After the shower, fresh, clean, and a bit chilly from the ambient winter air in the flat, they hastened back to the bedroom before catching sight of the slimy bedspread.
John shot Sherlock a small smirk, before moving to the edge of the bed. "Come and help me change these sheets. You caused the majority of this."
Sherlock spared the wet bed the sort of withering look he saved for the people he considered the absolute, most deplorable kind of imbeciles. He didn't move.
"Sherlock Holmes," said John a little more firmly. "You will help me change this bed or God forbid I will leave you with blue balls for a week."
There was a deep moue of disgruntlement, and Sherlock padded a bit closer, squeamishly plucking at the corners of the bedspread. "Let's just go to my apartment. I'll text my housekeeper and tell her to pop round here." He tried his luck at flattery. "I won't have the man of my dreams resort to common drudgery."
"Well this man of your dreams sounds like he's far too pampered. I, on the other hand, would rather do this now than come home to it. Come on, just unhook the corners and I'll do the bloody rest."
The detective sighed massively, but obeyed, tentatively pulling up the sheet corners, and then standing well back.
John let out a long huff, dragging the sheets to him before wrapping them inside out. He gathered the bundle, walking starkers into the hall. He dropped the sheets in the washing basket before pulling out clean sheets from the cupboard. Moving back into the room, he rolled his eyes as Sherlock just stood there, and within ten minutes there were fresh sheets on the bed. John collapsed onto them with a sigh, his muscles starting to ache in the most delicious way. "You're so unhelpful sometimes," he muttered affectionately.
"If it was absolutely necessary for me to help, I would. But I suspect you're one of those people who quite enjoy matyring themselves. I wouldn't take that away from you."
The detective lay beside him heavily, groaning obscenely at the sense of clean sheets and a soft bed.
"I'm not a maid," he murmured, but sighed as he felt Sherlock's body lining his left half. "So this apartment - do you go to it often?"
Sherlock had rapidly snuggled himself in what seemed to be his favourite position alongside his doctor. "...Not much. More in the...old days," he said vaguely. "It was given to me when I was young."
John nodded, hooking an arm under Sherlock's neck. "Have you taken anyone else there?"
"Anyone like who, John?" The detective replied evenly, though his curiosity was piqued. He nuzzled his cool, wet curls playfully against John's armpit, making him gasp.
He squirmed away from the contact before chuckling. "You know what I mean."
"You mean lovers? You know I haven't really had any. Any trysts I might have had in the old days would have likely been an unsafe fumble behind a crackhouse somewhere," he said bluntly.
"Oh." Well, Sherlock was nothing if not honest. "Okay then."
"I always sort of hoped that one day, it might be used for a real, human function. Be a place to love and grow, not just suffer through withdrawal in relative luxury. I avoided it for a long while. But it occurred to me that the time might have come to make use of it again."
John smiled faintly, pulling Sherlock a little tighter to his chest. "I think that's a good idea."
"And by 'make use of it,' I mean eat and drink and make love and be merry. We can even use the hot tub, if you absolutely insist. But don't think I won't give you a running commentary on all the pathogenic factors swirling around in there with you."
"Oooh, you make hot tubs sound so sexy," John deadpanned before smirking.
"If you don't want to come and christen my extremely-posh apartment, you only have to say so," Sherlock shrugged, before placing a long, chaste kiss against John's forehead, squeezing him possessively.
"I never said that," John replied, shying around the whole 'christening' idea.
"What would you like to do now, John? More wine and mutual stimulation?" Sherlock asked sweetly, his words hot and damp and quiet against John.
John let out a breathy chuckle. "Jesus Sherlock, I'm not twenty anymore. Are you really telling me you could go again?"
"I'm telling you I'm willing to try. Or we could just talk. I have things I want to know about your proclivities, and though a manual examination would be most useful, it isn't mandatory."
John had no idea how the man managed to make a quick grope sound so...scientific.
"I'm pretty shagged out at the moment, so talking sounds good." John ran his lips over Sherlock's cheek before pushing himself up and reaching for his forgotten wine glass.
Sherlock groaned melodramatically and followed him up, wincing as he rolled his shoulders. "You owe me a massage," he said simply, looking pointedly at his doctor.
John took a slow sip, raising an eyebrow.
"Oh I do, do I?"
To be fair, the orgasms that Sherlock just gave him were mind-blowing. And the man had had his tongue in John's arse. He could probably give him a massage for that.
"Go on then, on your front. Do you have any oil or anything?"
"I have some imported Chinese woodlock oil. That should do the trick." Sherlock flung a lazy hand toward the second drawer of his bedside cabinet and proceeded to floomp face-down into the pillow with a lengthy, luxuriant sigh.
John clucked his tongue before putting his glass back on the bedside table, reaching into the drawer and searching through until he came across a small, brown bottle.
"This one?"
"Yes," Sherlock replied without looking. He wiggled his feet impatiently as he sensed John reading the bottle. "It's in Chinese, you won't understand it. Idiot," he added fondly.
John pouted before shifting himself. They were both still naked and slightly damp from the shower, so wiping his hands on the sheets, John then hooked a leg over Sherlock's body and sat just below his tail bone.
"Not too heavy, am I?"
"You were made to sit there, John. In the grand scheme of things, you were designed to perch on my bum. I'm convinced of it," Sherlock chuckled, muffled by the cool pillow.
John chuckled, resisting the urge to bounce for good measure. He put the bottle to the side and spent a moment just running the flat of his hands over Sherlock's back. In his mind's eye, he was drawing through a map of all the muscles, all the tendons, all the spinal discs that made up Sherlock's body. He felt his fingertips moving over muscles, tracing them, learning them. The detective was glorious, in body and mind, and John felt humbled to be the one that could have this. Maybe he wasn't the first, but he was the most wanted. And that meant far more than John ever realised.
Sherlock shivered a little at the sensation of hands on his wounds, but he had always healed quickly, and this was no different. The feeling was one of ticklishness, rather than pain.
"S'lovely," the detective slurred. "You're good."
John smiled faintly, leaning back and sitting on Sherlock's arse. He could see that a few strokes to the man would put him under some kind of relaxed trance. The doctor took the little bottle up again and poured a generous amount into his palm, snapping the lid before rubbing the oil between his hands and warming it up. When he finally put them back to Sherlock's skin, the detective let out a small sigh.
The detective's head rose up slightly, and there was a quick, sweet inhale, before he dropped back down again, a jumble of happy groans and wild curls against the pillow.
John moved his hand over the pale expanse of skin, coating it in oil before he started to add a little pressure to his upper muscles. He was careful not to press of the welts still standing sharp against his flesh, barely brushing over them before using his fingertips to rub circles.
Sherlock eased out a few faint, high-pitched noises, writhing his hips slightly, his fingers twiddling against the pillow. "Mmmmhhh...John...so good," he whispered. "Yet another...first."
John's hand slowed, his mind racing to comprehend that. Sherlock had said that he hadn't had any kind of intimacy with Mr Mystery - Tristan? - but he could hardly believe that no one had done this for the man. John moved his hands again, pressing harder, making new patterns, lavishing attention on certain muscles one at a time. If this was Sherlock's first time having a massage, then John would make sure he enjoyed it.
"I have difficulty trusting another person with my body," Sherlock hummed quietly. "More often than not, human contact is the result of a fight, stemming from a violent case. Nothing pleasant."
John moved his hands in tandem over Sherlock's shoulder blades. "Well there's loads of pleasant ways to be touched, and it doesn't even have to be sexual. I'll show you them all."
"Yes, John...mhh," Sherlock huffed, swallowing loudly. "Oh...God...uh, that's..." He promptly buried his head in the pillow, gripping it tightly with long fingers.
John smiled again, trying not to shift too much on Sherlock's arse. Those sounds were obscene, even still, and if he were a younger man he would probably be hard again. As it was, he really didn't think he could go again. Sherlock, on the other hand, sounded like he was already halfway there.
"Do you like that?" he asked smoothly, running down Sherlock's spine tenderly.
"…Incredible, John. When I can feel my limbs again, I'm going to snog you silly."
John smirked and continued rolling his hands over Sherlock's shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the knots he could feel there, working them free with hard strokes.
"...If I told you that you had an astonishing penis, would you hold it against me?" Sherlock asked, before succumbing to a snuffling laugh.
John couldn't stop a small bark of laughter. "You go ahead. It's nice to know that my dick pleases you."
"It's gorgeous. I want it inside me as soon as possible. But I'm also very happy to accede to your unspoken wish to be penetrated."
John's hands stilled on Sherlock's glistening skin, and he gave the back of the detective's head a confused look.
"What?"
"It's patently obvious that you're afraid to ask for it. Or too proud. You enjoy the sensation of fingers and tongue, but you fear being penetrated by another man, though whether out of anxiety of pain, or emasculation, I don't know."
John spluttered for a few seconds, swallowing thickly as he tried to come up with a response.
"I'm not... afraid. Or too proud. Not for the reasons you think."
"So you admit that for our first time, you want me to top?"
John used his fingers as a distraction, moving to the base of Sherlock's spine and kneading gently.
"I think so. But like I said before..."
"No. Look." Sherlock said simply, swatting John's hands away briefly and twisting over to lie on his slippery back, staring up at John, before gesturing at his own enthusiastic semi. "It'd be so easy. Right now. Slide onto my lap, as slow as you need...as slow as you like...and just..." He let out a hungry moan and tried to ease his doctor closer, pulling at his shoulders.
John was still on his knees, now looking down at the lovely expanse of Sherlock's chest. God, the man was fucking delicious and dirty and Christ, already so eager to have John ride him. A flush crept up his neck, and he put his hands over Sherlock's as the detective tried to bring him closer.
"Sherlock..."
The detective's cupid's-bow lips parted invitingly as he began to pant, his skin visibly reddening with heated excitement, his semi quickly swelling into serviceable rigidity. "Yes, yes, now, please..."
John let out a frustrated groan, knowing that he wouldn't be able to ride the other. He couldn't. It was just so... fast.
"Sherlock," he tried, his voice breaking before he cleared his throat. "You agreed to wait."
"For God's sake, John! I did wait! Have sex with me!" Sherlock yelled, pulling him closer and growling out his own frustration.
John let out an undignified huff as he was yanked onto Sherlock's chest, feeling the detective's erection pressing in to his groin.
"God, Sherlock," he mumbled, trying to push himself up on Sherlock's chest but slipping due to the oil still coating his fingers. "You're an impatient brat sometimes."
"Yes...oh, yes," Sherlock keened, wild-eyed, sensing victory was in sight. He grabbed his own cock and nudged it experimentally against John, almost bruising his skin as he pushed harder, beginning to try and slide it between John's legs.
"Sherlock!" he snapped, pushing himself up on the sheets and sliding off the man completely. "I'm not ready yet," he said forcefully, crossing his arms and watching as Sherlock's bright eyes seemed to darken, and an impressive pout clouding his face. "I've never done this. I want to wait."
"Well then fuck me! Or are you going to try and tell me you've never done that either?" Sherlock spat, baffled and furious at once.
"No, I haven't!" he shouted back, drawing his head in surprise. "I haven't."
"Well you've got more experience sticking your penis into people than I have," Sherlock huffed, actually folding his arms to petulantly match his doctor's stance.
"Really?" he said, his tone aggravated and annoyed. "You're going with that, are you? Well it's a bit different sticking it to a woman than a man's arse, so give me some goddamn time to adjust."
"...You really don't want to, do you?" Sherlock asked, very quietly, and very carefully.
John let out a rush of air, deflating. "You know that's not true. I just... I don't want to hurt you, or do it wrong. You've never... done it before, and I want us to be comfortable. I want it to be right."
"So, what whimsical alignment of the stars do you require in order to know 'when the time is right?' Or are you going to just inform me the morning that your tea leaves are propitious?"
"Don't be a dick, Sherlock," John huffed, turning on his heel. If Sherlock wanted to sulk, then he could bloody well do it on his own. He was going to make a cup of tea and just... stew in his own bad mood.
"John?" came the hesitant, uncertain voice behind him. Then –
"JOHN!" A far more indignant tone.
He didn't have to fight hard to resist the urge to pay attention.