The waves of dark curls that spilled across his forehead as he looked up sharply were so tantalizing that his body was in physical pain from holding back. His hungrily smiling lips begged to be kissed, to feel the touch of his dry, thickening tongue. As if reading John's thoughts, the slender man before him licked the velvety patches of skin, with a tongue the color of his favorite tie and those flowers that had been at the scene of a slew of killings last week. Peonies he had called them. There was no time to think of cases now. Muscles defined by lack of fat and constant use flexed minutely as his steps moved closer and closer. They were beautiful. Gastrocnemi, quadriceps femoris, biceps. Each taking their turn to surge that lengthy body towards him. It reminded him of a dance.
Fascination was the only word to describe what he felt. Sherlock was so beautiful. His dick was straining in his dress pants. He could feel the throbbing, heated weight of it begging to be set free, fighting its way up towards sweet release. The gentle brush of clothing hitting the wood floor floor lead his eyes slowly up the curves of the body he knew so well to eyes that were in such need of what was to come. It was like being burned alive. The taller man, now so close he could touch him, trailed his hand slowly down to his hip. That bloody bastard. He knew how that affected him. They had matching erections. His dick twitched at the thought of what he could do with that cock in front of him. His teeth digging into his lower lip were the only thing that kept his groan of arousal back.
John was gripping the sheets hard enough to turn his knuckles paler than his partner's velvet skin. He noticed this, as he always did with everything. A dark brow twitched up, asking a question he couldn't answer with anything but his body. So when his naked form settled gently into his lap, the rise of his perfectly shaped ass hitting his knees, he was more than ready. He was his. He was all his. With that last lucid thought John's arms came up and Sherlock was lost to the touches assaulting him.
A breathy gasp was the only noise to be heard aside from the thundering of his heart. It echoed through the flat as he continued his too-long held back ministrations on the invitingly warm and smooth flesh of the nape of his stunningly pale neck. The thought kept coming back, consuming him, arousing him. He was his and no one else's. The breathy sighs he was growing to love turned to moans. He suddenly threw his head back, allowing his exploring mouth better access. His partner was shameless. The nip at his neck would've been punishment if it hadn't elicited such a wonderful sound. This was going to be slow and torturous for Sherlock Holmes. He would assure it. Because he was shameless too.
Three fingers to the knuckle was what it took to push the man on his lap into the realm that left him undone and muttering nonsensical curses. That was what he loved. Seeing Sherlock like this was heaven. Gone were the pretenses, the overly large words, the smug mannerisms of one who knew so much more than you. He was debased. And he was stunning. A couple more thrusts, each landing incredibly close to the spot he loved, brought a whine from his cupid bowed lips. Shaking hands found his dick and stroked it awkwardly, not that it mattered. The army doctor was so aroused at the moment he could repeatedly poke his cock and it would be stimulation enough. Fumbling touches of the lips like those of teenagers discovering one another in the back of a car passed between them. He planted kisses on his neck as his fingers dug into the flesh of his shoulder, barely brushing his scar. One last thrust of his fingers and he hit his prostrate. A sob of pleasure filled the room. Words joined the sound. He was begging. Sherlock Holmes was begging John Watson to fuck him. The urgency in his deep, melodic voice would be worrying in any other situation but this was different. This was sex. Urgency was to be expected, especially when it had crossed over into the realm of lovemaking like this had.
John felt his head at his entrance. And just like that he was inside him. For a while it was quiet. No one moved, no one spoke. All that could be heard was the ever present violin and cello from Rachmaninoff's Vocalise that had started it all and their panting gasps for air. His hands were about his waist, tender and tight. Any other man would be cut off for possession that Sherlock would never be ready for. But it was different with John. They both knew that. He silently, though not so secretly, wanted to be consumed. The velvet heat was wonderful around his dick. Nothing could compare to that feeling. Then he moved. His mind was changed. Oh how he wanted to thrust to completion. But he couldn't. He had to make his partner love this. He had to do this right. He held back. It was slow, tentative, almost asking if it was alright. Each thrust in and out ended with hitched breath. The raven haired detective pulled his head out of its previous place buried in the nape of his neck. A small laugh gusted across John's face. He was trying so hard to hold back. Poor thing. He cupped his face in his large, thin hands, putting their foreheads together.
"Don't hold back on account of me."
"But-..." he started, cut off by his lips.
As if he drew strength from their tethered lips, John began to pick up speed. The slap of skin on skin resounded in the fairly empty flat. He groaned occasionally. Why was everything about that moment so perfect? Oh fuck. Sherlock grunted and squirmed in his arms as he struck his favorite spot over and over. He dug his nails into his back a bit harder than he knows he meant to. He hisses. The taller man was practically bouncing up and down from the speed he'd taken. He was seeing stars. They bother were. With a delicious cry he dragged his blunt nails across his back. In turn, John bit the flesh of his neck and sped up even more. He was getting close. So close. He stopped, not wanting to cum too early. His raspy pants dragged across his skin. Fuck. It had never felt this good. Before things changed between them, he used to have sex to forget everything, to get lost in the pleasure. As a man who spent so long resenting himself it was wonderful to feel like the strongest, most in control person in the world for a bit. It took him a while to realize that being an ex soldier, not being unaffected by what he had seen, didn't define him. What defined him was what was his will to keep going, what was inside him. Maybe that's why sex had taken on a different weight lately. Because someone else was intruding on his worth. It was no longer sex, it couldn't be. It was making love. Sherlock kissed him long and hard, snapping him back into reality, assuring him that he knew the truth with searing brush of the lips after searing brush of the lips.
With a new tenderness, he laid the taller man down and started fucking away again, hands balled up in the sheets on either side of my head. Lengthy fingers traced lazily down his torso. His groans were becoming more and more frequent. He was close too. He'd given up on holding anything back. The way he was rocking up to meet him with abandon was becoming ragged. Everything shook with the intensity of it all. The bed creaked and squeaked underneath them. It was cheering them on. He paused. A small whimper tore from the younger man's lips. God! He was so beautiful. High cheekbones flushed to a rosy pink that never dwelled there during the day. Dark curls clinging to his forehead for dear life. Eyes hooded and glittering soft blue, the color of rainy sky set ablaze. Their gazes met. The primal was utterly consumed by the tender. He smiled at Sherlock softly.
"You are so beautiful."
"You're-" he panted "You're being sentimental."
With a chuckle, he began a sudden attack on his chest, leaving bruising kisses on every patch of milky skin he could find. His hiss was lovely as he suddenly clung to the sheets. A small smile found its way to his face at the way his toes curled. They'd been dancing on the brink for so long now it's a wonder neither had given up on the other and had them so thoroughly it hurt. His own words from earlier flitted about in his lust-hazed mind. This was only the beginning of their evening together. Neither had truly been had, not yet. Hunger swept through him. As if he sensed the shorter man's thoughts, he gently but pointedly pushed him away, getting on his hands and knees and looking over his hickey marked shoulder at him invitingly. He gulped. The desire his eyes held was almost tangible...and he was sure his gaze was a mirror image of sheer desire. He could feel the tender longing around them both, shielding them from reality like a blanket. It covered all else in that moment. Sherlock was gently swaying now, pleading silently. His mind emptied. All that mattered was pleasure. And as he began to thrust into the man with renewed vigor all he could wrap his empty brain around was how good it felt. It felt so good. Sherlock felt so good, so right.
The slap of skin on skin, the sound of his grunting moan, the echo of classical music he no longer knew, all these things filled him, consumed him. He was teetering right on the edge. Sherlock was nearly shouting in sheer bliss. Oh God! He gripped both his nipples suddenly, kneading them between his fingers, and bit his neck. He was reciprocating in a way he never had before. Trembling fingers wrapped around the throbbing dick in front of their owner, seeking to return the new actions. After a particularly sharp tug, he came with a ragged, throaty scream. Spurts of creamy ejaculate painted galaxies of white on his pale torso. Beautiful. The silent, brooding detective was screaming in ecstasy because of his actions. Just like that he was soaring away. He couldn't recall the last time he came this hard. Had he ever cum this hard? He was seeing white, blabbering, cumming for all he was worth. It was astronomical. He collapsed on him with a rather unceremonious thud, whispering hushed "I love you's" and like. For a while they just lay there. His heart stopped pounding bit by bit. Silence envelops the flat. When did the CD end? John rolled off. He placed an open mouthed kiss to his scar, sending a shiver dancing down his spine as his wiry arms wrapped around him from behind.
"I believe you mentioned something about having me until you were spent and I couldn't walk?"
"I believe I did." he replied with a weary chuckle, lacing their fingers together and admiring the glint of the gold band on his slender ring finger.
"Are you going to follow through, Doctor Watson?"
"Ask me in ten minutes."
It was silent again. Not that he minded. Silence was how it was with Sherlock. Either he was speaking so much, so fast that your world spun or he wasn't speaking at all. There was no in between. Today had been a silent day until the classical had come on. Then it was hasty speech and declarations. He chuckled softly at the memory of a particularly un-Sherlock like statement.
"You said you loved me."
"I did." the deep baritone replied after so long John thought he had drifted to sleep.
"Are you going to follow through, Sherlock Holmes."
"For better or worse."
He laughed and turned to kiss him. This had never been what he had imagined for his life, especially not his wedding night. But here he was, in the arms of the world's only consulting detective, wanting nothing more than to be made love to by him. It was strange how much things could change because of one small, seemingly insignificant shift. There were no more thoughts after that save for how soft his skin was and how pretty his penis looked when engorged. Not that they were needed. John Watson was a simple man. He only needed a few things to be happy. And his husband was one of them.