John stood up and tugged on Sherlock's arm, dragging him toward the sofa.
"What-"
"Strip," John ordered. "Actually, no, I'll do it." He tugged the tails of Sherlock's shirt out of his trousers and started slipping the tiny buttons through their holes, working from the bottom up. "I rather like seeing you at a loss for words like this. Think I should snog you like that more often?"
Sherlock dragged in a shaky breath, but held relatively still while John tugged on his shirt. "Lots - ah! - Lots of snogging would be good."
"Wanna see me multitask?"
And then John stretched upward to catch his mad flatmate's mouth in another achingly languid kiss. It was fortunate that John's fingers were capable of unbuttoning a shirt without any assistance from his brain, because his central nervous system pretty much short-circuited the moment Sherlock's tongue touched his. Sherlock palmed him, then, his hand warm and heavy through John's pants, and unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt suddenly took a back seat to plastering their bodies together.
"Sofa," John finally groaned into the kiss. He drew back minutely to catch his breath. "No, wait - trousers first, then sofa. You finish the shirt."
Before Sherlock could answer, John was already sliding down his body to kneel at his feet. Whatever Sherlock might have been about to say, it died in his throat at the sight John knew he was presenting. Let him lock this away in his mind palace, he thought. Some part of his brain not already occupied with trousers off cock out NOW wondered whether Sherlock would ever want to sketch him like this.
He allowed himself one light, teasing caress over Sherlock's straining erection before putting those thoughts to the side and focusing on unbuttoning Sherlock's flies and tugging down his zipper. John shoved Sherlock's trousers down to his knees with a rough jerk, then leaned forward and just nuzzled the shape he could see tenting the plain black boxers. Sherlock let out a groan which was almost a shout in its intensity. He probably would have tipped over completely if John hadn't grabbed his ass with both hands and propped him up a bit.
"Fuck," Sherlock moaned.
John hummed in agreement against Sherlock's cock, drawing another groan out of the detective. And then he dipped his fingertips under the waistband of the boxers and worked them down, and Sherlock's cock was finally, gloriously free, and the moment of oh my god this is it, I'm officially not actually straight anymore passed remarkably quickly and John was tracing his tongue over bare skin which tasted surprisingly warm and clean and not at all the way he had always assumed a penis would taste. It was far more pleasant than eating a woman out, anyway, and prior to this evening John would have rated that activity as very pleasant indeed. He ran his tongue up Sherlock's length again, just for confirmation, then took the tip in his mouth and sucked.
They moaned at the same time. There was a frenzy of movement above him - Sherlock tearing off the rest of the shirt, remaining buttons be damned - and then John was being pulled to his feet and shoved unceremoniously backwards toward the sofa.
"Don't want to wait," Sherlock said, gloriously naked and absolutely looming over him. He backed John up until John's knees fetched up against the edge of the sofa and then Sherlock did something, John wasn't entirely sure what, but the result was John landing flat on his back on the cushions and Sherlock immediately clambering up on top of him.
"Sherlock-"
"Mine," Sherlock breathed. They locked eyes. Sherlock's were wide and feral; John suspected his own weren't all that different. Sherlock undulated his hips in a precise nudge which dragged his bare cock over John's still-clothed one, and John couldn't hold in his whimper of absolute bloody need.
"I just sketched the beginning," Sherlock growled in that impossibly deep voice of his. "You, like this under me, already flushed and wanting me. Wanting more." He rocked his hips again. "Tell me."
John's fingertips dug into Sherlock's back of their own volition, seeking to pull Sherlock closer and eliminate the gap between their bodies, but Sherlock ruthlessly held his position. "Want you so fucking bad," John whispered.
"And yet you're still in your pants." Sherlock licked his lips, then deliberately slid his body down between John's legs. He let his weight press John into the cushions, but only over his cock - the result was a delicious slide of skin against the fabric of John's pants as Sherlock's cock, stomach, ribcage, and holy fucking Christ, his neck and cheek all rubbed against it. Finally Sherlock was crouched between John's knees and he was just breathing on him and John was fucking trembling.
"Oh god, just do it, please-"
Sherlock lowered himself that last inch and sucked a wet spot into the fabric of the pants, right over the head of John's cock. That moment alone put this into the top ten sexual experiences of John's life. But then Sherlock tugged John's pants off and did it again, wet heat of his mouth to bare skin, and it was all John could do to not whimper like a bloody dog. Because oh, Sherlock's mouth was glorious, slick and warm and attached to Sherlock of all people and John suddenly realized he was bucking his hips, seeking more of that glorious mouth. Sherlock kept it up until John was practically vibrating with need. When he pulled off with an obscene pop and slid back up John's body, John's saliva-slick skin stuck to Sherlock's and created altogether too much friction for John to keep breathing at the same time.
"Together, John," Sherlock said, John's name reverberating low in his throat. He ran a sloppy stroke of his tongue over his free hand - the one not supporting the majority of his body weight - and slid it down to encircle both of them. His fingers just barely reached around their combined girths. "I want to see you come," he growled. One more lick, applying more saliva to his palm and then to their cocks, then Sherlock was bracing himself with his hands planted near John's shoulders and he was thrusting his hips in a slow, inexorable glide, and the feel of his length pressing against John's was absolute heaven.
"Sherlock-" John tried to hitch his own hips upwards, to increase the pressure, but Sherlock had him pinned from the waist down and he couldn't manage more than a fraction of an inch.
"Just this," Sherlock murmured. "You're so close already, aren't you? You can come from just this alone. All at my pace. Just like I drew, you and me together on this sofa and naked and you're so desperate for me, you can barely stand it, but I'm going to keep fucking against you in this same slow rhythm until you can't take it anymore and you come. And your ejaculate is going to be the lube that gets me off, that makes me come all over your bare stomach. You want that, John?"
John's eyes may have rolled back into his head just then, because Sherlock added a little undulation to his inexorable motion and it was glorious, a new level of complexity, his hips tracing a graph of x-cubed instead of just x-squared, wasn't that thought a sign that Sherlock was rubbing off on him, and then the wonderful glide was just too much and John's eyes closed involuntarily as he came. Sherlock followed his body perfectly, milking every drop out of him.
"Yes, that's it, John," Sherlock murmured, dipping a hand to coat himself in the sticky fluid. And then he was rutting faster, losing his rhythm, until it was just on the edge of too much and then he came with his head thrown back and his throat exposed and a desperate groan on his lips.
Sherlock collapsed on top of John, the sticky mess between them ignored. It was a pleasant weight, so John just wrapped his arms around Sherlock's ribcage and focused on the scent of Sherlock's skin. Even slightly sweaty, the hollow of Sherlock's throat smelled spicy-sweet and so tantalizing John couldn't resist sucking another kiss into the pale skin. From above him, Sherlock chuckled. The reverberations spread throughout John's entire body.
"Give me a moment," Sherlock mumbled. "No bones left."
It was too good an opening. "I'm hoping you get one back, eventually," John murmured in his ear.
"That was a terrible joke and you know it."
"Do you care?"
"Not particularly, no." Sherlock heaved a sigh and went even more limp on top of John. "Didn't finish your picture."
"There'll be time to touch it up later."
Sherlock sat up a bit at that, drawing back so he could look John full in the face. "You mean that?"
John rolled his eyes in response. "You really think I'm going to say no? You're bloody amazing."
Sherlock's expression was priceless.
"The sex was pretty good too," John added with a deliberate smirk.
Sherlock's face went through surprise to concern to surprise again, then finally settled on something John didn't get to see very often: unconcealed joy.
"Come on," John said. "Let's go have a shower. And you can teach me more about what I'm supposed to do when I'm shagging a bloke."
There was a lot to learn, as it turned out, but Sherlock was a surprisingly patient teacher.