If he could have stopped it, he would have.
Or so John thinks as Sherlock pushes him against the wall, opening his mouth with his.
They're barely inside their flat, stumbling awkwardly with the door and tripping over, well, something that Sherlock has left on the ground.
No, stop it. John thinks. Stop it now. Because if he lets this go any farther, if he lets him do this, then nothing will ever be the same.
But instead his arm reaches up and tugs the detective's head closer and he doesn't say a word. Sherlock's arm snakes around John's waist, pulling him closer so that they're not just connected at the mouth anymore.
John's body presses up against the long line of Sherlock's and he can feel his flat-mate half hard through his jeans. A little gasp escapes his lips, and he pulls back, studying the man. He traces a finger over the bruises, the marks from today's adventures, that are just beginning to purple his friends face near the hairline. He knows his face must look similar, but he can't see it in Sherlock's eyes. All he can see is Want. Desire.
No, That's not right. Not want, Need.
Need for him. For John Watson. For his best friend, or flat-mate, or… Whatever they were.
He leans up to kiss him again, fighting against their height difference, and his mind goes fuzzy as Sherlock slips his tongue into his mouth. His hand tightens around John's waist.
If ever this were something John thought he didn't want, boy was he wrong.
John's hand knots in Sherlock's hair as his other begins fumbling with the huge coat, stripping it off him and letting it hit the floor with a decided plop.
He kisses down Sherlock's mouth, to his jaw and down his neck to a thick line of half-dried blood oozing from a gouge below the detective's ear, another reminder of the evening's previous activities. He removes the dark blue scarf and lets it fall with the coat, following the stream of red beneath it down onto his collarbone and to where it branches and disappears underneath his shirt.
John's hands aren't the only one's working as Sherlock nimbly clicks the buttons of John's shirt, letting them fall open to reveal the skin beneath.
Sherlock cranes his neck down and presses his mouth on John's collarbone, on the hollow of his throat. The tear in Sherlock's skin pulls a little, letting a few drops of fresh blood ooze from the cut.
"You should really let me take a look at that." John mentions, a little breathlessly.
"…Hmmm?" Sherlock murmurs into the space beneath his Adam's apple. He sinks to his knees and starts making his way down John's chest with hot, wet kisses.
"This cut. We should get it seen to before it gets infected."
"…Uh-huh…" Comes the reply from somewhere around his navel.
Sherlock undoes the button of John's trousers and John almost gasps again. He looks down as Sherlock's fingers dip beneath the line of his jeans, only an inch, barely brushing beneath his pants.
John's whole body trembles. He knows it's not just Sherlock's eyes that are screaming want. Need.
Sherlock pulls John down by his belt loops until he is kneeling in front of him and kisses him again, almost greedily, until John pulls away, his breath ragged, gasping for air.
He can't believe his voice when it comes out again. "Really, Sherlock, we should get that cleaned."
Sherlock looks up at him for a moment, his pale eyes unreadable. "Fine, then. Clean it."
And just like that, Sherlock tilts his head to the side, exposing the arch of his long white neck and the stream of half-wet blood only inches away from John's face.
John doesn't know what to do. Kissing is one thing. Sex is one thing. But this…? This isn't normal. This is…
This is Sherlock. This is Sherlock, and nothing is normal.
John watches Sherlock's expression cautiously as he bends his head down the rest of the way until his chin is barely grazing the detective's collarbone. Then he closes his eyes and lets out one tentative lick.
A sound, almost a moan, deep and pleasurable resonates from Sherlock's chest, vibrating against John's lips. John smiles a little and licks again, more confident. His mouth moves across the wound on Sherlock's neck and he can feel him getting hot and pliant beneath him. He pulls Sherlock tighter to him, pushing him back into a sitting position and straddling him. John follows the trail of blood with his tongue, salty-sweet and lingering, down Sherlock's neck and collarbone, and then to underneath his shirt, his fingers working at the buttons as fast as his mouth. He gets the shirt open and pulls away to strip it completely off Sherlock and stops, a sound catching in his throat.
The blood, smeared by his shirt into several small, smudged lines, stops almost abruptly right above his heart. He recognizes, in his head, the shape of Sherlock's small notebook he always keeps in his pocket, knows it must've stopped the path of the blood, let it pool and congeal. He knows this, but he can't help but think for all the world that it looks like a stark, red tree- crimson roots splayed around his snowy-white chest, trunk and branches twisting up, disappearing into his hairline.
He notices Sherlock looking at him, studying him studying him. He almost looks concerned.
"God, you're beautiful." John gasps out, half-whispered and under his breath.
Sherlock pulls him back in and practically purrs in his ear "The same could be said of you".
And then everything is hot and wet again because Sherlock is kissing him. He's kissing him and John is wondering how he ever did without this. How he ever survived before.
Sherlock falls, back to the floor, gently, pulling John with him as he goes. John acquiesces and then he's on top of Sherlock, staring right into those pale, otherworldly eyes.
Sherlock's hands are at work on his pants and trousers again, and he succeeds in slipping them off. John helps Sherlock kick them somewhere to the side and then his own hands are busy. Busy unbuttoning Sherlock's expensive jeans, busy sliding them down over his narrow hips with his boxer-briefs until Sherlock lies there pale and naked and so incredibly needy.
He wraps his fingers around the rod that is Sherlock's erection, knowing he's also been hard himself for some time now, but that it hardly seems the point. He slides down so his face is level with it, and then realizes, in one stunningly clear thought, that this is actually going to happen.
He is actually going to give his best friend a blowjob. He is actually going to go down on his flat-mate. He is actually going to put another man's cock into his mouth and feel what he imagines he's made other's feel so many times in the past.
Yes, he's actually going to do this. And later, if Sherlock wants, he'll let this mad genius take him anyway he likes.
His mouth slips over him with ease, lips closing around the shaft, pulling down, tongue stroking the bottom. Sherlock groans and if it's possible goes even harder in John's mouth. It's strange at first, but he keeps going, finding his rhythm.
Sherlock moans and purrs beneath his hands, fisting one of his own into John's hair, pushing him down further. John pulls off for a moment and takes one hand away from where it rests on Sherlock's hip. He looks up at him, never breaking eye contact as he puts his own fingers in his mouth and sucks for just a second before removing them. Sherlock's eye's close contentedly as John's mouth returns, and he gives a little groan around his cock. And then slowly, very gently, he takes one of his slick, wet fingers and presses it into Sherlock.
"John!" Sherlock gasps, eyes fluttering open. His hips try to thrust up, but John subdues them with his free hand. "John, I- I-" He pauses, his face flushed. He doesn't tell him to stop, though, so John presses another finger up with the first, working him open.
Sherlock sucks in a breath. John leans up, mouth just inches from Sherlock's ear. "…What? You what? He breathes.
"I- I want you to take me." Sherlock manages to huff out, breathless, almost whining.
Well that was unexpected. John thinks. He had imagined Sherlock would be the one to do the actual… well… fucking. He is the dominant one, the one who always has his way. Sherlock is the one always in control.
"Are you sure?" John doesn't mean to sound as eager as he does.
"Please…" Sherlock is pleading. Splayed naked beneath him, hard and pleading. John doesn't think he's ever heard Sherlock plead before in his life, and he isn't about to deny him now.
John slips another finger in, making sure he's open enough, and then instructs Sherlock to stand.
"Condoms?" John asks, remembering himself, then remembering he'd run out last week.
Sherlock shakes his head. "It's alright".
John looks at him, unsure, then situates himself below Sherlock. "Alright."
And then Sherlock lowers himself onto John's cock.
It is strange. John knows the mechanics of it well enough. He knows how their bodies are supposed to fit together, but his knowledge was all theoretical, untried. No amount of mental preparation could have prepared him for this. This, this is new. This is like the first time all over again.
Sherlock shudders and leans in, connecting them at the mouth as well. John thrusts up and Sherlock throws his head back, gasping, words trying to claw their way out of his throat all at once. John thrusts again, and Sherlock is completely speechless, just bare, raw sound. Sherlock presses himself down and John rocks harder, faster.
They stay like that for a few minutes, bodies entwined, pushing, pulling, rough and heavy. The force making colour bloom behind both their eyes.
John watches as Sherlock comes, hot and sticky over his stomach. A moment later, he arrives and Sherlock tightens, slick and wet inside. John pulls out and they both lay together on their sides, in the doorway of their flat, panting and twitching against the cold ground.
Sherlock sidles up next to John and kisses him on the mouth, slower, deeper. John pulls away and lets his face slide down that beautiful jaw. He stops at the cut. It's bleeding yet again. He kisses it once, softly, and Sherlock purrs.
Sherlock traces his hand along John's shoulder, along the twisted lump of scar there, and John pulls his face away from Sherlock's neck.
"What?" He says, looking once again into those pale, unreadable eyes.
The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitch up into a half smile. "We almost match."
And then Sherlock's lips are against John's shoulder and it's all he can do to remember to breathe.