Disclaimer: Nothing mine, of course.
Whatever it was, John was in a hurry. Hurry to get home, thankfully. Sherlock didn't know what he'd do if he was left stranded on the sidewalk, because his 'friend' had suddenly decided he needed to be somewhere (possibly involving someone of the opposite gender). Have a good cry, possibly. (No, of course not, not where Mycroft's cameras were watching...but he would have wanted to.) Maybe he should apologise someday for his attitude at the start of their cohabitation, the mere idea wasn't pleasant at all. Then again, why drag up the past?
His blogger controlled himself, though he was clearly jittery about something (what?), until the door of their house closed behind them. Then he proceeded to snog the living daylights out of his partner against the very same door. Oh. That was...good. If this was what made John flee the restaurant, the ball of anxiety inside Sherlock could melt away in a rather loud moan. Mrs. Hudson would almost certainly hear...then again, she would only smile.
Not that Angelo would have minded if they kissed at the table, either. And if any of his clients minded, and dared to voice that, the Italian man would have them removed from his place before they could end the sentence, the sleuth was sure. Didn't John know, too? Maybe he should mention this... in a moment. Whenever they were less busy.
They finally parted, and John was panting against him, loudly. Or were, maybe, Sherlock's senses scrambled to hyperawareness of every single breath and molecule coming from his partner? His blogger finally took a step back and murmured, "Have to get into the flat. Our flat. If I can manage to keep my hands off you that long. Christ, the things you do to me, Sherlock."
The sleuth's hands bunched in his lover's leather jacket and drew him back against his body, for some more kissing. What else did John expect after a declaration like that? Only afterwards – when they were both entirely breathless and giddy – he agreed, "Fine. Home," and actually left a rather stunned John behind when he lithely skirted under and around his lover. The doctor could almost still feel the supple body under his own, holding on for dear life.
This playful attitude and invite to chase was new – and, at the same time, so very customary for them. What would criminals say if when they caught up John went to snog or...shag his companion. Yes, why not shag him, against a wall, under the puzzled look of a felon who thought he was the coveted prey. The mental image was simply so tempting, even if obviously it would never be true – some fantasies were meant to stay as such, and anything that possibly endangered Sherlock's life definitely befell in that category.
John caught his lover – or did the detective allow himself to be caught? – in the sitting room, and they tumbled together over the sofa, in a jumble of limbs and giggles. "You've ruined me," John groaned, when Sherlock nipped at his ear, making him shiver. "I will never be able to have any kind of dessert anymore without getting blindingly hard. You're the only treat I will ever want...sweetie."
"Oh," the consulting detective exhaled, relieved and flattered and oh God yes please, John, "that's all? Pavlovian reflex to the word dessert?" He nuzzled his lover. If John wanted some artisanal cream, that could definitely be arranged – in very short order. The blogger didn't hate him. Not at all.
"Mmm...yes, you trained me well," John admitted, hands running all over his beloved's body, playing with the buttons – opening some, caressing the revealed skin, kissing and licking, and then going further – a button or two, not more. "Any mentions of anything containing sugar and I need to shag you six ways to Sunday," he purred.
"Yes please," Sherlock whimpered, eager and needy and breathless. "Please, John."
That –strangely – stilled his partner for a moment. "Are you...I mean, there's nothing I want more, nothing I wanted more for a long time, but Mycroft said..." he mumbled.
"What would make you happier?" the sleuth asked, and it wanted to sound coy, but he couldn't erase entirely the nuance of anxiety. What if he wasn't adequate and now – now that actual making love finally seemed in his grasp – John turned him away? He felt like his heart could effectively break, physically impossible as it was supposed to be, if that happened.
"The truth," his love replied, with a soft, reassuring kiss on his right shoulder, but voice serious. "Just the truth, please." This was important.
"The truth is – I'm not sure," the consulting detective mumbled, blushing and averting his gaze.
John's mind went immediately to the worst. "Do you suspect you might have deleted it? Possibly a bad experience? Or...while you were high..." he hypothesized, biting his lip.
That riveted Sherlock's eyes back to him, full of fire. "Is that what you think of me? Honestly, John. I might have used, but I had enough sense to protect myself. High or not, anyone who attempted to touch me would have found himself in urgent need of medical attention." His doctor didn't believe that he would let just anyone have his way with him, did he? "Besides, as soon as I open my mouth people start hating me and/or running for the hills, have you forgotten that?" he huffed.
"People are idiots," his blogger appeased, echoing Sherlock's favourite motto. "If it isn't that, how can you be unsure about your virginity, love? Most people tend to notice when that happens," he chuckled.
"The scientists...when they experimented on me, they touched me. Not for their sexual gratification purposes, of course, and certainly never with their cocks, but well, I'm not entirely untouched," the detective explained, blushing. What did it matter to John anyhow?
"That counts as virgin in my book," John declared, kissing reddened cheekbones. "So maybe we should move to the bedroom for your first time? More comfortable? We can get adventurous on the sofa next time."
Oh yes. This was it. His beloved was going to make proper love to him (finally!) and was even planning a 'next time' after that. If the consulting detective moaned – rather loudly – instead of replying, he could be forgiven. He'd dreamed of this for years, and he'd almost lost all hope it would happen. In case that wasn't clear enough, Sherlock nodded fervently and – if a bit reluctantly, because it would mean interrupting physical contact foa few seconds, but the prize was too great – raised from the sofa, leaving behind jacket and shirt. John had opened it almost entirely, and it would be cruel to stay dressed a second longer than necessary.
The sleuth was already trying to kick away shoes and trousers on the way to his room, but his lover's warm voice stilled him. "There's no rush, Sher. I still have to take anything off, and if you get too ahead of me you'll still have to wait."
The detective turned to him and pouted. "Well, get started, then! Don't you think we've waited long enough?" he complained.
"Can't argue with that," John said, chuckling. He gave up his 'Take things as slow as possible' plan and started to undress in a hurry, throwing clothes every which way. Mycroft might have been right, calling his brother a virgin, but very obviously sex did not alarm his beloved.
In the end (the start?) here they were, Sherlock splayed naked on his bed, like the most scrumptious feast, and John a pace behind, grinning, catching effortlessly the lube his lover threw at him. "I want to see you," the sleuth mumbled, almost expecting a rebuff. But more than wanting, it was a need – how could he believe this was really happening otherwise?
"That's fine. I want that too," his lover agreed, taking a second – despite the desire to hurry up, we've waited *ages* – to merely admire the gorgeous man in front of him. Part of him wanted to just enjoy the bliss of such a sight forever. A soft, impatient whine shook him out of his reverie, and he murmured, "Coming."
"Oh, not yet! Not without me," the brunet protested vehemently, opening his legs further in obvious invitation, and John just smiled and nodded.
"Of course not, Sher. Don't worry," he reassured. Well, no sense dillydallying anymore. Besides, he'd need to take his time – whatever they'd done to his love, this was Sherlock's first time, and he intended to make sure his lover was more than ready for it.
John had never been happier about his medical training, because the sounds Sherlock made, when his finger – slow and careful – teased his lover's prostate, were simply otherworldly. Honestly, these alone might have pushed John to orgasm, except that he didn't want to disappoint his eager lover.
The only recognisable words, among groans and whines, were "more," and "John," so the blond – once satisfied that his beloved was properly acclimatised – gave him just that. And again, after a while, until he had three fingers scissoring inside 'his' Sherlock. Where had that adjective come from in his head? Never mind. It fit. Why hadn't they been doing this from the first night? He couldn't remember.
Sherlock wanted to save this forever in his mind. He remembered their previous trysts, if not in as many details as he'd have liked to, after all. But it seemed that love-making (he didn't even have the brainpower to scold himself for how assumptive that word was) fried all his synapses.
The sleuth trembled and mewled and bucked wildly against his lover. Even the word 'more' had now been deleted – hopefully only momentarily – from his brain. Only John's name remained, and he groaned, whimpered and invoked it in a thousand tones. Some part of him wanted to dissolve entirely and be absorbed into his beloved's being. Was he melting? He couldn't be sure.
John, for his part, would later compare what happened to religious rapture. He'd had plenty of sex – some very good sex, just ask his exes – but this...this was something else. Each thrust was a taste of heaven. He always loved his partners' pleasure almost more than his own, and nobody was as responsive as Sherlock. It wasn't just that his lover was vocal. With most of his brain out of commission, all that remained was the detective's heart and soul, and they were plain to see – and all John's.
They might have finished earlier than the expectation the doctor's widespread fame as playboy would have fed. But neither cared. A twin, hoarse groan of each other's name echoed, and forgoing anything else, they just snuggled together and closed their eyes with a last, deep kiss.