John tried not to squirm in the back of the cab, but it was difficult not to with Sherlock pressed tightly against his side and one possessive hand on the curve of his thigh. The detective hadn't let him go since they broke apart in the alley, as if he was going to physically hold him to his promise. Not that John would have backed out, but... well, it was happening so fast, wasn't it?
Such a leap from a few days ago, when Sherlock's moans had nearly made him come in his pants. But wasn't it an incredible turn? The orgasm he'd had moments ago had barely begun to scratch the itch, and the thought of being buried as deep as possible inside his best friend sent a shiver down his spine. The hand on his thigh tightened, as if Sherlock was reading his mind.
"I know you can see everything that's going on in my head right now," John said, barely audible, his eyes straight ahead and betraying nothing, "You can feel it in the twitch of my leg, no doubt. Soon, you're going to feel how much I want you from the inside."
Sherlock's body didn't move, but John heard the sharp inhale and one glance told him just how hard it was for the detective to keep his features blank. It was heady, having Sherlock on the cusp of his self-control with just the promise of his cock. He didn't think there would have ever been anything to topple the man, but John was managing it so easily that he had to wonder why he hadn't done it before.
"How much do you want my fingers..." he whispered, leaning over till they were shoulder to shoulder. "My tongue..."
Sherlock's nostril flared, and the hand tightened again as his pupils dilated until his eyes were almost black.
"I'm going to lick you out till you're hoarse from screaming," John muttered, placing his own hand over Sherlock's and holding it. The detective suddenly shot forward and hammered on the glass separating them from the driver.
"Hurry it up, for God's sake!"
John couldn't stop a wild grin as Sherlock sat back with a huff, but it didn't seem to be enough for the man. He flung himself at John, hands wrapped around his face and yanking John so hard against his lips that the doctor hissed at the ferocity of it.
"Oi, behave," John laughed, pushing him away affectionately, but taking his hand once more, squeezing gently. "You'll get all that and more. When we're home."
Sherlock bared his teeth but sat back, crossing his arms like a petulant child. After a few restless moments, Sherlock's hand went back to John's thigh.
John couldn't help but delight at the feel of the detective standing behind him, arms around his waist, chin resting on his head, and swamped by his coat, as he tried to open the front door. Their pose was ostensibly fond, and chaste, but what was less obvious was that Sherlock's cold hands were rummaging inside the front of the doctor's jeans.
"Sherlock," he warned, a little breathlessly as the key missed the lock for the second time. He shivered at the chill to Sherlock's finger as they pressed past the lip of his boxers, diving down greedily and causing John to buck. He huffed out a breath, narrowing his vision to the lock and ramming the key home. He twisted desperately, the two of them falling through the door.
It was almost pitch black inside, and Sherlock took advantage of the darkness to playfully goose his doctor, humming apologetically through his giggles, as if it had been accidental.
John chuckled in the back of his throat, reaching out blindly for the stairs and instead brushing over the soft material of Sherlock's shirt.
"Hmm... that needs to go soon," he muttered under his breath.
"Orders received and understood, Captain," Sherlock crooned, chuckling in his deep baritone, before hurtling up the stairs two at a time, flinging open the door to their flat, and then halting completely, giving John a thoughtful look.
John felt an odd knot in his stomach at Sherlock's use of his former authority, but it was drowned out as he followed the man up the stairs. He stepped into the flat, noting it was eerily quiet (and soon to be filled with those moans, if he had any say in it) before meeting Sherlock's look. The doctor cocked his head slightly, reaching up to pull off his coat.
"What?"
"Isn't there some kind of tradition about carrying your partner over the threshold the first time you intend to put your tongue in their arse?"
John spluttered out a laugh, covering his mouth to stop another godawful sound from escaping.
"I'm not sure about the traditions of rimming, but carrying through a door is normally associated with marriage."
"You're just saying that being you're a midget and you won't be able to do it," Sherlock grinned teasingly, standing, arms spread, as a challenge.
John arched an eyebrow, taking a long stride towards the man and only stopping for a moment to mentally asses the man's weight and his lanky body.
"Solider, remember?" And with that, John moved forward. He put his shoulder to Sherlock's stomach, knocking him off balance enough to haul him over it.
It took a second to adjust to the weight, spreading his feet before standing straight with the world's only consulting detective hanging over his shoulder. His body could feel the strain, but it was a good ache as he started down the hall. He put a hand on Sherlock's arse, giving him a small caress before following with a smart tap.
"This is a good way for you," he hummed, stepping through Sherlock's bedroom door. "Arse up."
"...Oh, my God John. This is...incredibly arousing."
"I noticed," John retorted, wincing but laughing at the incomparable pain of having an erection poking you in your wounded shoulder.
The bravado was starting to fail him as he stood by the edge of Sherlock's bed. With a quick squeeze, John hoisted up his shoulder before Sherlock was dumped onto the springy mattress, a small huff the only sound in the room. For a moment, the doctor just... stared. Sherlock, still in his coat, on his back, his hair rumpled and eyes soft, just staring up at him... almost in wonder. It was -
"Do you really want this?" the doctor blurted before he could stop himself.
Sherlock looked perplexed. "What gives you any notion that I don't want this?"
"I don't... I'm just... oh fuck it."
Before he could let any more of his scattered thoughts bring about hysteria, John quickly undressed himself, and moved forward to crawl over Sherlock's body.
It was hard to think with the smell of Sherlock's chemically-laced skin flaring in his nose, but that was good. Not thinking was... good. John lowered his face to Sherlock's neck, grazing his teeth over the blooming bruise there.
"I did ask you to do this, remember?" Sherlock said softly.
"I just don't know why," he breathed, his hands moving down Sherlock's sides. "Why would you want me to? What about Mr Mystery? The stripper? I can't... I can't compare to that. I'm just... me."
"And that is exactly what I want, John. If you hadn't been so adamant about being straight from the very beginning, I would have tried my luck that first night. That's when I fell in love with you, you know."
John felt his body tense, the words sticking to his skin and sending his heart into overdrive. He felt the breath in his throat curling to demand an explanation, but his mind was quick to stop him. That would be a conversation to have in the light of day, not when he was straddling the man, sporting an impressive semi. He couldn't answer him, he just... couldn't think about that now.
"I need you to get naked, Sherlock. Very quickly."
"Agreed," Sherlock smiled, though it seemed a little restrained in the half-light of the bedroom. A streetlamp outside the window provided cold golden illumination, enough for John to see to begin easing his flatmate out of his clothes.
His eyes moved with his hands, drinking in each new flash of pale skin revealed, until Sherlock's white shirt was open and John was left with the lovely expanse of his chest. He'd seen Sherlock's body before - not all of it - but now it had new meaning. Now he didn't just see, he craved.
"Jesus," he muttered, leaning down to put his face against Sherlock's stomach. He groaned at the contact, unable to help himself and nipping at the tender flesh. "Could fucking devour you."
"Please feel free," Sherlock laughed, and his stomach bounced softly against John's mouth, and it was wonderful. "Are you really going to...use your tongue?"
John smirked against his stomach, taking a small nip before moving downwards. "You'll have to tell me how much you want me to, first."
"...It would be...a new experience for me," Sherlock admitted. "But I would very much like to try it. With you."
John felt his mouth go dry, not out of nerves (which was surprising since this was Sherlock, and John was... a little rusty with this) but out of anticipation.
"Hands and knees, bottoms off."
Sherlock paused, minutely, but noticeably, before he undid his zip. He turned away before pulling off his jeans and underwear, and tossing them aside.
John let out a long breath, biting his lower lip as he watched Sherlock roll onto his stomach. That pretty white shirt was open, but still on, and there was something obscenely delicious about the detective still wearing clothes while he parted his legs, baring all to the doctor and pumping blood into John's now rock hard cock.
"Fuck me. Fucking gorgeous..." John reached out to cup Sherlock's lovely arse, the deep lashes still present on his luminous skin.
"...Bit sore...careful," Sherlock mumbled, face down and voice muffled. He was very tense, and his fingers were tangled tight in the duvet.
John nodded, even though Sherlock wouldn't be able to see. Of course he would be careful, always. The doctor ran the tips of his fingers over the sensitive skin before leaning forward, nosing over the most prominent welt.
"Do you want my tongue, Sherlock?" he whispered, moving his hands to Sherlock's hips. "Over you, inside you?"
The detective nodded quickly, his dark curls bouncing endearingly. John ran one gentle finger down Sherlock's left buttock, onto his thigh, and across into the warm dip where his testicles lay nestled against the bedcovers.
The man was squirming under his touch, bringing John's eyes from his arse, to his face, down to the dark outline of his balls. John was so hard from looking at him alone that he could only shiver at the thought of pressing inside him.
He let his finger brush over Sherlock's balls as he snaked out his tongue, licking a stripe over his left cheek and feeling the rise of the tender wounds under his tongue.
Sherlock made a small, groaning noise, and lifted himself up briefly to adjust his as-yet-unseen cock underneath him. John barely caught a glimpse of the tip, but he could see, and smell, the long strand of pre-come that was connecting him to the bed.
John bit his lower lip, reaching down to palm himself through his jeans.
"Christ, so fucking beautiful."
The doctor put his hands back to Sherlock's arse, kneading gently, his patience wearing a little thin when the prize was so open and ready for him. Easing Sherlock's cheeks apart, the doctor leaned closer and ran the tip of his tongue teasingly over Sherlock's puckered hole. The muscles clenched at the touch, and John let out a long breath.
"Aargh!" Sherlock yelled, his deep voice reverberating off the thin walls as he squirmed violently on the bed and keened, nearly wriggling out of John's grasp.
"Sherlock," John cooed, running his hands over the detective's hips. "Relax, it's okay. Just," John fluttered kisses over Sherlock's arse cheek and moved his hands down the man's thighs. "It's okay."
"Oh...god John...you're not allowed to move from there. Ever," Sherlock sighed dreamily, groaning out long, dizzy noises of bliss as he continued to writhe.
John grinned in the darkness, moving back down and easing Sherlock's cheeks apart again.
"Don't plan to," he muttered before he moved forward again. This time he used the flat of his tongue to run over the hole, giving a hard curl to the tip before rolling his tongue back down.
Sherlock bucked hard again, with a fierce grunt of pleasure, nearly giving the doctor a broken nose. John laughed, admittedly smug, and proceeded to press down firmly on Sherlock's hips to keep him in place. "Now, Sherlock, since you can't keep still...I want you to hold yourself open for me."
The detective made some kind of long, whimpering sigh, before he tried to regain some control over his limbs. Turning his head and letting his face sinking into the sheets, reaching around and pulling at his arse. John let out a long rush of air, wishing he could take a photo of this moment. Sherlock, baring all and sundry, just for him. He realised he wouldn't need to take a picture, because it was seared into his mind.
Perfection.
"Oh, God, Sherlock. Look at you... so good for me."
John felt a rush of desire flood through him quicker than adrenaline, before he moved forward again and letting his tongue run freely over Sherlock's tight hole. He stopped, dipping the tip inside, before running another swift lick around the edge.
Sherlock let out a bubbly, overwhelmed groan into the sheets, fingertips creeping in to pull himself open even more. He mumbled something, a request, which John couldn't quite catch.
The doctor hummed, palms on the top of Sherlock's thighs, feeling the muscles quivering under the assault of tongue and hands. He rolled his tongue over the hole again, pressing harder before slipping the tip back into the tantalising dip.
"K...kiss it," came the almost inaudible, muffled plea, barely more than a deep-toned exhale into the sheets. Sherlock was trembling hard, clearly fighting to restrain his movement, and his expansive vocal responses. It sounded as if he was holding his breath.
John pulled his tongue back, his fingers making soothing circles against Sherlock's skin before he reached up and guided Sherlock's hands, opening the man up more. Because he could, the doctor grazed his lips over Sherlock's knuckles before moving back to that lovely spot.
He pushed himself further, this time keeping his tongue at bay and letting his lips move around his opening, just small brushes at first. Then he closed his lips around the hole, ending each sweet kiss with a small flicker of his tongue.
"Jo...Oh...y...good," Sherlock whispered, without volume, but extraordinarily impassioned. "This...I...God," came the constant, gentle ramblings, and the detective started to shake his head back and forth repeatedly, as if rejecting the pleasure that he could barely control.
Sherlock's erratic movements gave John the overwhelming urge to make the man come apart at the seams. He wanted Sherlock like this, always, a wreck from nothing but his mouth.
He pressed harder with his open-mouthed kisses, shifting between lips and tongue, suckling and lapping like his very fucking life depended on it.
"Ah...I...agh...John..." Words were clearly a struggle for the detective, restricting his movement to long, undulating, shuddering grinds of his hips against the bed. John shifted forward a little and was thrilled to see a considerable damp, translucent patch on the bedspread beneath Sherlock's penis.
"Do you want to come like this?" he all but whispered, his voice hoarse from the desire ricocheting from head to toe and burning in his throat. "With just my tongue?"
"All of it...ugh, John...yes, just...oh..." John grinned to himself, it was obvious he wouldn't be able to tease a straight answer from the burbling, writhing detective.
John moved forward again, his hands over the detective's as he started a new rhythm with his mouth. He pushed his tongue a little deeper, his lips continuously moving around the rim. John had to add a little force to Sherlock's hips to keep him from writhing away from his mouth.
He felt Sherlock's fingertips, wet and wrinkled with sweat and his own saliva, slip a few times on his supple skin. "John...John! It's...I'm...fuck...fuck...fuck!"
John discovered that he enjoyed Sherlock's almost-speechless orgasms just as much as his screaming ones. The detective's head lifted up, his back arched strongly, and with a long, seething gasp, and a few sharp hiccups of high-pitched noise, Sherlock ejaculated copiously, rocking sensuously into the bed.
John would have continued lapping tenderly until Sherlock's final shiver, but the detective slumped forward with his legs splayed and John let him go. He wiped the saliva from his chin before moving down and planting a small kiss to the dip of Sherlock's back, giving the man a chance to catch his breath. From the way the man was panting, though, John realised it might take a good few minutes.
It was indeed about three minutes later that Sherlock seemed to abruptly wake up, as if he had fallen asleep. He sniffed, and groaned, and wiped drool from his mouth with a grimace.
"...Jesus Christ, John."
The doctor snapped his eyes up from where he'd been studying the fine dips and curves of Sherlock's back, unable to stop a grin at the detective's breathy voice.
"Looked like you enjoyed that," he said, his grin turning wicked.
"You've definitely done that before," Sherlock said, without accusation, sitting up and panting,.
John couldn't stop a small smirk, biting on his lower lip and shrugging. "Well, yeah."
"...'That' kind?" Sherlock asked curiously, looking down at the tendrils of semen attaching him to the bed and wondering where to start with it. "...This is like that alien film you made me watch."
John lowered his eyes, cocking his head slightly as he studied the generous pool of goo.
"Yeah..."
Maybe it was out of some kind of curiosity, or the fact that none of this seemed real anyway, John reached forward and brushed his finger over Sherlock's abdomen, running a swipe through the smudge of semen on his skin. Then the doctor brought his finger to his lips and sucked thoughtfully, wrinkling his nose a little at the sharp taste.
"Been a while since I've tasted that," he hummed thoughtfully.
The responding look Sherlock gave him - dazed, awed, bedraggled and aroused, was one John would be happy to retain as long as he possibly could.