John laid in bed quietly, listening intently to Sherlock's padded footsteps pacing up and down the hall. Glancing over at his bedside clock—one in the morning—he opened his door and drowsily watched Sherlock.
"I can't sleep," Sherlock said, not even glancing over at him.
"Obviously," he muttered. "Come on," John drawled as he grabbed Sherlock's wrist and led him into his room. John crawled into bed and patted the free space next to him. Sherlock consented, John's back now up against Sherlock's stomach. Sherlock slid his arms around John's waist and gently pulled him closer. John instinctively began caressing Sherlock's hands and relaxed against his chest. John's eyes began to flutter closed when Sherlock placed a light kiss on his shoulder.
"I can't sleep, John," he repeated.
John sighed and turned over so he could face Sherlock. They studied each other in the dark silence. John could barely see Sherlock's half-lidded eyes as they focused on John's lips.
"You just need to stop thinking," John whispered.
He kissed Sherlock softly, tentatively, as if testing the waters. It was always difficult for him to tell if it was what Sherlock needed, the intimacy. He never initiated anything, never gave John any sort of clue, so he always had to proceed with caution. But, with no signs of discontent, John kissed him again, more confidently this time. Sherlock's hands slid from his waist and began to unbutton John's pyjama shirt.
John let out a sigh when he felt Sherlock's hand gracing his torso. God, did he need this. It'd been far too long since he last kissed those pale lips, that long neck, those impossible cheekbones. He let out a deep groan as Sherlock's hands roamed his body.
He reached down and slid his hand past Sherlock's waistband. Sherlock groaned and leaned his forehead against John's as he loosely gripped Sherlock's cock.
"John."
It came out as a sigh. Sherlock's breathing was shallow, punctuated with groans, moans, and oh my gods. He kissed John roughly and began to mimic his ministrations.
John let out a loud moan as Sherlock began stroking him. His long, thin fingers were barely caressing his shaft and John was getting so incredibly frustrated.
"Sherlock," he said through gritted teeth, thrusting his hips.
He was smirking. This conceited, idiotic, brilliant man was smirking at the aggravation he was causing. John narrowed his eyes and decided to kiss that stupid look off his face. Sherlock smiled through it and tightened his grip quite suddenly, eliciting another moan from John. John pulled down both of their pants just past their bottoms for easier access and quickly returned his attention to Sherlock. His stroking was more frantic now as his own climax began to build up. Sherlock again mimicked his actions, his hand tugging roughly at John's cock. There were deep grunts coming from each of them, both so close to going over the edge. Sherlock's hips were thrusting savagely at John's hand and he stroked faster. They both came only moments later. Sherlock placed a kiss against John's shoulder and rested his head there, breathing heavily.
"Thank you for that, John," he panted. "That, ah, that helped tire me out."
John smiled to himself amusedly as Sherlock continued trying to even out his breathing. They stayed like that for a while, their hands lying between them. John waited until Sherlock's breaths evened and his body went slack before going to the bathroom to quickly wash himself up.
He returned to bed in the same position he was in before they got each other off—his back to Sherlock's stomach. A moan of contentment escaped Sherlock's lips as he slid his arms back around John's waist, nuzzling into his back, as if John were his childhood teddy bear.
John never, ever imagined that this was where their relationship would end up. Sherlock was just supposed to be a flatmate, then that turned into a colleague, and now this. They weren't a couple, but they were most certainly more than friends. John had spent too many nights trying to figure out what exactly they could be labeled as. And every time, he came to the conclusion that it didn't really matter. Because what mattered was the fact that this insanely intelligent man had taken him out of the dull and dreary and threw him back into the mysterious and dangerous. There was never a boring moment between them and that was what he loved about Sherlock Holmes.