They fall into a pattern of kisses around the flat. Small, utilitarian kisses, when John gets up to make tea and when Sherlock finally recovers enough to wear t-shirts and sweatpants and spend time on the sofa watching crap telly and yelling at the screen. They almost never actually kiss on the lips, but that's not what it's about. John finds he loves seizing the opportunity to just prove his presence, little brushes against Sherlock's hair or shoulder or forehead.
Sherlock, in turn, wraps his arms around John's waist sometimes when they're in the kitchen and nuzzles a kiss against the nape of his neck. At night, he presses his lips against whatever skin is closest before he turns off the light. When John is sitting on the sofa, Sherlock curls himself up next to him and insinuates his head between John's hand and his lap, like an over-large housecat demanding attention. And John responds, idly spearing his fingers through Sherlock's dark curls and tracing the whorls of his outer ear with one blunt fingertip. Sherlock shivers at that, sometimes, and John can't help but be amazed at how delightfully responsive he is. And wonder whether that responsiveness would carry over into other, more intimate activities.
It's clear their new pattern isn't strictly platonic - but it's not really romantic, either. At least, John has a hard time defining it as such. Sherlock isn't yet back to himself - flashes of his old personality still shine through, rapid-fire bursts of deductions flung at the television screen or long rants prompted by something he reads in the morning paper - but in between there are quiet moments which never existed before. Sherlock, lying motionless on the sofa, but without that hum of restrained energy he used to emanate. It's like he's powered off, just blank and empty and waiting for thoughts of something, anything to come help fill him up. John tries to be close at those times, finding an excuse to come sit nearby and maybe offer tea or a sandwich or some tidbit of news from online. There's no way to know for sure where Sherlock goes when he's having one of his blank periods, but he always comes back to himself feeling a bit more clingy than normal. John doesn't mind.
It's unusual, then, for John to be the one startled out of a mid-afternoon reverie by the feel of warm lips against his forehead. He turns, belatedly recalling himself to the flat: Sherlock kneeling on the sofa beside him, intense eyes boring into his own.
"John."
Sherlock closes the gap again, this time sealing his mouth over John's own. His uninjured hand raises to capture the line of John's jaw, tilting John's head slightly to give himself a better angle for the kiss. Sherlock is the one kneeling and he's taller, anyway; John lets his head drop back against the top cushions of the sofa as Sherlock bears down on him from above.
Sherlock isn't a fantastic kisser, clearly doesn't have as much experience as John has at it, but he more than makes up for his lack of practice with a keen attention to detail. John knows somewhere in the back of his mind - the only part not currently melting under the onslaught of his flatmate's assault - that Sherlock must be cataloguing John's reactions and filing them away as John Watson, kissing, particular turn-ons during.
And God help him, it's working. Sherlock's technique improves rapidly as he accidentally and then purposefully does all the things John loves about a thoroughly good snog: alternating firm and gentle pressure, teasing darts of his tongue against John's own, long fingers tracing individual tributaries through the hair at the nape of his neck. By the time Sherlock pulls away, just a fraction, John is breathing hard and his mind is whirling.
"What-"
"Because I wanted to," Sherlock breathes, answering John's question before he could even finish formulating it. "Because you looked so far away, sitting here alone, and I like it when you're here with me. Because I wanted to see that dazed look in your eyes. And because, as I understand it, it's polite to engage in at least one passionate kiss before taking another man's cock in one's mouth. Which is what I intend to do next."
John blinks. Christ, even just the thought of those nimble lips around his cock -
But something is wrong. This is too fast, too soon. Sherlock's not always keen on normal social conventions, true -
"I'm not saying no," John says, putting his arms between them and holding Sherlock back enough to clear his mind a bit. "I'm just - have you ever done this before?"
Sherlock's gaze sharpens, an edge of annoyance tainting his expression. "Does it matter?"
"No. Yes. I don't know. Just - please, have you?"
"This won't be my first, all right? I promise I can make it good for you."
John shakes his head. "Not what I'm worried about. Sherlock - tell me this isn't some cocked-up way to try to get over something that happened during your kidnapping."
Sherlock reels back, clearly hurt, and John feels like kicking himself. It's the first time he's openly acknowledged the kidnapping in words, first time he's alluded to the fact that there was obviously sexual as well as physical assault. Sherlock doesn't want to talk about it, he knows that, but this doesn't feel like something that ought to be swept under the rug and analyzed later. And as much as Sherlock may want to delete the entire experience from his mind palace, John knows that's not going to happen. Maybe not ever.
"I'm sorry." The apology is automatic, but John absolutely means it. He reaches for Sherlock's waist, tugs, pulls him until Sherlock is sitting crossways on his lap and John can bury his face in the long lines of Sherlock's neck. He lets his hand wander over Sherlock's back, tracing the shoulderblades and the individual knobs of his vertebrae, and waits for the tension to drain from Sherlock's body.
"Can't it be both?" Sherlock says quietly from above him. "I acknowledge that some . . . not good things happened. Things I can't immediately dismiss. But I also want you, want to do things with you, with an intensity I have never experienced before. Yes, I want some new, good memories to overlay the others, but I want them to be with you. Just you."
John sighs and presses a long, lingering kiss against the hollow just above Sherlock's clavicle. "It's not going to go away just because we have sex, you know," he says.
"I know."
"In that case . . ." John withdraws, shifts Sherlock so there's air between their torsos and he can look up into Sherlock's face. "Go sit in your armchair."
Sherlock's eyebrows lower ominously. "John-"
"Just - do it. Trust me."
Sherlock does.
John allows himself one moment to hesitate, just one, then he leans forward and strips off his shirt in one smooth movement. Sherlock freezes.
"Yours, now. Take it off."
Sherlock is more awkward, on account of the cast still on his wrist, but he manages to drag the t-shirt up over his head and toss it to the ground.
"Now talk."
Sherlock blinks. He doesn't move.
So John reaches down to unbutton his trousers and palm himself through the fabric of his pants. Still more than halfway hard, thanks to that epic snog. He twists his hips and slides backward, until he's lying mostly-reclined on the sofa and Sherlock has an excellent view of his hand as he lightly strokes himself.
"I want to do it like this, the first time," he says quietly, letting Sherlock hear the huskiness creeping into his voice. "I want you to describe exactly what you would be doing, if you were over here on the sofa with me. And we can both get ourselves off imagining it."
Sherlock seems to be taking an unusually long time to speak. "Why?" he finally asks.
"Why do I want to get off with you? Or why the distance?"
Sherlock swallows. "The latter," he says, his eyes glued on John's slowly moving wrist.
"Because I want you to be completely in charge, this time. Because this way, we can be 100% sure I won't accidentally do something to ruin the mood." John eyes the way Sherlock's cock is already tenting the fabric of his sweatpants. "Because this way, you have an excellent vantage point to watch and catalogue all my responses, so you can gather as much data as possible about what turns me on."
Sherlock groans and slumps back against the cushions of his chair. "I want to touch you so badly, do you know that?"
"Next time." John knows he's smirking, but doesn't particularly care. "Right now, I want to know what you intend to do with me. Hypothetically, of course."
"Right." Sherlock clears his throat. "Hypothetically, then - can we assume I'm allowed to start back at that long snog?"
"Start anywhere you want. You crossways in my lap, holding my head steady as you explore the inside of my mouth, that's as good a spot as any."
Sherlock lets out a huff of breath and his hand steals down to provide friction against his clearly interested cock. "Start there, then. I'm kissing you, deep and filthy, and you're loving it."
John can practically taste it. "I am," he admits.
"I slide off between your knees, so I'm kneeling on the floor and I've got you leaning to reach me and my tongue is all over the interior of your mouth. I'm holding your head forward, pulling you down to me, but then I break the kiss and start working my way down the side of your neck. Your pulse is already racing."
On a whim, John runs his fingertips over his own carotid and eyes his watch for several seconds. "Just over a hundred," he announces. "I've been sitting, so that's a good thirty percent increase already."
"Mmmm." Sherlock's hand shifts again, rubbing against himself. "I keep my mouth there just long enough to make you wonder, then I slide my tongue down your chest to run it over your nipple."
"Right, or left?"
"Right. The side away from your bullet wound, away from the interrupted nerve tissue."
John can practically feel it, feel the warmth and the wetness of Sherlock's mouth against his skin. He runs his free hand over his chest until he comes to his right nipple and circles it with his fingertip.
"Yes, that's it." Sherlock's eyes are locked on John's hand. "I trace the tip of my tongue around it, slowly, then abruptly close over it and suck."
John pinches, and the sensation spears directly to his cock.
And Sherlock notices, his hand constricting reflexively over his own. "That's it - roll it now, between your thumb and your forefinger. Feel me grazing it with my teeth, soothing and then rough again. Feel how desperate you're getting for me to keep moving."
Christ, he could. He absolutely could. John moans.
And Sherlock's expression sharpens, zeroing in on that soft sound. "I don't, though - just go to the other side and do the same thing. Teasing, not even glancing at your cock. Not yet."
"Fuck." John repeats the pattern on his left nipple - gentle circle, tight pinch, rolling it and tugging softly. He's aching, and he's barely even touched himself below the waist.
"I eventually replace my mouth with my fingers," Sherlock says in a seductively low rumble. "Twirling and prodding and pinching and soothing again. But my mouth moves lower, licking a firm stripe down your abdominal muscles. Maybe taking a moment to press my tongue into your navel, probing, lighting your nerves endings up all over your body. How does that feel, John?"
"So 'mazing," John mumbles.
"Take off your pants and trousers now," Sherlock says. "I've got my hands busy teasing your nipples and my mouth busy making you moan, so you'll have to do it."
John doesn't hesitate, just lifts his hips and slides off the rest of his clothes. From across the room, Sherlock is doing the same thing, shucking his sweatpants and tossing them over to sit in a heap on top of his discarded shirt. And then they're both naked, flushed, and panting, and Sherlock is eyeing John's cock with definite intent.
"What do you taste like," John?" he murmurs. "Imagine watching me as I bend over you and lick the tip. Just a tiny taste."
John does, imagines the mop of dark curls he'd see if Sherlock leaned over and licked. And - even imaginary - it is easily the hottest thing he's had in his sex life in a very long time. John wraps his fingers around his insistent erection and pumps it, letting his own precome lubricate the slide of skin on skin.
"More, now," Sherlock says quietly, his hand moving up and down on his own cock. "It wouldn't take me long to learn exactly what you like, I'd bet - all lips and suction? Or a tiny hint of teeth? You do like danger - I'm guessing the teeth would be a turn-on."
He's right. He is so fucking right and John doesn't even bother trying to hide the load groan ripped from his throat. There's an answering noise from Sherlock, a sharp pant, and then they're both wanking furiously and when he closes his eyes he can feel Sherlock's lips wrapped around him. John throws his head back, staring blankly at the ceiling as he visualizes watching the back of Sherlock's head bobbing up and down around his cock. His mouth would be wet and oh, so tempting, just to thrust into it again and again and maybe even come right there down his throat -
"That's it, John. Come for me."
And heaven help him, he does. All the sexual tension from day one onward coalesces into one exquisite moment and then John is groaning Sherlock's name and coming, great pulses against his tight hand, against Sherlock's imaginary tongue. From somewhere off to the side, Sherlock grunts as well, a desperate sound, and then the grunt dissolves into a long groan and the tension in the room dissipates into a general aura of lassitude.
John closes his eyes for a moment and just lets himself lie there boneless on the sofa. Sherlock is similarly motionless, crumbled into his own pile of quiet contentment. Eventually John manages to get up, go grab some tissues from the kitchen so he and Sherlock can at least clean up a bit, but he still waits for Sherlock to talk first. Sherlock must know already how he feels - it's kind of fucking obvious, what with the orgasm and all - but John finds himself wildly curious to know what Sherlock thinks.
He doesn't get the chance. Before Sherlock can say anything - before John even gets his trousers properly buttoned - there's a knock at the door. John throws a panicked glance at Sherlock, but Sherlock is once again lounging in his armchair (dressed, thank goodness) and staring intently at the ceiling with his fingers steepled under his chin. Downstairs, there are sounds of Mrs. Hudson answering the front door, some muted conversation, then a knock on 221B.
"John? Sherlock? I know you're still not out and about yet, but there's a case I'd really like your help with."
John glances at Sherlock, who only rolls his eyes and shrugs. "Might as well let him in. Button your trousers first - Lestrade will notice otherwise."
He stuffs the soggy tissue into the sofa cushions, buttons his trousers, and goes to open the door.