Sherlock's elegant violinist's fingers wrapped delicately around John's awaiting length; began to carefully and slowly smooth it over, get a feel for the instrument that he was about to pump.
'That's it, sweetheart,' John breathed, so pent up that air had now become a struggle, let alone fathoming much speech.
'You know, John,' Sherlock murmured gently in that oh so sexy and deep, baritone voice of his.
'Sherlock,' John breathed; it wasn't even question, it was a hungry statement, it was an opportunity to feel the man he loved through speech, through his beautiful name- but John wanted to feel him more, oh so more.
'The tongue, John,' Sherlock began, tightening his grip to a pulsing squeeze, and causing the army doctor to groan in absolute pleasure, bliss and want. 'The tongue, it…it is a far more sensitive and accurate way to feel, to explore, the object in hand than, well, the hands grasp,' and, as Sherlock almost whispered this last word, he got a firm grasp on John's length, practically squeezing now as he ran those fingers along like it was the climax of the composition.
And John, oh, John was so vocal- groaning and moaning in total pleasure, and Sherlock loved it. He would cry Sherlock's name, he would curse and sometimes even throw back his head and try to laugh, through all off his stifled breaths. This always made Sherlock chuckle too.
'Sherlock…your mouth…' John began, but was cut off by his own uncontrollable moans. 'Please, your lips…they are so…so…mm…perfect…you are the most…uh…beautiful man…I have ever met...ah!' John cried and gripped the sofas familiar fabric like a madman- Sherlock had got down and was now on his knees, upon the floor of 221B Baker Street, and oh was he using that perfect mouth and those perfect lips to explore, to explore and deduce John to the point where it had him crying out in absolute pleasure…