A/N: Hope everyone has enjoyed their week, both online and off! Just a reminder, due to the real life duties of work and school, I will no longer update on the weekends! Sorry, but I do need to get that homework done ;P

I will leave you with some smutty goodness though so, I hope you enjoy!

Warning: Mature Content ahead – head for the hills if you aren't cool with reading about men almost-kinda-sorta getting it on!

Testing Out the Words

It was 4:52 in the morning, and Sherlock had not been asleep for nearly 3 hours.

Approximately 2 hours and 53.75 minutes ago, his eyes had successfully adjusted to the darkness.

Approximately 1 hour and 28.15 minutes ago, he had successfully counted every crack in his bedroom ceiling, every shirt hanging in his open closet and every brick on the bit of the opposing building's wall he could see through his window.

Approximately 4 minutes and 37 seconds ago, he had grown incessantly, infuriatingly, destructively bored.

Giving a hefty sigh, he shifted to the side and once again tried to remove his arm from under the torso of his doctor, lover, and friend. It had fallen asleep long ago but Sherlock decided that if John was comfortable, he could endure the numbing sensation – even if it was a bit not good to let your significant other obstruct your blood flow for such a significant amount of time.

Though he had studied John's body numerous times, it still irked him that the dark blue bed-sheet had been pulled all the way up to the shorter man's neck. Sure, Sherlock's memory could generate a mental image of those strong shoulders, muscles torso, fascinating scar and sexily sculptured hip bones, could picture it quite well actually; the way that back arched off the bed when he licked at John's Adams-apple, the way the ribs vibrated the moans as the erupted from the hard body, the way those hips moved in time…

Sherlock looked down, annoyed as he realized he had gone and given himself an erection. At 4:55 in the morning.

Briefly he debated whether or not to wake John – bad idea, definitely bad, the man was like a grumpy bear if you woke him before 7 – but decided he valued his life a little too much for that plan. Eyebrows drawn, he stared down at the tented sheet, before the wonderful idea popped into his head:

He'd self-administer and, if John just happened to wake up, he would be too aroused to get angry.

Grinning, he slowly pulled his dominant hand to his already twitching cock-

-Then promptly remembered that a certain ashen-haired, erection-inducing, bloody heavy doctor lied on top of it.

With a frown Sherlock brought his less dominant hand up to his chest and, closing his eyes, conjured the image of John touching him.

In the past this had been done only once every few months, when his body decided one night to switch its libido on annoyingly. Back then, he hadn't thought of anyone or anything, just pumped himself through till his body went stiff, mind going gloriously blank, and he had ejaculated pleasingly. It certainly wasn't entirely unpleasant. Now, he had the memories of John Watson commandeering every available space of his mind, filling up wings in his Palace and worlds in his heart.

Now, he imagined it was John's hands running smooth, light fingers down his collar, nerve cells dancing under skin. Imagined it was John's index finger which ran teasingly over his nipple, causing him to gasp. Imagined it was John's short nails scraping down the center of his chest in an erotic line, leaving a breadcrumb trail of goose bumps to follow. Eventually his hand – John's hand – was running through short, course hairs below the sheet. Imagined it was John who ventured further down his lanky torso.

Eventually the fingers wrapped around the base, slowly stroking up to the already leaking head, then back down again in a torturous movement. Sherlock tried to replicate the specifics pressure of John's palm, the speed at which he timed his strokes, the way his thumb always flicked over – Oh.

Mind going gloriously blank with brightness, Sherlock's strokes on his aching cock became erratic and desperate, like a man dying of nerve-overload. He needed to let out this excess energy, these overwhelming feelings which bubbled in his abdomen like water, like a fire, like a frustrating throb of white hot need. He needed to release and as he gasped for air – imaging John biting at his neck or thigh, running that clever tongue around the circumference of his cock's swollen head – he suddenly heard the exact same man drowsily mumble his name like a whispered gold upon a beggars lap; he had the release. The orgasm tore through him like a saw, opening him up and cutting him in half; he moaned deeply and gasped for air, biting his lip till he tasted copper-laced blood.

Blinking fast, breathing heavily, he looked straight ahead for a few more seconds, just letting his heart rate fall again from that gloriously pounding rhythm he always seemed to have after satisfaction. Chancing a glance to his side, he saw the figure of a deeply sleeping John and sighed in relief.

After wiping himself off quickly with a spare napkin, Sherlock turned to wrap his free, now tired, arm around his lover's torso. Moving his body to spoon the warm, calm one he burrowed his nose in the space between John's head and the pillow below it. Inhaling the mix of scents wafting off both, he closed his eyes contently.

Suddenly, as his mind grew groggy and sleep-filled, as his heartbeat slowed and grew sweetly melodic, he had a passing thought which led to the painfully obvious realization. He considered it for a small moment then decided to analyze it further another time, perhaps one at a better hour.

Even so, he felt compelled to at least tell John about it, inform him of the new discovery his mind had just made involuntarily; he wanted to test the words on his tongue as if he were sampling something exotic or foreign, though that wasn't far from the truth itself.

With a yawn and slightly slurred words, Sherlock said it, admitting it as much to the man beside him as to himself. "I love you, John Watson."