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The detective grinned shamelessly to himself, smoothing slick, heated fingers between John's buttocks, nudging teasingly when his fingertips travelled gently over his entrance. Hissed moans greeted this action, and he sat back a little upon his doctor's strong thighs, and indulgently spread him with long, pale hands.
Sherlock's own cock pulsed irritably, demanding attention, especially when it was very aware that the eye-to-dick image that was being delivered, was of a very ripe, soft, dark receptacle that it would be criminal to ignore.
"Just…window shopping?" John uttered after ten seconds, a slight croak in his voice. He obligingly, impatiently adjusted his hips to accommodate his burgeoning erection against body-heated, musky bedclothes.
"Thought you couldn't go again," Sherlock leaned down, whispering, and even without volume, his voice was sinfully subsonic, and helped John's hard-on work itself into enthusiastic, full engorgement.
"We won't know until you start fingering me," John said bluntly, and they both laughed sweetly, breathily.
The detective didn't reply, just pushed firm, kneading thumbs into John's buttocks, eyeing the glistening hills of flesh with undisguised want. Knowing Sherlock's weakness for his own vocality during sex, John eased out a choked, lengthy sob of need.
He started slightly when the brunette pulled away, breathing heavily. Twisting his head round awkwardly, he sae Sherlock gripping himself tight, jaw clenched determinedly, eyes distant as he fought to ground himself and postpone his threatening climax.
"Sorry," John uttered quietly, though he was unable to prevent a smug grin from distorting his empathy.
"You are a terrible man, John," Sherlock murmured, closing his eyes and swallowing a few times, calming himself as best he could.
"By 'terrible,' I assume you mean, 'brilliant and irresistible," John whispered coarsely against the pillow. His voice deepened exponentially as he continued to soothe the detective, who was clearly on edge. John didn't need to hear his stuttered, self-conscious breaths or see the bone-white knuckles tighten sharply around a wet, darkened shaft. He could read it like braille in every telling twitch of Sherlock's firm thigh muscles, a delicious personal code that he could translate down to the minutest, silent utterance of pleasure.
"You can come if you like, sweetheart. It's okay."
"…I might…I might need to," Sherlock admitted quietly, his high cheekbones starkly and swiftly staining a nervous, rosy blush.
"…Can you massage me a bit more? Felt amazing," John beseeched politely, voice quiet.
Sherlock nodded invisibly with relief at being given clear instructions, and replaced his slick, slightly-trembly hands upon John's buttocks, rising to kneel above his doctor, and lean his weight repeatedly and firmly upon his palms, pushing deeply, penetratively, into the muscles of John's backside in an impressively authentic Thai massage, avoiding putting pressure directly upon his spine.
He continued for nearly two minutes in relative silence, before the smaller man's stifled snuffles of laughter became audible.
"John?" Sherlock queried uncertainly, easing back his hands and hovering awkwardly.
"It's fine, really. But this massage was meant to be for my sore shoulders, not my sore arse," John chuckled, finally giving in to an addictive, contagious loud giggle. Sherlock offered a discomfited, but fond, 'you're-being-unnecessarily-crude-and-ungrateful-so-you're-lucky-I –love-you' Look at the back of his partner's ash-brown head.
The detective pulled in a deep, dehydrated inhale tasting of the lazy heat and furious frenetic buzz of early-evening in Baker Street, before moving his talented hands back upward to knead skilfully up and around John's shoulder blades, his trapezius muscles, and his upper arms.
When Sherlock dripped once more onto the doctor's lower back, he didn't bother to smear it away, just moved his owns hips forward briefly to grind into his own lukewarm wetness, leaning down quickly to nip hard at the tender, thin skin behind John's ear with imperfect, sharp teeth, before kissing it soothingly.
He dripped again at the unrestrained, breathy groan that rewarded him; he quickly palmed himself with one hand to ease the impatient ache of his cock. Planting his hands once more upon John's scapulae, thumbing them a little too deeply, and rocking himself against the frictionless, oily plumpness of John's buttocks, he spoke up with a torn, demanding growl.
"You'd better be ready, John."
"Bring it," John challenged, gripping his pillow and bracing himself resolutely.
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