Voulez Vouls Coucher Avec Moi?

It was a warm, warm night, when Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had gone out to have a quiet dinner at Angelo's. Sherlock had eaten very little, and instead focused his mind on the doctor's chewing and the blowing of his own cigarette. Unnecessary strokes of hands here, undisclosed gazes there, and blatant lusting all the time. As soon as John finished his plate, they rushed out of the restaurant and into 221B Baker Street at a hurried pace for no real reason.

John attempted to use his keys without showing trembling hands, but failed from the start: he couldn't find the right key, and quite honestly, he didn't remember which one was the one he was looking for. He felt a heated blow of smoke to his nape and inhaled the scent of the cigarette sharply, the muscles of his upper back tensing. Hot breath against the back of his neck, low and seductive.

"You're making this harder for yourself," John turned and ignored the watering of his mouth at the sight of Sherlock taking a drag from the cigarette; the very tip of it burning hot red, Sherlock's cheeks hollowing slightly, accentuating his smirk and his darkened eyes. "Let me." Sherlock pressed his body onto John's, backing him up against the door, and taking the keys from his hand with two slim fingers; the feather-like touch making the doctor choked a moan that came out as a barely audible whimper. Without breaking eye contact, Sherlock unlocked the door and led them inside; the both of them striding in casually, but the tension could almost be tasted; buzzing in the air like sparks of electricity. John leaned his back on the door, and Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, left hand in the pocket of his trousers, and his right hand holding the cigarette in place with a V. They stared at each other with such intensity, it could be mistaken for a leer, but not quite. Their breaths were loud and rhythmical, their positions comfortable but tense, their minds foggy but sharp. John observed for the millionth time that night as Sherlock took an intake of the fag, and found himself watering in every sense of the way: excessive salivation, dampening of his skin, melting of his senses. It was too much; his brain was foggy with the scent of Sherlock and cigarettes and sweat and booze and adrenaline; the ever-present tingling of his fingers, where Sherlock's touch had faintly ghosted by earlier; the burning of his nape and the uncomfortable erection below his waist. He walked with confidence to the comfortable figure of the detective, took the cigarette from his mouth and pressed it to the very tip of his tongue, before he put it out in the hollow between his colleague's visible collarbones. He clenched his jaw at the sound Sherlock made when the burn came in contact with his skin; between a shout of pain and a moan of pleasure.

"Kiss me," he said. "Kiss me before either of us come to our senses."

"John…"

"I wonder…"

"John."

"… How you taste."

"John," it was a moan now. A moan that John reciprocated with his own, loving the way Sherlock moaned his name. Strong fingers fisted black curls and just like that, their mouths pressed against each other in a rough, dirty, open mouthed kiss; all about loud exhalations, painful clashes of bottom lips, strong hands grabbing the other's jaw a little too tightly, inflating chests colliding during inhalation, and feeling incredibly cold, but at the same time, incredibly hot. The taste of nicotine in Sherlock's mouth made John moan, and he instinctively licked the right corner of his mouth. Sherlock's hands tightened against John's skull and he thrust himself forward, pressing their bodies together, and adding a tongue to the snogging. He savoured the way John's tongue slid against his own, the way his eyelashes fluttered against his cheek and tickled him, leaving burning dots of flesh behind; the way John's hands lowered from his jaw to his neck, to the front of his shirt; the way his fingers, teasing, slowly, gracefully undid the first button of seven, and the way his legs separated until he was trapped in a cage of John he couldn't escape even if he wanted to. The tip of the doctor's tongue traced the inside of the roof of his mouth, just behind his teeth, and he moaned. He opened his eyes very suddenly and ignored the pain he felt when he did; he unlocked their mouths and pulled John's jumper off in one quick swift movement, and immediately smothered his hands up the other man's torso. His skin was smooth, and he felt the little goosebumps rising with his touch. He buried his head in John's neck and inhaled loudly, rubbing his nose in every patch of skin available. He picked a spot and after kissing and nipping for a few seconds, he bit down and sucked, eliciting a delicious moan. He felt nails dig into his shoulder blades, and instead of feeling pain, he felt arousal and pleasure. He sucked harder for a second and traced his lips along John's jaw, shin, eyes… all the while running his hands down to settle in the doctor's chest, pinching both his nipples with the insides of his index and middle fingers.

All grace and patience was forgotten as John fisted his brunette's shirt and pulled him with him up the stairs and into his room, where he closed the door and pushed him against it. He unbuttoned the deep purple shirt with expertise and dropped to his slowly knees as he did so, pinching bits of skin on his way down, earning himself a few groans from Sherlock and the pleasure of seeing him uselessly gripping the wall for support, head thrown back, mouth agape, eyes shut closed. He let his tongue slide inside the band of his pants slowly, teasingly, almost painfully, and smirked when he felt the detective's erection grow and press more intently at his throat. He lowered his head a little further and exhaled a very hot breath just over his cock. Sherlock let out a very long and loud moan and, not knowing what to do with his hands, he fisted at his own curls and pulled back, exposing his warm damp neck to the chill of the London air. He felt his knees buckle when John closed his mouth around his clothed cock, and whimpered when he bit softly up and down his length.

"John!"

"Christ, Sherlock," John murmured against Sherlock's now damp front of his trousers, and ran his hands up his calves, digging at the backside of his knees, flattening and pressing on their way up his thighs to his arse, squeezing once, twice, thrice, until Sherlock's moans weren't enough anymore. He ran his fingers from his behind to his front, tapping lightly the underside on his way, and then slowly opening the zipper. Sherlock moaned once again above him and thrust his hips forward once, nearly breaking at the slowness of John's actions, who only hummed, lowering the detective's trousers and letting them pool at the base of his feet, and giving the same treatment to his pants, and then touching the tip of his tongue gently against the very tip of his erection.

"Oooh, fuck, John!" John stood up and didn't give a chance to Sherlock to do something, because as soon as he was up, he started kissing Sherlock's neck sensually, painfully slowly, hotly. Sherlock's cursing aroused John more than he dared to admit, for he usually was so careful and avoided any foul words. By now, Sherlock was bothered, covered in sweat, and he was sure his mind wasn't working properly. He decided to busy himself with John's remaining garments, and unbuttoned his trousers; then, he caressed his way down the blonde's trial of light curls starting under the bellybutton, tugging when he felt a particularly delicious suck at his neck's pulse point, and held John's own erection between his hands lovingly, and was rewarded with a soft moan and a lick. He advanced towards the bed at a slow pace, embracing John's body and smiling as he hugged him back. They fell onto the bed, Sherlock on top of John, and the detective took the opportunity to push himself up, resting his torso weight on his hands, and looked at John's body properly for the first time. He saw John smirk at the way his pupils swallowed whatever was left of light blue in his irises. He straddled John's hips, and cautiously flattened his hands on his stomach, running them up and down, until John wrapped and pressed his legs to his lower back, making him fall forward, and snatched both hands from his stomach, linking them with his own, pulling them over his head, and turning them around in a calculated movement. John noticed how Sherlock seemed impressed with this move, because he'd gasped and groaned. John trapped both hands over his head with one hand, and with his right hand, he explored the underside of Sherlock's arms while pressing his lips to Sherlock's in a slow sensual kiss, tracing his lips around his mouth, studying the inside of his mouth, nipping at the swollen skin of his bottom lip, forcing his mouth open with his tongue.

"You're my first one," Sherlock suddenly broke the silence that, until then, had only been interrupted by their heavy breaths, pants and occasional moans. John exhaled a string of cool air to his lips softly before looking up at him with a small smile. He wasn't that surprised. He closed his eyes, kissed between Sherlock's pectorals wetly, and rolled his hips forward. Sherlock's moan was heavenly.

He then leaned close to his right ear and whispered: "Then, I promise it'll blow your mind," Sherlock groaned. "Now, shut up and let me show you just how good I am."

"God."

"Close enough," with that, John released Sherlock's hands and ran his fingernails down his sides, making him arch his back and pull John down for the hottest, sweetest, sexiest, most loving kiss of the evening. For a few minutes, the two of them were content with that: the feeling of their skin pressed against each other, tongues messily licking, tasting, memorizing, exploring; hands all around, mingling limbs, a few teasing tugs at their hard erections close together… but only for a few minutes, for they had been harvesting their desires long enough, and tonight, after a celebrating dinner of cigarettes, intense glances, feathery touches, and smoke blowing, the carefully built boundaries finally collapsed, violently and with no mercy. Pants became gasps, touches became grips, caresses became scratches, kisses became hickeys, holds became bruises, and moans became whimpered begs.

John blindly searched for the lube in his nightstand, and when it came into Sherlock's range of view, his mouth trembled just slightly. John was about to ask him if he really wanted to do it, when Sherlock spoke: "Yes. God, yes. Please, John; yes. Please." Sherlock practically growled in his ear with a baritone he'd never heard in his life, and he immediately lounged for his lover's throat while applying a fair amount of lube to three of his fingers.

John aligned his middle finger to the detective's opening, but before acting upon it, he locked eyes with him, grinned, and recited the words he'd learned very long ago thanks to the same man now laying down below him, for him: "Voulez vous coucher avec moi ce soir?"

Sherlock smiled briefly. "Toujours."

"I have no fucking idea of what that means."

"It means 'Hurry up and slam your dick with my prostate and bring me to an orgasm already before I cool off'," so John only snorted, and pushed his finger inside, nearly fainting because of the heat and pressure on his finger. Sherlock drew in a sharp breath and winced.

"Relax, love. Rel–oh, god, if that's just my finger… I wonder how you feel," Sherlock swallowed hard and nodded once, telling John to move, and so he did. And he prepped him just nicely in five minutes.

"Just get inside me, John," Sherlock panted.

"It's gonna hurt."

"Do it."

John slid in slowly, and his eyes rolled to the back of his head. "Christ, Sherlock. Oh, god. Oh, sweet, sweet Jesus!" he moaned loudly, and then fell to rest his head on Sherlock's right shoulder. Sherlock's eyes were tightly closed, and so were his hands and lips. "Relax, Sherlock. Only then–"

"Jesus fucking Christ, John. Stop telling me to relax. Move; I'll get used to it," he gritted out. John swallowed hard and smirked against his neck.

"Oh, you'll do more than that, sugar," Sherlock exhaled loudly at John's words. He was enjoying this new side of the man he thought he knew quite a lot; he was loving being in submission to him. John slid halfway out, and snapped his hips forward. Sherlock choked down a gasp and John bit down on his shoulder, muffling the string of moans. He thrust out and in again and again at a steady pace, until he hit that bundle of nerves inside the taller man and he moaned the loudest moan either of them had made.

"Oh, my, Jooooohn!"

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock…" Sherlock's body started acting on its own accord, meeting John's faster-paced thrusts halfway, dragging his nails up John's back, eliciting many moans in response; biting John's neck, John's shoulder, John, John, John.

"Kiss me," he panted and opened his eyes. "God, John: kiss me hard. Oh."

John obediently leaned down and sucked the moans out of Sherlock's soul as he came to the peak of pleasure, effectively muffling Sherlock's name –which he noticed had become his mantra, as he came to an orgasm himself.

It was minutes later that their breathing came back to normal, and minutes later than John pulled out one last time, completely. John chuckled into Sherlock's chest.

"And to think all it took was seeing you take a few drags from a cigarette to make me snap."

"I knew I should've given in to the vice again much earlier," Sherlock replied in a content voice.

"No. You're going back to the nicotine patches."

"No."

"Don't make me order you."

Sherlock smirked, eyes still closed: "I'd like to see you try."

"I have methods."

"John?"

"Yes?"

"That was fantastic."

John smiled at the choice of words. "Yes, it was," he breathed in a few times, and then told Sherlock the very thing he hoped he'd never have to say: "I guess they're all right now, about… us."

"Are you tired?" asked Sherlock out of the blue after a few minutes.

"Yes. Very much. That was quite… satisfactory. I'm calling it a night."

"Let's do it again."

"Oh, god, yes."