It was one of those days when the mere sight of Holmes made John's mouth water; Now that the detective had emerged from the shower, clad only in a towel, John could not help but to stare at his chest, the phantom taste of salt and soap on his tongue. The thought sprung into action, John scooting over, his arms resting over Sherlock's back, his hands on his buttocks, the towel between them dropping to the floor, Sherlock's response eager and instant.
John wished Sherlock could taste the same that he did, as it was the taste of pure lust.
The way his hips move when he lures John into their bedroom, The way he holds John behind him, disallowing him to see his smile, allowing him to hear the purr, pulling him closer, until John's plastered against Sherlock's back, his clothed arousal finding its path, the crevice of Sherlock's buttocks, there's something beautifully sinful. A symphony of sin, to be precise, as it doesn't stop at lust alone. Greed shines through John's eyes, the same greed which enlightens Sherlock's path; The naked man turns, winks, pushes John against the wall, and the route to the bedroom is too long.