Disclaimer: nothing mine of course. I just play with them.
A.N. I have a lot of followers, but very few reviews. I guess this means I disappointed you all. I'm deeply sorry about it. Now for more disappointment. It's my first attempt at sexy times. Feel free to flame. I probably deserve it.
By the way, I was convinced that Notorius was the longest movie kiss ever. I've written this and then discovered it was wrong. Let's just say that John is under my same false impression, ok?
John is all for grand romantic gestures, dramatic things that would have proven beyond all possible doubt that yes, he is madly in love with Sherlock Holmes. These would have required a bit more planning ahead, though. So since he's being asked to prove his feelings in the middle of the night, he goes with his instincts and settles for kissing his detective senseless. If he can't convey how all-encompassing his love is that way, John's hard earned reputation as a lover will have to be binned.
John follows Cary Grant's example, allowing for a few seconds of breathing (still very much a necessity, whatever Sherlock thought) before enthusiastically kissing Sherlock again. And again. And again. Notorious might have the longest kiss in a movie (they count it as one, so John will add these up too), but he's going to beat that. (He isn't exactly keeping track of the time, but he'll try anyway.) When he finally takes a rest (despite the micro pauses, his lungs are protesting at the strain), Sherlock breathlessly utters, "More."
"Whatever you want, Sherlock. Anything," John assures. He hasn't forgotten Mycroft's taunts. He'll give to his beloved exactly what he feels comfortable with and be happy.
"Everything, John. I want everything."
God yes!
Sherlock expects him to act with military efficiency and get to the point quickly, but John surprises him. He always manages that. It's delightful. After quickly getting out of his own pajamas, he slowly undresses the detective, and worships every inch as it's unveiled. There is simply no other word. John kisses, caresses and teases every exposed inch of skin, making him moan throatily.
Sherlock tries to reciprocate at first, but his brain is out of commission, fried with overwhelming sensations, and can't seem to manage willing movements. So he happily leaves the initiative to John, simply shuddering with pleasure.
John always loved witnessing his partners' enjoyment, relishing in the knowledge that he was the one to put it there. Seeing Sherlock, of all people, turning into a writhing, moaning being whose only coherent word is John's own name is a near-mystic experience. There are at least three miracles packed in there after all: a) Sherlock is alive; b) Sherlock wants him – loves him; c) Sherlock's brain can be made to take a rest from his usual overwork (from an average human's point of view). And yes, he'll be smug about c) later. It's a feat no one else has ever accomplished, to his knowledge.
While he's laving at Sherlock's navel, the detective start bucking his hips, hoping John will get the hint.
"Patience," the doctor chuckles, petting his lover's hip.
Sherlock whines in the back of his throat. Patience has never been his strong suit. John's hard too. How can he dawdle so much just to turn his lover into a happy, if slightly frustrated, puddle of goo?
When John – finally – decides to pay attention to the main dish, so to speak, he's welcomed with the most perfect sight he's ever laid eyes upon. Considering how long and vehemently he defended his heterosexuality (how much time have they lost that way?), Sherlock's cock – red, hard and weeping – shouldn't really look so wonderful – or so tasty.
But John is a tease, so with a completely naked Sherlock under him, he hums thoughtfully and then makes to move towards the detective's calves.
"John!" It's not a plea anymore, but a definite protest, with a shade of alarm.
"Can't wait?" the doctor queries softly, accurately keeping any smugness out of his voice.
"John," again. This time it's an entreaty.
He could make Sherlock beg, if he was so inclined, but he's not Irene nor aims to be (at least not tonight).
"Another time then," John concedes, and he means it. One day he'll get to take his time and complete his discovery of his lover's body, every last ticklish or sensitive spot, every freckle or scar (and there are too bloody many of these, it'd be heartbreaking if John let himself think about it). For now...
"Sherlock, do you have lube?"
"Under the bed," the detective replies, and by the time John re-emerges with his prize (thankfully soon), his hips are unequivocally canted. He wants to be taken, and John is surely not about to deny that request.
He takes a liberal amount of lube and gives into what he's been tempted to do, getting a taste of Sherlock at the same time he breaches him with a finger. It elicits a strangled cry. John takes his time, easing gently in, keeping up the distraction with his mouth while he slowly works in more fingers. He soon has to hold Sherlock down with his other hand, because the stimulation – coupled with a few passes at Sherlock's prostate – has brought him beyond any chance of sensible behaviour.
A cry like a wild animal, and Sherlock's hands, which have somehow woven themselves into John's hair, rip him away from that marvelous cock. The doctor pauses, worrying over what he's done wrong, wondering if this is Sherlock getting alarmed like Mycroft taunted.
Instead, after a few interminable seconds, Sherlock confesses, "I was about to come."
John resists the temptation to roll his eyes and reply, "That was rather the point," because his lover's eyes look somewhat distressed.
"I need you John," Sherlock whimpers, swallowing back the 'please' he almost said. He's let himself be overwhelmed, be played by John like a finely tuned instrument, but he can't let himself fall apart. Not without John inside him. What if his beloved – his wonderful, selfless John – leaves? What if Sherlock's good enough to be touched, but not enough for John to completely make love to him? His actions seem to prove that yes, John really loves him ( simple lust, even coupled with their friendship, wouldn't make one throw away what had been a deep seated view of himself), but Sherlock's insecurity is too big and old to be easily eased.
"Anything, Sherlock," the doctor reassures.
Sherlock's ready, really ready now. Giving him an orgasm before actual penetration had seemed like a fantastic idea. But, it's not the first time John's been wrong about something. His own cock is only too enthusiastic about the news. With all the foreplay, sex ends up being an almost frantic, electrically charged explosion, bursting with bent up yearning and love, rapidly burning away old hurts. When John orgasms he calls out, gasping Sherlock's name over and over. But Sherlock, who has repeated John's name like a mantra simply breathes, "Yours," as his body spasms in ecstasy.
"God, I love you so much," Sherlock utters, cuddling as close as he can physically and secretly wishing that he could just melt and meld with his John. "And it's not the oxytocin talking," he adds quickly.
"Nobody said it was, Sherlock," John replies, smiling, still giddy simply because he's able to hold Sherlock (alive, and his) close. That incredulous, infinitely grateful happiness will stay with him for a long time. "I love you too. Don't ever doubt that, " he whispers into his lover's ear.