Sometimes Sherlock can become so focused on a thing he doesn't see or hear any other thing.

This is perhaps best represented by the time he scorched off both eyebrows during a delicate experiment, but failed to smell the smoke, feel the sting, or notice their lack until he went downstairs for coffee and Mr. Chatterjee screamed.

There have been many other times when Sherlock didn't notice the dancing bear in the room, so caught up was he with a clue, a cock, or the cha-cha of random neurons firing in his head. Which is to say it's not even a teensy bit surprising Sherlock was so devoted to licking his delicious little inch worm that he failed to notice John was now showing unmistakable signs of overstimulation. Though his engine was revving like a bad arse mother fucker, John's body was about to put on the brake.

It's happened before, this too much all over everywhere everything can't breathe hypersensitive stop stop stop thing, and it'll happen again. Then, as now, John has to do one thing: Move away from the stimulant.

And so, while Sherlock was happily zoned out, devotedly rimming his husband, John reached the exact limit of what his overstimulated nerves could take and with a moaning-growl he arched up—

…that's when Sherlock began his over-reaction, scrabbling atop the back of the sofa…

—then John humped down and began turning.

…and that's when Sherlock finished over-reacting, trying to go invisible by jerking backward.

And that is when Sherlock's solid frame pushed the sofa away from the wall and his entire long body fell to the floor behind it with a muffled thud.

Impossibly, no one woke.

Sherlock, however, did several things.

1) Nearly blew his brains out trying to stifle a sneeze.

2) Groaned. There was no new burgundy-blue-green rug behind the sofa, so a large part of naked Sherlock had made contact with a large part of dusty hardwood.

3) Lay there wondering what he was doing with his life.

Probably Sherlock would be there still if the room had remained quiet. Because, even though his left arse cheek was cramping, though he had dust right on up both nasal passages, and though he'd been leaking precome for so long now it was a wide and glistening smear across his belly, Sherlock can get so lost in his thinky place that hours pass like minutes.

However, despite the allure of figuring out how he could have spent this last hour successfully getting a cock up his arse, such was not to be Sherlock's destiny.

Because John started to talk.

"Ooh."

At first it was one clear word, short and so very sweet because even back behind a bulky sofa and festooned with sound-softening dust bunnies, Sherlock could hear the delight in it.

And he knew not only that John was dreaming again, but that now he was in it.

John thinks Sherlock doesn't know he has, for lack of a better term, damsel-in-distress dreams. In these rollicking adventures across desert sands or high seas, John is bold and strong and brave and he often requires rescue. Something Sherlock usually seems to provide via his cock.

"Yeeesss…"

Though John's not actually told Sherlock any of this Sherlock's not your average bear, dancing or otherwise. From breathy inflections, the bite of a lip, the fast-flutter of lashes, and the occasional dreamy murmur of, "You're my hero, oh harder Sherlock, harder," the good detective's been able to deduce all he needs to know about his husband's humid little fantasies.

One of which he appeared to be having right now.

"Oh my darling…"

Sherlock could just about visualise the harem pants, feel the heaving of John's chest, the spreading of his legs, the glorious stiffness of his cock, and—

Wedged behind the sofa and adorned in downy little balls of dust, Sherlock became aware he was stroking himself off. He stopped stroking himself off. Because now that the cramp had receded and he knew John was still sleeping, Sherlock Never Gives Up Unless He's Bored or Moody or Feels Like Giving Up Holmes was going to go over there and he was going to get himself fucked right up the arse or so help him.

Carefully and quietly, as if the brush of his palm across the flocked wallpaper might wake his heavy sleeper, Sherlock wriggled himself upright, until he stood behind that couch like Venus on the half-shell.

And there he was, his good doctor, whispering sweet nothings to his Sherlockian sheikh or pirate, his ram-rod stiff erection hard and dripping and clearly in need of urgent consultation with consulting arse.

Well then, Sherlock knew what to do about that.

Everything he'd already done only more so.

Again moving as if the lightest footfall might wake the neighbourhood, Sherlock shimmied sideways until he was free of the back of the sofa. Sherlock then tip-toed—rose up on those crazy prehensile toes and tipped on them—over to a now-familiar land: The rugged floor in front of the couch.

There Sherlock stood tall, held on to what had in the last sixty minutes become his close, personal, leaky little friend, and Sherlock looked upon his husband.

And it was good.

Because John was delightful in his delight. At this point he was keeping up a fairly steady stream of nonsense words, the occasional bit of English breaking through—yes, deeper, and oh fuck being prominent—and he was clearly very happy with what was being done unto him in his dream. Sherlock knew this not only by the happy keening and the lovely pleading, but by the fact that John was so magnificently stiff Sherlock was sure he could, at this point, literally put an eye out.

Well then, Sherlock was going to do about that. With a firm-jawed nod of his curly-headed head Sherlock spit.

And then rubbed.

Then spit.

Then rubbed.

Then did this four more times, spreading saliva along the seam of his arse while he watched the lascivious thrusting hips before him, and when he was sure he was slicked up good, Sherlock slowly, quite carefully stretched out long on the sofa.

John responded to the heat of him by rolling onto his side and pressing his entire front to Sherlock's lengthy back. This time the good detective was prepared and emphatically did not fall, instead he dexterously grabbed hold of John's cock with one hand, guiding the head of that fine, fine thing between the plump flesh of his own arse cheeks, and he tugged himself open with the other. And then he waited.

And waited.

And wai—

John pushed. Then pushed again.

Then finally, finally the slick head of John's cock slipped inside and all the goosebumps in all the world marched themselves across Sherlock's pale and shivering limbs.

And thus it was, after twelve thousand long words, er, after what felt like twelve thousand long years, John's arse-seeking cock at last sank into Sherlock's cock-seeking arse.

But…

Because every tale worth telling must include gripping misadventure and dramatic setback, the moment that thick and weighty thing slid in up to John's balls, the good doctor decided to half-kill his beloved by returning to the restful delta oblivion of which he suddenly seemed so god damned mother fucking fond.

Though scandalised by his own internal swearing, Sherlock immediately set about overcoming this latest dilemma. He was a super genius, he knew how to deal with dilemmas and the dilemmas he can't deal with he simply brow-beats into submission.

The solution to this latest setback would not require Sherlock's patented bull-dozer dramatics however, the answer was deceptively simple: Sherlock must simply move for both of them. Now that a sleeping John was inside him—Sherlock paused to enjoy an arousing wash of skin-prickling adrenaline—all the good detective had to do was pump his hips.

Easy peasy.

With a heady, happy sigh Sherlock seated himself firmly on John's cock, rolled his eyes in heady pleasure, then—

Is it technically possible to fall off a sofa without falling off a sofa?

Yes.

Sherlock achieved this by again miscalculating how much rutting he could do on the narrow real estate of the couch and so moments after he began pumping those hips Sherlock slid off the couch—but only his torso fell. His hips remained on the sofa, firmly held there by the gripping power of a large cock shoved snug into a nice, tight hole.

All right then, mildly jolted from one level of sleep to the other, John again began thrusting away in orgasm-seeking abandon.

Maybe it's because John had been close to coming twice already and both times brought back from the brink, but while third time would prove to be the charm, John's sleeping body wasn't quite so greedy as before, or perhaps the thing it was greedy for now was pleasure, because the good doctor pumped away quite awhile and one can only assume the pleasure left the good doctor half deaf because Sherlock moaned breathy and constant the entire time.

And while there was nothing particularly comfortable about Sherlock's current position, Sherlock will tell you that looks can deceive. Both palms flat on the rug, bum thrust up and onto the thing thrust into him, Sherlock was at the absolute ideal angle to experience John's every inch. As a matter of fact so perfect was the inclination that Sherlock was already taking notes on gradient, thrust, and pressure points, planning on repeating this precise bum-on-the-couch-torso-dangling-down when both of them were awake.

But that was for another time. At this time Sherlock proceeded to huff and puff like the little engine that could, so teeth-chatteringly turned on he was certain his goosebumps now had goosebumps—and maybe erections—of their own.

Adding toe-curling pleasure to what was already rump-smacking satisfaction, Sherlock's position not only aligned him perfectly for a royally fantastic fucking, he also pretty much enjoyed a tantalising view of his own cock, and with fascination and no small measure of arousal watched the engorged thing bead a fresh pearl of pre-come each time John rammed home.

Sherlock would have stayed in that exact position—getting deeply buggered—until toothless and in need of a Zimmer frame, but with a languorous groan, John at last did what good Johns do: He pushed in deep and stilled and Sherlock will swear on a stack of absolutely anything, that he could feel each and every cock-emptying pulse as John came.

Good god it was worth the wait.

Because a dreaming-sleeping-selfish body takes and takes and takes, coming harder and longer than one that's awake. That's what it seemed to Sherlock, who at this point couldn't feel his right leg at all but who could, could, very much could feel that John was coming, oh god he was still coming, and right then Sherlock made a solemn vow that if this was how John wanted to do or be done, if this was how he enjoyed an orgasm so intense and so long Sherlock was sure the nerve endings in his arse were weeping with pleasure, well Sherlock would be happy to arrange that.

That was later, however. What Sherlock needed now was blood flow, because he could no longer feel most of his limbs, though he could feel that John was still coming. It was just a little, judging by the long seconds between each spurt, but Sherlock's seen that cock in action, had it in all the ways it was possible to have and he knows when John's done ejaculating and he was emphatically not done ejaculating.

However Sherlock was pretty sure he'd soon suffer loss of circulation to his erection and of all the things currently needing his blood, his dick was at the top of a very short list.

So, with exquisite slowness Sherlock began sliding his arse off John's cock.

He took awhile.

Because that feeling of the withdrawal? It's a divine, jumbled-up mix of discomfort and pleasure and right now Sherlock wanted each wet moment of it.

So Sherlock fell off the sofa for the final time, but in the slowest of motions and complete with moans, loving the sense of every inch of John's inches withdrawing from his body and then out he popped and so help him Sherlock felt the wet warmth of two more hearty spurts from John's cock before the rest of Sherlock settled at last belly-down on the very comfortable rug.

And it was there, in a church-like quiet and with perfect contentment, that Sherlock Holmes proceeded to hump the sweet nubby wool of their new area rug, until he, too, ejaculated for a good, long, soul-relieving time.

...

It was about eight in the morning when John Watson woke. Stretching languidly in the sun-warmed sitting room, the good doctor kept his eyes closed and did an internal inventory. He was deliciously boneless. Rested. His muscles felt warm, his soul replete. He didn't feel fair, or good, or even great, John decided, he felt fan-fucking-tastic.

So fantastic that he was certain he could eat two dozen deep-fried crickets, vanquish another brace of London villains and, hand drifting south to take hold of a rather lovely erection, vigorously roger his husband two ways from Tuesday.

With a lusty sigh John at last opened bright blues to pale morning light and, because he is nearly as observant as Sherlock, John observed his husband snoring contentedly on their nice, new sitting room rug.

John did not have long to wonder at his inamorato's location however, for quite quickly good Dr. Watson keenly observed a few things.

Sherlock was snoring that wheezy little snore he gets when he's all soft muscle, deep sleep, and good dreams.

Sherlock's skin was a delicious pale pink, so rosy and sweet it looked succulent enough to eat.

And Sherlock was…Sherlock was very, very…wet. More specifically, Sherlock was shiny-slick wet in the region of his arse hole.

Suddenly a bit breathless John looked down at his cock. There he saw a thing that is not possible except for the two times in the history of time that it has been possible: There John saw a glistening-thin strand of come connecting the tip of his cock to the wet of Sherlock's arse.

John went woozy from sudden want.

He would get the particulars later—every last particular of the particulars and you better believe it; as a matter of fact John'll have Sherlock tell the story (they will call it Fucking & Falling) many times over many years—but right now John was pretty sure he knew a few very sexy things.

1) He, John Watson, had slept-buggered his husband.

2) He had, while he snoozed, had a quite spectacular orgasm, if the copious amount of come he could see glistening on Sherlock's rear end was any indication.

3) And he, John Watson, wanted to get down on his knees and lick out his sleeping husband so badly his entire body ached with it.

But John paused. He thought about this thing he very much wanted. He wavered. He felt guilt.

And then John reminded himself that they've done this before. They've given each other permission to give each other pleasure in this way…and to take it.

Well then, right to work.

With great, slow-moving care, John rolled himself gracefully from the sofa. In absolute silence and very cautiously he spread and then placed himself between Sherlock's succulent thighs.

And then, with a soft sigh and two gentle hands at his husband's hips, John spread Sherlock open—wet, wet he was so god damn wet—and John bent low with a breathless hum, and John began to lick.

This thirteen thousand-word ode to rimming, fingering, and falling has now concluded (though it may have a sequel one day). Thank you for, uh, coming along.