He didn't know I was watching him. He thought I was reading and the only reason he wasn't bugging me about it was because he was so involved himself. And it wasn't like I'd never seen him take a bath before. John was always in the bath. He enjoyed bathing as much as I enjoyed watching. Hot water and suds up to his chin, like a gentleman of leisure.

I was sitting on the bed of the hotel room to his right and back a little so he couldn't even see me peering over my book unless he turned his head a good ways in my direction. He wasn't going to turn. He was in a world of his own and didn't even know existed. That was another thing that fascinated me about John, the way he could lose himself in a dream.

That wasn't a skill I had ever mastered. I was firmly grounded in reality, a fact that often came between us, but not today. Today, John was lost in a dream, and I was lost in my book, but then he made that sound and I had to look up. It's hard to describe, kind of a moan, kind of a sigh. It comes from deep in his chest and I've heard it often enough to know, know that he had to be touching himself under the warm water, know that he had his eyes closed and his mind set on images of . . . what?

That was what kept me from returning to the pages of my book, the wondering what. So I watched him, as if looking at him hard might help me see what was inside his head. He wasn't smiling, but he never smiled when he was concentrating, and boy was he concentrating. He was making waves in the tub, agitating the water so much it slopped over the side.

I put my book down on the bed, pulled my knees up so my feet were planted on the mattress. I couldn't see his hand, but I knew where it was, so I mimicked this motion, rubbing myself beneath the fabric of my trousers. I was half hard already just thinking about what I was seeing. I held my breath and bit my lip, wanting to hold back any noises I might make that would give the show away.

John threw his head back so hard against the raised edge of the tub I was surprised it didn't hurt. Maybe it did and maybe he didn't notice. He was working hard now, more water sloshing out of the tub. The moans were louder; every few punctuated with a breathy 'uh' sound.

It was those noises that were driving me to distraction. Something about the sound of him caught in the throes of passion that just pushed me to the edge. I unbuttoned my fly, slipped my hand inside my trousers. It was a tight fit, but I wiggled and adjusted until my fingers were firmly wrapped around my hardened member.

Now I had to work at staying quiet. The need to vocalize my rising lust was just so overwhelming, but I knew if I made a sound I'd pull John away from his dream and that was the last thing I wanted to do.

The bed squeaked. I held still, waited, and watched him continue without notice. His lips were parted, head rolling side to side. He shoved back, lifted his hips off the floor of the tub. Then he did it again and the sweet moans of pleasure turned to frustrated sobs.

He wanted to finish himself, but couldn't. And that was all I could take. I rolled off the bed and yanked off my shirt in one fluid motion. I dropped to my knees beside the tub and thrust my hand under the water.

He had to know I was there, but he kept his eyes closed, kept himself inside the dream, and for that I felt a pang of sadness. The reality of me wasn't enticing enough to make him abandon the fantasy in his head. I wondered what it could be, a woman, I suspected. On her knees in front of him, swallowing him whole, licking and sucking, drawing on the sensitive tip until he ached with desire.

I could do that, was what I was thinking as I wrapped my fingers around him. He was hard as granite, thick and so stiff it had to hurt. I began to pump, sloshing water, picturing my own image in my head. Picturing me on my knees in front of him, pleasuring him, giving him everything he could get from a woman and more.

John bucked his hips in time with my rhythm, his breath coming now in short pants.

Faster, harder. I tried to grab myself with my free left hand but the position was so awkward I couldn't get a good hold. It would have to wait, wait for him, wait and hope that when he was done, he'd have enough left to finish me.

Then his fingers dug into my bare shoulder. His body jerked like a fish on a line and he choked out my name. Then he was coming, lacing the cooling water with his seed. When the act was done, he went limp and I feared that he would slip beneath the water.

"Help me out," he managed, then weakly levered himself up to standing.

With my own legs shaking, I stood too, and then helped him out of the tub. I grabbed a towel from the chair, told him to stand still then slowly, and with great devotion, I swabbed him dry. Arms, chest … where did those muscles come from? Then I dried his hair, those silky, golden strands. Then his face, fuller now that he'd gained weight. He had concerned himself so much since the pool and Moriarty that he had involuntarily starved himself with worry. I longed to see the spark of his eyes but he kept them closed, still in the fantasy. Fine, I could play along. I dropped to my knees, brought the towel down over his hips and buttocks, and then I circled one leg and buffed his thigh dry. The action sent my knuckles into his limp cock over and over, and by the time I had dried his other leg, it was showing signs of interest again.

With the towel laid across my palm, I cupped his balls and gently rubbed the rough cloth over his sensitive skin. His hand came down on the top of my head, stroked, lulled, and when I swallowed him his fingers knotted in my hair. I laughed at his sudden fierceness, but the sound came out as a garbled moan. Lips busy, tongue rolling around and around the crown. I grabbed hold of his trim hips; I let my hands slide back to the gentle round of his backside. I'd take him that way before the night was through, but mostly that would be for me. This was for him.

John began to rock his hips, shoving his cock further and further into my mouth. When he was soft it was easy to claim it all, but now, with him hardening again, I found it difficult to take him to the root. I tried though and came quite close. Not that I had much choice with his demanding moves, his hand in my hair. He was making those noises again, the 'uh, uh' and the delicious groans of sexual pain. I was hard, too, dying for some of this myself, but there was so much pleasure in doing him, in hearing him, watching him rise to the peak and go over.

"Sherlock, Stop. Wait." He pulled back and pushed me away at the same time so I had no choice but to release him.

"What's wrong?" My question came out squeaky, thinking that I had hurt him.

He gasped and groaned, was nearly in tears. "I can't stand up anymore. I have to lie down." John stumbled past me, flopped on to the bed and rolled to his back. His cock stood straight up, impossibly hard again so soon after coming. It was just too inviting to ignore. I shoved my pants down past my hips then shook my legs to rid myself of them. I left them where they fell, barely made it with the shaking to my coat draped on the chair. I found the jar of lubricant we now always carried, opened the lid …

"Sherlock, come on," John whined, chest heaving with the effort. Then he gasped as my hand closed around his shaft. I worked the lube up and down, coating him well, teasing the tip, just to see him startle. Then I straddled him. Finally his eyes opened. He looked up at me, questioning me. We'd never done it this way, always from behind or with legs up and over the other's shoulders. This was new, and I wasn't sure it would work, anatomically speaking, but I wanted to try. I reached around behind myself and positioned his cock so it was at my entrance, then I sat back and let gravity do the rest. I tried to control the descent, but it was hard on my thigh muscles and hard on other muscles, too. I felt his cock pass the tight ring, his thickness stretching me nearly to the point of pain. I rose up a little, relieved some of the pressure, and then lowered myself on him once more.

John reached for me and grabbed my hips. I relaxed my thigh muscles and let myself sink down the rest of the way.

"Oh god, Sherlock. You…" He couldn't finish the sentence because he was lost, gone. I had leaned back, my hands on his calves, my body like a slant board tipped away from him. The sensation was incredible. He wasn't even pumping, I wasn't even moving, and yet I felt as if fireworks were going off inside of me. I grabbed my own hardened cock; wished he would do it for me, but he was too far-gone. I stroked my own flesh as I ground my hips against his.

"Sherlock…" John threw his head back, shoved upward with his hips. I had thought he couldn't be any deeper. I was wrong, so wrong.

Then I was riding him like a wild stallion that didn't want to be broke. One hand on him, one hand on myself. Bucking, jerking and finally relieving myself all over his chest. Then he came inside of me, and I collapsed on top of him.

Breathing hard, pulse racing, I could feel his heart beating against mine. Worn out and then some, but still he wrapped his arms around me and held me as if he feared I might run away. We lay that way until our hearts returned to normal, until he was soft enough to slip out of me, then I rolled to the right and rejoiced in the softness of the pillow and the bed. I let my hand fall to his head, combed my fingers through his tangled locks. It took another minute before I found my voice.

"John, Tell me something."

He rolled to his side so he was looking right at me with those big brown eyes. "What?"

"When you were in the tub, before I came to you. You were day dreaming about something."

"Yeah."

I hesitated, suddenly not sure that I wanted to hear the answer to the question. "What were you thinking about?"

"I was thinking about you watching me take a bath. I was thinking about what I'd have to do to get you to put that book down and come do what you did." Then his eyes narrowed, his smile went flat. "What did you think I was thinking about?"

I said nothing. I just rolled to the side and showed him my back. Anyone else would have taken it for a slight, but not John. He just snuggled right up to me, locked his arms around me and happily fell asleep. I didn't sleep. I just lay there, still and quiet and for a few short minutes, I forgot about the world, the threats of life, of Moriarty longing to take John from me and the uncertainty of the future. For a few short minutes, I let myself feel warm and comfortable and loved.