John wouldn't touch himself. No, he would not put a hand near his cock. Not one, not two - definitely not two. None at all, in fact. He'd be patient - oh, so very patient. As long as Sherlock was out of that bathroom within the next minute.

His long-limbed creature had been behind a closed door for over half an hour. John had spent ten of those thirty minutes standing frozen and staring at that door, partly in disbelief and partly because he couldn't move due to lack of blood everywhere except his cock.

Now he was sitting on the bed he'd hastily cleared and said cock, so very ready for anything Sherlock asked of him, was begging to be touched. He looked around him at the floor, littered with things he'd swept to the floor with eager, horny hands (apart from the skull, of course – he'd put that on a table). His over-hasty and theatrical bed-clearing technique had seemed fitting twenty minutes ago, when he'd omitted from memory the fact that Sherlock loved dressing up and reflective surfaces, and that he love dressing up in front of reflective surfaces even more. Now that he was sitting twiddling his thumbs, fighting the intense urge to start twiddling his cock, he felt that he'd been rather overdramatic. To start tidying would rather kill the mood, though. So he'd sit there licking and biting and licking and biting and licking his lips and thinking about how hard his cock was.

But he wouldn't touch it. Or he'd die in his attempts not to.

He could faintly hear Sherlock humming to himself – the bubbling baritone bounced from and onto marble. The preening was an exhaustive and meticulous process. He'd be pulling gently on cocoa curls, teasing them into an unruly frame around his face. He'd be adjusting straps and buttons and tugging that brave little dress down, only for the cheeks of his frankly gigantic arse to still be very much visible atop impossible legs. Legs which began in shoes. Those bloody shoes. Those blue flowery high, so very high, blue, flowery, high –

'Fuck.'

'Stop it, John.'

John was touching his cock. In his blue and flowery reverie John's subconscious had unbuttoned his shorts, yanked down his boxers and wrapped an impatient palm over and around a frankly gigantic erection. The utterance of his own profanity had shocked him into clapping his free palm over his mouth before Sherlock's reprimand had echoed to his ears from marble walls. Immediately John's subconscious unhanded said erection.

The aroused physician tried hard to banish all thoughts of Sherlock's imminence from his mind and inwardly fought against asking him to hurry up. As much discomfort as John was in, he knew the wait would make everything all the sweeter. He pulled his shorts back up and manoeuvred to sit on his wayward hands, staring out of the window to his right, past the swishy silky flapping white curtains and out towards the sea, over views of the town in which they were staying: quaint, dusty and very Italian. The sky was pale blue and the sea was dark blue. A shade that happened to be similar, in fact, to that of –

There was a mirror next the window which held John's unruly attention. From out of the bathroom and into this mirror's reflection Sherlock appeared quite suddenly. John's mouth promptly fell open as though his chin had suddenly acquired a weight of some kind. His eyes stayed fixed on that mirror where Sherlock stared intently at his own reflection.

Long moments eased past whilst Sherlock stood framed in that doorway, and John moved not one inch, save where his cock stiffened and twitched. His subconscious, his preconscious, his auto-, dis-, and interconscious and every other type of made up prefix-prefaced type of consciousness was thoroughly occupied in the simple act of looking. John simply wasn't even conscious at this point – every ounce of him was involved entirely in ogling the hyperbolic intensity of his partner.

In that room, in that doorway, in that mirror stood a man in a short blue dress and heels with flowers on them. This in itself, John would admit, is a vaguely odd and yet somewhat attractive idea. However, when that man is an angel naturally endowed with and embodying excess, as in, excess of Jay Gatsby proportions, then everything shifts and becomes a bit surreal, a bit beyond all realms of previously conceived ideas of beauty and, for John, arousal.

Whilst the seconds trickled past and the breeze blew the curtains and two hearts thumped, Sherlock stood like a god whilst John took his time basking in the vision.

Large palms and long fingers grasped the edges of the doorframe of the bathroom. Sherlock's arms were long, too, pale and bulging at the bicep and bent at the elbow, with the thin straps of the dress stretching taut across shoulders and collarbone. A perfect halo of dark hair and sunlight from the bathroom's windows lit the detective up against his backdrop. John was both confused and enraptured by the contrast between different parts of his lover's body: physically, in terms of form and musculature, some of him was undeniably masculine and some of him was softer with luxurious, serpentine curves. His pose within that open rectangle confounded everything; he was simply too beautiful.

He filled the space almost entirely with both angles and curves. The bodice of the sundress was tight across Sherlock's broad chest and narrow waist, where it became flowing and light and caught in the breeze. Through the thin linen John could see the silhouette of him, see how he stood so that his hips curved impossibly, shifting his weight to create a sinuous, curving S from ribcage to waist to hip and arse to thigh. John followed this unlikely meandering with hungry eyes and fell to the perusal of his lover's legs, made longer and more intensely muscular with the absurd heels. John began to feel almost lightheaded with panting and needing as Sherlock turned sideways those heels, making their bountiful petals shiver, and proceeded to use his own reflection to turn himself on.

Can you pole dance with one side of a doorframe? Apparently you can if you're Sherlock Holmes, convincingly so. For minutes, hours, days, perhaps (John's sense of time had gone offline along with his consciousness), Sherlock got very pole-y and dance-y and intimate with that long piece of wood, all the while watching himself. He stared into his own eyes in that mirror and seduced himself, aroused himself. Arched that spine impossibly and slid down, revealing that sumptuous arse and grinding it against the frame. Turned around, straddled said frame, and repeated the action so that his cock got some attention, too. He looked like a large cat, like a jaguar, with that spine and those limbs and those eyes. Like a cat he began to purr as he rubbed and pressed and squirmed and danced. All the while his erection grew until the little blue dress was tented prettily in the centre.

Sherlock finally struck a pose with his legs crossed, arms splayed and with his gorgeous rear-end presented towards his lover. With a pout he tore his gaze from himself and caught John's in the mirror. That was it.

With a grunt of effort the soldier pushed himself to his feet and all but flung himself towards the detective, his hands hovering for one, two, three seconds before sinking them into the soft and creamy cheeks of Sherlock's cushion-like bottom. He slid his hands under the sundress' plucky hem to grasp a narrow waist before gliding them over broad hips and back around softness which just begged to be kneaded, caressed and squeezed. He spread apart Sherlock's more-than-double handful and pressed his erection into the space he'd created. It was a glorious sight: a hard-on straining desperately against its unfastened denim confines pressed deep between spread globes.

The moan uttered by Sherlock as his pretty little rosebud was stroked by rough denim forced John to his knees, where he found he was in a good position to admire the heels, those oh-so-blue-beauties. Unhanding Sherlock's arse with a squeeze, John bent down and tongued Sherlock's ankle, nipping at straps and lapping at exposed toes and flesh. The pretty man in the pretty dress hissed and wrapped a hand around his cock, taking a handful of linen in his grasp and rutting into the fabric, which felt quite fabulous.

As much as he enjoyed the wriggling of his lover's feet, John missed the arse. He always missed the arse. He rose back into his knees, his mouth inches from the erection cradled in Sherlock's fist, which had already marked the linen wrapped around it with a dark stain of precome. He placed a hot mouth over the fabric, breathing into it and pressing his tongue hard against the underside of Sherlock's cock. For long moments he held it there, waiting for his saliva to creep though the material, feeling the heat of his lover and tasting him, letting him thrust between eager lips.

'John. Christ… John,' Sherlock groaned, hissing again and supporting himself on the door frame. Taking the hint, John removed his mouth from the equation and placed his hands back on endless legs. Running those hands up and down rippling muscles, John stared with cobalt eyes right up into Sherlock's, which were currently sundress-blue.

John licked his lips, left that tongue out and squirming for a brief moment. He lowered his voice and uttered an order to his pretty sweetheart.

'Turn around.'