The words were heavy, almost as heavy as the breath shared within the silence. He'd said it now, made it painfully clear that he enjoyed Sherlock's moans and gasps. That he had been listening, rapt, as Sherlock was brought to his end by the Mysterious Stranger.

It all hovered, unspoken, in the stifling quiet of the room. Sherlock didn't speak, and nor did John, for fear this would end. He was uncomfortably hard now, his cock demanding attention, but he couldn't move until he knew that Sherlock wasn't put off by the admittance.

Those minutes felt like a lifetime, until Sherlock was shifting and adjusting his long limbs. John's eyes were drawn as the man shook off his pyjama bottoms, and his heart started a frantic beat as the weak light from his small window danced over pale skin. The doctor turned his head, letting his hand trail down his stomach and steadily move downwards.

He was slightly alarmed by a sudden wet sound, and peered through the gloom to see the very faintest glisten of saliva on Sherlock's long fingers as he removed them from his mouth, and began probing them knowledgably between his own spread legs without preamble or shame.

John's lips were parted, moving from Sherlock's wet mouth to the steady movements his fingers started to make. It was like he was testing himself, teasing. His hand reached his own erection almost subconsciously, squeezing the length as Sherlock's body started to squirm.

It was really astonishing that Sherlock hadn't even touched his cock. His free hand flexed repeatedly on his chest, scratching randomly at the smooth skin there. His other...well...John didn't need his eyes to know that he had pushed two of them deep inside, (he had already prepared himself downstairs - fuck) and his sharp gasps and long sighs were starting up again with fervour. Perhaps he didn't need to touch his cock at all, John wondered. Sherlock had said something about...Tantric techniques, and not ejaculating.

Those gasps, still so soft, were effortlessly hitting John right in his abdomen. He turned his head, determined not to let this become another shameful session of him getting himself off just from Sherlock's reactions - even though he knew it would be futile.

There was a small groan to his right and John ground his teeth, letting his hand start to move steadily over his cock. He moved it languidly, although he knew it wouldn't take much to bring himself over, not with the slight hitching in Sherlock's voice. He couldn't stop himself from glancing over, hissing as he saw Sherlock arching his back, forcing his arse against his fingers.

"Don't hold back," John murmured again, voice raw with excitement, and his flatmate's face crinkled with the anguish of pleasure, his head thrown far back and his black curls crushed into John's pillow.

"...John...oh...fu...ugh, if it's..." There was a noisy swallow, and wheezy breaths as Sherlock fought to enunciate.

"Is it good?" John found himself asking, his hand on his cock moving of its own free will, his eyes still watching his flatmate as he writhed from the pleasure. Sherlock looked like he didn't know which way was up already, his head turning against the white pillows. Christ, he painted a fine picture. John felt his own breaths catching, hitching, his thumb rolling over the tip and smearing the pre-come over his fingers.

Sherlock pushed harder, forcing his wrist at an awkward angle as he began prodding vigorously towards his own prostate, and that was when the real show started.

The detective's legs braced and jerked, and animalistic noises began searing out of that long throat. Every other sound was a pained grunt though, and every few seconds Sherlock's eyes would peer open and glance down between his legs as if he could pleasure himself better by watching what he was doing. John suspected though, that the bullseyes on Sherlock's prostate were more miss than hit.

It was deliciously frustrating just watching the man, his hand twisting to find that spot again and again, the few gasps and moans being the only indicator that he pressed it now and then. John wanted to help him, if only to ease that twisted pleasure on his features.

"What do you need, Sherlock?" he found himself asking, because he was at a loss, torn between his own pleasure and wanting to help his friend. It ended up with John still stroking his own cock whilst edging a little closer to the man beside him.

Sherlock began to try to speak, his voice torn, but it caught in his throat and he choked, gasping. He jolted hard as his forearm accidentally knocked against his swollen shaft, and he grated out a bubbly, deep cry. He fuelled his building climax with a few gusty, inelegant inhales. "I need...kiss me," he demanded, face contorted with the sweetest kind of pain.

John couldn't think of the repercussions, because that voice had always managed to set him into motion, to elicit a reaction. So before he could let any rational thoughts take over, John used his feet to push himself up and turned his body awkwardly.

Sherlock's heavy-lidded eyes were still bright, even in the darkness. One of John's arms was trapped underneath his body, the other unable to release his erection, so there was nothing to guide him but his face. His lips brushed the corner of Sherlock's mouth before he moved and they met firmly.

He froze at the sudden vibrating yell that deafened him, millimetres from his own face, before Sherlock doubled over in ecstasy, shuddering hard. Before he knew it, Sherlock was seeking comfort in his climax, clambering into him roughly, holding him tight and kissing him for all he was worth, still jerking and sobbing loudly through the pleasure.

It was an overload, clearly for the both of them, and John had no choice but to hang on until Sherlock rode the last of his orgasm. As the kisses turned languid, the mixture of Sherlock's lips, the smell of sex in the air, and the moans still falling from that mouth, John felt his own arousal reaching a peak.

"Shit, yes," he muttered, his hand moving between them. Sherlock hadn't released him, and John didn't care. His fist bumped awkwardly against Sherlock's hip on every upward stroke, and the jarring did nothing to stop the sparking pleasure. "Christ," he gasped, finding himself reaching out for Sherlock's lips again.

Sherlock was hot and damp to the touch, his lips plump and sleepy, but he smooched no less enthusiastically for it. The detective's arm wrapped supportively around John's bare back as the doctor rapidly neared his climax.

John broke away for air, his lips tingling from the contact as he turned to his back, giving his arm more room. He sucked in a sharp breath, a sheen of sweat forming on his brow as his arm moved enthusiastically. God, what he wouldn't give to hear Sherlock's moan again. Those deep, raw cries.

"John," Sherlock murmured tiredly, fondly, as he nuzzled against his doctor's strong shoulder, feeling every twitch of tendon and pulse of hot blood with the effort of pleasure. "John..."

"Yes...Sherl...yes, just like that," John pleaded, only briefly sensing the throb of embarrassment at the request.

The man was quick to realise what John wanted of him, because his name started to fall from those lips in quick succession, and the doctor was powerless to hold back his own moan.

"Yes, fuck," he bit out, almost writhing from the force of his looming orgasm. It wouldn't take much more, not much at all. Sherlock's cheek ran over his shoulder and he sighed into the contact. "More."

Sherlock had a spark of inspiration. Lowering his voice to its deepest, most mellifluous pitch, he kissed John's ear softly before murmuring, "When I climax...I always think of you."

Those words completely undid him, his orgasm hit hard and coating his stomach in hot mess. He'd made some kind of strangled noise as he came, his hips rolling as he rode out his dizzying climax. His body slumped back as he gasped for air, his skin tingling as the aftershocks ran rampant through his limbs.

"Oh...yes," Sherlock was cooing in his ear, smudging his damp hair away from his hot forehead. "...That was marvellous, John. Marvellous."

John barely registered his bed-mate's affectionate babblings, but the attention was certainly not unwelcome. Sherlock was perhaps more starved of intimacy than he let on.

He was far too busy floating on his own high, the alcohol in his system hitting him harder now as his orgasm had wiped him of strength. He let out a small noise, some kind of recognition, his eyes blinking steadily as his brain raced to catch up with the words still being cooed in his ear. He ran his tongue over his lips, tasting something not entirely his own.

Oh.

Oh.

"John, can I stay? I didn't ejaculate, there shouldn't be any mess," Sherlock was mumbling against his cheek, nudging him repeatedly with his nose and making soft little noises of contentment.

John licked his lips again and let out a sigh, the last few tendrils of bliss dragging him down. He felt a yawn crack his jaw, and with the seeping warmth of Sherlock's skin against his side and the soft sheets beneath him, John couldn't find it in himself to move. He mumbled something incoherent before letting his eyes drift closed, his sake-addled mind lulling him into a sense of security based in the indulgent touch of the detective's skin.

John fell in his dream, mis-stepping on stone stairs and tumbling in a flurry of shock.

The moment he hit the unforgiving ground, he startled awake, alert and groggy all at once, staring at dizzy darkness and wondering at the heat of his usually-chilly room.

It took him a few steady breaths and a couple of moments to blink before he climbed from the bleariness of his mind. It was a fuzz that he recognised, and one that would hound him all day like a marching band. His mouth was dry, his eyes aching as he tried to figure out where the heat in his room was coming from.

It was only when he shifted his hips that he realised there was something hard against him. And soft. And breathing sweetly against his shoulder. John went still, the foggy memories from a few hours before coming back to him with startling clarity.

Ah...shit. He'd de-flowered Sherlock. Sort of. Gave him his first kiss, anyway. And now the man was snuggled up to him like a lover.

John slowly turned his head, although he had to lean back so he didn't get a face-full of debauched curls. The man was quite literally curled around him; face on John's shoulder, legs hooked around his own, one arm strewn around his stomach. Shit. Not only had they shared a pretty fabulous wank session, but they had kissed to within an inch of passing out. John took a deep breath before biting down on his lower lip.

He had always loved being held by a partner in bed. It was very new to have one larger, heavier, and with a somehow-adorable semi poking him in the thigh.

And now that he was more attentive, he realised that Sherlock was almost as vocal as when he was awake and going off like a firework. There were faint, wet little noises in his throat, and halted breaths and sighs. While he was wondering if he should try and adjust his position (to roll away? to turn and reciprocate the embrace?), the detective babbled against his shoulder, deep and warm and a bit damp with dribble.

"S'my...nngh..."

He lowered his head to try and listen, to try and pick out something tangible. Without jarring the man too much, John shimmied further down the bed, freeing Sherlock's face from against his shoulder. As he did there was a sudden gasp and an answering grumble as Sherlock curled impossibly closer to his body.

"Poison! Nnn...juice..."

John bit down on his lip to stop himself from giggling. The man was far too endearing, like a possessive cat.

"...Won't drink…not...mmmmmhhh."

John was truly tickled by the sleep-talk, and considered trying to engage him in conversation. A rather large part of his conscience prodded him none-too-gently. It warned him that the fact of still being in bed with the man was extremely bad.

Keeping him here and quietly falling in love with his sleepy self was an absolute no-no.

But then that other voice, the one that mimicked Sherlock to a tee, was telling him to simply melt into this. To welcome it. John was so torn that he almost didn't catch the next deep murmur.

"Won't... nngh no...can't..."

John frowned, telling himself that in the darkness of the room, with Sherlock asleep, there would be no one to condemn him. It was a selfish, absurd realisation, but there it was. Before he could think, John moved the arm caught under Sherlock's neck until he ran a few fingers through the man's curls, almost trying to soothe him.

God, those curls...they were amazing. He had dated women with curly hair, but he avoided running his fingers through it, as he inevitably ended up with a sticky residue of hairspray or wax or some other nonsense, and if he tried when it was 'au naturel,' his date would pout and preen and tell him to leave it until she's had a chance to 'control' it.

He knew for a fact that for all their gloss and shape, Sherlock did little to his hair apart from use a prohibitively-expensive conditioner. And the result...it was soft and smooth and crinkly and...wonderful.

Sherlock's breath hitched and gasped, before emitting another drawn-out moan, the arm around his waist tightening.

"...John... idiot."

"…Really? Why is John an idiot?" the doctor whispered, a little louder than he would if Sherlock had been awake. He indulged happily in fiddling with the baby curls at the base of Sherlock's skull, pulling them gently and then stroking them back into place.

Sherlock shifted, almost as if his subconscious had picked up on the sound of John's voice and was stammering to form a reply.

"…Idiot...j'mpers n' tea...toast..."

"Yes, he likes those things. But you think he's an idiot?"

A long sigh, almost dreamy.

"...no... my John..."

"John the idiot," the doctor chuckled, and relinquished the petting of Sherlock's hair to smooth his hand down what felt to him like a vast plane of flesh, as he traversed the detective's back. It was an odd thing to think about, but he had never been in bed with anyone so damned...long.

He was just an endless stretch of skin and subtle muscles, but he was warm and hard in all the places women were soft. Sharp, yet gentle in his own way. He wondered briefly what it would be like to see all of him, spread out, touchable. That thought only led to another and John felt a small strand of heat curl up his neck.

"Hhmm... cold..."

John awkwardly, carefully, reached for the covers and hauled them up a few inches more, and tucked them tightly about them as best he could, creating a deep, dark, body-heated cocoon.

He tried not to think too much about any part of Sherlock below his collarbone. He hadn't seen anything during their...session, but he was more than capable seeing with his fingertips, if he was really curious...

Stop it, he chided himself. You definitely don't have permission for that.

Instead, he cleared his throat slightly. "Is that better?"

Sherlock turned his head and sighed, muttering against his shoulder before John realised that the movements were a little too frequent to be a sleeping turn. His body shifted and John froze, pursing his lips as Sherlock took another breath and turned his face up to John. The doctor angled his head so that the detective wouldn't notice he was awake.

"John?"

Ah shit, his voice was deep and scratchy and so achingly innocent that John couldn't help but turn his head. "…Hm?"

"If I was about to drink poisoned apple juice, you would stop me, wouldn't you?"

John feigned a hefty yawn, and shuffled as if to get more comfortable. "...Depends. If it was me who poisoned it in the first place, I wouldn't."

There was answering muffled chuckle and John felt it curl in his chest, purring gently. He pulled the duvet up further around himself, glancing over at the man.

"You would never poison me."

"No, I wouldn't. Everyone would know it was me," he snickered softly. "Can't say the same about you."

Now that Sherlock was awake, John was hyper-aware of his own hands, and avoided all extraneous touch, anything that could be construed as romantic.

Sherlock shifted a little next to him, and he could see a sleepy smile on the man's face. It was similar to his post-orgasm smile, but it was... different. Relaxed and comfortable in a way John had never seen him.

"Nonsense. I wouldn't poison you without a suitable antidote," he muttered, sighing again and tightening the arm around his doctors' waist. John worried the inside of his mouth, briefly wondering whether or not Sherlock realised they were in bed, naked (John partially so), and pretty much a tangle of limbs.

"Such confidence," John grinned, secretly thrilling at the fine wrinkles at the corners of Sherlock's pale, sea-green eyes. It was difficult to ascertain their true resplendence in the yellowish street light coming from his window at what felt like 4am, but he took comfort in the familiar colour, cat-like shape, and fond warmth. "...You're not...too hot are you?" He asked, hoping Sherlock would pick up the unspoken 'You're aware that we are not quite as drunk anymore and there is no good reason for us to be laying together like this?'

"No," Sherlock replied lazily, shifting his hips so that he was flush against the doctor and John ground his jaw. Subtlety, he reminded himself, was not something Sherlock picked up on when it came to John.

"Oh, that's... good."

"Mm-hm."

"How...um...how was your first time?" he quipped, trying to ease the stifling intensity of Sherlock's body and mind in bed beside him.

Sherlock pulled his head back a little and John chanced a look over. The man was watching him with a scrutiny that made him want to squirm and preen at the same time. Jesus, what this bloody man could do to him.

"My first time? Well, if you insist on knowing..."

John cocked his head, frowning slightly but didn't have a chance to get a word in before Sherlock started up again.

"I was convinced I was mentally and physically prepared, but in truth, it...how do you say? 'Hurt like fuck,'" he laughed. "Luckily I was able to discover and hone my pleasure, or I would have given it up for good. I've only ever received, you see. I imagine penetrating somebody else isn't a painful experience at all."

John's jaw felt unhinged as he looked over at the man, a small coil winding in his abdomen.

Jesus Christ.

"I, uh... I meant your first kiss."

"O-oh," Sherlock replied sheepishly. His pale eyes widened, and he looked a bit guilty. Raising his eyebrows in hopeful supplication, he met John's gaze. "I'm really very sorry. I shouldn't have asked for that. I was...overwhelmed."

I know the feeling.

John smiled faintly, perhaps even a little shyly. "It's... okay. You don't have to apologise. It was my fault the second time." John offered Sherlock a small smile, his emotions flickering and twisting inside him.

"...Yes, I suppose it was," Sherlock replied, his high cheekbones crinkling with a bashful grin. "But, to answer your question, my first time was perfect. Better than fantasy." There was no hint of teasing or untruth in Sherlock's soft, open expression.

John wasn't quite sure what to do with that confession. He was happy that Sherlock had enjoyed it, ridiculously proud that he had been the one to give it to the detective, and completely torn at what this was doing to his sense of reality.

"I'm glad."

Then Sherlock's grin widened, his face finally crumpling into that genuine, slightly goofy smile that John was secretly potty about, and that seemed to flick a switch in his head. A switch that meant his body would no longer listen to reason, but instead react instinctively and do whatever seemed most right and good and natural.

At that moment, in the dark, in his bed, cocooned with his flatmate, there was only one obvious thing to do.

And that was to kiss Sherlock.

The doctor turned his body in one swift movement, onto his side so that the detective's face was directly in his line of sight. They were already wrapped around each other so he could hardly get any closer. Instead he pushed himself forward, bringing their lips together with a little more pressure than he'd intended. It had been a quick decision, followed by a quick action, and God only knew what the consequences would be.

Sherlock didn't pull back, but he was clearly taken by surprise. After John had moved away, only moments later, the detective made a tiny noise as he released the breath he'd been holding. He didn't recall asking John to do it again. Why did the doctor feel he had to oblige him once more?

John's brain was racing with everything brilliant and wrong about what he'd just done. He had initiated this. He had been lulled into a warmth born from body heat and residual sleep, and now he had no excuse. His face was still mere centimetres from Sherlock's, and the doctor had absolutely no words to give the man in way of explanation.

"Thankyou, John," Sherlock offered, after John said nothing. "That was lovely, too. I liked it. But I don't want you to force yourself just because you think it will make me happy. I mean, it will make me happy. But...don't be a martyr," he chuckled, giving John a quick squeeze.

John was glad of the darkness and the sheets that still surrounded him, as he was able to partially cover his flushed face. What could he say, really?

I did it because I wanted to. Because you're adorable when you're half asleep. Because you confuse me to within an inch of my life. Because I am enjoying this, so much.

"I feel I should repay you. For giving me two brand new experiences. That doesn't happen to me very often," Sherlock mused. "Certainly not twice in one night."

John felt his heart jump into his throat and his brain completely fell over itself searching for a reply.

"Uh... I..." Oh shit, bugger me. What do I fucking say?

"Remember what I said, John, about pleasure. Think of the orgasm you had a few hours ago. Then quadruple the ecstasy of that climax. I can teach you. It's the least I could do. And all I need to do is talk. Completely 'hands-off," he chuckled.

A shiver ran down John's spine.

Lessons, in orgasms, from Sherlock.

His mouth was still dry, as was his throat. That voice, purring into his ear, whispering ways to bring him over the edge again and again. His cock was quick to answer, and John shifted to lift a leg, tenting his lower half again.

"Anyway. Let me know. And try not to have a crisis in the meantime. You know how tiresome I find them," the detective huffed, amused.

John let out a small burst of air, a soundless huff of laughter. He couldn't give the man an answer, not when his brain felt like scrambled eggs. He should have politely declined, because that was what any sane man would do. But how could he not consider it? How could any part of him not want it?

"I'll keep that in mind," he replied at last, his voice rough and slightly ragged.

"Thankyou for answering, John. I thought I'd broken you already," Sherlock ribbed him, and John was about to chuckle when it occurred to him to wonder what he had meant by 'already.' As if breaking him was a task for a later date. Fuck.

He couldn't process all of this, not at half 4 in the morning, not after a night of mixed drinking, and not after more than one heated kiss from his best friend. He took a steadying breath before shifting himself. He turned so that his back was partially facing the man, unable to relax while those lips were smiling and those eyes dancing.

"I'll think about it, but I have to sleep."

John pulled the cover up over his shoulders, letting his muscles start to relax. He was drifting off when Sherlock moved, curling up against his back and letting out a contented purr.

"Goodnight, John."

The doctor felt a squirming in his chest, trying his damnedest not to sigh as that voice tickled his ear.

What the fuck are you doing?

That, he decided, was a bloody good question.