It is not sex that gives the pleasure, but the lover.
~Marge Piercy
Sherlock
It comes to him in the sudden burst of clarity in the exact moment when John's left hand wraps itself against their joined pricks and simply tugs. He practically screams into John's mouth, that's blessedly kissing him when it happens and then he just wants to weep. Out of sudden relief and overwhelming shame.
He can't bring himself to look at John's face. So, as soon as he removes his mouth from John's, he tucks his face into a juncture between John's neck and shoulder.
Three seconds. That's all that it took. Like a pubescent boy. Simply wonderful.
He doesn't remember the last time he came so fast, not since he was twelve years old or maybe eighteen… although that time cannot exactly count. He used to have control over his body. Iron control on that. What the hell that was supposed to be?
He's still shuddering through the aftershocks of the climax, half-basking in everything that's John and half-dreading John's reaction.
Because John likes sex, John is very good at sex and he enjoys good sex. For their first time John deserves a night he will never forget and what he's got instead? Premature ejaculation. Wonder-fucking-ful. Great job, Sherlock Holmes, absolutely great job. And you didn't even make it to being properly undressed. What's next? Coming in pants at the gentlest of breezes?
At the very least John is still willing to touch him even if Sherlock is a very lousy lover. John's arms are around his shoulders, hands running over his back and he's nuzzling Sherlock's hair. It's so nice that it makes him both deliriously happy and mortified with shame. He should do better.
"Sherlock?" John whispers into his hair. "My love."
"I'll do better," Sherlock mumbles into John's shoulder. "I swear."
"Oh," John breaths out.
He starts tugging at Sherlock's arms and shoulders to make Sherlock look at him. Sherlock can't let him because he can't stand the idea of seeing John's disappointment in him. So, he clings to John even harder, allowing his legs to tangle with John's, covering John from neck down with his body.
After a few more gentle tugs John lets Sherlock settle the way he wants and what he wants is to burrow himself into John until he will become John and John will become him.
"You don't have to do better," says John into Sherlock's hair. "You don't even have to do anything at all, if that's something you don't want to do."
"I want to do everything with you," Sherlock admits earnestly.
I want to fall asleep with your arms around me. I want to wake up with your heartbeat under my ear. I want you in my bed or myself in your bed. I'm not going to be picky about such trivialities like a mattress if only I get to fall asleep with you. I want to cook with you, slow and leisure meals just as much as hurried ones before you have to leave for work. I want our routines, old and new and those that will evolve from both.
But above all else I want to grow old with you, living through each day as if it was the last one I get to spend with you and our little girls. I want to see them grow up. I want to see how they evolve from competitive toddlers into headstrong, intelligent and beautiful young women. I want to see them happy and at peace with themselves. I want to see you reading our adventures to their children, if they will have any.
I want an eternity with you, for as long as our bodies would allow it and when the end comes I want us to go together so neither of us will be subjected to spending the rest of his life without the other.
"I want it too," says John softly. "I want everything with you," he adds as he plays with fingers of Sherlock's left hand.
John's thumb and forefinger circle Sherlock's left ring finger gently and Sherlock at the same time wants to weep and look John in the eyes. Instead he goes for neither and wraps his own fingers over John's ring finger – as of today, after far too long, finally empty, but not for long if he has something to say about it.
"You meant it," he whispers into John's shoulder as he looks at their joined hands, the question still hanging in the air even though John said yes.
"Did I ever said yes to something I didn't mean?" asks John with a soft chuckle.
"According to you, yes," says Sherlock.
"It wasn't that easy," John says with a sigh. "That alone should have given me a clue," he snorts. "But then again it was easy when it shouldn't be," he adds pensively. "That too should have given me a clue."
"You're making no sense whatsoever," mutters Sherlock as he finally raises his head to look at John. "What should have been easy when it was hard and what should have been hard when it was easy?"
Instead of answering John rolls them so Sherlock is lying on his back with John's comforting weight over him and pushing him into the mattress. John's soft weight. How did he missed it?
"You aren't hard," Sherlock realises.
"Brilliant deduction," John chuckles before he places a gentle, too gentle, kiss on left side of Sherlock's neck. "Happened when I was watching the most gorgeous man I ever know fall apart in my arms at the slightest of touch," he murmurs before he presses another kiss into the same spot, a little harder this time. "I bet that I could make you come just by looking at you," he adds and nips the spot.
Too fucking right, he could do that. Side effect of him having a very active imagination and John knows that. John could just sit there and without as much as putting a single finger on Sherlock he could make him come on the spot.
"Not…" starts Sherlock but John distracts him with a long lick from his jugular right to the tip of his earlobe, "bloody fair," he finishes, panting.
"Who says that I should be?" chuckles John.
"I do," hums Sherlock. "Because I can and will pay you back in kind," he murmurs into John's forehead. "I'm a former sex worker with practically non-existent gag reflex and no shame. I can keep you on the brink of orgasm for hours on end or I can make you come under three minutes."
John groans into Sherlock's throat and mutters, "Bloody refractory period."
"Does that mean that we have between another ten to twenty minutes?" asks Sherlock curiously.
"Of course you were timing it," John groans. "Might take a longer than that," he sighs and presses a kiss to Sherlock's earlobe.
"Speaking from experience?" whispers Sherlock.
John nods before he changes his focus on the sides of Sherlock's throat from left to right and for a few minutes Sherlock completely loses the plot.
Eventually, he returns to his senses only to find himself divested of his shoes and socks. A slide of his foot over John's legs reveals that John too is missing both his shoes and socks. Their shirts and undershirts are untucked and in John's case open and pushed down his shoulders.
Regrettably they aren't hard which is a bloody shame and annoying as fuck.
"So what should have been easy when it was hard and what should have been hard when it was easy?" he asks John as he completely divests him of his shirts.
In response John rolls them over so Sherlock is lying on top of him, with his head pillowed on John's left, scarred shoulder and he cannot resist turning his face towards and pressing his lips to it.
The 9mm that nearly killed John. The same 9mm that brought John to him.
But he doesn't have too much time to ponder on that because in rapid succession he loses both his shirt and undershirt. Then John once again rolls them over so Sherlock is lying on his back and John slides down just enough so his lips press against the scar on Sherlock's chest.
"Words," whispers John into Sherlock's chest, his hands are skittering over Sherlock's sides. "Words should have been easy. After all you are just asking your best friend, your partner to spend the rest of their lives with you. It's not exactly a rocket science. It shouldn't be hard to come with the right words to express it," he pauses. "But when the push came to shove I just couldn't get it out of my mouth."
"That's why I like direct approach," says Sherlock, running his hands over John's shoulders.
"Then there was the ring itself," sighs John. "Saw it day after I decided to propose in a window display of a pawnshop while I was waiting for the bus. It was the very first thing that didn't scream cheap choice for a broke man and that looked like something Mary might like."
"It's not really a bad thing," murmurs Sherlock. "When you know, you just know," he sighs.
"I didn't," John admits. "I wasn't sure. It was just something I thought might work and I was simply relieved that it took me just that long to find it. I can still remember the never ending stream of jewellery and pawn shops that I visited with Harry and Clara in search of their perfect rings. It wouldn't have been so bad if we all went together since they both wanted to have rings but no, I had to visit nearly every single store twice with two women that looked very unlike each other."
"Oh," exhales Sherlock. "You poor thing, the attendants though that you were stringing them both along."
"It wasn't all that bad," chuckles John. "Especially with men or when I was with Harry. As long as someone didn't start commenting on how nice it was of her to help her brother pick up the right ring," he mumbles into Sherlock's chest.
Are you going to ask her this time? Should you ask her this time? What do you want to do this time around, John? What do I want?
The last question is the easiest to answer. He knows what he doesn't want.
"John," he starts softly.
"Yeah," hums John as he raises his head to look Sherlock in the eyes.
"I don't like jewels," Sherlock breaths out.
"I know," says John with a fond smile. "All your cuffs have buttons and the only time I ever seen you wearing a tie someone almost died and you managed to get by without a tie-pin."
"About that…" starts Sherlock.
"No ties unless you want them," says John.
"Thank God," breaths out Sherlock.
"And no engagement rings either," adds John quickly.
"Agreed," nods Sherlock. "I hate unnecessary jewellery and you as a pragmatic don't need unnecessary jewellery."
"Are wedding rings unnecessary?" murmurs John before he kisses Sherlock's chest.
"Of course they're necessary," says Sherlock earnestly.
"You don't like jewellery," John points out softly.
"Wedding rings aren't jewellery," sighs Sherlock. "They're a physical manifestation of the vows that bind one to their partner. They're a visible sign of mutual and eternal commitment to each other," he adds earnestly.
"Isn't a wedding supposed to be nothing short of a celebration of all that is false and specious and irrational and sentimental in this ailing and morally compromised world?" asks John with a glint in his eye.
Oh, you cock, Sherlock thinks. Using my own words to call me a hypocrite. Ingenious.
"Not our own," he murmurs.
"Of course not, my closeted romantic," mumbles John.
"I'm not a closeted romantic," huffs Sherlock. "Just non compos mentis when it comes to a certain army doctor. Complete lunatic. Mad as March hare of a bloody hatter," he adds fondly. "Utterly barmy. Insanely devoted and disgustingly in love."
"Like I said," chuckles John before he licks and nips on Sherlock's left nipple.
And suddenly Sherlock finds himself completely interested in the proceedings, from head to toe and this time he's not planning to lose it over the slightest of touches from John.
He knows what he wants and he wants it to happen here. It's not technically his childhood bed. It's not even the first adult bed he got here (that one was awesome and very sturdy but unfortunately had a lot of places to hide drugs so it had to go). Quite frankly, he hates it. It's old and slightly wobbly. It's also the only metal bed in the entire house and as such instead of proper frame underneath it holds itself together on springs. Springs, in 21st century. Plus, whenever he sleeps in it he always manages to stub at least one his toes on the railings at least once during the night if not more. The only saving grace of the disgrace that's his old bed is the mattress, which is decent enough, mostly because with him hardly ever visiting his bedroom is treated like another guest bedroom.
He wants to defile it. At the same time he wants to reclaim all of his firsts. He wants to surrender his body to John the same way he surrendered to John his mind and his heart over the years. The first kiss he already got back.
John is asking him something but Sherlock is having a hard time pulling himself from the fog of his lust.
"What?" he hums.
"Watch," says John.
"I'm watching," murmurs Sherlock.
"I know that you do," chuckles John. "But that's not exactly what I meant," he adds before he presses a kiss to Sherlock's lips. "I meant, you wear watches."
Oh, Sherlock realises.
"So do you," he sighs contently. "Engagement watches instead of rings. Truly ingenious. I've just seen one that…" John interrupts him with a kiss.
"Please, Sherlock," John murmurs. "I already have a great one."
"A good one, not a great one," Sherlock disagrees. "I didn't want to outdo Mary's gift."
"Well, you had because I never went to that bloody SPA thing and I'm not sure if that voucher is still valid," snorts John softly. "Probably not, I don't really care. The watch however is gorgeous."
"Could be better," murmurs Sherlock.
"I don't want better," John murmurs back. "I want what I already have. If you really want to make a big deal out of it make it for my fiftieth birthday."
"But that's so far away," groans Sherlock. "Plus, it's not bloody fair that you get to shop for one and I don't."
"I don't," whispers John. "I already found one that's perfect, I just need to get it engraved."
"Why?" Sherlock whispers in return.
"Because there are words I need you to see every day. Especially if for some reason I won't be able to tell them to you personally every day," says John softly. "Hopefully, we won't have many days like that but if they happen I want you to have something that will remind you how much you mean to me, Sherlock."
"I don't want to spend even a single day without you," admits Sherlock earnestly.
"Neither do I," sighs John softly. "But unless you're planning to attend every occasional medical conference with me or really putting both of your feet down about not working alone you might consider that days like that will happen from time to time."
Sherlock hums. He knows what he wants to engrave on John's watch, just as he knows that temporarily relieving John from it won't be very hard.
But engagement watches, wedding rings and plans for the wedding itself can wait at least until the morning because now it's time for proper buggery. Granted, it's not the best of times, if it was Katie and Josie would be in one of the other rooms rather than in the same one with them but at the moment nothing short of a fire alarm would get him to leave the room and the bed he's sharing with John.
"You're kidding me," John groans into Sherlock's ear. "Here and now?"
"Preferably," says Sherlock with a sheepish smile.
"You're serious," John mumbles.
"I'm desperate," Sherlock corrects him earnestly.
"Never mind your dad downstairs, because at the very least he suspects what we might be up to but the girls…" John whispers.
"Are sleeping soundly," points out Sherlock. "And I will be quiet."
"I don't want you to be quiet," murmurs John.
"Wait until we're back home and there's an entire floor between us and the girls and I will show you how loud I can get," whispers Sherlock sultry.
John
He has no shame or even a shred of common decency nor a hint of self-reproach about having sex in the same room in which their little girls are sleeping.
He knows that he's a bloody hypocrite for even considering the idea. Especially after he repeatedly told Mary: no; claiming that nothing will happen as long as their daughter was still sleeping in their bedroom. It's not even a Mary thing. It happened before.
Once upon a time there was a specific period in his dating life when he didn't mind sleeping with single mothers, parents really. He didn't even mind knowing that their children were sleeping in the other rooms (not that it happened often). Occasionally, sex was memorable or at least good enough for him to not leave the bed until morning. And on those occasions several times he had a chance to cook breakfast for the three or four of them. Sometimes he ended up playing computer games with the boys. Sometimes he helped the girls with braiding their hair. Sometimes he got asked a question or two about homework. He didn't really mind.
One of the best weekends of his life prior to meeting Sherlock? Weekend with Sammy and her twins. Sammy herself wasn't a bad shag, although he had better ones but she was good enough to spend the night. But the twins? They were amazing, curious and full of ideas and definitely missing a father figure in their lives to include him in their games. For about a day and a half after that weekend he considered coming back to Sammy until towards the evening of the next day he reached a conclusion that it wouldn't be a right thing to do.
But then came what's her name… A single mother of a six months old boy who lived in a studio apartment above a pub. He picked her up while she was picking up her food and they had such great time talking that she invited him upstairs. Talking and snogging went without a problem at least until the kid didn't require changing. That was when things started to go awkward.
He really didn't mind kids in the flats of his dates. He could keep quiet enough to not wake them. But having sex in the very same room with the actual baby?
He wasn't an idiot. He knew that sometimes one's living situation wasn't ideal but that wasn't a reason to keep one from having sex. He also knew that for a while after they got married and had him his parents lived in a tiny studio apartment. They still lived in it until about a year after Harry was born. Ergo, they had to have sex with him still in the room.
He knew that. He also knew that the boy was too small to even consider the sounds of his mother having sex as something potentially traumatic rather than simply strange. But he couldn't do it. He tried, but with one ear concentrated on his partner and the other on the breathing pattern of her son, somewhere in the middle of the foreplay his prick completely lost interest in the proceedings.
Here and now with Sherlock underneath him, with Sherlock's arms around him and Sherlock's erection pressing insistently against his own answering hardness (which took its sweet bloody time to return after the surprising climax of the shortest handjobs he ever had) all he can think of, aside of Sherlock, with some degree of clarity, is the bottle of baby oil in the diaper-bag.
For God's sake, they don't even have condoms. They should use them. Sherlock just recently got out of hospital after an extended drug binge that nearly killed him. But he also knows that if there's something Sherlock always had been paranoid about even while high it's clean needles. He had seen the results of Sherlock's blood tests. He even insisted on having Sherlock regularly tested because Sherlock very often worked with blood. He knows that Sherlock is clean.
He also knows that he is clean too. He double checked. Once, after Mary shot Sherlock and then after Katie was born. STDs weren't the only things he checked back then, but they were the only tests he later didn't feel bad about. Unlike the paternity test, that one kept him awake at nights for weeks and not only due to uncertainty of the results before they arrived but also afterwards, due to their certainty.
There was a time when he felt like a monster, for feeling disappointed in the fact that his daughter was his daughter. His life would have been easier if she wasn't, if he could throw into his wife's face along with nearly killing his best friend her infidelity and a tangible proof of it. Without his daughter, he stood a chance in safely walking away from his marriage and his wife. With her, he wasn't certain if he could even try to do it, not until Mary pulled a runner, until he was back at home at Baker Street and his daughter was safely wrapped in her godfather's arms.
He has them both, he realises. He has them both, and Josie too and they're all safe from Mary. Sure, Josie and Katie will grow up without their mothers but as certain as he is about keeping the memory of Daisy alive, he's also sure that he will bury his late wife under an avalanche of her own sins from under which his daughter will never pull her out.
She won't even have to try. She will grow up loved, with two devoted fathers and an adoptive sister, who at some point will stop being a competition and will become a best friend and a trusted companion. They will have dotting grandparents (at the moment a grandfather for certain) and Mrs Hudson (because making her Katie's godmother was the only legal way he could think of that could make Mrs H Katie's family). They will also have their Aunt Harry and Uncle Mycroft… or not. That would depend from Harry's willingness to finally maintain contact with him and Mycroft's continued survival.
All of this goes through his head as kisses the wonderful, gorgeous man underneath him. His best friend, his fiancé, his partner, his better half.
Kissing Sherlock is like finding an oasis in the desert after days, weeks, months even, of wandering through it. He's home, home which he found in Sherlock in the very moment Sherlock asked 'Afghanistan or Iraq?' Because while he didn't even know Sherlock's name at the time he knew instantly that he wanted to learn more about this fascinating and attractive man.
And after nearly six years Sherlock is finally his. Just like he's Sherlock's. He understands Sherlock's desire now, it's less about the sex itself and more about everything coming full circle. The tangible proof of words they shared with each other being real.
Suddenly, he wants to bury himself into Sherlock's body and to never climb out of it. He wants to spend eternity with Sherlock, to become one, for their breaths to sync. To feel, to touch, to love.
Dragging himself away from Sherlock isn't an easy task. Sherlock protests their separation as much as John's own body does. But they need lube and to get the bottle of baby oil he really has to leave the bed.
On his way to the bag he loses the rest of his clothes and when he turns around to face Sherlock with the bottle in his left hand he nearly drops it to the floor.
Sherlock looks like a picture of temptation. Pale skin with a slight flush, leaning back on his elbows, his cock jutting out proudly.
John wants to consume him completely and at the same time wants to get that delightful cock into his ass because it had been far too long.
"Maybe tomorrow," murmurs Sherlock sultry. "Now, it's my turn…"
Sherlock
If there is a better feeling than having John Watson's cock buried to the hilt inside his ass, he doesn't know it but if he does, he really doesn't care about anything else. A rivalling feeling to it is knowing that said John Watson in question is not only buried to the hilt of his cock inside his ass but is also his fiancé, his partner and his one and only.
"Are you comfortable?" asks John softly as he pushes Sherlock's hair out of his face.
"Am I?" Sherlock mumbles as he attempts to wriggle his ass.
The tip of John's cock brushes against the edge of Sherlock's prostate and while he tries his best not to groan, he cannot resist purring at the feeling. Yep, he's definitely comfortable and he can keep going like this for the entire night.
"Christ, Sherlock," John groans. "I'm on the wrong side of forty and I already came twice today."
"I have faith in you," murmurs Sherlock into John's ear.
"Of course you do," chuckles John. "Your ass is still on my prick."
"Not good?" purrs Sherlock.
"I didn't say that," whispers John.
"Probably it isn't," admits Sherlock with a sigh. "Can't help liking it though," he murmurs as he burrows his face in John's shoulder.
"I'm not complaining," murmurs John as rolls his hips slightly.
"Neither am I," purrs Sherlock as he wriggles his own.
Then he yawns. Fuck. He yawns. In the middle of sex with John. Granted, all the movements they're making are small and slow but sex is sex.
"Do you want to have a nap?" chuckles John.
"Only if I won't have to bloody move," snorts Sherlock. "I could use a half of hour or so, as would you."
"You're insatiable," says John fondly. "My gorgeous, horny detective."
"About ten years of abstinence with the occasional exception of my own hand can do that," murmurs Sherlock.
"Just your hand?" asks John.
"Not always," Sherlock murmurs. "But with you and Mrs Hudson constantly ruffling through my stuff I'm surprised that you never had a chance to come across my occasional companion," he adds fondly. "Our lives could have been much easier if you had," he quips.
"How far off are the measurements of your occasional companion from the real thing?" asks John and makes a particular roll with his hips that has Sherlock seeing stars.
"You're jealous about a dildo," mumbles Sherlock.
"Can't help it," murmurs John.
"You don't have to be," says Sherlock fondly. "You're far more fulfilling, Doctor Watson. In length as much as girth," he chuckles.
"You size queen," says John fondly.
"Am I?" whispers Sherlock sultry. "I've seen how you looked at my cock and in your near future I can see a very thorough, hands off prostrate examination that will make you beg for being fucked right into the mattress," he adds before licking John's ear. "Don't worry, I will deliver."
"Oh God," whimpers John.
"Sherlock," quips Sherlock.
"Arse," mumbles John. "My arse though," he chuckles.
There's no third time. They're both too exhausted for more than trying to stay connected and even that at some point becomes hard (or more precisely soft). They keep squabbling though for as long as they can though. Until John's breathing slows down enough to mingle with Josie's and Katie's (who blessedly slept through the entire thing).
Sherlock tries to fight it for few more minutes, basking in the wonder he found himself part of because John loves him and John agreed to spend the rest of his life with him. But eventually, he too succumbs to the lure of sleep.
Few minutes later his phone that's lying on the floor, lights up and starts to vibrate but he doesn't hear and doesn't see that. Wouldn't probably bother to pick it up if he did see or hear it.
The phone keeps ringing for few more minutes until, inevitably, after an entire day spent on it the battery finally dies.