Sherlock lay on the couch in rumpled pajamas, hands pressed together above his chest, fingers gently resting on his lips. John slammed the door, signaling his departure, laden with a full overnight bag. Sherlock had just reminded John he wouldn't miss his presence in the least, and in fact was looking forward to some solitude; away from John's loud toast eating and needless comments concerning the weather and current events. John said, "Fine, good, I'll ring Harry then," and disappeared into his room.
Sherlock had been truthful, mostly, but he didn't realize until silence befell the flat that John was a very good distraction. Yes, most of the time he was a distraction from what Sherlock wanted to accomplish, fully exploring a thought or completing an experiment, but, the rain that had been falling for the past few days was very dull. So, he practiced a few compositions. He rinsed John's tea cup and toast plate. He practiced a few more songs, and then he was hungry. There was naught in the fridge, save a bit of milk and a pear. He dissected and ate the pear. John would be arriving at his sister's about now, slipping out of his coat, Harry would be ushering him to the fire, her partner handing him some wine. Sherlock noticed he left his favorite jumper on the back of his chair. He felt the soft wool of John's jumper, it smelled like John. He thought about John, when he laughed the previous day because Sherlock was feeling irritated and snarky, he thought about John retrieving his overnight bag from the top shelf of the closet, how his sweater rode up to show a bit of pale, smooth skin above his corduroys, a small trickle of light hair disappearing beneath his layers, Sherlock wanted to see the end of that trail, to breathe John in, to be between his thighs.
Sherlock's penis twitched, he was half-hard at just his brilliant mind's imaginings. Sherlock sat on the couch, eyes shut tight, mouth open and a very John-sounding moan filled his ears. His robe was open, his cock in his hand, a pearl of pre-cum resting on the tip. He rubbed it down his hard shaft with his thumb, he thought about John's lips, John straddling Sherlock, John licking his lips and looking down into Sherlock's eyes as he stroked Sherlock's penis, his own hard and wet. Sherlock felt warm, hot, heat emanating, he licked his lips, he stroked, his lips felt dry and plump, wholly too plump as they should be smashed into John's.
"John," Sherlock's eyes were shut tight, he could see John, feel John, smell him, John was here, Sherlock could smell his after shave, John was, here?
Sherlock heard a small cough. He opened his eyes and John was looking at him from the doorway, "I wasn't—"
"You, you said my name."
"When, just now? That wasn't—" But John was there, stopping his floundering with a hot, dry kiss, John straddled him where he sat.
"Sherlock," John moaned into Sherlock's mouth, and Sherlock didn't need more explanation before forcing his tongue between John's lips. Sherlock needed to feel John's skin beneath his touch. Sherlock brandished layer after layer, John stood before him in his pants, obviously hard, breathing, anticipating.
John slid Sherlock's pajama bottoms down his hips and off his ankles. John's mouth was warm and wet, "John, John," Sherlock moaned and wrapped his fingers in John's silver-blonde hair. His nose scrunched up, his mouth was open and voicing the most needy moans, he thrust into John's mouth, slowly, his legs felt weak, they were splayed open. John sucked off the tip and ran a rough hand up and down Sherlock's rigid shaft, "Oh, Sherlock," John stood up to kiss Sherlock, softly, roughly, wet, he stroked Sherlock's penis as he wrapped passion around his tongue. John's moan echoed through Sherlock's lungs, he came, with a sharp intake of breath John massaged him through, whispering his name.