.: A Substitute:.
Invisible patterns were being slowly traced upon Sherlock's own clothed thigh by the pad of a trembling finger, making the thin fabric of his dark trousers rustle and crease slightly. His back was hunched slightly, cerulean eyes that rivalled the bluest of oceans in their hue narrowed to examine every move that his finger made upon the ironed bit of clothing. Sherlock's focus was cast solely upon his idle ministrations, frivolous as they might have been. He could not think of anything else to occupy himself. It was not boredom that had him this low, however. It was a very recent heartbreak that had cast him spiralling downward into this pit. Emotions, much like the solar system, were quite a mystery to him. Both of which he did not wish at all to solve. Which, as one John Watson observed, was more than quite out of the ordinary. From where he stood at the stove in the kitchen, John could see his flatmate, simply tracing the same motions over his thigh in that strangely graceful manner. There was something inside of him, be it his own unsated curiosity or just his overall concern for his friend, that told him that this was an onset by some sort of emotional breakdown that Sherlock was currently going through. He had never witnessed one this quiet, however. And that disturbed him. Very much so, in fact. With steady, languid steps, he began to walk towards the brunette, a piping hot cup of tea cradled in the palm of his hand while the fingers of his other appendage were curled slightly to keep it from falling from its skin carrier.
Sherlock looked as though he could very much use a cup of tea just now. His steps ceased when he was close enough to the other man, arms extended with their hands held out, offering the liquid filled china. It must have been at least three minutes before Sherlock even acknowledged his friend's presence, nevertheless the tea he had so kindly prepared for him. And when he did, it was not a very polite response. Quicker than one might have thought, his hand flew upwards, slapping the tea from John's hands and sending it to the floor.
An explosion of once flawless china and a spew of sweet, tan liquid was seen by the two men when the sound of the material hitting the ground finally resonated in their minds. John made not a sound as he stared down at the new mess upon their floor, the fluids that were a product of his own kindness and concern now reduced to a simple puddle. Of course, he was now wondering why in the bloody hell Sherlock would just go out of his way to slap the tea down that way. Just as he was opening his mouth to speak, he glanced the other man's way and caught a glimpse of something he never guessed he would see. Not in his lifetime.
A glassiness was visible in Sherlock's eyes, which saturated with a wet substance before sliding shut. Thick chestnut lashes lie against the apples of his high, somewhat gaunt cheeks, the hairs upon his lids netted together slightly by a salty substance that one could only describe as a tear. All right. This was just.. ludicrous. There was absolutely no way. The air rushed out of John's lungs, leaving them deflated and dry like the spent balloons from a child's birthday party. "Sherlock.." he managed to say. His voice was dry and quivering, much like the rest of his now tense body. What in the world.. could possibly have made Sherlock cry? No response left the taller male but a strangled noise that came from the pit of his throat. A sob. It was clear in the way that the brunette's body shuddered as he emitted the sound that that was, indeed, the right label. Every word that Sherlock could possibly have given him were all spent in that one sob. Cluttered together like a massive pile of mush. Letters discombobulated and meanings skewed. He did not know what to say. It would seem that his flatmate stole the words from him, too, while he was at it.
A long moment of silence passed between the two. John's eyes, still wide with shock and confusion at the other man's reaction, were on Sherlock, trying to comprehend where all of this emotion was even coming from. "Moriarty.. left." came the soft, faltering whisper from two pink, parted lips. Those two, small words filled the room with more than just air and silence. Now, there was meaning. Meaning to why the younger man was behaving the way that he was. After yet another long moment, Sherlock's face turned left, then tilted slowly upwards to gaze at the male standing by his side. John certainly looked dumbstruck. Were he in a better mood, he could have chuckled at his expression.
"I'm.. I'm sorry." It was a rushed sentence, sounding hesitant, but with the undertone that it had been being held in for quite a while. Like water rushing out of a dam. Although John felt a massive pang of guilt strike him for thinking such a thing, he could not help but be grateful that that relationship was over. It was not healthy for James or Sherlock. Not that James was of his concern. He never had been. There had always been something about him that threw John off.
The way he smiled got John's eyes to narrow. His laugh made him cringe. And whenever he took Sherlock's hand.. he could swear that he wanted to attack the man. But why? James had never outright done something to make John dislike him. Partially because it was not dislike. It was jealousy. Pure envy over the man that Moriarty had but did not need. Maybe wanted. But Sherlock was not a necessity to him.
In John's eyes, Sherlock was a precious resource that needed to be appreciated and cared for. As cheesy and awful as that might have sounded, it was, indeed, how he felt deep down. He reached out, lightly laying his hand upon his friend's shoulder in the most reassuring manner that he could muster. Yes. He loved Sherlock. That much was obvious to everyone but the intuitive man himself.
Perhaps that was what brought John to resent his and Moriarty's relationship. Sherlock could tell anyone where a man was from just by glancing at his eyes, and could even tell you what year he was born just by doing so. And yet, he could not see the love and admiration that John carried in his own gaze. The way that his irises became just that little bit brighter when Sherlock came into view. Or the way that his pupils dilated with want when they were completely face-to-face. No. He could not tell if someone was in love with him.
Everything he saw in a man's face was fact. Listed in his mind as simple statements with a bullet before each. Nothing but fact. But what did that matter so long as he could tell one's age?
"John." the man before him began, leaning up ever so slightly. Like nothing, the sound of his name escaping the prison of Sherlock's perfect mouth sent John's heart racing at an even faster pace than previously. The distance between their faces, both carrying different expressions-one of shock and one of complete and utterd desperation- was dwindling. They were moving closer to one another. And not by John's movement. But the taller man's. Sherlock's. Although things were currently moving at an undeniably slow pace for the blonde, he felt Sherlock's lips on his as fast as a slap to the face might register in his head.
They were kissing, now, lips clashing, mouths meshing, tongues tangling and teeth clacking. There was nothing ordinary about this. No. This was no normal kiss. This was one that they both were desperately craving. John, due to his unsated infatuation and Sherlock due to his overwhelming loneliness and sense of abandonment. Their reasons, for now, did not matter. Not even a little. The cause of the kiss meant nothing to them. The passion of it was driven solely by the longing within the both of them, nothing more and nothing less than a fire in the pit of their respective stomachs. A trembling hand was lifted upwards, cupping the back of Sherlock's head with a feather light touch. John's fingers intertwined with the thick chestnut curles that resided there, caressing them, but not enough to set a single strand out of place. He did not want to change anything about this moment. Not even his love's hair. He needed to remember it exactly as it was.
"Haa.." The shy moan passed from Sherlock's open mouth to John's, being passed between them like a hard candy. John rolled the single syllable about in his mouth. Tasting it. Savoring the sound, for he might never hear it again. Not from this particular action, no. He took a single step forward and allowed his arm to intertwine about Sherlock's slender waist, tugging him just that inch that separated their bodies.
Here they were. Chest-to-chest. Mouths tasting one another and mapping out the different nooks and crannies that resided within. John felt as though he might melt into a puddle right then and there. But he could not allow such a thing to happen. Not while he was tasting this beautiful man and memorizing the sample of saliva that he was being given. Sherlock tilted his head to the side just slightly, a perfect thirty six degree angle to make the kiss that much deeper and far more intimate.
Just like that, John was reeling, dizzy from the overwhelming sensation of being kissed by the love of his life that was completely unaware of being such. He felt the other man's arms wrapping about his neck, loose enough to keep things calm. Before he was aware of what exactly was going on, the two of them had stumbled to the bedroom, still tangled up in one another in human knots.
He lay his love interest down upon the slightly coarse sheets that sat atop the bed, his hands shaky but ever so nimble in their task of undressing the man that he had desired for so very long. Inch by painful inch, more of Sherlock's alabaster skin was exposed to the cool air of the room, causing an immediate reaction of goosebumps to arise on it. So sensitive. It was beautiful. Sherlock was beautiful. These were facts that even John knew. His spine curved upwards into a fine arch, pressing his body into John's, clearly desperate for more contact. Anything to get his mind off of the blasted pain still residing inside of him from the heartbreak that he had suffered earlier. Sherlock trembled beneath him, a mess of mangled limbs, flushed cheeks and curly brown hair. John shuddered excitedly at the sight. "So.. gorgeous.." he practically moaned out, his hands sliding down those slender sides to lightly grip Sherlock's hips. His thumbs pressed to the hollows of them, getting a feel of the protruding bone there. His mouth swept downwards, nipping and sucking at whatever skin it could reach. It was all about skill. His teeth would lightly graze over the insipid hide before his tongue lavished the reddened skin in a soothing manner. Bright red and purple bruises were left in its wake.
"Ahh.. Nnhh.." Sherlock was writhing and thrashing about under him, still spiralling into all of the pleasureable sensations that he was so lovingly being spoiled with. Gone were his trousers and pants, his body now completely bare of anything that might hide even an inch of skin from John's gluttonous eyes. He sat upright and gazed down, examining every detail. The smooth, porcelain hide that was now littered with sex marks and dripping with sweat.
The blissful expression adorning the brunette's face. His brows knitting together, mouth gaping, cheeks burning and eyes half mast. God, those eyes. So very blue and wide and filled with such emotion that John could not even comprehend it himself. He fell into them and didn't bother coming back up. Why would he, when the abyss they had him in was so warm and perfect?
John slowly began to undo his own clothing, careful to discard it in a polite and timely fashion. They were in no rush, sure, but he highly doubted either of them were interested in waiting at this point. Now shivering delicately from the chilling air of this room, the blonde slowly leaned over his friend, his lower half rubbing gently against the other man's small, puckering entrance. He could not and would not fight the moan that left his lips at the sensation. The motion brought a soft, shuddering breath from his partner, whom was now gyrating his slim pelvis to press against John's arousal. It was large, naturally. This much was obvious. "Please." came a hushed statement from the man beneath him, "Enter me." Hearing those words from that mouth on this man near made him pass out from excitement. He obeyed the order given to him in the way that a soldier would, carried out diligently and to the 't'. He was sheathed within Sherlock's tight heat in a few moments, the walls clamping down upon him so harshly that he held fast to his hips, resisting the urge to dig his nails into them.
"Ahh, annh!" It was no surprise to him that Sherlock was as vocal in the bedroom as he was outside of it, not to mention animated. Already, he had his arms wrapped about John's neck and legs intertwined about his waist, locked at the ankles to pull him in even deeper. He panted heavily and slipped his eyes shut, trembling visibly beneath the blonde from the intensity of being penetrated this way. "Move... haa..."
Oh... Now, Sherlock was desiring movement. That was just fine by John. Steadily, he rocked his pelvis forward, then back, thrusting slowly inside of his flatmate with drawn out moans of his name, his grip only tightening on those perfect hips as he moved. The clenching heat, the shuddering breaths that Sherlock was emitting, the heat radiating off of his trembling body, the languid rolls of his mate's hips.. It was all little factors that made this single encounter the most amazing of any he had ever experienced.
His movements became faster. Sporadic and filled with confidence now that he successfully had Sherlock crying out and writhing under him. Begging for more. More of John. And the man was only too happy to provide him with all that he was entreating. He gave every inch of his body and soul to Sherlock with each thrust, surrendering himself so willingly that in war, they might have called this defeat.
It did not matter what this was in technical terms, because Sherlock was beneath him. Sherlock was moaning and trembling. Sherlock was clinging to him this way. Sherlock was giving himself up. And no matter what this mean to the other man, this was the absolute world to him. Even if it was just a one night stand, or a mistake, or an awkward situation that the two of them would never speak of after, it was an event in John's life that would be marked on his calendar for the rest of his life. Dwindling as it might have been, he would celebrate it. Even if Sherlock never wanted to see him again.
"I'm.. I'm going to.. I'm going to cum.." the brunette whispered shakily. This dream-like state became all the more real at the sound of those words. John knew that he was the reason for this man's approaching climax. And he thanked God for that. His fingers trailed down the other man's tensing abdomen and traveled to his arousal, gripping the shaft to pump in time with his deep, slow thrusts.
"Cum for me, Sherlock.. cum in my hand." It was not a request. Not a favor to be asked. John was ordering him to do this. And, much like John had done in the beginning, Sherlock obeyed the order. He arched and gasped, jaw slack and mouth agape to let out a long, slow moan of a name. But not just any name. John's name. Through out this entire thing, Sherlock had said nothing personal. Never moaned out John's name. Up until now. That was all it took for John to release himself inside the other man, passing his essence deep into his shuddering body while holding him close and burying his face in his sweaty neck to inhale the scent of his skin. The scent of sex and rain. It was the most perfect smell in the world, and no one could tell John differently. He collapsed on top of the other man after riding out his orgasm with shallow, short thrusts and sloppy kisses upon his adam's apple, their bodies meshing together in a mangle of sweaty limbs. His mind was still reeling from the post orgasmic bliss that he was currently basking in, letting his body soak it all in. There was no denying it, now. John was too far gone to lie about this. He was in love with this man. From here, there was no going back. Not for either of them. They were both aware of that much.
Invisible patterns were being slowly traced upon Sherlock's own clothed thigh by the pad of a trembling finger, making the thin fabric of his dark trousers rustle and crease slightly. His back was hunched slightly, cerulean eyes that rivalled the bluest of oceans in their hue narrowed to examine every move that his finger made upon the ironed bit of clothing. Sherlock's focus was cast solely upon his idle ministrations, frivolous as they might have been. He could not think of anything else to occupy himself. It was not boredom that had him this low, however. It was a very recent heartbreak that had cast him spiralling downward into this pit. Emotions, much like the solar system, were quite a mystery to him. Both of which he did not wish at all to solve. Which, as one John Watson observed, was more than quite out of the ordinary. From where he stood at the stove in the kitchen, John could see his flatmate, simply tracing the same motions over his thigh in that strangely graceful manner. There was something inside of him, be it his own unsated curiosity or just his overall concern for his friend, that told him that this was an onset by some sort of emotional breakdown that Sherlock was currently going through. He had never witnessed one this quiet, however. And that disturbed him. Very much so, in fact. With steady, languid steps, he began to walk towards the brunette, a piping hot cup of tea cradled in the palm of his hand while the fingers of his other appendage were curled slightly to keep it from falling from its skin carrier.
Sherlock looked as though he could very much use a cup of tea just now. His steps ceased when he was close enough to the other man, arms extended with their hands held out, offering the liquid filled china. It must have been at least three minutes before Sherlock even acknowledged his friend's presence, nevertheless the tea he had so kindly prepared for him. And when he did, it was not a very polite response. Quicker than one might have thought, his hand flew upwards, slapping the tea from John's hands and sending it to the floor.
An explosion of once flawless china and a spew of sweet, tan liquid was seen by the two men when the sound of the material hitting the ground finally resonated in their minds. John made not a sound as he stared down at the new mess upon their floor, the fluids that were a product of his own kindness and concern now reduced to a simple puddle. Of course, he was now wondering why in the bloody hell Sherlock would just go out of his way to slap the tea down that way. Just as he was opening his mouth to speak, he glanced the other man's way and caught a glimpse of something he never guessed he would see. Not in his lifetime.
A glassiness was visible in Sherlock's eyes, which saturated with a wet substance before sliding shut. Thick chestnut lashes lie against the apples of his high, somewhat gaunt cheeks, the hairs upon his lids netted together slightly by a salty substance that one could only describe as a tear. All right. This was just.. ludicrous. There was absolutely no way. The air rushed out of John's lungs, leaving them deflated and dry like the spent balloons from a child's birthday party. "Sherlock.." he managed to say. His voice was dry and quivering, much like the rest of his now tense body. What in the world.. could possibly have made Sherlock cry? No response left the taller male but a strangled noise that came from the pit of his throat. A sob. It was clear in the way that the brunette's body shuddered as he emitted the sound that that was, indeed, the right label. Every word that Sherlock could possibly have given him were all spent in that one sob. Cluttered together like a massive pile of mush. Letters discombobulated and meanings skewed. He did not know what to say. It would seem that his flatmate stole the words from him, too, while he was at it.
A long moment of silence passed between the two. John's eyes, still wide with shock and confusion at the other man's reaction, were on Sherlock, trying to comprehend where all of this emotion was even coming from. "Moriarty.. left." came the soft, faltering whisper from two pink, parted lips. Those two, small words filled the room with more than just air and silence. Now, there was meaning. Meaning to why the younger man was behaving the way that he was. After yet another long moment, Sherlock's face turned left, then tilted slowly upwards to gaze at the male standing by his side. John certainly looked dumbstruck. Were he in a better mood, he could have chuckled at his expression.
"I'm.. I'm sorry." It was a rushed sentence, sounding hesitant, but with the undertone that it had been being held in for quite a while. Like water rushing out of a dam. Although John felt a massive pang of guilt strike him for thinking such a thing, he could not help but be grateful that that relationship was over. It was not healthy for James or Sherlock. Not that James was of his concern. He never had been. There had always been something about him that threw John off.
The way he smiled got John's eyes to narrow. His laugh made him cringe. And whenever he took Sherlock's hand.. he could swear that he wanted to attack the man. But why? James had never outright done something to make John dislike him. Partially because it was not dislike. It was jealousy. Pure envy over the man that Moriarty had but did not need. Maybe wanted. But Sherlock was not a necessity to him.
In John's eyes, Sherlock was a precious resource that needed to be appreciated and cared for. As cheesy and awful as that might have sounded, it was, indeed, how he felt deep down. He reached out, lightly laying his hand upon his friend's shoulder in the most reassuring manner that he could muster. Yes. He loved Sherlock. That much was obvious to everyone but the intuitive man himself.
Perhaps that was what brought John to resent his and Moriarty's relationship. Sherlock could tell anyone where a man was from just by glancing at his eyes, and could even tell you what year he was born just by doing so. And yet, he could not see the love and admiration that John carried in his own gaze. The way that his irises became just that little bit brighter when Sherlock came into view. Or the way that his pupils dilated with want when they were completely face-to-face. No. He could not tell if someone was in love with him.
Everything he saw in a man's face was fact. Listed in his mind as simple statements with a bullet before each. Nothing but fact. But what did that matter so long as he could tell one's age?
"John." the man before him began, leaning up ever so slightly. Like nothing, the sound of his name escaping the prison of Sherlock's perfect mouth sent John's heart racing at an even faster pace than previously. The distance between their faces, both carrying different expressions-one of shock and one of complete and utterd desperation- was dwindling. They were moving closer to one another. And not by John's movement. But the taller man's. Sherlock's. Although things were currently moving at an undeniably slow pace for the blonde, he felt Sherlock's lips on his as fast as a slap to the face might register in his head.
They were kissing, now, lips clashing, mouths meshing, tongues tangling and teeth clacking. There was nothing ordinary about this. No. This was no normal kiss. This was one that they both were desperately craving. John, due to his unsated infatuation and Sherlock due to his overwhelming loneliness and sense of abandonment. Their reasons, for now, did not matter. Not even a little. The cause of the kiss meant nothing to them. The passion of it was driven solely by the longing within the both of them, nothing more and nothing less than a fire in the pit of their respective stomachs. A trembling hand was lifted upwards, cupping the back of Sherlock's head with a feather light touch. John's fingers intertwined with the thick chestnut curles that resided there, caressing them, but not enough to set a single strand out of place. He did not want to change anything about this moment. Not even his love's hair. He needed to remember it exactly as it was.
"Haa.." The shy moan passed from Sherlock's open mouth to John's, being passed between them like a hard candy. John rolled the single syllable about in his mouth. Tasting it. Savoring the sound, for he might never hear it again. Not from this particular action, no. He took a single step forward and allowed his arm to intertwine about Sherlock's slender waist, tugging him just that inch that separated their bodies.
Here they were. Chest-to-chest. Mouths tasting one another and mapping out the different nooks and crannies that resided within. John felt as though he might melt into a puddle right then and there. But he could not allow such a thing to happen. Not while he was tasting this beautiful man and memorizing the sample of saliva that he was being given. Sherlock tilted his head to the side just slightly, a perfect thirty six degree angle to make the kiss that much deeper and far more intimate.
Just like that, John was reeling, dizzy from the overwhelming sensation of being kissed by the love of his life that was completely unaware of being such. He felt the other man's arms wrapping about his neck, loose enough to keep things calm. Before he was aware of what exactly was going on, the two of them had stumbled to the bedroom, still tangled up in one another in human knots.
He lay his love interest down upon the slightly coarse sheets that sat atop the bed, his hands shaky but ever so nimble in their task of undressing the man that he had desired for so very long. Inch by painful inch, more of Sherlock's alabaster skin was exposed to the cool air of the room, causing an immediate reaction of goosebumps to arise on it. So sensitive. It was beautiful. Sherlock was beautiful. These were facts that even John knew. His spine curved upwards into a fine arch, pressing his body into John's, clearly desperate for more contact. Anything to get his mind off of the blasted pain still residing inside of him from the heartbreak that he had suffered earlier. Sherlock trembled beneath him, a mess of mangled limbs, flushed cheeks and curly brown hair. John shuddered excitedly at the sight. "So.. gorgeous.." he practically moaned out, his hands sliding down those slender sides to lightly grip Sherlock's hips. His thumbs pressed to the hollows of them, getting a feel of the protruding bone there. His mouth swept downwards, nipping and sucking at whatever skin it could reach. It was all about skill. His teeth would lightly graze over the insipid hide before his tongue lavished the reddened skin in a soothing manner. Bright red and purple bruises were left in its wake.
"Ahh.. Nnhh.." Sherlock was writhing and thrashing about under him, still spiralling into all of the pleasureable sensations that he was so lovingly being spoiled with. Gone were his trousers and pants, his body now completely bare of anything that might hide even an inch of skin from John's gluttonous eyes. He sat upright and gazed down, examining every detail. The smooth, porcelain hide that was now littered with sex marks and dripping with sweat.
The blissful expression adorning the brunette's face. His brows knitting together, mouth gaping, cheeks burning and eyes half mast. God, those eyes. So very blue and wide and filled with such emotion that John could not even comprehend it himself. He fell into them and didn't bother coming back up. Why would he, when the abyss they had him in was so warm and perfect?
John slowly began to undo his own clothing, careful to discard it in a polite and timely fashion. They were in no rush, sure, but he highly doubted either of them were interested in waiting at this point. Now shivering delicately from the chilling air of this room, the blonde slowly leaned over his friend, his lower half rubbing gently against the other man's small, puckering entrance. He could not and would not fight the moan that left his lips at the sensation. The motion brought a soft, shuddering breath from his partner, whom was now gyrating his slim pelvis to press against John's arousal. It was large, naturally. This much was obvious. "Please." came a hushed statement from the man beneath him, "Enter me." Hearing those words from that mouth on this man near made him pass out from excitement. He obeyed the order given to him in the way that a soldier would, carried out diligently and to the 't'. He was sheathed within Sherlock's tight heat in a few moments, the walls clamping down upon him so harshly that he held fast to his hips, resisting the urge to dig his nails into them.
"Ahh, annh!" It was no surprise to him that Sherlock was as vocal in the bedroom as he was outside of it, not to mention animated. Already, he had his arms wrapped about John's neck and legs intertwined about his waist, locked at the ankles to pull him in even deeper. He panted heavily and slipped his eyes shut, trembling visibly beneath the blonde from the intensity of being penetrated this way. "Move... haa..."
Oh... Now, Sherlock was desiring movement. That was just fine by John. Steadily, he rocked his pelvis forward, then back, thrusting slowly inside of his flatmate with drawn out moans of his name, his grip only tightening on those perfect hips as he moved. The clenching heat, the shuddering breaths that Sherlock was emitting, the heat radiating off of his trembling body, the languid rolls of his mate's hips.. It was all little factors that made this single encounter the most amazing of any he had ever experienced.
His movements became faster. Sporadic and filled with confidence now that he successfully had Sherlock crying out and writhing under him. Begging for more. More of John. And the man was only too happy to provide him with all that he was entreating. He gave every inch of his body and soul to Sherlock with each thrust, surrendering himself so willingly that in war, they might have called this defeat.
It did not matter what this was in technical terms, because Sherlock was beneath him. Sherlock was moaning and trembling. Sherlock was clinging to him this way. Sherlock was giving himself up. And no matter what this mean to the other man, this was the absolute world to him. Even if it was just a one night stand, or a mistake, or an awkward situation that the two of them would never speak of after, it was an event in John's life that would be marked on his calendar for the rest of his life. Dwindling as it might have been, he would celebrate it. Even if Sherlock never wanted to see him again.
"I'm.. I'm going to.. I'm going to cum.." the brunette whispered shakily. This dream-like state became all the more real at the sound of those words. John knew that he was the reason for this man's approaching climax. And he thanked God for that. His fingers trailed down the other man's tensing abdomen and traveled to his arousal, gripping the shaft to pump in time with his deep, slow thrusts.
"Cum for me, Sherlock.. cum in my hand." It was not a request. Not a favor to be asked. John was ordering him to do this. And, much like John had done in the beginning, Sherlock obeyed the order. He arched and gasped, jaw slack and mouth agape to let out a long, slow moan of a name. But not just any name. John's name. Through out this entire thing, Sherlock had said nothing personal. Never moaned out John's name. Up until now. That was all it took for John to release himself inside the other man, passing his essence deep into his shuddering body while holding him close and burying his face in his sweaty neck to inhale the scent of his skin. The scent of sex and rain. It was the most perfect smell in the world, and no one could tell John differently. He collapsed on top of the other man after riding out his orgasm with shallow, short thrusts and sloppy kisses upon his adam's apple, their bodies meshing together in a mangle of sweaty limbs. His mind was still reeling from the post orgasmic bliss that he was currently basking in, letting his body soak it all in. There was no denying it, now. John was too far gone to lie about this. He was in love with this man. From here, there was no going back. Not for either of them. They were both aware of that much.