Sherlock was so monumentally bored. He was sprawled, as was his wont, across the couch, but he wasn't shooting walls or adding nicotine patches. No his addiction was something else these days, namely a 5' 7", muddy blonde blue-eyed doctor who was currently NOT HOME.
When are you coming home?
SH
Why?
JW
BORED
SH
Probably 20 minutes. Do you want me to grab anything?
JW
Yes.
Me.
SH
:)
JW
John came in, as promised, 20 minutes later. He was so delightfully, regimentally prompt. Sherlock smiled languidly at him. He'd contemplated actually laying across John's bed but he loved seeing John's face as he came into the flat-the way his face lit up when he saw Sherlock even if Sherlock was holding something quite disgusting, which was often.
John moved across the room and lay down on top of his lover, opening Sherlock's knees with his own, and kissed him deeply and slowly, holding Sherlock's jaw between his hands, his lovely, gentle doctor's hands. Sherlock arched up into John's body. He'd needed this all day, like a nicotine craving, like withdrawal. He started scrabbling at John's trousers, but John grabbed his hands and pinned them to his sides.
"You're always so impatient, Sherlock. For everything. You should really learn to enjoy the journey. It may all be transport, but sometimes the journey is better than the destination."
John kissed him again, ground their hips together, but in a slow, measured way, gently rocking them together. John did let Sherlock unbutton his shirt, but would stop him every time Sherlock's hands went lower. John finally unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt so that their chests were pressed together, so they could nuzzle each other's necks, kiss along collar bones, suck on bare skin. All the while their hips rocked together, tantalizing but amazingly intimate and measured as well.
At last John sighed into Sherlock's neck, his hips thrusting involuntarily, and whispered, "Dry humping is quite nice, isn't it? But I think it might be time to get to our destination, so to speak. Shall we adjourn to the bedroom?"
Sherlock could barely reply. "Yes," came out as a breathy half gasp, half giggle.
John reluctantly pulled himself away from Sherlock's body, leaning in for one more kiss, as Sherlock sat up. John laughed and pulled away, practically running upstairs, leading Sherlock for once, but once inside the room Sherlock had him against the wall, unbuttoning John's jeans and dropping to his knees in moments.
And oh, Sherlock's mouth was over John's aching cock; the slow build had John shuddering with an intense orgasm in moments. "Oh, fucking Jesus, God!"
Wiping his mouth, Sherlock leapt up from his knees with that amazing athletic grace and grabbing John's hand pulled him back to the bed where John was more than happy to return the favor, undoing Sherlock's trousers and inhaling his lover, swallowing him whole. He was happy to hear Sherlock's cries as he too came wildly, thrashing his hips and grabbing John's hair. He looked forward all day to rendering Sherlock incoherent.
John slid up the bed and curled around Sherlock, resting his head against Sherlock's chest as their breathing settled back to normal. It was like high school, wasn't it? Still half dressed and desperate.
"I'm rather amazed that you didn't grow up Catholic, John, from your, uh, prayers," Sherlock murmured. "I don't recall Jesus doing much fucking when I read the bible."
John sat up on one elbow and looked up at Sherlock. "Wait, you don't know the earth goes around the sun, but you've read the bible?"
"Many serial killers are at least partially schizophrenic, hearing voices which tell them what to do. Often these voices are interpreted as being religious in origin. I felt it was helpful to know where they might be drawing their imagery. I also recall that the bible is rather clear on the sun going 'round the earth."
"No, no, you're spot on there. Not a lot of accurate astronomy in the bible," he paused, "my prayers, notwithstanding, you have to admit that delaying gratification did lead to a certain intensity."
"Yes, very clever 'experiment,' my dear John."
"Oh, shut up, smart arse."
"Do you find my arse smart?"
"I find your arse many things, Sherlock. Firm, delectable, graspable, sensitive, soft and damned erotic, but unless you are a Stegosaurus, no, it probably is not literally 'smart.'"
"A what?"
"A Stego— don't tell me. You find dinosaurs irrelevant. Right, 'Jurassic Park' tomorrow night. It has Sam Neil in it. You liked him in 'Reilly.'
What if someone was killed with a dinosaur bone, or crushed by a collapsing dinosaur display or something. Wouldn't you feel silly then?"
"I rather think that both of those scenarios are highly improbable."
"But NOT, impossible."
"No, not impossible," Sherlock sighed, "alright John, I look forward to this edifying documentary tomorrow."
"Did you mean it?"
"What, that I look forward to it? Erm, no."
"No, that I am you dear John."
They looked in each others eyes for a moment. "Yes, you are my dearest John. My truest and dearest friend, the love of my life. The only love of my life. And I am your Sherlock."
John kissed him, long and slow, reveling in the tenderness of the moment, before sliding down to rest his head against Sherlock's shoulder.
"Well, that's good," laughed John, lightly, "because, you know, if a body is just transport for the brain, then yours is a Bentley. And you know what they say about a Bentley, don't you?"
"No," Sherlock responded softly, "but I'm sure you'll tell me"
"It's a damn good ride. I intend to take you around the block until your shocks give out."