/The very next morning/
John woke up earlier, then Sherlock, with pleasant feeling of warmth and happiness caused by that fantastic creature lying by his side. He looked at Sherlock in all his splendour as he was resting in John's bed with his eyes – those magnificent eyes which only now, when he's sleeping, could take a break from unremitting observation of everything – shout, and with dark messy hair beautifully setting off the cheekbones covered with pale leather.
Just like Snow White thought the Doctor and with smile upon his face he went down to the bathroom.
. . .
Brushing his teeth Watson glanced in the mirror and saw Sherlock's reflection; the Detective stood there with fixed gaze on him.
"S–hit," John nearly chocked himself on toothpaste foam, "I didn't hear you come (!) You're like a cat..." He rinsed his mouth and continued, "What are you even staring at? You've seen me brush my teeth before."
"I was just thinking," said Holmes, walked over to the washbasin and squeezed the toothpaste on his yellow toothbrush, "about how could it be to have sex with you here in the bathroom... on the washer, maybe?"
John burst out laughing: "That would be slightly dangerous, don't you think?"
"For the washer, yes," answered Sherlock and started to wash his teeth.
"Besides," said John, approaching his flatmate, "I think that bedroom is better. It's comfy and an accurate place for the first time," and from behind he put his arms around Sherlock's middle.
"I guess so," agreed the Detective and finished his teeth cleaning.
. . .
The way out the bathroom could be compare to a process in a small room full of legs and arms, falling clothes and overheated flesh and lips and hands – all with insatiable desire for touching each other.
"John... nnnh... not – not so fast," gasped Sherlock as they were finally in his bedroom on his very bed and John's hand was already doing its business down in Sherlock's pants.
John breathed out and unwillingly slackened his pace. "Okay..." he sighted and started to only stroke Sherlock's thigh with his right hand, feeling his body tensing in increasingly growing lust. "You know it's not that easy when you are so gorgeous, gasping and laying under me."
"Hah," sneered the Detective with his voice quavering. "I see..." Sherlock suddenly made his voice steady: "So what happens if I do this?" And after these words he grabbed John's arms and with lighting speed changed their positions. Then he gave his soldier a provocative smirk.
John looked up at him in a pure amazement, trying to ignore the fact in his mind that he was successfully turned on by Sherlock's strength and his cheeky smile. "And you call yourself a virgin?"
Instead of answer the Detective bended down and kissed his blogger with passion, showing him that even he is a virgin it makes no disadvantage for him, and as a bonus he supplemented the kiss with one smooth movement on John's lap which made Watson to be the one who gasped this time.
"Would you mind," Sherlock mumbled into his flatmate's neck base, "If I'll be on top?" and started to lick and suck John's longing skin while the Doctor's hands were running up and down his back, stopping only for ruffle Sherlock's hair or grab at his gorgeous arse.
"Not – in – the – least," purred John with eyes closed, stretching his neck backwards to give Sherlock more space and feel the awesome fondling of his tongue.
The Detective continued in his activity and started to accompany it with regular back and forth motion, rubbing his hardened cock against John's, which resulted in muted moans and hot-breathed groans from they both.
"Sherlock," a whine escaped from John's lips, "take those stupid pants off!" It was nearly beyond John's limit and enough for him to come, but that would not be so interesting – he wanted more. He wanted Sherlock inside of him. And he wanted it now!
"So impatient..."
"Please," John bucked upwards in eagerness, "fuck me already."
The Detective pressed his lips to John's "All right then..."
Their bodies merged into one and the world was consisted only of increasing pace of thrusts assuaging the burning flesh. It seemed like the room was filled with only a hot breath and pair of names uttered softly by two men who waited for this their whole lives.
"J-john," gasped Sherlock into his flatmate's year, "I'm... close..."
"Ahh..." Watson bit his lower lip and slightly arched his back under Sherlock's agonizingly beautiful, muscular body which seemed to be made for someone to touch it (for John to touch it), as he made the thrusts harder, "Me too..."
With each passing move, with every breath, every hot kiss, they felt they cannot stand it for long. All John's muscles were shouting: Sherlock Holmes, and all Sherlock's: John Watson. And after the briefest moment they both reached their climax.
We fell back on the sheets and I rolled on my belly.
"Perhaps," Sherlock breathed out and placed his hand on my back, drawing circles across my spine with his long skilful fingers, "we would need a shower."
"Uh-huh," I concurred and at the thought of myself with Holmes in shower, I addend: „And maybe another after it."
A foxy smile appeared on Sherlock's face. "I have nothing against it," he replied with certain overtone in voice and with his hand went down to the base of my spine.
"Listen," I smirked, "that is not quite typical expression of someone who was a virgin ten minutes ago."
"And that's it, John: was!"
"O-ho, so it means... what?"
"That you should watch your back. And I mean it literally."
I laughed: "Oh no, Sherlock. Not me. You should..." and kissed that massive idiot whom I maybe loved, ironically just for who he was.
And he was my idiot...