It is the same. Same. Exact. Emotion.
As the Pool.
There is not a sound to be heard.
Well, they are both breathing hard, yes, and the bed creaks faintly under Sherlock's knees where he's kneeling and there's the crinkle of foil wrapper and the slip-slide of his trembling fingers curling tight (so tight) around John's intruding knuckles. There's random birdsong from outside the many-mullioned windows, arising from the early evening twitter of sparrows and then, far off in the distance, a dog bays, eerily reminiscent of the Hound. But other than that, there's dead silence.
Dead. Which accurately describes the state of Sherlock's internals at this precise moment in time.
John chokes himself into a muffled snort-snuffle of amusement. Kindly amusement.
"God have mercy, but you're dense as a bloody thicket sometimes, mate. Not that sort of 'no', you great tit."
Sherlock's body automatically restarts the respiratory process. He rocks back with a belated jolt but doesn't even think to ungrip his fingers from the warm curl of John's palm and spread knuckles.
"Oh." He breathes; it feels pretty… good …to do that, yes. Interesting. "'Kay. Then." He blinks, his gaze narrowing and sharpening upon the Doctor's face. "What?"
"You're not bumming me, Sherlock; that's all. I know you're a genius with total recall and all that, but it's my arse on the line and just…no. Switch up. Move along now."
The Doctor doesn't wait about; he's already in motion, shoving Sherlock bodily aside and over, squirming agilely out from under him. "Upsy-daisy; here we go." He exercises those jersey-disguised upper arm muscles of his adroitly.
"…That's much better," he remarks, when Sherlock's the one with his back flat to the mattress. "Now. Where were we?"
"..Oi." Sherlock is inclined toward experiencing a species of minor shock. John is always—always—setting him back on his heels one way or another and here's another example of that—and he's not decided how to react, quite. "Eh?"
On the one hand, he has engaged in this sort of activity in his earlier-gathered repertoire; on the other, it wasn't particularly his favourite activity of the trials.
"Oh, yes," John grins round at the items scattered about the wrinkled duvet. "I'll just borrow this, then. Ta."
Contrarily…there are points to be given for the stimulation of the prostate gland and he's sure as the sun also rises that the doctor knows just how to go about that sort of thing properly.
John unrolls the sheath Sherlock had intended for his own use straight down the length of his cock with a practiced hand. Sherlock notes in passing that John's member is as erect as before; there's been no loss of rigidity or fullness due to the interruption.
Same goes, he observes, spying his own. If anything, he's harder than he was before.
And contrarily again, he has a major objection to being done as opposed to doing the doing and this is a situation which threatens to escape his precarious comfort zone completely.
"I don't—" Sherlock assays, finding himself struggling for the correct words to use so as not to offend John but to also discourage him from pursuing his current course. "Think."
"Yes, you do," John points out, grinning. "Far too much." He bends down over Sherlock's person, crouching and places a lubricated palm upon Sherlock's straining cock. "All the time; that's the issue. So, please—just for the moment, I'll ask you to stop."
John kisses him, just lightly. "Hey?" Teasing little nips that are echoed by his teasing little touches about the blunt, tickly end of Sherlock's dick.
"Mmm," Sherlock allows, grudgingly. "Mmmph!"
He is pleased again—can't deny it, however much he'd prefer not. And he is also dissatisfied, but more because the Doctor (John) is all at once taking far too much care with the dick in question.
"Not a measly woman, John," he bites out acerbically, opening his eyes wide only to narrow them into a pointed glare. "Go at it, will you? More." And impatiently waits for John to take him up on it, which of course John does do.
The question of whom it is shall be putting what where seems to have fallen by the wayside entirely, in favour of ramping up the velocity of the actual intention to act. This is a mutual and mostly silent agreement between the two parties involved and Sherlock is a bit grateful to John for his exquisite sense of tact.
Perhaps…perhaps it will be an improved experience for him, as it is John driving the bus, as it were.
"That I can do," John promises, and applies immediately technique. Sherlock groans; the Doctor's hands are gifted, indeed.
"Faster," he requests, not particular politely. "More. In, if that's what you're on about. Get along, John."
"Jesus, Sherlock." John smiles down at him, clearly far more at his ease than Sherlock is. "You're a bloody menace. Give it moment, will you? Sphincters are tricky things."
"Fuck my sphincter!" Sherlock exclaims, wriggling his hips forward and up so that the exploratory fingers on John's other talented hand will slip into 'penetrate' mode all the quicker. "Fuck it!"
That has John laughing and taking his hands away to bring them up before his scrunched-up hilarity-face. He may be hiding it out of concern for Sherlock's fragile (hah!) ego, but Sherlock finds it absurdly infuriating.
"What did I just say? Don't stop now, you idiot," he grits at huffing John through clenched back teeth, and captures John's hands to place them firmly where they were supposed to stay busy all along: his privates. "Stimulation's the key here. You cannot simply cease in the midst and expect me to go along with it. Keep at it; I'm nearly ready."
"No, you're not," John giggles, fortunately exerting the dexterity of those digits once more, "but soon enough. Slow down, Sherlock. This isn't a race to the finish line. Let me take my time. It'll be better that way."
Yes, it is, Sherlock wants to riposte. See: mad man, in London. See: silenced mobile, abandoned for the moment in his trouser's pocket but likely overflowing with texts. See: he's feeling horribly nervous and any delay only heightens the uncomfortable feeling.
"Please," is what he actually speaks aloud—well, it's more a rough whisper—and he's hoping his likely honest expression will handle the nuance-laden conveyance to John, speaking to the rising tide of amorphous terror he is currently harboring in his twisting gut. "John."
"Oh." John again sits back on his haunches, startled, but he's not laughing this time; far from it. "Yes, all right. We won't delay, then."
What Sherlock adores about the Doctor is that he's a quick enough study. Nothing like his own level, but still excellent, comparatively speaking.
The nausea subsides when John pushes the knob-end of his cock right up tight to Sherlock's arsehole and uses his slippery fingers to guide it in.
There's another of those dead-silent pauses, but this one is nothing like the Pool. This is much more of the same emotion Sherlock felt when the Doctor (John) said aloud to him that very first 'Amazing!'
It's not cathedral-quiet for long. Breathing does indeed become a necessity, especially as Sherlock feels the hurried entry like a windmill fist slammed into his solar plexus. It smarts, yes it does, and fuck him for a lark, but he is briefly visited by the faint regret he has neglected to keep up his practice of this sex thing everyone always goes on and on about. He winces; it would've certainly reduced the strain to his stretching, expanding innards.
"Hah! Gah-hah!" he gasps, and John frowns and instantly caresses Sherlock's member back to an acceptable level of interest. That serves to distract and then—lo, success at last!—John's cock is fully inside Sherlock's arse and he attentively attempts to smile up at his flatmate's worried expression. As he recalls, he is meant to be expressing enthusiam at this point in proceedings.
"That—" he huffs, doing a bit of limb-and-arse adjustment of his own and also residually relishing the hard grasp John has upon his one cocked hip. "That wasn't so awfully horrible, actually. Now?" He essays an arch stare at his penetrator. "Do you think you can finally get on with it? I did mention a shag to be had, some time ago. I remember clearly the goal, here. Getting off, wasn't it?"
Sardonicism is and always has been one of Sherlock's favourite methods of communication with other members of his species, at least in part because he uses it (and its cousins, sarcasm and irony) without thinking. No sweet-talker, he; what would be the point?
John snorts. "You're a git and half, Sherlock. Fine." He doesn't hesitate to withdraw his prick rather too fast ('Uh, uh, uh!' Sherlock says to that) and then slam it right back in again to the utmost (Sherlock acknowledges that with an 'Ack!'). "There. Happier now?"
"Much!"
"Brilliant," John growls, engaged in that fast in-and-out motion again, much to Sherlock's gratification, "then give me a little peace-and-quiet here, mate. You're throwing me right off my game."