Thanks for all the reviews, follows, and favorites guys! Sorry this update was later than usual- I (starrysummernights) have been on Baby Watch 2014 with my future sister-in-law and it's given me less time to write and edit :) Thanks for being patient.
John hesitated outside the door of 221, glancing up at the windows which were, for the time being, empty and devoid of stroppy consulting detectives surveying their domain. For the first time in a long time, John wasn't really looking forward to going inside the flat. He knew Sherlock was waiting for him, still angry about this morning, and ready to fight with him.
After the day John had endured, fighting with Sherlock was the last thing he wanted to do.
He didn't, however, fancy shuddering into an embarrassing comatose death in the freezing London gutters, and besides, John had enough irritated vitriol to fire him to confront his bastard, son-of-a-bitch, sulky, fucker, beautiful, irresistible lover. The rain had long since abated but the air was still bestowing a vicious, burning chill he wanted to get out of.
John squared his shoulders and turned his key in the lock, moaning softly in gratitude when he was embraced with warmth the moment he stepped out of the icy cold and into the toasty foyer. He paused to listen, but no sounds could be heard from upstairs.
Filled with trepidation, gearing himself up for an epic fight that would probably make Mrs. Turner's married ones stare at he and Sherlock in wide-eyed disbelief the next time they happened to run into each other, John mounted the stairs.
The doctor shrugged off his jacket briskly and removed his shoes, his practically-ingrained, discontented frown marking his forehead. Opening the door to 221B, adrenaline pulsing encouragingly through his veins, teeth clenched in anticipation of a fight, John strode boldly into the living room.
After a few, wordless, breathless seconds, he swallowed thickly at the sight in front of him.
"...Sherl?" John asked, his logic dissipating in a matter of moments at the sight of his stunning lover.
Sherlock, the bastard, son-of-a-bitch, sulky, fucker, beautiful, irresistible lover in question, lay supine on the sofa, completely nude, his head tipped back, curls a dark, drenched halo around his head, framing his flushed cheeks and red, bitten lips. The detective's skin was practically covered in a thick, unclean sheen of sweat. Sherlock sighed shakily before his eyes fluttered open, taking in the sight of John standing in the doorway, frozen at the sight of him.
"You're late." Sherlock replied, voice husky and wrecked, his hands never stopping their desperate movements between his legs where he held John's mobile against his already hard and dripping prick, fisting it with a desperate determination that seemed to be gaining him nothing except more frustration.
"…Late?" John repeated, nonplussed. "Late?! Do you have any fucking idea why I'm late, you selfish prick?" John asked, his anger returning in a sudden, hot swoop even as arousal spiked through his body at the picture Sherlock made on the sofa, debauched and gorgeous.
Sherlock's eyes, which had been half-lidded and clouded with lust, suddenly sharpened and he fixed John with a dark, angry expression of his own. The last vibrations from John's mobile died away, audible in the sudden hush of the flat, leaving Sherlock's cock jerking in his hand, seemingly forgotten about for the time being.
"Oh, Sherlock." John sighed, shaking his head. "Tell me exactly what you've been doing to yourself, love." He murmured, beginning to pick open his maroon shirt with leisure in his movements and a dangerous brightness in his dark blue eyes as he silently appreciated the detective's shivering, sweat-soaked skin.
"You would know if you had been here, John." Sherlock muttered petulantly, eyes dropping to watch John undress himself with undisguised lust. "Hurry up with that and come get me off."
John finished unpicking his buttons and, allowing his shirt to gape open, his lips gave an unsettling, humourless twitch. "I didn't have to be here to know what was going on. Apparently you've been wanking like there was no tomorrow and rogering yourself silly with a toy. You never told me you bought a toy, Sherlock. You kept it hidden away and only used it when I was gone- and had the fucking nerve to make me feel guilty for having a simple wank in the shower this morning. You fucking outed me today at work." John took a deep breath, his heart thudding in increasing rage. "Do you really expect leniency?"
"Leniency?" Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, giving his cock a quick stroke but stopping almost immediately, biting his lip to gain control, the head of his cock flushed a deep red in prolonged arousal.
John smirked at the sight, shedding his shirt and draping it over the back of his armchair.
"Leniency, when you're the one who didn't tell your co-workers you were in a relationship?" Sherlock fired back, finally finding his voice even if it quavered a bit. "Were you embarrassed? Ashamed of dating a man? Or were you hoping to still get off with them, John? A bit of much-needed action to release some stress...since you obviously can't find that with me?"
That was it.
John had officially had enough.
He gritted his teeth as he crossed the room, stepped over the coffee table, and vaulted, with force and no remorse, onto Sherlock's crotch, his knees splaying to either side of his detective's hips, hands spreading possessively on his partner's pale, taut pectorals. Sherlock gasped hard, his beautiful features crinkling as his doctor writhed on him unexpectedly.
John nudged his own semi warningly against Sherlock's dark, tumescent shaft, grinning as it twitched and Sherlock emitted an undignified, barely-controlled squeak. John repositioned himself, pressing his arse provocatively against Sherlock's cock.
Biting his bottom lip with a pleasure bordering on sadism, John began to grind himself against the detective's plump erection with evident delight. "I am going to destroy you," he seethed. "Teach you...I can fucking get off whenever I choose..."
"John." Sherlock breathed, obviously not adverse to the idea if the way he hardened even further was anything to go by, and his fingers scrabbled for purchase until they dug into John's trouser-covered thighs, his hips circling up to grind himself more insistently against John's backside.
John, though, wasn't in an indulging mood and sat back, making it impossible for Sherlock to rub against him and retrieved his mobile from between Sherlock's legs, glancing at the screen emotionlessly. He quirked an eyebrow at Sherlock, who twitched involuntarily beneath him, the brunette's expression one of supressed lust contending with struggled belligerence.
"Four hundred and thirty-three missed calls, Sherl?"
John watched Sherlock's throat bob as he swallowed, cheeks flushing in both arousal and embarrassment as he licked his lips. "You weren't here. I...needed..."
"Mm…you did need apparently. Did you manage it? To get off again? Or have you been rolling around in frustration for the best part of eight hours?" John asked, a suggestive, dark grin on his thin lips. Before Sherlock could answer, John smoothed his left hand through the considerable mess of clear stickiness that covered his detective's flat, white stomach, and proceeded to suck on his tainted fingertips in a display of pure filth.
"Pre-come. That's all. I know the difference."
Sherlock's mouth dropped open, watching John suck on his fingers, licking away the evidence of Sherlock's painful, protracted arousal. He'd thought he was sated after getting off earlier. His orgasm had been intense, magnificent, and had left Sherlock drowsy and languid, loose-limbed with pleasure. Less than an hour later, though, when he'd rolled over in bed, Sherlock's nose had pressed against John's side of the mattress, bringing with it the intoxicating, incredibly arousing smell of the said man.
He'd been hard, and trying to get off, ever since.
John smiled down at his stunned love. "What would you like, Sherlock? Would you like a kiss?"
The ashen-haired army doctor gritted his teeth as he gave a sharp, unexpected grind against Sherlock's bare, vulnerable, desperate shaft.
Sherlock gasped sharply, his hips bucking up at the contact, needing more. He'd been needing more all afternoon, unsuccessfully trying to get himself off with John's mobile and his own hand, both paltry and useless devices which had done no more than tease him mercilessly. They had been unable to bring him the relief he craved, the relief that he needed.
"Yes." He heard himself say, his voice breathy and slightly desperate but Sherlock only experienced the barest twinge of embarrassment. He was more concerned with kissing John and finally- finally- finally getting off.
"Bedroom," John uttered simply, easing himself off Sherlock and casually wandering in the direction of their bedroom, slowly undoing his belt along the way.
Sherlock watched John leave in stunned disbelief for all of three seconds before his mind caught up with what John had said. He leapt from the couch and wobbled, on shaky, unsteady legs, after his doctor.
John closed the curtains and turned on the light with remarkable tranquillity before perching on the edge of their bed, calmly removing his jeans and socks and tossing them aside in a distracting flurry of fabric.
Sherlock's sharp eyes flickered slightly as he tried to coalesce the multitudes of stimuli which were afflicting him. It was harder to do than normal due to his all-encompassing arousal which pulsed and throbbed and demanded to be taken care of. Now. It hadn't waned in his short trek to the bedroom and had, if anything, got even harder at the sight of John stripping off his clothes and throwing Sherlock dark, seductive looks.
"Come here." John said- no, Sherlock realized, ordered. John ordered.
"You still...you've still pissed me off," Sherlock uttered a little tremulously, eagerly stepping forward, his dormant, righteous anger currently being swamped by utter desire.
John's eyebrow rose and fuck it, that shouldn't have been arousing. Sherlock was still angry. He knew he was and that he had every right to be. He just…couldn't remember…. He rooted around in his mind for the tendrils of righteous anger which were trying to elude him. "You didn't tell your co-workers about us." Ah, that was it.
John peeled away his underwear and sat quite complacently and nakedly on the edge of the bed, giving Sherlock a dark-blue, gimlet eye.
"And you didn't tell me that you had a toy stashed away."
"I hardly think possessing a secret sex toy is on par with hiding the fact we were dating, John." Sherlock replied sarcastically. "Besides," he sniffed, adopting a superior expression, "you were the one indulging in an illicit wank in the shower this morning. What else was I supposed to do when my boyfriend is…unable to satisfy me?"
John abruptly stood up and, with stunning acuity and skill, disabled Sherlock with a few sharp, precise blows from expert palms and fists. Wrestling Sherlock to the bed, John quickly tied the momentarily incapacitated detective to the headboard with Sherlock's own scarf- handily pooled on the bedside table- and straddled Sherlock roughly.
Sherlock stared up at John, surprised, angry, and more than a bit turned on at being so thoroughly outmanoeuvred by the ex-army doctor. He jerked at his wrists, testing the bonds, and moaned in pleasure when they held. Of course they held- John had been the one to tie the knot. And in classic John-style: not too tight, nothing to cause Sherlock pain, but just enough to hold him firmly. Sherlock knew, from previous experience, that he wouldn't be able to escape until John released him.
"You're a fucking bastard, Sherlock." John hissed, eyes narrowed in anger. "Selfish and ever only thinking of yourself. You never think about me. You were angry this morning because I had a fucking wank and so you outed me to everyone. Do you have any idea what it was like today? For me? Do you even care? I wanted to tell people on my own terms. Now everyone thinks –"
"Everyone thinks what?" Sherlock spat, wriggling awkwardly to sit up and getting closer to John's enraged face, his own anger and indignation at John's erroneous accusations rising.
"That I'm a fucking queer!" John hissed at him, quaking with fury as he shoved Sherlock back down flat on the bed with a lot more force and bitterness than he'd intended.
"And are you not, John?" Sherlock asked innocently, arching an eyebrow and giving John an amused look. "I would believe some of the activities we have done would be considered highly queer. Or did you think you could escape with your heterosexuality intact after sucking my cock?"
John gave him a stark, cold glare, before swallowing visibly and heaving in a few fortifying breaths. "Do you have any idea what my fucking break was like? After your little…revelation?"
Sherlock smirked, settling back, not looking the least bit repentant. "Fun, was it?"
Sherlock's blasé attitude at John's suffering confirmed what John already suspected and made him angrier.
The doctor gritted his teeth and pursed his thin lips as he recalled the excruciating day he had suffered at work.
Sending off his last "morning" patient at 1.40pm, John had downed his stagnant, cold coffee carelessly, then stood, stretched, and groaned faintly as he prepared to leave the sanctuary of his office and face his colleagues for lunch. By his approximation, there were twelve staff on today, none of whom he particularly liked, one who was an utter dick, and three women with whom he'd slept with. John's anxiety had matured into utter fear and he was now sure that Sherlock had not been kidding when he claimed to have bragged to the receptionist earlier.
There had been...something different in Elaine's tone of voice- a surprised, scandalized something- which had nagged at John's mind all morning.
Then, John had caught a glimpse of Patricia, one of the regular nurses, as his office door swung closed behind one of his patients. She'd been wide-eyed, positively craning her neck to get a look at John as if he were an attraction in a zoo.
He'd caught glimpses all morning of the staff clustered together, in groups of twos and threes, outside his door as he greeted his patients, and John knew he was being irrational to suspect they were talking about him but…
John cringed. Surely Sherlock wouldn't have... Even Sherlock would have known better than to say what he claimed he had.
John would have preferred to take refuge in his admittedly chilly office all day and avoid the inevitable confrontation with his co-workers, but he was starving. Bracing himself, clenching his fists stoically in a habitually comforting motion, John exited his office, avoiding eye contact as he walked down the hall and trying his very best to appear nonchalant.
He felt the eyes of one of the trainee female doctors on him as he passed the nurses' station, and John felt his skin tingling with an unwanted, unpleasant blush. Usually, he would've attribute her stare to admiring him, thinking he was handsome by the way he held himself or the way he walked. Shallow and full of himself, John knew, but there it was.
Today, though, the stare made John want to sink through the floor.
He made it to the break room, managing to fight off his blush in the short walk, and braced himself for whatever lay ahead.
John didn't have long to wait.
The small room was filled with his co-workers, most of whom had a salad or sandwich in front of them, sipping diet drinks and water, and all conversation died as soon as John walked through the door, leaving an oppressive, uncomfortable silence.
Jason, a doctor in his early thirties who John had always disliked, thinking he was too smarmy and full of himself, cleared his throat pointedly as John made his way to the machine for a fresh coffee, though he suspected his nerves wouldn't be helped by the continued ingestion of caffeine.
John ignored him, affecting nonchalance and selecting a cup.
There was a tremulous, palpable silence, and the squirt of cheap commercial coffee dousing John's paper cup was almost deafening in the long, excruciating twenty seconds that it took to fill it up. The rain outside had long ceased, but the room was drenched in a faintly damp, grey, and thoroughly dispiriting atmosphere.
Everyone's eyes were on him and they felt like knives boring into his back.
John added a bit of sugar to his coffee and turned around, with a sinking stomach, to face the stares.
Patricia was the first person his eyes landed on and she gave John a bright, horribly fake smile, her eyes sparkling with excitement at the prospect of salacious gossip.
"John! So how long have you and Sherlock been together?"
John hesitated, considering what sort of answer to give as he sipped his bitter coffee, glancing at the window as if to find divine inspiration in the grim, melancholy skyline. He nibbled his bottom lip, about to reply, when Jason piped up.
With his ridiculous spiked hair, puce chinos, and a generally obnoxious and superior demeanour, John could barely tolerate Jason at the best of times. He was a sexist pig and naturally thought he was god's gift to women.
"Yes, how long have you been taking it up the arse?"
There was a shocked chorus of snickers and giggles and Jason smirked viciously, glancing around the room arrogantly.
John felt his vision narrow in sudden anger, a rushing sound in his ears muffling the din of his co-workers laughter, and his jaw was clenched so tight he could hear his teeth grinding together.
"A while now." John snapped, and abruptly all the laughter and snickers died away. His co-workers gaped at him. "About the last six months."
There were a few seconds of pregnant, tense silence.
"Well. That's nice, isn't it, dear?" Debbie, an older nurse with a kind, weathered face said mildly, smiling at John.
"Your boyfriend's not very discreet," a younger nurse called Chrissie piped up boldly, breaking the quiet, contrite atmosphere. "You should put a gag on him."
"He'd probably love that," Jason responded snarkily, heralding another scarcely repressed wave of giggles.
John had never wanted to punch someone in the face so much as he did Jason in that moment. He reeled himself in, though. It wasn't the thing to go punching one's co-workers while still at work.
Later, on the other hand….
"But seriously, John" Jason said, not looking at all serious, his lips twitching in a vindictive smile. "You? A poof? From the way Melanie was bragging you were straight."
At this remark, the pretty, dark-haired woman in the corner busied herself with her tea, adding unnecessary amounts of sugar and picking cucumber out of her salmon sandwiches with the intense concentration of someone disarming a bomb.
"And Marie," Jason said quietly, but perfectly audibly, taking a casual swig of his tea and gesturing to the woman in question, a leggy redhead with a sour expression on her face.
John internally winced. Things had ended spectacularly badly with Marie. All thanks to Sherlock, of course. She'd actually been the last woman he'd dated before he and the mad man he lived with decided to start dating.
"I don't know." Marie drawled, looking bored and rolling her eyes. "Looking back on it, and the way things were...it makes sense now that John was gay. I mean, no offense, John, but your performance in bed was….well. Less that's said probably the better, yeah?" She offered John a cruel smirk.
Jason laughed, but he was one of the few that did. The others looked slightly strained and sick, embarrassed for John as if their innocent ribbing had taken a turn they didn't like.
"Mmm…according to what Sherlock told Elaine John's quite the firecracker in the sheets. Begging and writhing in blissful, homosexual ecstasy." Jason chuckled, eyes glinting maliciously.
John chewed the inside of his mouth, struggling mightily to restrain himself. With a deep breath, he stretched to his full height, the dark, dangerous indigo of his eyes easily offsetting his less-than-threatening small stature.
"All right, yeah, you got me- I'm with a man. Yes, I love him. Yes, I sleep with him and yes, he can be a bastard, but I'd rather spend twelve hours with him in his worst mood than another minute with any of you. Have a good afternoon," John snapped, slamming his half-empty coffee cup into the bin and storming out.
And John, fuming and red-faced, fully intended to go back to his office and eat his lunch in peace, perhaps while searching for a new job, when Jason's oily voice drifted out into the hall.
"Probably just needs a good fucking. Top or bottom, though? C'mon, any takers? That fairy he dates may have said he fucks John but I've seen pictures of him. That Sherlock fag looks so slutty I bet he rolls right over and begs John to fuck him, like a dog. Fucking disgusting."
John halted abruptly, swallowing his anger like a bitter bolus. If Sherlock were here, he would stride up to Jason and effortlessly deduce a handful of embarrassing and/or devastating personal facts, and leave him a mortified, speechless wreck. John's own mind, however, apparently refused to comprehend much more than the obvious option of shutting the little prick up – marching back into the staff room, knocking him to the ground and kicking his teeth in.
Seething, John pivoted sharply and marched, spine rigid and shoulders squared, back to the employee break room.
"What did you say?" He asked, voice low and menacing.
His fellow employees exchanged worried, uneasy looks.
Jason ruffled a hand through his gelled spikes and grinned. "No offense, John, it's all in good fun. It's just...well, after having so many women, you'd naturally go for a bit of a slutty ladyboy."
The insult to Sherlock made John even angrier, the casual way it was said set his teeth on edge, and he could feel himself smiling at Jason even as his hands curled into fists at his sides.
Jason continued airily, unaware of the threat which was looming closer. "I suppose once you turn the lights off it all feels the same, whether you're fucking his arse or his throat-"
In the damp, chilly, and silent atmosphere of the inadequately heated staff-room, the crunch of cartilage was practically deafening.
A collective, stifled chorus of gasps, screams, and groans swelled into the air as John winced and shook his left hand, wiping away the scarlet blood smeared across his knuckles with a grimace.
The situation devolved quickly from there.
Jason, blood streaming over the lower half of his face, nose dripping fat drops of crimson onto his shirt and spattering the tiles, gave an enraged growl before launching himself at John, catching the army doctor around the middle in a sudden rush.
John, already braced for the attack, reflexively kneed Jason in the crotch hard, twisted sharply, and with a force and strength that belied his small stature, wrestled Jason onto his back on the grubby, crumb-adorned staff room floor. John pulled back his already-bloodied fist for another brutal punch, only barely aware of the faint, horrified vocalisations in the background.
"Stop!" Jason shouted, hands held in front of his face in a defensive gesture, a weak attempt at warding off John's imminent blows. "Stop, stop, stop! I- I didn't mean anything by it!"
John noted, with a perverse curl of satisfaction, that Jason's teeth were stained red and his nose was most definitely broken.
Not for the first time, John briefly entertained the idea that he was a sadist. In the moment, anger pumping hotly through his veins, he couldn't find it in him to care, but it was something John knew he'd worry about later.
John fixed the trembling man beneath him with a piercing, threatening gaze, letting the seconds tick by and listening as Jason's pleas got more and more frantic…and then eased himself off of his colleague.
"Count yourself lucky," John murmured darkly.
Now, hours later, with his trembling boyfriend stretched beneath him, wrists tied to the headboard, helpless and feverishly aroused beneath him, John decided that yes, he was most definitely a sadist.
But, as Sherlock arched, mouth open, pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed and cock hard, John was comforted that if he himself was a sadist, his chosen love was most assuredly a masochist.
"Oh, John. Defending my honour?"
"You don't deserve it," John leaned forward, biting down sharply on his detective's nipple for his own selfish satisfaction. After soaking up Sherlock's deep grunt of pleasure, he spoke again. "Want to hear what happened after that?"
"Mmm...I can deduce it." Sherlock replied breathlessly, eyes roving over John's body in an invasive perusal. He tugged fruitlessly against his restraints, throat bobbing as he swallowed thickly. The idea of John so manfully defending him against the slander of his co-workers making his chest warm in a way that had nothing to do with sex or arousal.
"Go on then...tell me the story," John mumbled, leaning down to suckle on Sherlock's pale, pulsing throat, whilst grinding relentlessly, yet agonisingly slowly, against him.
Sherlock's gasp caught wetly in his throat, eyes going wide under the onslaught. He bucked his hips up, hoping to increase the much needed friction to his cock but was, again, denied.
Almost whining in frustration and need, Sherlock shakily replied. "Two of your female co-workers pulled you away from Jason even though you were already through with him. Punching pleading men is hardly your style- even if you wanted to. Oh, John- please! Please?"
"Please?" John asked, a competing thrill of amusement and admiration in his dark-blue eyes. "Tell me more. You're doing well so far," he rewarded, reaching down and giving Sherlock a few languid, strong strokes.
Sherlock choked out a sharp cry, eyes slamming closed and spine arching. His cock pulsed, a trail of pre come spooling from the red slit. Worried John would stop and take his hand away, Sherlock hastily continued, licking his plump, cupid's-bow lips before speaking. His thighs and stomach quivered visibly as his dormant climax tortured his long-suffering muscles.
"You left the break room on your own, intent on retuning to your office to- to pack but were called into a meeting with the director minutes later. Less than five minutes later actually." Sherlock said in a breathless rush, trying to fuck himself in John's fist in short, aborted thrusts. "You were fired- the reasons you gave for your behaviour brushed aside and Jason only received a slap on the wrist."
John grinned, a shadow of malice in his dark eyes at being reminded of the unfair treatment. "Good boy." He casually removed his hand from Sherlock's swollen shaft, absorbing the resulting strained wail of desperation with pleasure.
"And what do you think of all this? Your...opinions on my actions," John muttered, giving one teasingly light stroke to his detective's length.
Sherlock jerked so hard against his restraints he knew he would have bruises later. At the moment, he couldn't be bothered to care.
He needed to come so badly.
It was like a fever in his body. His testicles were drawn up tight against his body, ready to release. His cock pulsed in a helpless, desperate rhythm. His heart fluttered and he couldn't get enough air.
"I...I don't...John...please. I need...please let me come. Please." Sherlock babbled in a delirium of need, still jerking at his restraints as if he would be able to free himself.
He was so close.
He couldn't even concentrate on what John was saying, what he was asking him. All Sherlock could concentrate on was the slow, agonizing slide of John's hand and his elusive orgasm.
"I asked you a question, Sherlock. Apparently you've chosen not to answer," John said, his voice cracking a little and he had to clear his throat before enunciating anything else. He shivered as a piercing lightning strike illuminated the bedroom, casting Sherlock's skin an even more violent blue than his usual, pale translucent flesh allowed. He kept up his barely-there caress of Sherlock's cock, watching with rising need as his love twitched and jerked and strained into the touch like a dying man in his final throes.
"Answer?" Sherlock's voice was wrecked, shaky and needy and distressed. "Answer...what? John...oh! Ohhhh! I'm...I'm c-close! Oh…thank you! Thank….Yes! Oh god...oh-oh-oh-" Sherlock pumped his hips up, eyes slamming closed as he felt himself tipping over the edge-
Abruptly, John let go of his admittedly weak grip on Sherlock's shaft.
Sherlock cried out as John let go of his cock, denying him his already long denied orgasm. Sherlock thought, for a few dizzying, breathless seconds, that he would come regardless, his shaft a painful looking dark red, almost purple, twitching wildly where it had been so heartlessly abandoned. Sherlock, staring down at it in anguish, tried desperately willing himself to come.
Unfortunately, he had no such luck and remained on the brink, shaky, unsatisfied, and needy.
John sat back and, biting his bottom lip as he knelt above Sherlock's knees, took hold of his own hard cock. He immediately started a forceful rhythm of mindless, animalistic thrusts into his own fist, exuding constant, shaky groans.
"Sherl...you...fuck...got me…fucking...fired...shit..." John watched Sherlock writhe hopelessly against the mattress, actual tears of frustration in his eyes as he helplessly watched John pleasure himself, denied the option of doing so to himself.
John literally screeched when he finally came, jaw clenched, hips pumping wildly as he ejaculated over Sherlock, spurt after spurt landing on Sherlock's chest, shouting out sounds of overwhelming pleasure. Vindictively, John directed his pulsing cock over Sherlock's own cruelly denied cock and balls, dripping his final dribbling pulses of come over the painfully erect shaft tauntingly.
John shivered violently, tightly closing his eyes, mouth open, chest heaving, riding out the final waves of his orgasm. Shuddering through a few thick exhales, he licked his lips, groaning in utter satiation.
"...Oh...fuck yes," he mumbled deliriously, slowly becoming aware, through the fog of his orgasm, of Sherlock twisting beneath him, gasping for air as though he were being suffocated, each exhale ending in an agonized, pitiful moan.
John swallowed, and opened his eyes to grin at his debauched love. "Did you like that, Sherlock?" He asked, unable to resist giving another teasing stroke to Sherlock's cock, rubbing his own come into the tumescent shaft, taking his hand away before Sherlock could gain any satisfaction from it.
"Because," John panted, "that's the only gratification you're going to get tonight."