Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A.N. This story has had the most success out of all my works. Your response has been so positive that I've been quite overwhelmed by it. I'm so happy that I have no adequate words to thank you all for your kindness. I just hope that you enjoy this little ending (and if not, please let's all pretend this stayed an one-shot). Again, thank you. So very much. :-)
It isn't the first time the two love birds will have sex. The first actual time was after a successful case, with Sherlock high on adrenaline and John's praise. He does have a bit of a praise kink; but to be honest, only John's. His compliments are special (you'd develop praise kink too, subjected to it). In that moment, every speck of shyness and uncertainty had crumbled away, and the glorious tradition of celebratory sex has been born. Both couldn't be happier.
But John has a fantasy he's nursed from the start: taking Sherlock apart with sweetness (and a remarkable oral fixation, too). Though, naturally, there's been a whole lot of kissing going on since they've admitted their feelings, John still dreams of kissing all of Sherlock in one sitting, not letting himself be distracted by his lover's demands to "cease foreplay this instant." It's happened before; Sherlock can be very bossy when he's horny – and not only then, of course.
So, when Sherlock offers to enact anything from John's fantasies repertoire for his lover's birthday – and the doctor is still wondering about where he found the idea in the first place, though very happy about it – John knows what to ask.
He surprises Sherlock minutely. The sleuth had expected something more...adventurous, to be honest (been afraid that John might have gotten bored with their regular sex), but he0s not about to deny John anything. It will be an exercise in patience, more than anything else, he thinks. He can be patient for John. The once. And maybe this will convince John to dress up in his old uniform for Sherlock's birthday.
Which has brought them together on the bed, with Sherlock splayed like a feast for John's enjoyment...and John. Kissing. His. Forehead. Without being paternal at all, too, as this would surely feel if it was done by anyone else. (Though Mycroft has teased him about falling for someone similar to his dad like common people were wont to do.) The stray thought makes Sherlock furrow his brow, which John smooths (with another kiss, obviously) saying, "Don't think too much, love." As always, the endearment makes Sherlock's heart swell, and he wishes that John wouldn't stop to pay attention to his too-prominent cheeckbones, because he wants a proper snog. So he can show John how very much he loves him, too. He soon gets it. A fiery kiss which leaves the detective completely breathless.
Then, John starts working on a glorious hickey on Sherlock's neck – next to his pulse point – and the sleuth moans deeply. His cock strains, too, getting definitely interested in the proceedings. He'll always be weak against John's seduction – they haven't done almost anything, and Sherlock already wants. The detective wonders idly how he'd manage to wait until John had his fill of his skin.
That, leaving his neck with a last lick to a delicious collarbone, John moves to his hands, to kiss his knuckles and and suck teasingly Sherlock's deft musician fingers, doesn't help the detective any to find his patience. He needs John. And they aren't even midway. Sherlock will decidedly go mad. And John knows – he has to know, since he's kissing the sleuth's racing pulse, and he only smiles a little smug smile that should irk Sherlock to no end but that the detective finds utterly sexy instead. He's doomed.
With a quick kiss inside his left elbow, John moves to Sherlock's chest. He kisses reverently Sherlock's heart and pecks an apology to the way-too-near scar, keeping up the steady stream of endearments and "love you"s and praises he's been murmuring between each kiss. He sucks his lover's nipples to hardness and mouths that spot on his flank that never fails to make Sherlock moan.
John suckles Sherlock's navel and then pepper little kisses along his lover's linea alba, but when he encounters the straining cock he ignores it and moves laterally to suck another hickey on a prominent hipbone, despite Sherlock's hoarse pleading and protests.
Then, with a last, gentle, teasing blow of air over the hard cock, John scoots down Sherlock's impossibly long legs to kiss the arch of his feet and suckle at his toes.
"John! Don't you dare!" Sherlock groans.
"I thought that I could do anything to you today, love," is the reply.
Sherlock nods tightly in defeat.
"It's not my fault that you're so positively delectable all flushed and needy like this, Lockie," the doctor remarks with a wolfish grin.
"But you're hard, too. Don't you want to make love to me?" the sleuth cajoles, though his voice is quite whiny.
"Of course love, and I'm going to, I promise. Just not too soon. Can't cut the fun short," John counters, depositing a kiss on each of Sherlock's ankles and then going back up legs trembling with sheer desire, peppering a theory of tiny kisses until he's licking at Sherlock's inner thighs.
Sherlock's desperate moans are the single most erotic sound in the universe. He's stopped expecting John to take pity on him, so when finally his partner dives for a long, powerful, tongue-swirling suck at his neglected cock, the detective lets out a strangled sound, part pleasure and part – big part – surprise. John bobs his head a few times, and just when the sleuth thinks that maybe this sweet, sweet torment will end, he lets up.
The broken, "John!" that rips from Sherlock's throat is half plea, half scolding and all liquid desire.
"We're half way, love," the blond points out gently.
Sherlock doesn't think that he can survive just as much teasing. His heart will probably give way long before. But this is what John wants, so he's going to comply. He mumbles indistinctly something about evil doctors being the absolute worst, though.
It makes John only chuckle – a sound that somehow manages to redouble the want inside Sherlock, physically impossible as it should be – and murmur, "Patience. It'll be good, I promise."
It is already good – in a you drive me out of my mind sort of way – so Sherlock cuts shorts his protests and turns around, like John nods to him to do.
The kiss behind his ear makes him shiver, like always, but what comes next scares him a bit. It's not the first time he's been kissed better, either, and when John does so he's always very determined not to miss a single one of his scars, no matter how impatient Sherlock gets (even if he secretly loves it). This time too it's not different, without a care for how hot and bothered the detective already is. One scar, one kiss, one murmured superlative. And repeat.
Sherlock used to see them as the proof of his failings, his idiocy or if he was particularly hard on himself, a just account for what he should suffer for hurting John. John's love changed them into proof of victories. Evidence that nothing in the world can successfully separate the two of them. That (maudlin as it sounds) love does conquer all. Their love at least.
And if John's breath hitches each time, choked with the knowledge that he wasn't there to protect Sherlock, the sheer fact that he can do this – that the detective is naked and needy and very, very alive under him – is enough to move him forward from the dark imageries in his mind to more pressing concerns, like how many times and in how many ways can he get Sherlock to moan his name. Not that he's counting. (Sherlock was honest with Irene. He doesn't beg for mercy. It doesn't mean that, sometimes, John's name does not turn into a prayer – and they both know it.)
When John is finally done with Sherlock's back... he scoots down again. To kiss calves trembling with desire and the sensitive back of his knees. He'll never ever make love to Sherlock anymore. Only tease him further and further until he'll lose his sanity, never to be recovered. Sherlock is sure of that by now.
Still, the tentative lick at his hole surprises him so much that Sherlock yelps. "Oh God, John," he moans then – the two terms equivalent in his mind. John must know it, because Sherlock feels his partner smile against him.
Only a few more teasing licks and one playful nip later, John is finally preparing him with his fingers, thank God. It starts looking like he'll keep his promise and fuck Sherlock right into unconsciousness. The detective tries to tell him to hurry up, even knowing his doctor would never risk hurting him by being rushed in this stage.
When John does take him, his thrusts are slow and powerful and unerringly aimed at Sherlock's prostate, bless him. The pleasure is simply overwhelming – hell, it's been overwhelming since the start – and Sherlock can only gasp his lover's name brokenly. It's the only thing that hasn't fled his mind.
When the detective comes, with a shout, he promptly passes out afterwards from the sheer intensity of it. John really didn't expect it. Still reeling from his own orgasm – simultaneous with Sherlock's – he moves to check up on his lover. It's apparent that the sleuth is perfectly fine, luckily, if totally out of commission.
Such a thing had never happened to John – not with anyone – and he isn't sure if he should be infinitely smug about what has happened or more than a bit bashful for pushing Sherlock too hard. The sleuth appears to have gone smoothly from passed out to asleep. Hopefully when he wakes up John will have had time to decide about his feelings.