This gets graphic quickly, please be warned. I would LOVE for you to comment/review, and I hope I haven't ruined the characters for you x
John worked his tongue delicately along the consulting detective's shaft; wetting it. This caused Sherlock's stomach to tense, and his breath to hitch. The raw sounds ripping their way from his throat raced their way down John's spine and urged him to tighten his grip. He felt large hands tangle in his hair and pull is head forward – Sherlock wanted more contact, more heat, more speed.
Their rocking increased, a straining tension building between them, John – with his head in Sherlock's lap, a painful erection between his knees and his hands full of Sherlock, who for his part had his head thrown over the sofa, hands in John's hair and legs thrown apart. They were sweating into each other's pores; slicking up their skins. Hot puffs of breath hung in the air, joining the echoes of their grunts.
"Hmm Sherlock... ahh...ah" John was now braced on Sherlock's leg and his brain refused to join together two coherent words, only continued to allow him the steady rhythm he was building with his right hand, a rhythm that hummed with energy, and picked up speed as they met each other's bluest blue eyes.
A spark of understanding past between them. This release would be bliss, and it was fast approaching. Crawling up their spinal columns and coiling snakelike in their groins, dredging up every memory of floating away on clouds of ecstasy and urging their frantic coupling.
"Oh..god, oh lord ..ah" a little faster.
"hmm.. yesssss" a little harder.
"ah..huhhh. FUCK" a little deeper.
"hmm.. ahhAHH"
Sherlock let out an animal like groan, verging on a roar. His eyes widened; pupils dilated, mouth open in a small 'o' of ecstasy. He felt a swelling and a tensing, a rising urge and then...
Release. Theirs was simultaneous, with a sound akin to keening John came, the slick wetness running down his muscled thigh, echoing the salty drips in his palm. He looked up to see Sherlock panting. He blinked expectantly, but there was no response.
So he untangled their limbs, placed his clean hand on the sofa and rose shakily to his feet. Stumbling over the disregarded firearm, and past their empty tea stained mugs, one if which had been thrown sideways unexpectedly, he made his way to his bedroom. Safe inside the door, he reached for a tissue, calmly wiped his hands and sank to the floor with his back against the wall; he was at a loss and unaware that Sherlock had sat himself up. Sherlock was sunk into the familiar comfort of the sofa, the crystal clarity of his mind fogging over. His clock began to grind as the patch beside him dried. But. Through the crack between the door jamb and the half closed bedroom door, he could see John. The sight of his flatmate still in a half dressed disarray and with his head in his hands was enough to stop the whirring of his mind for a moment. He felt that he should perhaps say something, but was not entirely sure what. 'Thank you', didn't seem appropriate, neither did 'I have never done this before'. So instead, he brushed the image out of his mind and walked weak kneed into the kitchen, picking up the mugs as he went and ignoring the revolver.
John accepted the hot drink from the dishevelled form above him with a wry smile. What had he expected? I love you?