Home. Summer night, a balmy warmth in the breeze. Home – bodies hot with rushing, hotter with wanting – shoes socks jeans shirts find the floor.
Leave the lights, John.
Midnight London almostdarkness and wearing only their smiles. One. Two. Barely five heartbeats before the soldier inclines his head; about-turn, sure march. Sherlock enters their moonfilled bedroom to find him bare on their bed: reclining, exquisite.
He joins him.
John's body is made of Sherlock's palm spans. Quiet laced with skin and pleasure; beautiful.
John. I saw the immortal nightscape reflected brightcoloured in your eyes. Watched red taillights of a cab slide across their surface; Thames' stately twinkling. Vast bottomless river, so full of secrets and time. Silence coloured in.
Sherlock sits up, presses John into the mattress. One hand around John's cock; the fingers of the other sink inside him. One, two, a third: so very warm. Yes, Sherlock, yesyesyes please. Wanton legs spread wide, John devours those long digits, shouts when they slide over and over and over his prostate. Clever, clever fingers wring from him cries of fuck and yes and more.
Sherlock replaces fingers with his cock. Lavish thrusts and cries and sweat. As the moon wanes to crescent, they start to kiss – raw, openmouthed hunger and love.
Yes.
They come. Love, pleasure and bitemarks.