This is kinda weird, I know, but it just came to me. Hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer: Thanks go to Mofftiss, Benedict Cumberbatch, Martin Freeman, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for coming up with this in the first place. Sherlock Holmes, that is, not this story.
The thing John Watson loves most about Sherlock Holmes is his voice, but his hips are a close second. They're beautiful, he thinks, slim and narrow and sharp where the bones protrude. It should look obscene bordering on frightening, the angle and extent to which his hipbones jut out, but it's really quite the opposite. It's beautiful and near to ethereal, an emaciated angel (he doesn't eat on cases, but he always has a case, he's going to starve to death unless I make him eat).
He's pale, clear porcelain skin the smooth hue of a dove's feathers. John can see the dark pulsing wires of veins beneath Sherlock's skin and he likes that, because he can trace them all with his tongue (he likes that very much, Sherlock does, I can make him come undone just from that).
The lightness of his skin is also advantageous for one who enjoys the telltale, physical marks of lovemaking. Sometimes John holds his lover's hips so hard there are still handprint-shaped bruises the next morning. He can nip and bite and taste, lesions blossoming like slate and violet flowers on a canvas of soft flesh (and he likes that sometimes, to be dominated, to be held down and teased and marked as mine).
As their advances grow more and more heated, those hips become even more luscious, sweat pooling in the thumbprint-like hollows below those bones, his ilia, though the doctor part of John's brain is usually nonfunctional at this point. John has to touch, has to smooth his rough, warm, sure fingers over the dips and valleys of Sherlock's pelvis. If you asked him before he met Sherlock, John would have been puzzled at the idea of having a thing for hips. The good doctor has seen plenty of pairs of hips, of course he has, he's a doctor and far from a virgin, but none compare to those of the world's only consulting detective and the only man John ever loved (but I'm the only human being he's ever loved, that's even better, I'm the only one to hold him and want him and tell him he's amazing).
Just as perfect is the way they move– the sharp tick-tock back and forth as Sherlock paces, the way they kick up when John touches him in a way that surprises him, and best (worst?) of all, the smooth rolling thrusts he offers up to thoroughly destroy the last remnants of John's self-control. Yes, Sherlock Holmes's hips are his best physical feature (and that includes his soft dark curls, his bright eyes that spark with adventure, his ridiculously high cheekbones and lush full lips and those long slender hands that are so good where I need them).
The army doctor can't resist, can't contain himself when he gets a glimpse (and he finds ways to show them off in those tight black trousers, he's such a tease).
That was why, when Sherlock stood up and stretched one afternoon, John just gaped and gasped. The Purple Shirt of Sex (he knows I call it that, he wears it all the time, just because it turns me on) rode up to reveal a strip of flat pale stomach. His trousers were slung low and there they were, the pale curves of his hipbones. Just seeing them got John hot under the collar and made him stiffen with arousal.
"Bedroom, now," he growled, hopping up from his armchair and scattering the pages of the newspaper all over the floor. He started up the stairs, knowing he would be followed.
Sherlock grinned at his lover's retreating back and made a rumbling sound deep in his chest that he knew John would hear. "Oh, John," he nearly moaned, his baritone voice that was so suited for sex burying itself in John's brain and refused to budge (I love the way he says my name, especially in that voice).
And while that voice may have been the thing John loved most about Sherlock, the hips that ground back against his own were a close second.
So... review?