A.N. Thanks, as ever, to my Daziechane for reading this through and pronouncing it satisfactory, any dodgy bits left are entirely down to me and my own distraction.

Rating is very much STILL UP TO M, so watch yourself, wouldn't want you to have a surprise (of your life!) Yeah, this is basically a little break in the storyline for sexytimes. I'd say sorry, but I'm not...


Your nonsense is distracting, John. Stop talking.

John doesn't do much more talking. Instead he slips down the planes of warm flesh, sucking and biting at patches of sensitivity, not consciously trying to discover ticklish spots, but finding them all the same. A graze of teeth over a clavicle, a nibbling suckle of peaked nipples, a flirtatious tonguing of a belly button, a red mark sucked under the ridge of a hipbone. Sherlock is writhing by the time John reaches his intended destination, and he arches up off the bed at John's hot lathe of tongue up the inside of his thigh. Sherlock furrows his fingers through John's close-cropped hair, which is surprisingly pleasurable, especially when he tugs and twists it in an eager needing sort of way.

"John," he begs breathlessly, "Please."

This isn't something John has a lot of experience with. Oh, he's received before, but has never been face-to-face, mouth-to... cock before. But it is as fascinating as it is foreign and John has no instant of hesitation, no cold-feet moments or doubts. He just lifts his head, skimming the side of his nose up the heated skin and breathes it in, filling his lungs with pheromones and sweat and sex. He can taste it on his tongue before he even opens his lips, but the sensation of sliding his mouth down over an erect cock is something he could never have anticipated. A warm weight against his tongue, a paper thin layer of softness over solid tissue pressing against the roof of his mouth. His own erection twitches in response. He begins a slow suction, moving his head up, wriggling his tongue at the underside, swiping it around the head and popping his lips off the end with a delightful smacking sound. On his return journey back down he brings up a hand, to cover the lower half that he has no intention of even trying to take into his mouth on this first try.

The noise that comes from the man beneath him is somewhere between a moan and a whine, a keening sound that resembles no word John has ever heard before; it has vowels and consonants and even several syllables, but no rhythm or reason whatsoever. It is most definitely the best sound John has ever heard. He fully intends on hearing it again, several times if possible. The tempo he develops is the most natural thing in the world, a simple undulation of his neck, building up intensity, driving them both higher and deeper with each varied repetition.

Sherlock bends his legs, squeezing tight around John's shoulders, "I... I'm... Not..." He is panting, fighting to get words out, desperate to make a sentence. John smiles to himself, tightening his lips around Sherlock's cock, bringing his teeth into gentle contact. Sherlock bucks into his mouth, "Fuck!"

John moans at that, the deep vibrations rumbling up through his chest and throat, tingling his tongue against Sherlock. He moves the strength of his suction up a notch, tightening the grip of his fingers and working them faster. There is saliva trailing down from his mouth, mixing with the sweat from the palm of his hand and it is so disgustingly delicious John can't quite believe he has waited so long to do this.

"John, I can't," Sherlock groans, twisting his fingers tighter in John's hair.

He means, John assumes, that he can't last, he can't hold on much longer. His hypothesis is supported by the swelling of the cock pushing again against the back of his tongue. Sherlock is going to come. John is going to make him come. There is a tell-tale twitching in Sherlock's muscles, a hitch in his breathing. A tiny fresh salty tang blooms on John's tongue and he realises he is going to have to decide exactly what he is going to do next. But he gets no choice in the matter, because Sherlock pulls him up by his hair, yanking roughly and almost bending his head back in his momentary loss of control. John lets his hand take over, jerking Sherlock off capably and hard. He is actually grateful for having the decision made for him, because this way he can look down and watch Sherlock reach his absolute peak, witness that moment he is overwhelmed and overcome and Oh, God he is coming. He is coming so hard his feet and shoulders dig into the bed and his back rises clear of the sheets completely and it is the most beautiful thing John has ever seen. John's other hand instinctively finds his own cock, pumping it fast and firm, giving just the right amount of pressure as Sherlock actually grinds out John's name and possibly removes a few hairs with his grip and he comes all over his own heaving chest.

"Come here," Sherlock mumbles finally, gesturing John closer, but it is too late; John hasn't enough of anything left to move anywhere. The furthest he can get is to straighten up onto his knees and drag himself a few inches forward. Heat is relentlessly building up in his loins, and he is surfing, cruising along the edge, desperately grasping for something just... there... Then Sherlock comes back to himself and realises, and it's actually the light of comprehension and surprised pleasure on his face that pushes John over, sending him reeling into the burning heat of his orgasm, the convulsions of his muscles wringing him out almost completely.

He lets out an 'oomph' as he slumps down beside Sherlock, sweating, exhausted and generally blissed out. He manages to gather enough energy to turn his head and free his mouth from the plump edge of the pillow, "Are you staying?"

"Go to sleep, John."

It's not an answer, but it will have to do. And it does when he hears Sherlock using something to swipe the evidence of their activities from his torso and rummage around, presumably in his pockets for his phone or something sensible. Then the duvet is pulled up from the floor and over them and John lets himself drift off into his own little oblivion, a lithe warm body stretched out beside him.


It's still dark. The air of the bedroom is cool on John's face and wakes him slowly, but rudely. Except it's not really that rudely, he notes, because there is a lovely wet warmth on his back, sucking damp kisses down his shoulder-blade and following the path of his spine. He lays still for a minute, dozily enjoying the slow meander of caresses, biting his lip to stifle his gentle moan as chilled fingers slide over his hip to give leverage to the form shifting down the bed behind him. The hand moves, drifting slowly down his thigh to splay outwards to slip inside and coax his legs open. He obliges, though the movement lays him back and he loses the contact of those lips for a moment. Only a moment, though, and then they are back in the hollow of his hip, the crease at the top of his thigh, the base of his semi-erect cock.

He is still a little sleepy, and getting a bit lost in the fact that this is Sherlock doing this, Sherlock crawling between his legs and kissing reverently at his balls, wetting one with the flat of his tongue and huffing out a tiny laugh as he is nearly smacked in the face by John's prick springing to full hardness in an instant. John's fingers curl into the fabric of the sheet beneath him.

"Is this okay?" Sherlock asks quietly, trying not to jar John into wakefulness.

"Mmm," is all he can manage, but he bends a knee and runs the sole of his foot up the back of a hair-roughened thigh to support his answer.

"Good, because I've wanted to do this for a very long time."

"Oh." John feels he should say something else, because that's one heck of a statement there. But he fairly quickly becomes incapable of words and even thoughts become rather tangled and difficult, unless they are based on and revolving around the man currently sucking John's cock deep into his mouth. "Oh."

It doesn't take very long for John to become a writhing, groaning mess beneath Sherlock ministrations and with one hand cupping his balls and an open throat caressing the head of his cock John can feel that heavenly familiar uncoiling of pleasure in his lower abdomen.

"Sherlock," he tries to warn him, pushing his fingers into his hair to shove him off, but it comes out as more of a gasp, breathless and longing.

"Mmm-mmm," Sherlock gives a perceptible shake of his head and a long hard suck and drinks down every drop that John bucks into his mouth. His grip on John's hips is firm and hard, pushing him back down into the mattress as he drains him.

"Oh my God," John still sounds sleepy, his voice still heavy and dry, even after the sounds he just made, "That was... Oh God..."

Sherlock is back up beside him and John wonders if maybe he should return the favour somehow, if he can get his limbs to cooperate through their sleepy, post-orgasm haze.

"Go back to sleep now."

"I can't," he mumbles, turning to Sherlock and fighting to keep his eyes open. It would feel selfish and wrong to just roll over and go to sleep now.

"Of course you can, it's fine," Sherlock is shifting in to his space, kissing ever so softly at John's closed eyelids, "Go back to sleep."

John can't help it, with that gentle crooning voice and fingers stroking at his side. "I can't just let you suck me off and then conk out," he manages to protest as he feels himself already sinking into a dream where the world seems to twist and his conversation carries on without him.

"Sleep now. I needed that. I've needed that since I met you, since the first time you came into the shop and I pretended not to notice you..." The words make John smile to himself, and he nuzzles closer, until the softness of Sherlock's hair is tickling his nose. The rumbled words continue, the stroking fingertips dragging softly at his ribs, "The first time I heard your voice I wanted to hear it moaning my name... The first time I touched your hand I wanted to feel every inch of your skin... I wanted to memorise every scar and taste very freckle."

John is sure he is dreaming, because Sherlock barely talks at the best of times, there is no way he makes glorious confessions like that in the dead of night with London half-asleep outside the window and John snoring gently in his ear.


John skirts the edge of consciousness warily, rolling automatically over to find somebody, even though he hasn't woken beside anybody for a while. That is not about to change. It takes him a moment to figure out exactly why his bed feels so empty.

It's almost seven, according to his alarm clock, and he sits up just in time to hear his flat door click closed. He grins stupidly to the darkness, ridiculously happy at the crack of light coming from the bedroom door that Sherlock has pulled almost closed behind him. He had stayed the night. The pillow poofs out a cloud of air as he collapses back into it, darkness of coffee dust and musk of sex and the mingled scents of John and Sherlock.


The shower is set just a little too hot and John watches the bathroom mirror cloud as he brushes his teeth and spits the staleness from his mouth. As he intended, the spray stings his skin, tingling pleasantly under the bruises around his hips. He slides a hand down to trace over the darkening marks, but his fingers don't fit. It brings a sly smile to his lips and he tips his head back to wash the shampoo lather from his hair.

He waits until he is dried and dressed and in the kitchen before he lets himself think about what he has done, what he is going to do. Was it a one-off? Has Sherlock had his fill of John now? One night, some frantic frottage, some brilliant oral sex, a lot of kissing, several hours sharing a rumpled bed and twisted duvet. Is that going to be enough for Sherlock? Because it certainly is not for John.

The kettle clicks off, ready and John reaches for the coffee jar. And he laughs. A gaudy yellow post-it filched from the pad by the phone, has been scrawled with a pencil and stuck haphazardly on the lid of the jar.

'What is this shit?'

There is a used mug in the sink nonetheless.

It is Saturday. He has his morning coffee at home, watching the news. Always. But it doesn't stop him wanting to bundle himself up in coat and scarf and shoes and go to Division for a decent one. He won't though, because that would make him look like a right idiot.


Mike meets him after lunch, but the pub is packed. Full of Christmas shoppers and their Christmas shopping. It's not exactly a relaxing pint.

"How's it going at work?" Mikes asks, actually meaning, 'How's it going with Sarah?'

John ignores the subtext, he and Sarah are quite happy as friends; he has bigger fish to fry, so to speak. "Same old. Boring. Too many patients, not enough doctors. You?"

Mike nods. "Same."

They talk about the things they usually do, work, football, Mike's wife and kids, colleagues, whether John watched the last episode of Doctor Who, whether Mike remembers that guys in their class at med school who is now apparently a DJ on the radio. John keeps finding himself wanting to talk about Sherlock. Mike is easygoing and laid-back and, as far as John can see, shows no signs of being the type of person to have any problems with the idea. But for some reason, he keeps it to himself.


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