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The soft strains of violin music fill the flat like smoke and wake John from his peaceful slumber. It's just around midnight, and Sherlock's side of the bed looks as though it hasn't been slept in yet. John rubs his eyes and stretches blearily, sitting up on the edge of the bed. He steps into a pair of rumpled pyjama bottoms without even bothering to put on pants or a vest and stumbles down the hallway.
The music is slow and melancholy, faintly evocative, but John doesn't recognise it. He steps into the kitchen to listen without alerting Sherlock to his presence. Normally it's virtually impossible to sneak up on Sherlock but John can see him now, completely lost in the music. He's framed by the dim light of the two tall windows. His eyes are closed, chin tucked firmly against the rest of the violin. His bathrobe - the tartan one tonight - hangs loosely off one shoulder. The thin cotton crew-neck he's got on underneath is rucked up around his midsection, exposing a swath of alabaster skin just below Sherlock's navel.
John runs his tongue across his lips and nearly gets up to pounce on Sherlock right then and there, but he gets himself under control and sits down quietly in one of the kitchen chairs. There's the remains of some experiment scattered across the table. Before he started playing Sherlock had apparently been doing something awful involving a Bakewell tart and a small vial of some corrosive liquid. No wonder he's still awake. John shudders and pushes the mess aside.
There's a swell in both the volume and pacing of the music, the notes enveloping John like a blanket. He smiles and studies the long curve of Sherlock's back, the taut line of his arm, the bow like an entirely natural extension of his hand. There's a dizzying rise of notes, John is reminded of someone ascending a staircase, and then a slow, drawn-out ending.
As the last strains of the music come to an end, Sherlock's eyes snap open and lock on John's. It's clear he's been aware of John's presence the whole time, that he was reveling in it. That's the frailty of genius - it needs an audience. He smiles at John and lowers the violin, and John feels his heart lurch into his throat.
"That..." John swallows thickly. "That was beautiful, Sherlock. Did you write it?"
Sherlock demurs, but looks pleased that John thought him capable of it. "No, no. It's by Gluck. From the opera Orfeo ed Eurydice. But it is lovely, isn't it?"
John nods.
Realisation dawns on Sherlock's face. "I didn't wake you, did I?"
It still tickles John to see Sherlock legitimately concerned about someone other than himself, and a quiet chuckle escapes his throat. He pushes the chair back and crosses the kitchen into the sitting room, where Sherlock is still hovering. John raises a hand to cup Sherlock's cheek, thumb running over the prominent arch of bone. Sherlock makes a soft contented noise and leans into the contact.
"You might have, but I can't think of too many ways I'd rather be woken up. It's a damn sight better than something exploding in the kitchen." He drags his thumb down the length of Sherlock's nose and into the dip of his philtrum, tracing that absurd cupid's bow. As John moves downwards, stroking the lush curve of Sherlock's full lower lip, Sherlock parts his lips and sucks the pad of John's thumb into his mouth.
Eyes closed, Sherlock sucks hard, curling his tongue around it, and John feels a throb in his groin for each delicate movement of Sherlock's sharp tongue. It's not long before John is fully hard and aching in his pyjama bottoms. He lets out a low groan and Sherlock releases his thumb with a smirk.
"By all means, John." Sherlock's voice is deep and rough around the edges, and John feels his body reacting - pulse quickening and breath going ragged. "Don't let me keep you up." His voice hitches infinitesimally on the up as his eyes glance down to John's prominent erection and the damp spot already forming on his thin cotton trousers.
Drawing one slow breath through his teeth to calm himself, John grins at Sherlock. "Too late for that, I think. Unless you want to play me to sleep?"
As soon as the words play me have escaped his lips, John catches the innuendo of his statement. Clearly Sherlock has too, as the corners of his lips curl up in a thoroughly lascivious smirk.
"Hold still, John, and close your eyes."
Unable - or unwilling - to ignore a command from Sherlock, John does as he's bid. There's the soft susurrus of falling silk, followed by a gentle thump. The sound of a dressing gown falling off one narrow shoulder. John's itching to peek, to see if his assumption is correct, but he refrains.
He gasps as he feels Sherlock's lips pressing a gentle kiss to his shoulder blade, soft lips against the raised landscape of his scar. Just as Sherlock breaks the contact with his back, John feels a warm, long-fingered hand at his hip. Toying with the waistband of his pyjamas. He sucks in a breath, hollowing his stomach in invitation, urging Sherlock's fingers downward, but of course Sherlock doesn't indulge. Instead, he grips John's pyjama bottoms firmly in both hands and tugs, carefully pulling the front out forward so as not to trap John's erection. He lets them fall around John's ankles and a quiet moan escapes Sherlock's lips. There's a faint brush of hot air across John's throat and he's desperate to open his eyes, to look at Sherlock, but something inside him holds him still.
Abruptly, Sherlock steps away and the sudden rush of cold air raises gooseflesh on John's sensitised skin. There's another muffled noise and another soft thud before Sherlock steps back into the sphere of John's awareness. There's a crackling, electric warmth between them and John feels the soft brush of raised nipples against his back, the faintly bristly texture of Sherlock's wiry pubic hair against the curve of John's arse. That explains the noises then - Sherlock dropping the last of his clothing.
John's trembling now. He can feel his cock leaking copiously already, despite the fact that Sherlock's barely touched him and he bites down a needy whimper. Sherlock has stepped away again and gone completely silent, and John's lost any sense of where he is in the room.
The brush of a tongue along his hairline - right behind his ear - surprises him and jolts him back into awareness. He feels Sherlock's lips along the curve of his ear, warm moist breath huffing against his feverish skin.
There's a sudden weight on John's shoulder. Warm, smooth, smelling faintly of rosin and strongly of Sherlock. The violin, then. Sherlock's voice is low and husky in John's ear.
"Chin down, John. That's it. Hold it steady."
John gasps as Sherlock presses his entire body against John's back, clinging together from shoulders to knees. Sherlock wraps his arms around John, gripping the violin and bow. Every point of contact is an electric spark, setting off tremors in John's muscles. He can feel sweat dripping down his spine, pooling in the hollow at the small of his back, the one spot Sherlock doesn't quite fill.
Sherlock's erection is nestled firmly between the cheeks of John's arse, slotting in as if it were designed to fit there and nowhere else. He makes no move to soothe himself though, no thrusting or grinding. John's own cock is throbbing and heavy. He could easily take himself in hand, relieve the ache, but something stills him. Sherlock hasn't told him not to; he hasn't told him to either. John feels taut, stretched, like the strings on the violin currently cradled against his throat.
There's a subtle shift in Sherlock's body and the air around John and then the silence is broken. It's an entirely different sensation, standing here. John can feel the vibration of the violin through his chin and shoulder as Sherlock drags the bow across the strings. The acoustics are different somehow - not just louder but also rougher, unmuffled by their surroundings.
The melody is slow, sweet, and familiar. The Beatles. Good Night. A lullaby, how appropriate. John chuckles softly, and the motion sends thrilling vibrations through his body. He feels Sherlock's cock twitch against him, hears a slight hitch in the notes.
They stand there, entwined and nearly still, as Sherlock plays. As the lullaby comes to an end, Sherlock jerks his hips abruptly and his cock slips down the cleft of John's arse, sliding into the tight, hot space between his thighs. As the head of Sherlock's prick brushes his bollocks, John drops his head onto his chest, letting it fall off the violin.
"Please, Sherlock. Please..." He doesn't have to finish his sentence, it's clear what he's begging for. Sherlock pulls the violin away and John hears the soft thunk of it being placed on the table in front of him. There's no subsequent noise of the bow being put down, but before John has time to wonder why, Sherlock answers the unspoken question.
He splays one hand across John's chest, fingernails lightly scratching the skin as the tip of the bow rakes up the length of John's thigh. The sensation is enough to make his knees weak and he tips forward slightly, hands reaching out to grip the table.
It's a slow torment, Sherlock dragging the bow across different swaths of exposed skin, always avoiding getting too close to John's genitals. Sometimes he uses the ivory tip, cool and smooth; sometimes the strings themselves, hot and rough from recent use; sometimes the sleek warmth of the wood itself. He's playing John as if he were an instrument, coaxing undignified moans and hisses and trembling, needy whines out of him.
Sherlock's cock is still nestled snugly between John's thighs, slick with sweat and Sherlock's own pre-come, but he's remained virtually still. John sneaks a glance downward, his head still low on his chest. His own cock is lurid, purple. There's a pearl of pre-come at the head, rivulets running down and highlighting the engorged veins. But it's the sight of the head of Sherlock's prick, slipping out from between John's thighs, stroking against his scrotum, that drives John to distraction.
With a groan, he lets go of the table with one hand and grips his own cock. The contact, so desperately needed after so long, is almost too much. He moans and manages two good hard strokes before Sherlock taps his hand with the bow.
"I don't remember telling you to touch yourself." Sherlock's voice is warm and damp across John's throat. With a whimper, John unclenches his hand and Sherlock guides it away with the tip of the bow.
Taking pity on him, Sherlock drags the smooth wooden back of the bow across the warm skin of John's penis. With each stroke, he draws his hips backwards and thrusts them forward, fucking the warm space between John's thighs. John grips the table more firmly and clenches his muscles, tightening the space for Sherlock.
The friction from the bow, slick now with John's leaking pre-come, is better than nothing but still not enough. John whimpers and rocks his own hips in time with Sherlock's, desperately seeking more contact. The hand on his chest has found one of his nipples now, and Sherlock pinches and rolls it between his warm fingers. Every tug on John's nipple sends a ripple of shocks down to his groin, increasing the pressure but not giving him any release.
"Please... Sherlock." His voice is whiny, needy, not entirely his own, but he doesn't care. He's desperate, his entire body trembling and aching. Suddenly, Sherlock picks up the pace of his thrusting and drops the bow. It falls to the floor with a clatter, but John barely notices because Sherlock's hand is finally, mercifully, blissfully on his cock.
He's not going to last. That much is obvious. Sherlock's drawn it out for so long that every pull, every stroke, is like fireworks going off behind John's eyes. He bites down, grinding his teeth together and fighting the impending orgasm with every fibre in his body. He doesn't have to fight long though; Sherlock's strokes lose their rhythm, he jerks John in erratic half strokes as he lets out a low, guttural cry. His hips judder roughly against John's arse and John feels the warm slickness of Sherlock's release between his thighs.
The sensation pushes John over the edge and he gives up any attempt to hold back his own orgasm. Suddenly his hips are jerking, his cock pulsating in Sherlock's loose grip as lights bloom behind his closed eyelids.
John realises his legs are trembling as he comes to his senses, Sherlock's heavy weight drooping onto his back. He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table to support himself. He finally opens his eyes just as Sherlock pulls away from him with a petulant grunt.
There's a moment of awkward fumbling as John wipes himself off and pulls up his pyjama bottoms and Sherlock slips into his robe, ignoring his pyjamas entirely. John smirks up at him.
"Thank you, Sherlock. That was lovely. I think I'm ready to go back to bed now."
Sherlock smiles slowly, eyes still heavy and face slack in a post-orgasmic haze. He holds a hand out to John, who accepts it gratefully as they shuffle down the hall together and tumble into bed in a drowsy, ungainly heap.