Author's Notes: My god, is it something new? COULD IT BE? YESSSSSSSSSSS! Well... relatively new... well... new to here. lol. Here's a short fiction that I am being nice about and keeping in one whole chapter so you don't have to wait for the shagging. DON'T YOU LOVE ME? *shot* Ahem. Yes, well, we're now posting new stuff. As always, I, Drifta, am muddling along as Sherlock Holmes, and my dear friend Calabash is the amazing Dr John Watson! (She does a faaabulous job!) :D
Warnings: Language, shagging, oral sex, lots of cum...
Summary: John comes home exhausted after a very disappointing day to find Sherlock waiting on the sofa. After a few kisses and touches, John and Sherlock fall asleep without shagging, possibly for one of the first times in their entire history of being together! Which, perhaps, is why John wakes up at four in the morning, randy. But the real question is should he wake Sherlock up?
Disclaimer: How we wished we had something to do with the production of the BBC series Sherlock, as it is we do not. Nor do we own the actors or people involved with the making of the brilliant show.
The creaky step on the staircase to the flat sounded a hundred times louder at five minutes past midnight. John winced, hesitating a moment, ducking his head around the railing to glance at Mrs. Hudson's door. There was no sound within, and he relaxed, ascending the steps once again. John hated being this late. His day at the office had been long, and his dinner with Harry even longer. The tube was delayed, and now, it was all he could do to stand upright. He was so utterly exhausted. John pushed the front door open, rubbing his eyes, half hoping Sherlock was still awake, half hoping he wasn't. After all, John had not seen his tall lover all day, and would have appreciated the chance to chat a few moments, steal a quick kiss before bed. But he knew his Sherlock. The quick kiss could, and probably would, turn into a shag, and John was simply not up for it. He just needed bed. Sheets, blankets, pillows, and bed. "Sherlock?" he called out softly with a yawn. He blinked about the sitting room. The blue glow from the telly bounced off the walls, and John smiled. Sherlock was waiting for him, curled on the sofa, in his robe and tshirt and long, baggy pyjama trousers. His bare feet were curled beneath him. John shuffled over, bending to kiss those cherubic lips. "Hey."
Sherlock put his arms around John's neck and returned the kiss. "Hello." He rested his head on John's shoulder and inhaled deeply. John's scent was calming and reassuring, which was just what Sherlock needed right at that moment. "It's late." Sherlock had been alone all day, had been bored and angry and lonely and apathetic and sad all day. He'd tried to sleep earlier but he couldn't, not without John next to him keeping him warm. In fact, Sherlock had just gotten out of the bed to sit and watch some telly while waiting for his lover to come home. Sherlock leaned back down and gazed at John's face. "You look tired," he murmured, settling himself in a sitting position and patting the seat next to him. John did look exhausted. There were dark circles under his eyes and his forehead was lined from lack of sleep. His shoulders were slumped slightly and his blinks were .2 seconds longer than normal. Sherlock would let John sleep tonight. He did not mind, just lying next to his soldier was good enough for the detective.
John shook his head, reaching down to pull on Sherlock's hands until he dragged him up. He slid both arms around the slender waist, and stood on his tip toes to nuzzle a cold nose into his neck. "I just want to go to bed," he murmured, fingers digging into the soft fabric of Sherlock's dressing gown. Damn, he smelled good. John took a deep inhale, his body immediately responding with interest. John chuckled, pressing a kiss to his jaw. It never ceased to amazing him how strong his desire for Sherlock Holmes could be. It was overwhelming, intoxicating... but even this ardent passion could not override the exhaustion that sucked his bones dry. John tossed his head, stepping backwards towards their bedroom. "Come to bed with me?" he pleaded.
Sherlock nodded and took John's right hand in one of his own. "If you insist." he followed his lover submissively, watching John's back with a great deal of fondness. John's back was beautiful, the broad, sturdy shoulders, the tanned skin, the faint scars. Sherlock loved his back.
John led him to their bed and Sherlock climbed on it, sitting on his side of the big mattress and watching John. "Long day?" he asked quietly. He could tell it had been a stressful day for John. From the looks of him he'd been at the clinic for two hours longer than he was supposed to, had skipped lunch, and then had a rather disappointing dinner with Harry. The faint traces of hot sauce on his lips and the faded but very distinct smell of Mexican cuisine meant they'd eaten at Harry's favourite, and one of John's most hated, restaurants. Sherlock held back a snort. John was too nice sometimes.
John stripped, his fingers fumbling at buttons and his zipper, the need for sleep washing over him in tidal waves. "Yes," he replied, his voice clipped and monotone. It had been a horrible day from start to finish, and as he stood in his socks and shorts, debating on whether or not to sleep in the nude, John peeked over at his lover, sitting cross legged and gangly on the bed. He exhaled. "Lost a patient," he said lowly, toeing his socks off and shrugging. "It happens. Natural causes. Elderly chap. Nice enough fellow." He wished immediately he hadn't said anything. If Sherlock made a flippant comment, it would just be the icing on the cake. His stomach rumbled, churning. Damn Harry and her spicy cuisine.
Sherlock nodded, unsure what to say. Dying was a natural occurrence, Sherlock did not understand why the topic upset so many people, it did not bother him in the least, but John was obviously upset about it. "At least it wasn't unnatural causes." He said meekly, crawling over to John's side of the bed and holding his arms out, his cheeks slightly flushed.
John laughed quietly. That was as close as Sherlock could get to a comforting comment. At least he hadn't been murdered. At least no one made him swallow poison pills, or murdered him with surreptitious exotic snakes, or injected him with massive amounts of Botox. Yes. That was as close to comforting as Sherlock came. John loved him for it. He turned, inserting himself in the space between Sherlock's arms, and John crawled up on top of him, seating himself firmly on lean thighs. He wrapped his arms around his neck, and leaned in to kiss him, deeply. He didn't have any more words. All he had were these feelings welling inside him, the profound joy of belonging. Of coming home to someone who owned him. John rocked against him, less out of sexual need than the desperate passion of a man in love. He slipped his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, humming and moaning in appreciation for the flavor there.
Sherlock responded immediately, letting out a low moan and nibbling on John's tongue. His arms closed around John's waist and stroked his back, sitting as still as he could while John ground against him. He would not initiate anything. Sherlock knew that John was over tired, and the detective was going to make sure that if there was any sex it would be because John started it, because John was up for it. Not because Sherlock was randy. They sat there for a few moments, their lips moulding against each other, their tongues meeting and their breath mingling before Sherlock pushed John on his back and stared down at him. God, he really did love John. It was such a strange, over whelming feeling. He didn't understand it, and sometimes he didn't know how to cope with it, but fuck it all he loved this man. Slowly he lowered himself down until their bodies were almost touching. Leaning all his weight on his elbows he continued to gaze in John's eyes, not saying a word, not touching his lover. John's eyes were the most beautiful eyes Sherlock had ever had the pleasure of seeing. The way they glittered and glowed when they looked at him, the way they turned harsh and hard when someone insulted a loved one. John's eyes were beautiful.
John felt his breath stolen away. He tried to swallow, and could not. Sherlock hovered over him, an angel of fire and unearthly beauty, and John was struck by how very much of himself he'd lost in this man. Sherlock was the sun... something to rotate around, something to collect heat and light from, something to depend on as if your life was at stake... for John's was. He panted softly on the mattress, body throbbing to Sherlock's rhythmic breaths, and he choked a little. "Sherlock... I can't..." He couldn't. He couldn't express what he was feeling. It was all too much. He was so tired, so fucking tired, and he wanted to make love, and he needed to sleep, and he wanted Sherlock inside of him, forever, forever.
Sherlock heard the desperation in his lover's voice. He pressed a gentle kiss on John's lips and rolled over to lie next to him. "Let's sleep." He lifted the covers up and curled up underneath them. Sherlock grasped John's hand and turned on his side, looking at John. "Let's sleep." He repeated, closing his eyes and letting out a long sigh. It seemed that he was tired, too, and now that John was here he could finally drift off.
John scrambled beneath the blankets and thrust his body up close to the detective's. He took several deep, shaky breaths, smelling Sherlock's skin and hair, nestling in close and clasping his hand. "I love you," he whispered against his collarbone, nipping it. He did. He loved Sherlock. He loved him so much, he was about thirty seconds away from saying "Screw it" and letting Sherlock fuck him anyway, no matter how tired he was. But just the simple gesture of climbing into bed and curling up with his lover was too much for John's overwrought senses. He felt his eyelids flutter... felt his thought processes slow... felt his speech slur. "Sh..herluck.. mmm.. see... you in... morning.." Tomorrow. Yes. Tomorrow he would wake up and make love to Sherlock. Tonight.. John began to snore.
Sherlock smiled sleepily and snuggled close to John, wrapping his arms around him. John's breathing regulated and Sherlock heard light snores escaping his lover's lips. He buried his head in John's sandy blonde hair and sighed contentedly. John was so exhausted, it was almost cute the way he fell asleep the second he closed his eyes. Sherlock never would have ever have expected someone to be able to relax enough around him to sleep next to him. His heart swelled and he swallowed thickly. "I love you, too." He whispered, closing his eyes and slowly letting each muscle in his body begin to loosen up. Sleep was calling. Sherlock was a little sad that there would be no late night shagging, but this was just as good and it didn't happen nearly as often as the shagging did. Sherlock would never admit it, but he did love a good snuggle.
John shifted. The sleep that had lulled him so seductively throughout the night previous now fled him, bit by bit as he stirred, moaning softly. His dreams swirled about, taking more definite shape as his subconscious registered the insistent nudge of a warm, hard cock in his back. John hissed, jolting a bit, and his eyes flew open. For long moments, he lay in the bed, panting and staring at the ceiling in the deep darkness. A dream. He was dreaming about Sherlock still. John laughed, raising his hand to clap against his forehead, being careful not to wake his slumbering lover. Next to him, Sherlock was dozing peacefully, his aquiline face unlined in the low light. John stared at him. Fuck. Fuck. He used to dream of Sherlock all the time before they became lovers, but he hadn't had a sexual dream in ages. He hadn't needed them. Hell, Sherlock was a maniac in the bedroom... John was so knackered by the end of shagging that he nearly always crashed hard, and barely dreamt at all! But... he flushed, eyes drifting up to the clock. It was almost four in the morning. And there was a very real, very hard cock nudging into the small of his back. John rocked backwards a little, the blush spreading to his limbs. Poor Sherlock. He couldn't help it. The man always seemed to get erections at night. Not that John had ever taken advantage, no... But he'd noticed. Hell, yes. Every time he got up to use the loo. Or to get a glass of water. Or... oh. oooh. John swallowed thickly as Sherlock mewled in his sleep, turning his body to John's and spooning him properly. John bit his lips, squeezing his eyes shut. It was all those years of self deprivation. He was sure of it. How many years had Sherlock's body made up for his lack of sexual interest by giving him stiffies at night? No matter... John groaned, glancing backwards. His arse twitched as Sherlock's cock nudged it. Fuck. Fuck he wanted that. He looked up longingly at Sherlock's calm face. John shuddered, burying his face in his pillow. No. There was no way he was waking Sherlock from a perfectly good sleep just to shag him. No way.
Sherlock shifted in his sleep and slid his arms around John's stomach, moaning a little as his cock came in contact with John's arse. Unlike his lover, Sherlock often had sexual dreams during the night. More often than not they involved John lying on their bed with his wrists tied up above him and his legs spread wide, begging for Sherlock to fuck him hard. Tonight's dream was a little less kinky. It was just him and John and love. Sherlock smiled and rocked up against John's arse, letting out a low sigh. Suddenly he flopped over on his back and whined in his sleep, bucking up a little. John was riding on top of him in his dream, whispering how much he loved him, how good Sherlock felt inside him. "Fuuuccckkk, Johnnn..." He moaned, biting his lip and gasping, still deep in slumber.
Shit. Shitshitshitshit. John gasped into his pillow, whimpering, and he pushed himself up on his elbows, staring down with wide eyes at his lover. Sherlock was arching a little, his gorgeous mouth open and panting, and fuck, it was not difficult to discern what he was dreaming about. John was hard in an instant. He squirmed in the bed, licking his lips as Sherlock's legs shifted and flexed beneath the sheets, his tented pyjamas visible beneath the thin cotton. John reached out, brushing the back of his hand over the evidence of Sherlock's arousal, and he felt his own cock jump beneath his knickers. SHIT, Sherlock was HARD. So hard John would daresay he could climb on top of him and slide his arse hole down on that cock and it would devour him. Completely. He moaned aloud, his skin prickling with excitement and a sudden frenzied desire to do just that. John began to gasp, grinding his arse down on the mattress, completely undone by the idea of fucking himself on Sherlock's cock while the other man slept. Hell. That would be so much more satisfying than a toss off, or even a quick self fuck on the vibrator in the loo... But he could not do it. It was wrong. Sherlock was not awake to say no. Then again... when had he EVER said no? John leaned forward, shaking, and grazed his neckline with his lips. "I want you," he whispered, pathetic and mad with need. Fuck! He wanted him NOW! He began to palm his erection, sucking at the flesh there.
Sherlock gasped as he felt John's lips on his skin, felt John's hand on his cock. He heard him deep in his dream; in his dream John was telling him how he wanted him. Wanted him badly. Sherlock let out a loud moan and his hand shot to his erection. Still asleep, still dreaming, he began twisting and turning around in bed, trying to get as much friction as could. His lips fell open and he groaned.
John hated himself. He hated himself for being so weak, for needing so much, for being so fucking turned on by what he was about to do. He was shaking. He sat up as quietly as he could, his eyes taking in every writhing movement, his ears devouring every moan, and John's hand quested in the side table drawer. It closed around a cool plastic bottle, and he pulled it out, trembling as he wriggled out of his shorts. One long drizzle to his fingers, and John was kneeling by his lover, legs spread, slipping two fingers inside of his entrance as he watched Sherlock groan and whimper on the bed, in the throes of an erotic dream. A dream about him. And if the telltale thrusting of Sherlock's bony hips was any indication, hell yes, Sherlock was dreaming about shoving his cock up John's arse. The doctor swallowed dryly, bobbing his body up and down on his own thick fingers, his mouth falling open, his eyes rolling back as the sensation began to tingle in his gut. Fingers weren't enough. No. He needed Sherlock. John removed them, scooting between Sherlock's wide spread legs, and with as much delicacy as he could manage, John began to work his pyjama pants off. "Bad John," he whispered to himself, his cheeks crimson, his hands all a-tremor. He was a bad man, a bad bad bad man...
Sherlock's hands latched onto the sheets and he tossed his head as the cool night air hit his naked cock. His eyelids fluttered and his face contorted in pleasure as John's fingers lightly traced the hard length between his legs. "Hnnnnnnnnn.."
John could not wait. He tore at the pants faster, yanking them down past his ankles and taking just a moment to admire the view. Sherlock was on his back in his tshirt and nothing else, his hair mussed and slightly sweaty, his face enraptured from his dream lover. John snarled, staring down at his cock hungrily. Normally, he might take the time to suck it a while... Sherlock's cock tasted better than strawberry ice cream... but not tonight. Tonight John needed to be pleasured, and he was about to use his lover to accomplish the task. He crawled up to straddle his stomach, slicking his hand once more and reaching around backwards to pump his slippery palm up Sherlock's cock, once, twice. Then he was positioning himself over those hips, his eyes wide, his mouth hanging open. SHIT. He was SUCH a fucking bad man! What the fuck kind of man climbed on top of his lover at 4 AM and started riding his big cock without so much as a please or thank you? But desire burnt in his veins, and John pushed away every thought except the bulbous head of Sherlock's pink cock nudging his pucker, and how fucking GOOD those ridges and pulsing veins were going to feel against his walls, and how fucking MARVELOUS it would be when Sherlock exploded inside of him, cum oozing out his arse hole, wet and white and sticky and fragrant... John cried out, and with one violent movement, he rammed down, Sherlock's hot cock splitting him open and diving inside. John rocked there, reeling from the sensation, holding his breath, and he laughed out loud, hands pressed into Sherlock's abdomen. Swiftly, he rose up, his thighs protesting, and then slammed down again, a lightning bolt of pleasure blasting through his system. "Fuck, yeah," he sobbed, squeezing his arse on the upclimb, his head falling back with wordless screams as he fell again. "FUCK YEAH..."
Sherlock felt it the instant John's arse closed around his cock. This was more real than a dream was supposed to feel, than any of his dreams had ever felt before. The detective thrust up into the heat, into the tight space. He heard John's screams. Those screams were real. There was no way Sherlock could ever imagine those. His eyes flew open and his mouth sagged as they fell on John... John fucking himself. FUCKING himself on Sherlock's cock. Sherlock nearly came from the image. His soldier was rocking up and down, his thighs flexing with every downward movement, his lips parted, his head thrown back, his chest heaving. "John," he gasped, flinging his arms out and grasping John's hips. "John, what the fuck are you... oh shit, don't stop, don't stop.. haaahh.." Sherlock arched his back and he moaned again. Fuck. This was... this was the best way to wake up. Sherlock had often secretly wondered what it would be like to wake up to John riding his cock like a little slut, but he'd never said anything. He had never thought John would ever, EVER consent to doing something like that, especially without Sherlock's prompting.
"YESSS!" John was glad, oh so fucking GLAD that Sherlock was awake! He didn't think he could have held out much longer without screaming. He wasn't able to stifle the moans and cries, but... oh.. oh now, the real fun could begin. "SHIT!" he shouted, quickening his bobbing, and his hands flew up to grab hands full of blonde hair, his back curved beautifully, his cock slapping hard against Sherlock's stomach as he thrust himself up and down like a jack in the box, the muscles in his legs burning. "Hell YESSSS, Sherlock! Fuck! Fuuuuck! Right there there there there.. hhh..hhaaahhh... FUCK!" John was writhing now, sobbing, his rhythm erratic and frantic as he felt his lover's cock shove deeper, felt Sherlock's body join the action, rising to meet him with ever fall, forcing its way past the tight ring of flesh into his tight cavern, invading, intruding, and FUUUCK it felt wonderful! So much better than a fucking vibrator. So much better than his own fingers. So much..so..so... "Hnnnnghhhh... Sherlooooockkk..." John stared down at him with a panicked expression as he felt it: a slow burn, starting deep in his core and warming its way out through his veins into his extremities... his stomach... his chest, his arms, his fingers, his neck and legs and toes... It pooled in his lower back, and John began to rotate slowly, jolting and juddering with each nudge of that firm, insistent cock against the spongy walls of his prostate. Over, and over, and over again he purposefully tortured the sweet spot, until his gasps and groans were strangled, ripping from his throat, and he siezed his hair by its roots, screaming at the top of his lungs. "SHERLOCK! FUCK! I..I... I CAN'T! I can't! I can't fucking.. F..F..fuuuckkk!" John needed to cum, needed to cum and collapse, but the pleasure was spiking too rapidly, and he rose the crest, wailing. "FUCK MEEEE! Please! I can't, I can't, I can't can't can't!"
Sherlock held back for a few moments, letting John writhe in agony a little longer. He wanted to commit this to memory, wanted to eat up every detail, wanted to watch just a bit more, feel a bit more. John sobbed again, begging over and over. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me please. Sherlock groaned and sat up, pushing John onto the bed and smiling wickedly. "Johnnn," he said leaning over his lover, still buried deep inside but unmoving, "you're such a whore." Sherlock nipped John's ear and sucked the crook of his neck. "Such a FUCKING whore, you wanted my cock that badly?" He chuckled as John whimpered and writhed about him, his hands scrabbling at Sherlock's back in desperation. "You can't what, John? I need to know." Sherlock was being cruel, he knew it. He should move, he should give John what he needed... and yet..."Tell me."
"C..Cant... Fuck! I can't.. stop... Need more... NEED MORE PLEEEEASE!" John wailed, spreading his legs on the bed as wide as they would go. He shoved both hands behind his knees, pulling them up to his chest, offering his arse up and sobbing out, "Please Sherlock, fuck me, fuck my arse hard, I'm so fucking close..." He was. He was so close he was practically having an orgasm right then and there. But it was the tip of the iceberg, the crest of the wave, the beautiful, blissful moment before Hell itself sprang open and devoured his body with raging flames, and John needed the FIRE. He wiggled, his body on display for Sherlock, submissive and begging. Hell, John Watson was not above begging. Not one fucking bit. "PLEEEASE, please please please, shove your cock in me, ram me, fuck me, split me open, tear me in half, make me scream, make me beg for mercy, fuck me Sherlock, break me, PLEASE."
"Good boy," he licked John's jaw and then thrust deep inside him, banging up against his prostate. Sherlock opened his mouth in a silent scream. Fuck, John felt so good and Sherlock loved this so much. The way John's insides stroked his cock, heating up every centimetre of it, hugging and caressing it. The way John begged and whined and pleaded. Sherlock was a sadist, he knew that. He loved hearing his soldier beg. It worked so very well on him. John knew it, too. John used it all the time and it drove Sherlock insane. All John had to do was brush a finger against him and whisper in Sherlock's ear "fuck me please", and Sherlock's mind would go blank, he would shove John over the nearest hard surface and begin pounding into him. "John, you are so tight, so good..." Sherlock began to move, began to fuck John with a passion. Biting and nipping at his lover's neck, Sherlock did not hold back, he rammed into John's arse over and over. "FUCK. So... fuc...hnnnn... tight!"
"HAHHHH! AHHH! FUUCK!" John was screaming to the ceiling now, his skin hot, his knees bent to his chest. Sherlock's hands held them there as his cock pistoned in and out, and John began to laugh hysterically, the pleasure screeching through him, blowing past his defenses, breaking down everything that made him John Watson. He was no one. He was a mass of quivering limbs and weeping soldier boy, a liquid puddle of used and abused flesh, and he would never want to be anything else as long as he lived. The flesh jutting out from between Sherlock's legs was wicked, and fast, and amazlingly deep, and John lay still, laughing and crying and spreading his legs as Sherlock took his turn pleasuring himself in his lover's body. John let his eyes drift lazily open between screams, and he met Sherlock's wide gaze, a low, agonized groan bellowing up from his lungs. "Sherlock," he rasped, and then John was cumming, his shrill cry echoing off the walls of the flat as his balls tightened, his cock stiffened, and exploded, white ejaculate coating Sherlock's chest, dripping rivulets of John's passion dribbling down his stomach. John bit his hand so hard that his teeth left pale marks in his flesh, and he sobbed out Sherlock's name, pulsing, time after time. "My face," he whined, collasping back at last onto the bed. "Cum on my face Sherlock, all over my face, cover me in your fucking cum, I want it in my hair and my cheeks and I want you to shove your cock against my face, make me smell you, make me lick the cum off your cock, FUCK! Fuck, Sherlock, pleeease cum on my face!"
"Fuck!" Sherlock hissed as John let those impossibly and incredibly sexy words fall from his lips. "FUCK!" The detective had to hold himself back from cumming right there. He loved it when John did this. It didn't happen as often as Sherlock would like, but that made it all the more enjoyable when it did happen. When John begged him to cum all over his face… With a groan, he pulled out of John's arse and knelt up, breathing heavily. His cock jutted out, hard and angry and dripping. Sherlock looked down at it and let out a harsh laugh. "You want my cock that fucking badly? Well come on then, whore, get it." He snarled, running a hand through his hair and thrusting his hips forward, watching as John's eyes followed it hungrily. "Hurry the fuck up."
John hesitated only a moment, then bared his teeth and flew at Sherlock. He knocked him backwards, using his muscular body to leverage against his torso and pin him to the mattress, strong brown hands gripping his hips and holding then down. John pushed his legs apart, burrowing down between them on his stomach, and he moaned loudly, shoving his face in the heated space between Sherlock's thighs. He nosed his balls, licking them with the flat of his tongue, and John began rub his face hard against the tall, throbbing cock, his breath coming in quick pants. "Fuck," he whined, mouthing it, nipping it, burying his nose and forehead and cheeks into the curls beneath. John whimpered. He couldn't get enough, he couldn't fucking get enough. "Sherlock..." he moaned into his balls, sucking them in, still bobbing up every few seconds to stroke and fondle his lover's cock with every inch of his face he could manage. "Sherlock... I need your cum on meee..." He bit the base, hard. "Cum on me, I want to see you stroking your cock and shooting your load all over my face, please, please..." John nestled in again, mewling like a cat, rubbing up against him, and he looked up at Sherlock with hungry, sultry eyes. Slowly, John propped himself on his elbows, his nose and mouth directly over the head of Sherlock's dick, and he opened his lips. He wanted to taste it when Sherlock came for him. "Stroke it for me, please," John begged softly.
Sherlock let out a shuddering breath as John licked and sucked at him. His self-control faded away when John positioned himself over Sherlock's cock, his mouth open, waiting. "Fuck." Sherlock let out a strangled cry and grasped his cock, pumping it quickly. He was close, so fucking close. John hovered over him, his eyes flicking from Sherlock's face to his cock. "Fuck, I'm going to cum!" His hand quickened its pace, faster and faster until he felt his body tense up, felt himself teetering on the edge. John's face was expectant; his gorgeous tongue was sticking out, flat against his lower lip. It never ceased to amaze Sherlock that John thought his cock was such a treat. His lover was the sexiest man, no, person in the whole world and he loved Sherlock. Wanted Sherlock's cock. Out of everyone else he could have, because Sherlock knew John could have anyone, he'd chosen Sherlock Holmes the Sociopath. "Fuuuucccccccccckkkk." Sherlock moaned, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as he gave one final pump. His orgasm rolled over him, crashing through his body with an electric shock, his whole body convulsed. Sherlock dragged his eyes to John's face and let out cry of pleasure and another thick stream of cum. The white, pearly substance was splattered over his lover's face. Most of it had landed in his mouth, but there were little splatters adorning his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, his hair. "JOHN!" Sherlock screamed out and pumped again, arching his back shooting out one last time before he sunk against the bed, breathing hard.
John waited a moment, waited for Sherlock to regain his breath and peer down at him. The moment those icy eyes met his, he smiled, swallowing very deliberately, moaning and thrusting his hips against the sheets. Then John smirked, leaning down to rest against Sherlock's flat, trembling stomach, and he began to make tiny, animalistic noises as he rubbed his cum covered face into the pale flesh, letting Sherlock feel just how fucking wet and sticky and mussed he was. Sherlock's hands snatched his hair, their bodies bucking into one another, and John rubbed his way up, up, to his chest, to his neck, and at last he was thrusting his tongue into that wicked mouth, moaning his name, their hips aligned and rotating against one another in the warm, post coital glow. "Bastard," John muttered happily, sucking vigorously on Sherlock's tongue. "You are one hot fucking bastard."
"And you are one hot fucking cock whore." Sherlock grinned against John's mouth and attacking his lips. "Absolutely, perfectly, wonderfully sexy." Rolling over, forcing John underneath him, Sherlock looked down at him and dipped his head in, flicking his tongue over the flecks of cum on his lover's face. "That..." he licked John's right cheek where a particularly large spot was, "was the best way you've woken me up yet." Sherlock chuckled and kissed John's lips again. "I didn't think you had it in you."
"No?" John knew that somehow, he should probably feel indignant. Instead, he settled for reaching his arms up childishly, and accepting Sherlock's kisses with a gleeful smile. "I could go again," he chirped, wedging his knee between his lover's legs. It wasn't fair... they were both sleepy, and completely worn out from their mad coupling. John could feel the yawns coming already. But he was loathe to let Sherlock go just yet. He stretched, arching his back, grinning as Sherlock's eyes followed his languid movement.
Sherlock ate up every move John made, devouring the soldier with his eyes. "John..." he began, starting to say he could go for another round, but then he saw the barely contained yawn in John's throat and felt one of his own creeping up. "Tomorrow." He said firmly, kissing John one more time and flopping down beside him. "Tomorrow. We can get cleaned up and then I'll fuck you again and again and again." He promised, letting the yawn loose and rubbing his eyes. Shifting slightly, he slid an arm around the older man's stomach, pulling him close and gently resting a knee on his legs. "Tomorrow..." he murmured, his eyes beginning to flutter close.
John watched him drift away, and he pursed his lips. He needed to ask before Sherlock was gone. "Hey... you're not angry with me... are you?" He knew the answer. But he needed to hear it. After all, he had just basically used Sherlock's cock as his own personal dildo while his lover was asleep.
Sherlock chuckled and tightened his grip around John. "That... was one of the best ways I have ever been woken up. I give you full permission to do it again if you wake up completely horny in the middle of the night and I'm still sleeping." He kissed John's forehead and yawned again. "I've always.. al... wonder.. what it'd feel like to waaaa…" another yawn, his eyes sliding shut, "…feel like..."
John grinned. "Goodnight," he whispered, kissing his cheek. He turned his back to him, letting Sherlock pull him close and mould their bodies together, and John lay in the darkness, feeling. He felt his body, felt the aching throb in his arse, felt the jellied bones, felt the swollen lips and the stickiness of drying semen residue on his face and chest. He felt Sherlock behind him, the rhythmic breathing that spoke of his slumber, the long limbs tangled with his own, the tickling of dark hair against his neck. He felt the closeness of the air, the sweat and the smell of sex, the quiet of the London streets outside their window. John felt everything. He closed his eyes, and fell asleep, knowing tomorrow would bring more of the same. And that was all John ever wanted.
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