into the small of John’s back. “More.”
John’s hips snap forward, and Sherlock’s back arches. “Touch yourself,” he murmurs in Sherlock’s ear.
Sherlock gasps and reaches down, fisting a hand around his cock. His eyes drop shut, and he groans, a low vibration John can feel in his chest.
John leans back to grip Sherlock’s hip tight, his own hips snapping forward, and then he’s lost, pumping deep and hard as Sherlock’s hand blurs over his own cock, lips parted and eyes closed, head tilted back as a flush comes over his chest.
And then Sherlock is coming, hips bucking and cock twitching, as semen splatters across his chest and he tightens maddeningly around John’s cock.
Sherlock’s eyes are wide and dark, and his lips are parted and he’s splayed out under John: it’s the best thing John’s ever seen, and he reaches down to run his thumb over the slick patch on Sherlock’s stomach, and then licks his thumb clean.
Sherlock’s eyes widen, and then he’s reaching forward to wrap a hand around John’s neck, tugging him forward until he collapses over Sherlock, weight braced on his elbows as they kiss, a hot, slick slide of tongues and lips and teeth.
John slips one arm under the small of Sherlock’s back, and thrusts forward again. Sherlock wraps his thighs around John’s hips and pulls him closer, and John gasps and slides his lips down Sherlock’s jaw to bury his face in the crook of his neck as he moves faster and deeper.
He’s gasping Sherlock’s name with every thrust, now, and he fumbles for Sherlock’s free hand and grips his palm, pinning him to the mattress. He bites at the salt-slick skin of Sherlock’s neck in a desperate bid to stay grounded even as liquid heat builds in his spine.
Sherlock pulls him closer and his voice is a low rumble in his ear. “John.”
His thrusts turn ragged and then pleasure is pulsing through him as he sobs into Sherlock’s neck.
For long moments, he’s aware of nothing but the scent of Sherlock’s skin and the heat of his body and the sweat drying on their skin.
Gradually his breathing slows, and he loosens his grip on Sherlock’s hand. “Sorry. Getting heavy,” he mumbles, straightening limbs that have gone weak with pleasure to lean backward, pulling out carefully.
“Mm. Not... intolerable,” Sherlock rumbles, eyes half-closed and looking quite thoroughly debauched. It’s a fascinating look on him.
John slides up the mattress, gripping Sherlock’s wrist and tugging lightly. “C’mon.”
Sherlock grumbles, but obliges, rolling over to crawl up the bed and collapse onto John, a dead weight.
John lets his fingertips drift over Sherlock’s spine as sleepy lassitude overtakes him. He thinks about questioning their new arrangement, but Sherlock sighs against his neck and he brushes a kiss over his hair instead.
Everything can wait until tomorrow.