"John, fuck."
He imagined Sherlock would be more eloquent in bed— perhaps bordering on asexual, whispering chemical processes in his ear and gripping his back with cold fingers. But even Shakespeare must have spouted vulgarities in the sack; Sherlock was only human and held John with animal intensity, lust burning in his fevered hips, rocking to meet punishing thrusts John doled to his wavering moans.
The room was small, humid, filled with the sound of their skin slapping. The surreality of it was stranger than the stained sheets, and he wondered, briefly, what those stains were: blood, whiskey, cum? He hissed a breath through his teeth and pressed his face into Sherlock's neck, biting the junction where it met his shoulder, sinking his teeth in until Sherlock gasped again, "John."
Like it meant something. Like this would carry past these walls, bear more weight than another impulsive fuck in another location devoid of intimacy. He noticed that; they never kissed in their own homes, never grabbed and touched where it would have meant more than this—
Wet sounds. Higher groans and frequent grunts. John gripped Sherlock's ass and tugged him closer, growled a command that was lost to incoherent panting. Sherlock chuckled, "Tongue-tied, Watson?"
"Not here," he pleaded, couldn't stand that surname here- he ground against him, pinned his shoulders, molded his shape into his, strokes deeper, faster, harder until he had him moaning like a cunt, begging for more, begging to be touched, begging to finish—
Even Sherlock sounded downright common with his face flushed, lips and thighs bruised, mouth parted and nails digging scores into John's scalp, guiding him into a kiss identical to their rhythm. John's euphoria built in his spine, his stomach, his sac, his legs taut and his spine arched. He pushed into him with smaller, desperate jerks until he came. Filled him and felt his own rush of hot fluid, sticky and thick.
Sherlock quivered; "John." Called him that because he wanted something, and John gave it to him. Wrapped his hand around his leaking cock and jerked him until he shot between their torsos, and John couldn't hold himself up, anymore: collapsed atop him, breathing fast, heart plotting escape from his chest, and all Sherlock had to say was, "It's always a pleasure, Watson."
He parted their bodies with a short struggle, grabbed his clothing, dressed, and left. They had things to do today and fucking at a crime scene wasn't one of them.
