[Author's Note: As requested, here's a rush job on the rest of the smutty goodness. :-D]
John took a deep, steadying breath, his left hand again tangling in Sherlock's hair while his right snaked down, now wandering across Sherlock's chest, outlining the musculature there, carefully skirting the healing scar of his knife wound. His blood hummed with arousal and the heady rush of taking a gamble. But then again, John Watson had always been a gambler at heart.
"You like the way I touch you, yeah?" he asked. Sherlock made a low, choked noise of assent, and John smiled. "Do you ever touch yourself?" he asked softly, timing the question with a brush of his thumb over Sherlock's nipple.
Sherlock shivered. He opened his eyes again, the haziness fading somewhat as he tilted his head to look at John with an air of cautious assessment. Whatever he saw in John's face, it seemed to ease his mind.
"At times," he said, seeming to choose his words carefully.
John's cock twitched at just the thought of it. He put his right hand over Sherlock's — not guiding, just resting it there.
"Show me?" he said, careful to make it a question.
Sherlock's pale gaze raked over John's face. "You'd like to see that," he said, with an air of discovery.
"God, yes," John blurted out, and immediately cringed at the vehemency of his words. "If you like," he added, trying for an air of relative detachment and utterly failing.
"Hmmmmm." Sherlock squeezed John's hand and then let it go, his own long fingers traveling toward his taut pale belly to play with the drawstring of his pajama bottoms. "What do I get in return?"
John made a sound incomprehensible even to himself, half a groan and half a chuckle as Sherlock's elegant fingers ghosted along the ridge of his erection over the soft cotton of his pajama bottoms. "Bloody tease." He skated his hand to Sherlock's other nipple, circling it slowly.
"You're one to talk," Sherlock rejoined, his lofty tone of voice somewhat spoiled by the shiver of arousal.
John sucked a little mark onto the pale stretch of Sherlock's neck, considering. "What do you want then?" he asked.
"Mmmm. What you're asking is quite intimate, John. I'd be shamelessly exposed." Damn him, but he knew what his voice was doing to John. Just hearing those words in that dark, sinful voice made John's cock twitch in anticipation.
"Quit negotiating, you git, and just tell me."
"You stop hiding from me. Let me see you."
John's hands stilled in surprise. He hadn't been hiding from Sherlock, had he? Granted, he was self-conscious about his scar. Although he wore vests to sleep in when he was alone, he had been wearing t-shirts to bed and dressing in the bathroom since Sherlock had returned. And it wasn't just the scar. John was not generally a vain man, but next to Sherlock's flawless beauty he couldn't help but see the contrast. He had no self-delusions — he was, in essence, a short, scarred man, with prematurely gray hair and a belly that was growing slightly podgy despite his best efforts. So...yes, goddammit, he acknowledged to himself, as always Sherlock was unflinchingly astute. He had been hiding without even meaning to.
Sherlock had sat up, turning halfway around to watch John for his decision. As John took a deep breath and then nodded decisively, he turned all the way around, settling on his knees between John's spread legs. John pulled off his belt and then tugged the tails of his shirt free. He fumbled, his fingers suddenly clumsy as he unbuttoned his cuffs. With an impatient noise, Sherlock reached for the button at the top of his collar, and then halted suddenly, his eyes seeking John's for permission.
John nodded again, trying to relax his arms at his sides, leaning his head back against the headboard. He swallowed hard as Sherlock efficiently dispatched the rest of the buttons without fanfare and spread the sides of the shirt wide. John leaned forward to shrug it off and then settled back against the headboard with a wry smile. He could feel a blush creeping up his neck, heating his cheeks.
"Look your fill, then."
He had thought it would be embarrassing, to have that laser-bright gaze on his body. As Sherlock's eyes scanned his torso, taking in every detail with a look of rapt attention on his face, however, John instead found himself becoming all the more aroused. Sherlock seemed fascinated with every part of him. The pale eyes spent long moments lingering on his scar, but also followed the trail of hair along his belly with enthrallment, scrutinized his collarbone with single-minded absorption, examined with glee the slight pattern of freckling that scattered his shoulders.
"Turn," Sherlock said imperiously, shuffling back on his knees to give John room.
John sighed but complied, drawing his knees up and turning around to kneel, facing the headboard. Uncertain what to do with his hands he gripped the top of the headboard, bracing himself. He felt Sherlock shuffle close again, so close he could feel the warmth of the man all along his back.
He felt Sherlock lean in closer, his warm breath tickling John's shoulder as he scrutinized the scar left by the exit wound. John gripped the headboard until his knuckles were white, paralyzed under Sherlock's keen gaze — hopelessly and helplessly aroused beyond measure by the sexually suggestive position, the warmth of the man at his back, the feel of Sherlock's breath on his neck.
He felt more than saw the movement as Sherlock reached out to trace the line of his scar, and the roughness of his voice startled even him.
"Sherlock, by God, if you touch me..."
He hung his head, his breath coming in harsh pants, not even certain how he would finish that sentence. I'll come in my pants like a teenager? I'll bugger you senseless whether you like it or not? All he knew was that his control was stretched to near-breaking. As always, Sherlock had managed to turn the tables.
"Yes. Of course," Sherlock said, sounding somewhat chastened. John heard him shuffling back again. "We'll do...the other thing now."
John turned back around and then they were suddenly close again, both kneeling. John leaned forward and up, slowly, pressing a brief, chaste kiss to Sherlock's lips. "Only if you want to," he muttered, hoping the please please oh god please in his thoughts wasn't plastered all over his face.
Sherlock's mouth quirked wickedly. "I want to." He planted a hand on each of John's shoulders and pushed him back to sitting. "As we were," he said bossily, settling himself back into John's lap as if he belonged there by God-given right, hauling up on John's thighs until John's legs once again braced him on each side.
"Jee-sus," John breathed, having been not quite ready for the sensation of a lapful of consulting detective, Sherlock's long, bare back pressed up against John's now-bare chest. "You feel fantastic."
"Mmmm," Sherlock murmured, rubbing up against John's naked chest like a giant, lithe cat, apparently enjoying the scrape of John's chest hair against his skin.
"Bloody fuck, Sherlock," John gritted out, gripping Sherlock's left shoulder and right hip to keep him still. "Keep on wriggling your arse against me like that and you're going to make me come in my pants."
Sherlock lolled his head back, looking suddenly painfully young and carefree as that wicked grin quirked his mouth again. "Acceptable," he said, lapsing back into his boneless sprawl.
"What..." the words stopped up in John's throat as Sherlock snagged the bottle of almond oil, dripped a small amount into his palm, and then unceremoniously delved a hand into his pajama bottoms and began stroking. "Oh bloody fucking Christ," John breathed, enthralled.
"Keep touching me," Sherlock instructed, a beautiful flush spreading up his chest as his hand moved leisurely beneath the soft cotton.
"Bossy," John groaned, unable to stop himself from bucking up against the warm curve of Sherlock's arse, feeling the jolt of sheer pleasure wash over him. "Oh Christ, yeah. Oh, bloody hell, Sherlock, just look at you."
John couldn't decide what to do with his hands, he wanted them everywhere. He finally settled with his left hand tangled in the inky chaos of Sherlock's curls, as his right hand wandered Sherlock's torso, alternately rubbing those exquisitely sensitive nipples and smoothing the milky-pale belly. Sherlock's hand was stroking in earnest now, still teasingly half-hidden by the cotton of his pajama bottoms.
"God, Sherlock...just gorgeous...bloody fuck, the way you look...the way you feel..." John couldn't have stopped the words if he wanted to but in any case they seemed only to spur Sherlock on. He was writhing in earnest now, making soft, frantic noises, bucking up hard into his fist.
"John..." Sherlock's voice wavered uncertainly, in between huffing breaths, as his brow furrowed. "I think, ah, I think I might —" The gray eyes flew open to lock on John's face, intense and startled.
"Oh, god," John muttered. He tangled his left hand more firmly in Sherlock's hair, sucking another bite into his pale neck, grinding shamelessly up into him now. "Yes, Sherlock, come on, come on..."
"John," Sherlock said again, breathless and pleading, his whole body arched with tension, his hand moving frantically, ruthlessly, along his rigid length.
"Sherlock," John breathed. "You're so close." He cradled Sherlock's head against his chest, instinctively moving his left hand down, pressing two fingers to that lush, open mouth to feel Sherlock's frantic breaths. "So close, come on, show me, let go, show me, love..."
Sherlock dipped his head and sucked John's two fingers deep into his mouth, and, oh, bloody fucking hell his mouth was warm and soft and needy and his pale eyes were still locked on John's, pupils blown wide. John cried out, a startled exhalation, as Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut and then Sherlock was coming, crying out and biting down on John's fingers, his whole body twisting and arching as he spilled into his fist, and it was the most beautiful fucking thing John had ever seen.
"Oh god, oh Christ," John stuttered, holding Sherlock tight as he came, watching the waves wash over him until finally he relaxed, shaking, into boneless langour. "Oh fuck," John gritted out, closing his eyes tight, and then he was thrusting hard up against the soft curve of Sherlock's arse, once, twice, feeling the tension coiling in his belly, hot and white. A third time and he was coming hard, the surge of pleasure so keen it was almost painful, helplessly grinding and pulsing against Sherlock's soft body as the burning rush scoured through his body, leaving him breathless and weak.
They lay in a tangled sprawl, panting and shaking. John finally stirred himself and Sherlock flopped bonelessly over to his side, John turning on his side as well to look at him.
"God Sherlock...that was...that was brilliant..."
Sherlock's shy smile sent a jolt of warmth through John's chest.
"It was, wasn't it?" Sherlock said. His brow furrowed a bit in consideration. "Shouldn't matter, in theory, but the masturbatory experience was significantly enhanced by having you present in vivo in comparison to just thinking about you. In retrospect, the sensory limitations of imagination are considerably greater than I had realized, although now with actual data I suppose using recollections in lieu of imagined experiences might..."
John felt slow and dull as Sherlock's words belatedly penetrated his post-orgasmic haze.
"Wait...what did you say?" He pushed himself upon one elbow, his mouth no doubt gaping. "Do you mean...were you just saying you think of me when you...touch yourself?"
"Well, of course, John. Who else?"
"But...wha —...since when?"
"Hard to say for certain as it intensified over time, but I suspect it first began when you shot a cabbie for me."
As John continued no doubt to gape at him, Sherlock's brows knitted together, caution entering his pale eyes. He drew up on his elbow as well, his eyes narrowing as he searched John's face. "Not good?"
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