John contemplated Sherlock from his armchair, a cup of lukewarm tea balanced on the armrest. His fingers tapped absently against the rim of the mug, eyes narrowing when the detective shifted on the sofa.
Sherlock was sitting in the very center of the old, worn-in couch, his long legs folded under him and a surprisingly thick book open in his lap. Surprising only because it was a book about bees and John wouldn't have thought there would be enough information on bees to fill that many pages. The slender fingers of the detective's left hand were curled loosely over the top edge of the book, pulling at the pages absently every few seconds like he was plucking violin strings; the fingers of the other hand were curled against his mouth, full lips parted enough for him to nibble at his thumb nail every now and then – perhaps when an intriguing bit of information passed under his gaze.
John's focus shifted to Sherlock's pale blue eyes, moving keen and sharp across the page, taking in every little bit of information. Loose ebony curls twitched and swayed around the angles of Sherlock's pale face with every tiny movement he made and John's eyes traveled down to where the younger man's dark hair layed against his pale neck in stark contrast, the smooth expanse of porcelain disappearing under the frayed hem of the grey t-shirt the detective had slept in.
Pulling a breath through his nose, John forced himself to swallow at least one more mouthful of tea before it was too cold to drink and then set the mug down on the small table to his right, eyes inevitably drifting back to Sherlock once more. Something warmer than the tea he'd just drank swelled in his chest as he took in the whole picture of the man sitting on the sofa. Normally so grand and aloof and untouchable, Sherlock looked incredibly small and - dare he even think it - bloody cute sitting there in a t-shirt and pajama bottoms with a thick woven blanket over his shoulders and a big book about bees open in his lap, looking as content as John had ever seen him.
There was a wide smile sitting soft on John's lips that he couldn't be bothered to hide, though he did stand to take his mug to the kitchen before Sherlock caught him staring like the lovesick fool that he was. The detective was still struggling to navigate his own feelings on the matter and John did not want to add any pressure. He thought back to what had happened between them the day before, on the very sofa Sherlock currently occupied. He remembered how he'd pressed between the skittish detective's thighs, how it had taken soft words and even softer touches to ease the wide-eyed look of cautious curiosity on Sherlock's face.
John cleared his throat and gave himself a shake, feeling the warmth in his chest drain lower. Having Sherlock looking up at him with such shyness in his eyes was...was...
John gripped the edge of the counter hard, trying to shove the memory away because now was not the time, but his rebellious mind wouldn't let the thought go. It wasn't as if he had a virginity kink, he reasoned with himself, there was just something undeniably fucking lovely about Sherlock exploring this side of himself for the first time and trusting John to lead him through it.
He remembered how responsive Sherlock was to every touch of his hand; how he'd gasped and shuddered and squirmed under the new sensations so beautifully; how he'd stared up at John with the most open, vulnerable, expression John had seen from anyone. Sherlock's skin had been warm and ridiculously soft under his hands - what little skin he'd managed to expose - and the slightest touch earned him a whimper or a moan and...
John sighed, shifting his weight and wondering if a shower was in order. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that Sherlock had changed positions, lying on his back with his legs bent at the knees and the book held aloft over his face. A vague thought of the detective's arms getting tired was given little attention when John's eye snagged on a bit of pale skin between the waistband of Sherlock's pajama bottoms and the grey t-shirt that had ridden up his stomach.
"I'll be in the shower!" he advised, quickly ducking into the bathroom and forcefully closing the door.
So maybe he had a bit of a kink where it concerned Sherlock's viginity, he admitted.
The shower was quick and efficient and fifteen minutes later John ambled back into the sitting room with a hot mug of tea in each hand. He brought one to Sherlock first, setting the mug on the coffee table and peeking over the edge of the book in Sherlock's hands, seeing a large anatomical sketch of a fat bumblebee taking up one whole page.
"White-tailed bumblebee." Sherlock mumbled as he turned the page. His aquamarine eyes flicked up, passing over John's face like there were words to read there as well, before dropping back to the book in his hands, long fingers flexing around the edges.
"Is that your favourite one?" John asked, sitting down beside the detective and watching his face carefully, genuinely curious. Surely someone who had enough interest in bees to read an entire book on them likely had a favourite species.
His question caused Sherlock to look up again, eyes narrowed a little as if trying to work out whether John's question was legitimate or if he was being made fun of.
John offered the detective a gentle smile. "Well?" he coaxed, pleased when Sherlock's shoulders relaxed.
Sherlock cleared his throat, two delicate pink spots appearing high on his cheeks. "Bombus sylvestris." he visibly hesitated, rolling the corner of one page in his palm, "They have stripes." The color in his cheeks intensified and his pale eyes flitted away.
For a moment John was sure something in his chest might rupture and when Sherlock looked away a fine curl of dark hair fell away from where it had been tangled up with the rest. Without thinking, John reached up and pushed it back behind Sherlock's ear, effectively weaving it back into place so that he could see the detective's profile uninterrupted.
Sherlock's lips parted around a gasp at the simple touch, his gaze stuttering haltingly over to John's face and the doctor took it as an invitation to push his fingers deeper into the dark mess of curls, the pads of his fingers barely brushing the warm skin underneath. Goosebumps visibly blossomed down the side of Sherlock's long neck and the detective's eyes slid shut when John flexed his fingers, massaging them against his scalp.
There was something wonderful about being the only one to know this side of the man; to be able to see him in worn pajamas with the hard lines around his eyes gone soft and the rigid, confrontational set of his body now pliant and loose. For the longest time he had assumed Sherlock couldn't be like this - relaxed and calm and still - how wrong he had been.
John glanced down, noting that the long, pale, fingers that had been fiddling nervously with the book had gone still and he lightly scraped his nails against the back of Sherlock's head, lips twitching when the detective's hands curled into loose fists against his book.
"Feel good?" John murmured quietly, unwilling to break the stillness that had settled around them.
Sherlock made a soft sound of assent, tilting his head back to press harder against John's hand, the length of his pale neck growing and the sharpness of his jaw becoming even more pronounced.
"You're gorgeous, you know that?"
Busy tracing the clean line of the detective's throat with his eyes, John had merely said what he was thinking, expecting a smirk or maybe a knowing chuckle of agreement, but he was surprised when Sherlock went still and his eyes opened to gaze across the room with an empty stare. Before John could worry, though, Sherlock turned to look at him and the doctor was relieved to find that his gaze wasn't vacant at all, merely puzzled; disbelieving; a small frown creasing the detective's brow.
"What, you don't believe me?" John smiled, letting his hand slide form the tangle of dark locks and down the back of Sherlock's neck. He dipped his fingers underneath the hem of the man's t-shirt, careful to keep his eyes on Sherlock's face, thirsty for the micro expressions of surprise and pleasure he might find there.
He wasn't disappointed. The knotted spot between the detectives dark brows smoothed and his pink tongue darted out, tasting his full lips and leaving them shiny.
John felt himself drifting forward, fingers twitching with the urge to reach out and grab a handful of the detective's shirt and pull him close. "Can I kiss you?" he whispered.
After he received a eager nod, John bridged the distance between them, sighing happily when he finally had Sherlock's soft lips against his own. He still had his fingers under the neck of the detective's shirt, just at the base of his neck, and he allowed his thumb to wander, brushing over the sensitive skin just behind Sherlock's ear.
The younger man gasped against his mouth and John smiled, allowing his other hand to settle gently above Sherlock's knee. He pulled away a fraction to give the detective a moment if he needed it but he'd barely gotten an inch between them before Sherlock grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him back, an unhappy noise in the back of his throat. So John happily pressed himself close, licking gently against the seam of Sherlock's lips and then dipping inside to meet the tentative touch of his tongue. His fingers flexed against Sherlock's shoulder and into the meat of his thigh and, just as John had hoped, the detective gasped, arching into him ever so slightly.
John did pull away then, pressing his hand up the inside of Sherlock's thigh carefully, watching the man's face close enough to see his pupils expand and color dust his cheeks. He looked almost puzzled, like he couldn't figure out how John's hand was making him feel the things he was, and John reveled in it. Just as he reached the junction where Sherlock's thigh joined his pelvis, John lifted his hand, skipping over the growing bulge in the front of his pants and pushing under the hem of the detective's shirt, his other hand sliding up to curl around the base of his neck.
With John's hand gone from sight, Sherlock sagged against the sofa and leaned his head back into John's hand as the doctor's skilled fingers ghosted teasingly over his ribs. Feeling along the baby-soft skin he hesitated for only a second before brushing the rough pad of his thumb over one nipple, mouth watering when Sherlock arched against the sofa, eyes screwing shut and giving a small cry of surprise at the sudden sensation.
"Oh, that's a new one, isn't it?" John grinned, tightening his grip at the base of Sherlock's neck to help steady him as he arched into a second pass of John's thumb.
"John..." the detective whimpered, his long fingers finding John's thigh and clamping down like a vice. His breathing had picked up, rib cage expanding under John's palm, and, looking down, John could see Sherlock's arousal in the long line pressing against the front of his pants.
'Not yet.' he told himself. Sherlock needed to be eased into touches that intimate - after all, they'd only done this once before and it was so easy for the younger man to get overwhelmed.
John eased the force of his hands, using his fingers to drag across the detective's other nipple and trying to ignore the heat pulsing in his groin every time Sherlock squirmed in his grip. He almost felt guilty, taking this much pleasure in introducing Sherlock to physical touch, because it said a lot about the detective's past that he'd never found someone he trusted enough to do this with. Of course, the other, louder, chest-beating part of Joh's brain was ecstatic that he was the first and - hopefully - only person who would ever get to touch Sherlock this way and, as much as the urge to pounce and claim was there, it was easy to keep it quiet because this slow, gentle exploration was so fucking intoxicating that John never wanted it to end.
Seeing which part of Sherlock's body would elicit what kind of sound or reaction was addictive and John wanted desperately to lay the man out and touch every inch of him; cataloguing and recording all the reactions.
But right now he was more than captivated by pushing carefully at Sherlock's boundaries, careful to pull back when it seemed like it was becoming too much and the detective's head was likely spinning into uncomfortably disastrous territory. Speaking of, that was much easier to do when he could see Sherlock's eyes and right now they were firmly closed.
John pulled away from the sensitive nipple under his hand, dragging his fingers over the peaked nub a final time before settling his hand over the detective's stomach, fingers splayed wide, the space between their skin leaking heat into John's veins. Carefully, he released the back of Sherlock's neck, lips twitching unhappily when he realized the imprint of his hand was left in a pale red mark on the younger man's skin, but he returned his attention to the man's face with a vow to be more gentle.
"Sherlock, can you look at me, please?" he brushed a few strands of hair from the detectives eyes and smiled when Sherlock looked up at him. His pupils had expanded nearly to the edges of the blue iris, his cheeks were pink and his lips were reddened from kissing and it took every ounce of John's self control not to dive right back in to the detective warm mouth.
Instead, he laced his fingers with Sherlock's over his thigh and pushed his fingers back into his soft, black hair.
"Can I try something?" he asked.
Sherlock's gaze become slightly more focused and he blinked once. "Okay."
John's gut swooped and he stood, moving to stand in front of the detective and then settling a knee slowly between Sherlock's thighs, towering over him so that Sherlock had to lean his head back against the sofa to keep eye contact. Even the simple change in positions had Sherlock breathing hard and John paused, allowing the man to get used to it. In hindsight, John supposed it was rather a dominating position but Sherlock seemed alright with it, given the way he was tentatively reaching out to grasp John's jumped.
With one hand still cradling the side of the detective's head, John reached down with his free hand and loosely wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's forearm, easing his knee forward until it was pressing against the hard length of Sherlock's cock. The reaction was immediate and it was obvious the detective hadn't seen it coming. Sherlock bucked against him - the movement purely instinctual - and a sound somewhere between a groan and a cry of surprise clambered up his throat as he pulled at John's jumper and rolled his hips forward.
John greedily drank in the reaction, pressing between Sherlock's legs just a fraction more, suddenly feeling drunk when Sherlock rocked his hips forward again, head thrown back against the sofa, hands grabbing at him, trying to pull him closer.
"John...John..." Sherlock chanted, regaining his wits enough to open his eyes and stare up at John through a narrowed gaze, pupils blown wide.
"Alright?" John asked, just to be sure.
When he got a breathless nod in response he reached forward with both hands, grasping the hem of the detective's t-shirt and tugging it up, humming in approval when Sherlock leaned forward and lifted his arms.
He'd seen Sherlock shirtless before but for some reason this time felt different and his eyes roamed hungrily over the expanse of pale, soft, porcelain skin before him. The ridges of the man's ribs were a bit more pronounced than the doctor in him would like but that was something they could work on later - right now, John took a moment to press his palm to Sherlock's side, a bit surprised at how large his hand looked. His thumb was resting just at the base of Sherlock's sternum and his middle finger was easily halfway around the side of the man's rib cage. He was making Sherlock eat a sandwich after this.
He moved his hands and pushed his thumbs over each nipple at the same time, holding his leg steady where it rested between Sherlock's thighs when the detective jerked against him, a whimper wobbling past his plush lips. Those fucking lips. John leaned down, splaying a hand wide at the base of Sherlock's throat and crushed their lips together, swallowing the moan and pressing the detective into the sofa, holding him still and grinding his thigh against the hard line of Sherlock's cock.
The younger man writhed against him, his movements fighting against the weight of John's body pinning him, hands fisted in John's jumper like it was the only thing grounding him. Sherlock groaned and whined into John's mouth with every nip of John's teeth and flick of his tongue and when the doctor felt like he'd ravaged the man's lips enough he trailed a line of kisses over the younger man's hairless jaw then down the side of his long, slender neck, pushing a hand between the sofa and the dip in Sherlock's spine, sliding his fingers under the waistband of his pajama bottoms.
The skin under John's tongue was sweet and soft and he stopped to suck a mark over one delicate collar bone, feeling Sherlock's hips starting to grind against him rhythmically.
He pulled away from Sherlock's clavicle to nose up under his chin, using the hand not pressed against the base of the detective spine to rub up the inside of a lean thigh. Sherlock's rhythm faltered for just a moment before he found it again, rocking forward to grind his cock against John's thigh.
John suddenly recalled the last time they'd been on the sofa together and how Sherlock had squirmed when he'd pushed between the younger man's legs. Experimentally, John hooked his fingers underneath Sherlock's thigh just before the knee, lifted and pushed Sherlock's leg out to the side, shifting his knee over to keep the detective's legs spread.
Just for a moment, John felt Sherlock tense ever so slightly under him, just like he had last time, and John eased back so he wasn't looming over the detective quite so much, pulling his hand off Sherlock's leg to press against the side of his face.
The fact that John had jerked off in the shower not too long ago was definitely an advantage because, as it was, he was still achingly hard and with every little whimper that escaped Sherlock's throat and with every little involuntary roll of his slim hips, John's cock throbbed, begging for his attention, but Sherlock said he could try something and he was damn well going to try it because, if he did it right, he might just get the detective to scream.
"Here, lie down, Sherlock." he said, reluctantly pulling his hand from the man's pants and helping him lay on his back, shaggy black head resting comfortably against the arm rest.
He stopped to look up at the detective. Sherlock had one bare foot resting on the floor and the other leg bent against the back of the sofa - leaving the evidence of his arousal quite obvious - and was staring back at him with a glassy-eyed gaze, lips parted as he huffed out shallow breaths, lips swollen and red.
"Beautiful." John murmured, kneeling between the slender thighs and running his palms up each on as he settled closer. He didn't stop his hands from traveling farther, let them wander up over the sharp hipbones and over the taut belly and farther still, grinding his palms over each nipple and grinning when Sherlock threw his head back, exposing the underside of his sharp jaw. Sherlock's long fingers settled briefly over John's hands while they travelled back down his long torso but soon had left to reach over his head and grip the arm rest.
John tugged at the hem of Sherlock's bottoms, abandoning his plan to ask if Sherlock was on board when the man lifted his hips. He pulled the pajama bottoms down, smirking when he realized Sherlock wasn't wearing any underwear. He might have seen the detective shirtless before, but this was the first time he'd seen his long, lean, legs completely bare. They went on for miles and John hurriedly tossed the pajama bottoms to the floor, pushing the backs of his hands up the inside of Sherlock's thighs, settling between them again.
His skin was so fucking soft if felt like silk under his hands and John ached with the urge to taste it. His eye caught the flex of muscle under Sherlock's skin, reminding him just how powerful those legs were. Finally he turned his attention to Sherlock cock, reaching out to very gently pass his fingers over the base and pulling back again when Sherlock groaned through his teeth, a bead of precum easing out of the slit.
He reached out again, watching Sherlock's face closely. "I'm going to touch you." he warned before curling his fingers around the detective and pressing his thumb against the slit.
Sherlock cried out to the ceiling, ragged and sharp, and John pressed his other hand to the man's hip, holding him down, keeping his hand still and steady on his cock. But Sherlock, it seemed, couldn't stop himself from squirming and his back arced off the sofa, his thighs twitched against John's, and he tried to rock his hips up, sobbing out a broken moan when John clamped down on his hip, pressing him into the sofa.
"I know, Sherlock." John soothed when Sherlock's whole body tried to undulate under his steady hold. "It's alright, love. Just breathe." He bit his lip, wondering if he should back off.
"Please, John...please." Sherlock begged him once his breathing had settled a little.
When the man seemed to have calmed down some, John finally allowed his thumb to swipe over the head, spreading the precum that had gathered under the digit.
Sherlock sobbed, his hips rolling weakly, hands still holding on to the arm rest under his head for dear life.
With a growing pool of heat spreading through his gut, John wrapped his hand in a loose circle around the column of Sherlock's cock and stroked slow and steady up and down it's length, swallowing around a mouthful of saliva when Sherlock immediately pushed up into his hand, fucking into his fist.
"Fuck, Sherlock, that's perfect," he gasped, blind-sided by how erotic is was to watch the pink head of Sherlock's cock sliding in and out of the ring of his index finger and thumb.
Sherlock was gasping lungfuls of air and his abdominal muscles were flexing against his skin with every roll of his hips; with each press up into John's hand another drop of precum eased from the head, leaving John's fist a warm, slick passage.
"Jesus, you're so wet." John ground out, using his free hand to undo his trousers and take himself in hand, need throbbing through every vein in his body. He tightened his grip on Sherlock, encouraging him when his rhythm stuttered. "Come on, love. Push up into my hand, that's right, just like that. There's a good lad."
Sherlock's gasps turned into little, bitten-off whimpers and then into soft cries when John moved his hand up, holding it higher and tightening his grip so that just the head of Sherlock's cock could slide through his fist and not two seconds later Sherlock's long fingers were clamped around his wrist like an iron shackle, holding his arm still while he fucked into his hand one last time and then arched off the sofa with a strangled scream, his knees drawing up and falling open, whole body shuddering with the impact of his orgasm and the sight of it shoved John over the edge and he came with a snarl, thick ropes of cum splashing across Sherlock's flat stomach.
When the touch of his own hand became too much, John let himself and Sherlock go, looking up when another full body shiver traveled from Sherlock's pale toes all the way up to the dark roots of his hair. The detective was the picture of sated, draped over the sofa like a wet towel, one foot down on the floor again, the other hooked over John's thigh and one arm dangling over the side of the couch. His eyes were closed and his swollen lips were parted, still trying to settle his breathing.
"Alright?" John asked, wishing both his hands weren't sticky with cum so he could offer a comforting touch.
"Extremely." Sherlock breathed, finally opening his eyes and finding John's. "For future reference..." for a moment he hesitated, his cheeks coloring again, but he managed to hold John's gaze. "...you can try that any time you wish."
A bubble of laughter pushed up John's throat and he grinned. "Oh can I? I'll keep that in mind." He stood, untangling their limbs. "Shower?"
"Then bed?" Sherlock asked, a clear invitation. His eyes were wide, questioning and heart-stoppingly innocent.
It really didn't matter that it was barely past noon or that he wasn't really all that sleepy, John would have signed over his savings account in that moment.
"Then bed." he confirmed softly.
When Sherlock stood on wobbly legs and grabbed his book about bees off the coffee table before making his way down the hall, John worried his heart might actually float right out of his chest.
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