I'm sure I'll think of something.
John opened his mouth to respond, to remind Sherlock that he wanted to hold out - but his words were caught as the man turned in a mass of limbs and taut pale skin.
"Just... just let me know."
"Of course. I promise," Sherlock murmured subsonically, before easing himself up and returning to his spot between John's legs, settling himself back down and smirking. "Shall I continue as I was? Or do you have any special requests?"
John felt his jaw go slightly slack, his feet moving to rest on Sherlock's shoulders almost instinctively. "I don't - I'm not, uh..."
Sherlock hummed appreciatively at the sight of John's damp, pink opening, and seemingly forgetting he was in the middle of a conversation, he pressed his face into John and resumed feasting.
John let out a strangled cry as his hole was suddenly engulfed in slick, hot muscle and he had to fight to keep himself from jumping off the bed. "Jesus!"
Sherlock chuckled and moaned, long and low, in pleasure at his doctor's response. Taking a few seconds to ensure John was soft and wet enough, he pointed and pushed his tongue fully inside, lapping and prodding with some effort.
Having Sherlock's tongue running around his rim was fantastic, but it didn't hold a candle to feeling the wet tongue pressing inside him. Softer than fingers, but no less strong, the sound that left his throat at the intrusion was something akin to a panicked animal - before it was drawn out into a long, guttural moan.
Sherlock decided that it was time to up the ante. He slid one strong hand under John's backside, propping him up slightly, whilst the other reached up and formed a tight fist for him to fuck into, to compound his pleasure.
John threw his face from side to side, his hips rocking up and down, screwing himself on Sherlock's tongue. Then there was a tight pressure around his cock and a tentative thrust told him Sherlock was both anchoring him and lifting him higher.
"Shit, Sherlock...I'm gonna come like this," John wheezed aloud, speaking partly to himself, stunned at the realisation of his words.
The tongue inside him only pressed harder, the hand around his cock giving him a hard pump before holding still. Fighting to regain the bone-deep tingles of pleasure, John groaned and began thrusting into the firm, familiar hand.
Every push forward was a shot of pleasure to his cock, and the recoil had him sitting back on Sherlock's face, more importantly, that tongue. It was an overload, and John couldn't stop the symphony of moans that bubbled in his throat. "Oh God, yes, yes, yes, again - yes, fuck me, oh God, like that!"
Sherlock, frowning with exertion and overwhelmed with his own rampant arousal, and that which was simmering in every atom of his doctor's body, clamped his mouth around John's opening, sucking and tonguing for all he was worth.
The final cry from the doctor was so loud, he felt it in his chest, heard it bounce off the walls. It tore up his throat, blinding, as the second orgasm hit him so hard that everything went black. It took long moments for light to flicker in his vision, and John sucked in air as if he had stopped fucking breathing. He couldn't form coherent sentences, never mind stringing sounds together to make words.
He slowly became aware of his numb extremities, his pounding vision. He took a moment to gape at the volume of come spattering his own chest, and then shifted his wobbly gaze to Sherlock, who looked absolutely sick with pleasure. As the detective groaned and sat up, cracking his elbows, John was dumbstruck to see that Sherlock was no longer hard. He was, in fact, coated in his own lukewarm mess, and looked flattened by dizzy exhaustion.
"Diddem - Did..." John swirled his tongue around his mouth, blinking a few times until he tried again. "You came."
"Mmmhhhm," Sherlock hummed, looking down at himself, swaying a little. "...So much come."
John let out a weak chuckle, trying to raise his arm but unable to do so. He let his limb flop onto the sheets and he sighed, his eyes shifting closed. The most he could manage was a deep, languid hum from the back of his throat.
"I made you come. Like you did to me," Sherlock noted, grinning at his doctor. "I have an idea. Do you think you could move sufficiently well after a quick, cool shower?"
John raised an eyebrow, letting his eyes flutter open. "I dunno if I can... move at all."
"I wasn't planning on ravishing you again. Not just yet. I thought, if you could muster the strength to limp into a taxi, we could go to my apartment. It can be our little love-nest," Sherlock said airily, a smile in his eyes, as he lay down.
John couldn't stop a stupid grin from lighting up his features. "I feel like you're going to kill me, you know. Drain me dry."
"You wouldn't be much use to me dead, John," Sherlock shrugged, before wincing at the sharp, angry twinge in his shoulders. "I'm not a necrophiliac."
The burst of laughter was sudden, his senses coming back to him enough to roll onto his side where he could see Sherlock better. "I should bloody hope not."
"I prefer you warm. And able to kiss me. I have to say, this is all going far better than I could have anticipated."
"Oh yeah? What did you anticipate?" he asked lazily, yawning before uncurling his body and sighing as his bones popped and his muscles stretched.
"That I would fail to arouse you. And certainly fail to bring you to climax." Sherlock nudged his body against his doctor's with zero subtlety, sighing against his shoulder.
John shook his head, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and nestling into the crook of his neck. Sherlock smelled like sweat and sex and something sweet. "For a genius, you can be such an idiot."
"So you keep saying. I'll forbid you from saying things like that if you're going to be my boyfriend."
John blinked, gaping for a moment before deciding on silence.
It lasted all of three seconds.
"B- boyfriend?"
"Oh, I...no?...Um...'not,' then?" Sherlock queried awkwardly, and John felt his whole body tense, along with his rumbling deep voice.
John was quick to run a hand over the long expanse of Sherlock's back, even though his mind was fizzing and stuttering at the concept.
"I... uh..."
"It's fine. It's...fine," Sherlock said quickly, scooting off the bed with eye-popping speed, even though he winced when his weight was on his feet. "Shower," he announced, before leaving the room in a blur of wild curls, reddened cheekbones, and a pert white arse.
John sat for a moment, watching Sherlock retreat, close to suffocating under his guilt. What did Sherlock expect, though? This was a lot for him to handle, and he was trying to keep up. He was only just getting used to having a naked and sex-driven Sherlock rutting against him. Swallowing down being a boyfriend and partner and love - well, that was harder.
And then he imagined the feel of Sherlock's come as it slid down his throat.
For fuck's sake.
He distantly heard the shower turn on, and stood, bracing himself slightly against the bedstead. He was probably getting too old for this kind of thing.
First things first, he had to make it known to his endearingly dense flatmate that he wasn't outright rejecting him.
Then he would have to try and convince him that taking it slow was a good thing.
Lastly, he would have to not give in to those perfectly arched lips when they were drawn into that godforsaken pout which twisted his gut and made him squirm with guilt.
Not too fucking difficult then, Watson.
He traipsed as fast as he could (which was still slower than his normal amble) to the bathroom, sighing in relief that the door wasn't locked. He was startled when a soaking wet, towel-wrapped Sherlock sped past him, leaving the shower running.
"Hey, hey, no, no, no," he muttered, leaning over dangerously to put an arm around Sherlock's waist. The speed in which the detective was going had him nearly falling over from it, considering his limbs still felt like jelly. Thankfully Sherlock stopped and John's face landed on his shoulder.
The detective didn't move to support him, just stood very still, not looking at him. "Shower's free. I only needed to wash the...stuff off."
"No. Nope, you're not allowed to do that. You are not allowed to shut down when you had your tongue in my arse about ten minutes ago. So stop, okay? Come back to the shower, right now, and talk to me. Because I want to talk to you."
Sherlock let out a petulant, gusty sigh, blowing his cheeks out, before mewling in discontent as he was dragged back into the bathroom, his towel dropping off in the process.
John didn't release Sherlock's wrist until he was stepping into the shower and had pulled the man in with him, hissing at the hot spray on his back. He slammed the shower door shut with a definite click, wrapping his arms around the detective's damp skin. "Better."
Sherlock pulled an awkward face and lifted his head, gazing intently at the showerhead. "It's okay. You don't have to be my boyfriend. I understand. Well, I don't really, but...you know."
John chattered his teeth as he tried to think of the right words.
"OK, so you need to understand that this is new to me. I had a fling when I was younger but it never meant anything - to him, anyway. This," he said, pulling Sherlock closer to him. "Means something. I don't want to jump the gun. I don't want to label it. Everything is still so new and to be honest, a little terrifying. Be patient with me, alright? I need you to do that for me."
"This is new to me, too. But I still want you to be my partner. We've done everything that that entails, haven't we? What haven't I done?"
"Oh, Sherlock," he said gently, reaching up to cup Sherlock's sharp cheeks. "I am your partner. I was your partner before we started... getting intimate. You haven't done anything wrong, I promise. Give me some time to... adjust."
"Alright. But promise me...you would tell me if you didn't want to be with me. Don't...make me think otherwise. That would destroy me."
John frowned and shook his head, feeling the weight of that sitting heavy on his shoulders. "I wouldn't have given in to you if this was just a passing fancy."
"Good. Because you need to understand that I haven't gone my whole life being emotionless, I have had feelings that have been ruined by others. Feelings that I subsequently cut off as soon as they were born, in order to prevent pain. You are the first person I have trusted with my emotions. I would do anything for you John, and this is the furthest thing from a 'passing fancy' that I know how to describe to you."
John was stunned, for a better way to put it. He actually felt like every word from the detective was being stitched to his insides. Like he'd been giving something priceless and had a hold on the world. It could have been his twice-orgasm brain talking, but John knew this meant more. Sherlock meant more, and he was making sure John knew. Words failed him, as they were often doing the longer he spent in Sherlock's arms, and the only way he could reply was to bring his lips to the detective's and kiss him.
Sherlock finally relaxed his highly-strung body, and kissed John back, sweet, and chaste, and thankful.
The hot water rushed between their bodies, and for a moment, just a moment, John could believe in perfection.
Like most things, though, it didn't last.
"Sherlock, your knee is digging into my dick."