There are certain parts of John's body that Sherlock loves. Some are obvious. His lips. His hands. His hips. His eyes. His cock. His arse.
Some are not. His spine. His wrists. His calves. His ankles.
Sherlock could spend an hour or two just fawning over the parts of John's body he loves.
He especially loves Johns neck, loves to nibble on it, suck dark marks, growl against it. Sometimes, his jaw is prickly, unshaven for a few days, so different from Sherlock's own, which is always smooth, and he'll bite and suck and mark, and growl mine over and over, claiming his beloved doctor for his own, until he has John gasping out that he's yours, fuck…all yours, Sherlock.
The velvet smoothness of John's back is something else Sherlock loves, one of the reasons putting John on his hands and knees is one of his favorite positions.
He loves to slide his hand up his lovers back, long fingers sliding across the satin of his skin, and then he'd make John arch, make his spine stand out, just so he can bend and press a kiss to each knob individually.
John loves that position as well, because Sherlock loves it so much when John's arms give out and he tumbles to the bed or couch or floor or wherever they'd let their hormones get the better of them this time, just letting himself get lost in the feeling of his lover in him, over him.
His favorite is when Sherlock will talk, growl words in his ear, lips moving against the shell, and it doesn't matter to John if he's saying how good John's arse feels around his cock or explaining the finer workings of the prostate, something he already knows, but fuck the bell curve, he'll listen to Sherlock talk about anything, just so long as he keeps his hips moving, keeps fucking John with that same want and desire while he's talking.
He loves it when Sherlock loses control and grunts out an expletive or groans out John's name as he's thrusting, always makes him tighten up, makes him want to make Sherlock do it again.
And vice versa, when Sherlock's sliding into John, filling him completely, he loves to hear John moan his name, gasp for more, all he can give, and he gives it gladly, more than willingly.
Sherlock's comebacks and wit don't stop at the bedroom door either. He'll bite out some smartass comment while John's riding him that will make him want to go harder and punch the smug out of him at the same time, will murmur something in John's ear while securing the belt around his wrists that makes John's face heat with embarrassment and lust, because Sherlock's the only one he shows his true self to, the only one who knows everything, and Sherlock likes to exploit it in the privacy of their bedroom, in their fortress of mattress and sheets and skin where it's safe and unbelievably dangerous and dirty.
It's proof just how much Sherlock likes to be the smartass when John cries out, arches at the feeling of Sherlock's hand in his hair, fingers scraping his scalp with callouses from years of violin practice, making John huff out his lovers name in a praise. "Fuck, Sherlock…so…so good," he pants out, his own hips jerking back to meet the taller man's in a rhythm that made his fingers dig into the floorboards.
Sherlock smirks against his back, lips drawing up into that precarious, bloody dangerous tilt, and his fingers jerk back on John's hair again, baring his gorgeous neck to the air and to Sherlock as his hand slides around it, long fingers fitting so comfortably as his mouth drags up the line of his lovers spine an he places a bite right at the base of the back of John's neck that makes the other man stiffen and cry out, coming in white hot, sticky splats over the floor.
His lover's hips still instantly, and John only holds still, waiting for him to continue, but Sherlock's going to make him do it, and John does, whining softly, whimpering and wriggling his hips, trying to push back, make Sherlock help him ride out the orgasm, and his lover smirks and licks at the bite, fingers hot against his throat.
His mouth trails up to John's ear, and he murmurs, those bloody amazing lips moving against the shell and sending spikes of pleasure along John's nerve endings, "I aim to please," at the same time he rolls his hips and bloody fucking Christ, he hits his aim perfectly, and spectacularly makes John come again, a dry orgasm that has something bordering a scream tearing from his throat, has his toes curling under and nails gouging the floorboard and entire body jerking and spasming around him.
Sherlock makes John come three more times before he stutters and shakes into his own orgasm nearly an hour later, and when he's finished, he pulls away, triumphant smirk on those lips, those fucking lips, as he stares down at the marked, trembling, roiling ruin that is John Watson.
His John Watson.