Blocked
John was lying on his bed, lazily stroking his cock. It had been a long day and the doctor liked to wind down this way. The door was locked and Sherlock was downstairs, busy with his experiments. Perfect. John moaned. There had been cases, family visits and nights out with his mates, and he honestly couldn't remember the last time he had a wank. A Proper wank. Not a hurried one in the shower, always afraid Sherlock might interrupt. How John had missed this! He moaned again and slowly started to increase his pace. His other hand wandered to his sack to massage his balls. So good. He was already leaking precome. "Hmmm, yes."
"John?", a voice from the other side of the door asked. The doctor froze. How could Sherlock suddenly be in front of his door? He hadn't even heard the stairs.
"Not now, Sherlock," he barked.
"I just realized the murderer MUST have been committed by the wife. But I need more burlap spores to prove this."
John groaned. "Can't you get them yourself? What do you think I am, your maid?"
"I can't. I have an experiment downstairs I need to supervise. And as you don't have anything important to do..."
John wanted to scream. Or just throw something at Sherlock. Himself, if necessary. His cock obviously wasn't happy about how things had turned out either, as his erection had by now completely faded.
Of course he ended up getting the burlap spores for Sherlock. But he made a point of almost throwing them at his flatmate.
For his next wank, John settled for the shower. After all, Sherlock had never interrupted John while he cleaned himself, for some reason. Maybe it was because the detective valued body hygiene that much. When he wasn't on a case, at least. And a long hot shower was always nice, the doctor told himself. The soap is close at hand and you don't have to clean up afterwards. And John could be very quiet when touching himself, so this wouldn't be a problem. Of course, the detective could guess what he was doing, but this was none of his bloody business anyway and John could do what he bloody well liked in the flat he paid rent for.
Soap was really a good lubricant. John stroked himself, his cock almost fully erect from the moment he stepped into the shower. He also enjoyed the hot water raining down on his body. So relaxing. He braced himself against the wall with his free hand. Standing up really was the only disadvantage, but he could imagine doing someone against the wall. How could such a clean place evoke such filthy imaginations? The doctor chuckled and jerked himself harder. The drops falling on his cock also felt good. He was leaking a lot now, biting his lip to suppress a moan. Almost there.
"John?" The doctor almost had a heart attack.
"What the buggering hell do you want? I'm taking a SHOWER!", he shouted.
"When you're finished, can you bring me my toothpaste, please? I have to check if it dries as quickly on silk as on cotton fabric."
Sherlock left again in an instant, but John's arousal had completely vanished. He HATED to be interrupted. And the stupid sod had the nerve of saying 'please'! This time, he threw the toothpaste at Sherlock before stomping out of the flat, banging the door behind himself.
After finishing his work the next day, he had the surgery to himself. Everybody but his secretary had gone home already. So he told her that he didn't want to be interrupted except for emergencies and locked himself in his office for some 'paperwork'. It had to be possible to take care of himself somehow. Slowly. That's all he asked for. A nice, slow wank.
He opened his trousers, pushed them down to his ankles and sat down on his office chair. Then he closed his eyes and pushed his hand into his briefs. Nice. He palmed himself and just stayed like this for a while. He didn't need imagines; he usually didn't. It was all about himself and about enjoying his own body. When he was half hard, he started teasing himself, stroking slowly, very slowly, pausing at the tip and rubbing it for a bit. Good. So good. When he started stroking in earnest, he realized that the fabric of his pants felt really nice against his cock. Nice friction. Oh, he could go on like this forever. He bit his lip.
Then his mobile started buzzing. John groaned, but tried to ignore it. Could be Sherlock. Could be anybody, really. But just a short message. Not that important. Besides, he used to like the thought of being caught, didn't he? The feeling of being watched. He experimentally started stroking quicker.
His office phone started ringing. His secretary? But then, she would knock. He moved a bit, so he could see the number of the caller. Sherlock. Of course, what had he expected. But he could still be busy. He sometimes was. He could just ignore it. He was almost there. John closed his eyes again, but the phone kept ringing. His secretary would be wondering what was going on. And then the door was really not that thick. What if he made a sound when coming and she would hear it? John gave up, pulled his hand away from his cock and answered the phone. Sherlock asked if he could bring take-away. In his anger, the doctor even forgot to be surprised.
A few days later, John met Lestrade for a few pints at a Pub. They had wanted to do this for ages and had now finally found the time. Actually, John wanted to get pissed drunk and then go home to have a decent wank, no matter if the detective interrupted him or not. For all he cared, Sherlock could freakin' WATCH.
Lestrade soon caught up on the doctor's mood. "Much work day?", he asked.
"No, it's just... Sherlock."
"I understand," the inspector said, "Must be hard to live with him sometimes."
"Hard," John laughed, drowning his first pint. "Not hard enough, is more like it."
Lestrade frowned. "What?"
"Oh, sod it, I can as well tell you," John said, "he's a freaking cock-block."
The inspector laughed. "I can imagine. Might not want you to get too attached to a girl, when he still needs you as his general dogsbody... no offence."
The doctor sighed. "It's not only that, to be honest..."
Lestrade frowned again. "What else?"
"Actually, he has mastered the discipline of cock-blocking completely," John explained after getting their second round. He knew if he kept drinking like this, he would lie under the table within an hour, but right now he couldn't care less.
"Every time I try to let off steam, he interrupts."
"Ah," the inspector said. "And have you tried to 'let off steam' away from the flat or when he isn't at home?"
"Well, whenever I'm away, he keeps calling me. And you can never rely on him staying away when he is not at home."
Lestrade took a sip of his first pint, which was still half-full. "Have you ever considered getting... professional help with that?"
John just stared at him for a moment, then downed the rest of his second pint when he caught up with what Lestrade had just said. "Can I have this one?", he asked, pointing at Lestrade's still untouched second pint, "'I'll get you another one later." "Sure," the inspector said.
"And about the 'professionals'," the doctor asked, "do they even do... you know, just that?"
"Sure," Lestrade explained, "they do everything, basically. Just tell them to shut it and get on with it. You can also just get a room, of course, but it's more pleasurable if you got... company. Not too expensive either, if that's all what you want." "Mh, I'll think about it," John murmured.
For the rest of the evening, they talked about this and that, Lestrade only drinking a decent amount, while John downed one pint after the other. By eleven, John was so drunk that he couldn't speak properly anymore, let alone walk, and Lestrade had to help him on his way home. "You sure you don't just want to call a cab?"
"Na, 's not dat far an' don't wanna throw up in a cab... 's rather 'xpensive."
The inspector laughed. "You could be right with that. Come on, then." Together, they stumbled down the road. When they were halfway there, John suddenly stopped.
"What is it, mate? Do you have to throw up?"
"Na, 's not dat... 's just I didn't have a wank... no wank for MONTHS, mate... I just wanna wank."
"Ok, ok, I think you just need to sleep now, I think."
"No, no, not tired, just wank..."
"Soon, ok? Soon you'll get a wank, but now you need to sleep, ok? I will get you home..."
"But I want one NOW... not with 'lock... he's stupid, he just... cock-block."
"Yea, I know, John, he's a git, but come on, now."
Slowly, the doctor started moving again. "Gonna wank, when I come home," he mumbled, "come like a geyser. Right in his face!"
When John woke up the next morning, he remembered almost nothing of the previous night. Except the last thing he had said. "Oh my God," he groaned and buried his face in the pillow. He would never be able to look Lestrade in the face again! Maybe he could avoid him for a while. But Sherlock would want him on crime scenes. Of course John could just pretend to be sick… No, that wouldn't work in the long term... OR he could pretend he had a fight with Lestrade and that he didn't want to see him. That could work.
A soft knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. "Yea," he mumbled. "Can I come in?"
Since when did Sherlock ask? Had he said something embarrassing to him as well? Or had he... oh God. Sherlock opened the door and slowly came in. At least he hadn't waited for an answer. That would have been too suspicious.
"Are you okay?", Sherlock asked, sounding seriously worried
"No, I am not okay," John growled into his pillow.
"Do you need anything?" John carefully lifted his head from the pillow and looked at Sherlock. The detective even looked worried. John sighed. "Ok, three things: water, aspirin and tell me what happened last night."
Sherlock frowned at him. "In that order?"
"No, no tell me first..."
"Well, you went to the Pub with Lestrade..."
John groaned. "What happened after I came home."
"Oh, right," the detective said. "You came up the stairs, bumping into everything on the way, then collapsed on the couch... on top of me."
"Oh God."
"Then I pushed you back up and helped you into your room. I asked you if you needed help undressing, but you said you could manage." John looked down on his still dressed body. Obviously not.
"And did I say anything else?"
"Well, you said about a hundred times that I should stop interrupting, but you didn't say what."
"Thank God." John sank back onto his pillow.
The rest of the day passed in a blur and John swore to himself to never drink again.
The doctor actually managed to avoid Lestrade for a few days, as Sherlock didn't take him to many crime scenes and when he did, the inspector wasn't there. The more time passed, though, the more John thought about Lestrade's idea. He had been to prostitutes before, but had never really liked it. It just didn't feel like real sex. But then he just wanted a hand job. And the situation with Sherlock became more and more unbearable for him. He had even thought of moving out, but to think clearly about it, he needed a wank. And John couldn't even have a quick one in the shower anymore, as he was too afraid to be interrupted. In the army, this had never been a problem. Everybody was wanking, everybody knew and everybody was ok with it. You tried to be quiet, of course, but sometimes you couldn't stop yourself from moaning or you heard someone else moan, but it was all ok. It was all fine.
With Sherlock it was different, somehow. He seemed to never indulge in pleasuring himself and therefore wanking in his proximity seemed somehow indecent. The detective was always prim and proper, in a suit and shirt. Well, not always, of course. There was also Sherlock in pyjamas and a bathrobe. But no wanking Sherlock. John just couldn't imagine that. And he didn't want to. Of course, he didn't want to. But he could give Sherlock ideas. Which ideas, he didn't really know. He just didn't want to risk it. Coming all over his hand while Sherlock had his ear on the door. John shuddered.
A prostitute then! He just needed to get it over with and then think of a more permanent solution. He had been walking around half-hard for days now, cranky and unsatisfied. So, one evening after work, he purposefully took a cab and asked the driver to take him to the red-light district. He could have found it easily enough himself, he guessed, but he felt like treating himself to something. When John arrived at his destination, another problem presented itself to him, though. Which one to choose? They were all wearing too much make-up and were either too old or too young. And he was only really interested in the hands.
John was walking up and down the street, pretending he was waiting for someone and trying to ignore the prostitutes' advances, one uglier than the other, when he suddenly saw a man who looked somehow suspicious. Certainly not a customer. He was too young and good-looking; John guessed he could have a 'real' woman easily. And the way he was leaning against the wall... he couldn't be. Or could he? A male prostitute? John didn't know there were any in this part of the red-light district. Wasn't there a special gay part or something? The guy suddenly stepped away from the wall and started moving closer to him. Oh no! Quickly, find a prostitute, any prostitute! John almost panicked. There! This one didn't look too bad. And she had nice hands.
He stepped closer to her and cleared his throat. "How much for a hand-job?," he asked in a half-whisper. The woman smiled at him. "30 for you, honey." John ignored her flirting. "Where do we go then?"
The prostitute led the way. They went into an old building, into a tiny room with only a bed in it and a small lamp, which bathed the room in warm, red light. John sat down on the bed and unzipped.
"Do you want me to sit or stand, honey?"
"Sit here, right next to me."
"Want me to do anything else, honey?"
"No, just that."
Her hand on his cock was warm, inspite of the cold outside. He closed his eyes and let his mind wander. Nobody would interrupt him here. Still, he couldn't relax.
"Could you, um, talk to me?"
"Sure, honey. What should I tell you? You got a nice cock, you know. Nice and big."
"Yes, like that." He got quite a bit harder.
John opened his eyes. Maybe he needed some visual material after all. She had nice tits, actually. Firm and big, pushed up a bit.
"You want to touch them, honey?"
John blushed a bit. He hadn't realized that his staring was that obvious. "Sure." He frowned. Usually, this cost extra. Maybe she liked him. He smirked at that thought and stretched his hand out, slightly stroking her tits.
"Yea, like that, big boy. This is good. Wish I could have you. Your big cock down my throat." John moaned and grabbed her tits harder. God, this was good, this was...
Suddenly he realized that he had gone limp. This had never happened to him before. God, this was embarrassing. Hurriedly, he put his cock back in his trousers and zipped up. "Sorry," he murmured.
"But that's no problem, honey," the prostitute purred and took hold of his hand, "We can try again."
"No, it's ok, really. It's all fine." John pulled his hand away. "I'll just take care of it myself later." He fumbled for the money and threw it at her, almost running on his way out.
"Don't worry, honey," the prostitute shouted after him.
The doctor decided to walk home, his face still burning with shame. Why did this happen? Had he wanted it too much? There had been no Sherlock to interrupt. He had made sure his phone was off and the detective was on a case, he probably wouldn't even realize that John wasn't home at his usual hour. So what was wrong with him? Maybe he just didn't like prostitutes. Better forget about it, he thought, it would sort itself out. He would just wait until Sherlock was out of the flat the next time and then get off. And if the detective came home too early, so be it.
Before he got round to that, though, he bumped into Lestrade.
"Hi, John, how are you?"
"Hi... listen, about the other day..."
"Oh mate, it's alright, really," Lestrade interrupted him, "You were pissed drunk. I have said worse things than that when drunk."
"Really?"
"Yea, told a friend once I would shag his daughter, who was just 16... God, that wasn't received well. Just meant: theoretically, if she was older, of course, but that got lost in my little drunk speech, I guess."
John laughed.
"So what about you, me, a couple of beers and the game tonight?", the inspector asked.
"In a Pub?"
"Nah, can't be arsed to go out tonight. My place, if that's alright with you. Have a few beers."
"Sure, sure," the doctor said, hoping to convince his mate that he didn't always behave like a total idiot when under the influence.
"Just make sure not to drink all of it alone, this time," Lestrade said.
They both laughed and fixed a time for the evening. Everything seemed to be alright again. John would just have an evening with his mate, relax a bit; that's what he needed right now.
The evening started nice enough. John was not very fond of football, but a few beers with Lestrade was always nice. Mobile turned off again, no Sherlock.
During half-time, however, the inspector asked him: "And, any success with the 'letting off steam' business of yours?"
John frowned. "No, not really..."
"Did you try one of the girls?"
"Yea, but somehow I got distracted."
"Ah, know the problem."
"Really?" John asked, surprised.
"Yea, they just don't seem real, do they? And then those little bunks of beds they have. And you have to PAY for that shit." John laughed.
"So what about me giving you a hand?", Lestrade asked.
"What?"
"I mean, we are mates, right? And mates help each other. And we've had a bit of a drink as well."
John looked at his half-empty bottle.
"You really don't need to worry, John," Lestrade said. "I just want to help."
The doctor swallowed. "Ok," he said and regretted it the same instant. What was he doing? He wasn't gay! Well, maybe a male hand would help. And they wouldn't get interrupted. It was gonna be fine, all fine, he calmed himself.
Lestrade's hand on his cock felt different than a woman's, but still good. John closed his eyes. Yes, that really felt good. Amazing, actually. He bit his lip.
"You can moan, if you want," Lestrade said, "I really don't mind."
Yea, that would help. "Oh." John could feel himself grow. The TV was still running, but he didn't mind. Lestrade's hand moved up and down on his cock, pumping him nicely. "Yea, like that," John grew even harder. God, this was perfect.
He could hear Lestrade moan next to him. The inspector cleared his throat. "Mind if I pull out as well?"
"Na, go ahead, mate." Just a mutual wank. He could hear the slick sound of Lestrade wanking himself. For some reason, this turned him on. Maybe that was what he had missed. During his military service, he had enjoyed mutual wanks very much. Just something about hormones, he was sure.
Lestrade moaned. "Yea, you're getting there, you are already leaking." John opened his eyes. Indeed, he was. Somehow mesmerizing to see another hand than his own moving on his cock. He moaned loudly. "Fuck, yea, like that."
Lestrade moaned. John was so close. "Mh, yea, oh God, yea, oh my God, mmmmh, yeaaaaaaa!", he shouted and came all over Lestrade's hand.
The inspector worked himself quickly to completion. "Yea," he moaned, "Oh, yes, Mycroft!"
For a few seconds, John could only stare at him. Then he hurriedly cleaned himself up with a tissue, zipped himself back up and turned to leaved. "Gotta go," he murmured.
Lestrade said nothing, just looked as if he tried to disappear into the ground right then and there.
The doctor almost ran out of the flat. God, this had been beyond embarrassing. Not even for him... Well, actually, also for him. WHAT was that, exactly? Lestrade getting John and himself off while thinking about Sherlock's brother, of all people? What the heck? He hadn't had the slightest clue that Lestrade was gay. And into Mycroft? Did they have something going on as well? Lestrade shagging Sherlock's brother and then touching him with THE SAME HANDS? John felt like he was going to be sick. He needed to go home. Just home. Never touch himself again and everything would be fine.
When he arrived at the flat, the detective was still awake, cleaning his violin. He looked up at John storming in and asked: "What's wrong?"
"Oh, everything," John huffed and slumped onto the couch next to Sherlock. The detective looked at him curiously. "Oh, go ahead, I bet you can't deduce THAT," the doctor said.
Sherlock frowned. "He didn't... hurt you, did he?"
"What?" John stared at him, "He's hardly stronger than me, Sherlock."
"I didn't mean in that way... just because you've been so desperate lately."
"No, Sherlock, no... I wasn't implying... God, Sherlock, sometimes you get it all wrong."
"Yes, sometimes I get the impression," the detective answered drily, "So it's got to do with sentiment."
"Sentiment, yes, in the widest sense."
"Sex?"
"Yes..." He really didn't want to talk about this with his flatmate, but he was just too lazy to get up and the evening could hardly get any worse. Besides, Sherlock didn't really stand a chance.
"So he got you off?"
Or maybe he did. John rubbed his temples, feeling a headache coming on.
"I really don't know how you deduced that, but yes, he got me off."
"And he... what? Showed you his? Na, hardly that shocking... wanted to do something else? Is he in love with you, John?"
"What? No, how did you get that idea... but he... likes your brother."
"What?" Sherlock stared at him. "Mycroft?"
John laughed. "See, it IS pretty shocking.
"So when did he tell you that? Afterwards?"
John cleared his throat. "He kind of... shouted his name."
Sherlock suddenly got up. "I'm going to go to his flat and I'm going to..."
"What, Sherlock? Tell him not to denounce your brother's name? What he did was hardly illegal."
"I don't CARE if it was illegal!", Sherlock shouted, gesticulating with the bow of his violin. "You are not his fuck toy!"
John stared at him in surprise. So much for this evening not getting any worse... or was it about to get better? He settled for unexpected, for the moment. "And you care why? Besides, I'm sure he didn't do it on purpose. He must have been... thinking about your brother a lot and then it just happened."
"But that's not what you thought right now, you thought he used you."
"Can you read minds as well now?"
"It was written all over your face, John!"
Suddenly, the doctor was angry at his flatmate. "And if you see THAT so clearly, Sherlock, what else could you see during the last few days? Did you enjoy barking in every time I..."
The detective sat down again and took a sudden interest in his bow. "No, I...," he cleared his throat, then started again. "It was an experiment, really."
"An experiment?", John exploded. "How long it would take until I would simply burst? Or wank in public? Or what?"
"No, John, none of that... It's just that... what you've said didn't always seem to be in keeping of your... actions."
The doctor had never seen Sherlock so hesitant before and somehow this made it impossible to be angry at him any longer. John asked with a sigh: "What do you mean, what I've said, Sherlock?"
"Well, you said you weren't gay."
"That's right."
"But then you kept staring at me and..."
"I never..."
"No, don't interrupt, please, I need to explain."
The detective looked John directly in the eyes now. "I thought if I interrupted you... pleasuring yourself and you would just get on with it anyway, that this would prove something. That was nonsense, of course. So I went for the male prostitute..."
"That was you?"
"Who paid him, yes, but he was too slow, the idiot. So I thought Lestrade would... help. Pretty obvious, he's more interested in men than woman, most of the time. But I never thought he would... I was so afraid he had hurt you! It would all have been my fault!" Sherlock was wringing his hands in exasperation.
John took a deep breath and asked: "What's your conclusion then? From your experiments?"
"Don't you know?"
"I would rather like to hear it from you, actually, as I am not so sure myself anymore."
The detective blinked. Those eyelashes. "I think you are gay," Sherlock said. Those lips. Suddenly, it was all too much. All of the frantic wanking in the shower, his minds forcefully cleared of all images. The stolen glances and his mind telling him again and again: "you just think he's good-looking, that's normal among pals, it's okay, you're not gay." It all came crushing down on him now. "Sherlock," he said.
Those dark, soft-looking curls, he just wanted to burry his hands in them. Those cheekbones, he wanted to bite them. Those beautiful eyes, he wanted to drown in them. John cleared his throat, his eyes suddenly misty. "Sherlock, why did you want to know?"
The detective raised his hand to touch John's face, but the doctor flinched away. "Don't..."
"Sorry."
"It's ok, I just need to know... first."
Sherlock looked into his eyes and said: "I think I'm in love with you."
John held his breath. All he could do was stare and stare and stare.
"I didn't realize it at first, but now all I can think of is your strong arms around me. And when you touch yourself in the shower, I would give everything to join you. And when you come home at night, tired and exhausted, I just want to hold you and… make you tea or something. When I wake up in the morning, I want to wake up with you. And then touch you. Everywhere. But most of all: Let you touch Me everywhere. And show me how you like it. I would watch, at first. Just watch. I guess that could make me hard and..."
John raised his arms in defence. "Stop, stop, stop!"
"Did I say something wrong?"
"No, no, nothing wrong, it's just... a bit much right now."
"You want to talk about it tomorrow?"
"God, Sherlock, I will really have to tell you everything, won't I?"
"I'd like that."
John laughed. "No, seriously, you're in love with me... or do you just want to get laid?"
"Both, at the same time, if possible."
The doctor laughed again. "But didn't the thought of another man's hands on me make you feel awful?"
"You were thinking about me, of course." The doctor shook his head, still laughing.
Sherlock frowned. "Or didn't you?"
"You know what I was thinking about when getting off since we've moved together? Nothing. A plain big nothing, just to keep you out of my brain."
"Oh."
"Oh, don't look at me like this, it's hardly your fault that I've been so stubborn and... stupid."
"Most people are," Sherlock replied.
John laughed, leaned forward and suddenly they were kissing. And God, that detective knew how to kiss. Softly at first, but soon he opened his mouth for John to explore. And the doctor took the opportunity eagerly. He had never kissed a man before, but it was basically... better. Oh, so much better. His tongue soon found Sherlock's and they started a tongue-fight, with shorts breaks to nibble on each others' lips in turn.
After some minutes, Sherlock pushed him away.
"What...?"
"Violin," Sherlock said, breathless.
"Oh, yea..." The violin was still lying on the detective's lap and he still had the bow in his right hand.
Suddenly, John burst out laughing. "You practiced already, didn't you?"
"What?"
"With the bow..." The doctor made a cleaning motion. Sherlock started laughing too. He got up, put his violin and bow away and then came back to the couch. Undecidedly, he looked at John. "So you want to... stay here... or?" "Here is fine for the moment," the doctor said, smiling up at him. So Sherlock sat back down next to him and they resumed kissing.
Soon, John's hand wandered to Sherlock's thigh and squeezed it lightly. The detective moaned into the kiss, which in turn made John moan. The doctor put his hand in Sherlock's hair and softly pulled, which made the detective moan even louder.
"You like that, don't you?", John mumbled against his lips. Sherlock made an affirmative noise and suddenly the doctor's trousers were much too tight.
He released the detective's lips and asked: "You mind if I...?"
Sherlock frowned at him.
"Well, I am...," John cleared his throat and made a motion towards the bulge in his trousers.
"Oh, yes," Sherlock said, and started ravishing John's mouth again. Somehow the doctor managed to get his trousers open and down to his ankles inspite of the onslaught. He then started massaging Sherlock's leg again while palming his crotch.
This time it was Sherlock who broke the kiss. "Me too," was all he said and off went his trousers and... oh... no pants. But a beautiful, amazingly long, hard cock. And for the fact that John hadn't known that he liked cock just a moment ago, he was drooling much too much.
The detective looked at him proudly. "You like it?"
John swallowed. "Yes. It's gorgeous."
"You want to touch it?"
"God, yes." With that, John started stroking the detective. "Good, like that?"
"Yea, can I do you too?"
"Sure." With a bit of wriggling, they managed to get John's pants off and down as well.
And then it was all tongue and hand and cock for John. His second hand wandered to Sherlock's hair again, while the detective massaged John's thigh.
"Faster," John moaned against Sherlock's mouth. The detective stroked him faster and John moved his hand faster on the detective's cock as well.
"Oh, God, you are gorgeous. So big... nnngh... and hard... oh fuck, that's good, love your hand on my cock, oh yes." John didn't even know where this stream of filthy words had come from, but somehow he couldn't stop talking. And Sherlock liked it! He had thrown his head back and was moaning loudly.
"Oh, look at you, all flushed and horny. Bet you didn't get any for a while. But you want my hand, right? Want me to pump you good. Oh my God, I'm close, leaking already. But you are leaking even more, so much precome, I wonder how it tastes."
"Oh, yes!"
"Oh fuck, you're so hot, make me want to rut against you, bent you over and fuck you over the table. I'm so close, I will come all over your hand and I will milk you with mine, make you shoot sperm all over yourself."
"Oh yes, John!"
"Come, Sherlock, come, shoot your sperm on my hand, yes."
"Oh God, John, John, Joooooooooooooooooooohn!" The detective came and the sight of that beautiful long cock pulsing and ejaculating on his hand brought John even closer to the edge.
"Sherlock, yes!", he shouted, "Sherlock, yes, hm."
The detective pumped him hard and fast now, staring at him with his mouth hanging half-open, tongue darting out. John caught him in a kiss and the moment their tongues touched, he came, moaning into the detective's mouth.
When he had calmed down a bit, he unsealed their lips and whispered into Sherlock's ear: "I love you too."