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"I've never…" Sherlock starts, pressing his palms against his own forehead and breaking off in an involuntary swallow. "I'm…"
John quiets him, stills him with a warm, wet kiss to his abdomen, to the patch of dark, gingery-brown fuzz dusting the skin just above the band of his grey boxer briefs.
He knows. Knew from the moment Sherlock kissed him, knew from the nose-collision from lack of experience, knew from the eagerness, the overexcitement, the awkward posture of a bent spine as he stooped to press his mouth against John's, all whirlwind and breath and accidental teeth.
"'s'all right," John whispers, running his hands up Sherlock's sides, feeling his ribcage beneath his fingers, noting the erratic trembles as his breath comes in panicked little bursts.
[If he's so inclined, John can place his ear against Sherlock's chest right now, can rest his cheek against his damp skin and listen to the muffled hhhhhhs, his quick inhales, can feel the expansion of his chest as his lungs fill.]
He kisses up Sherlock's abdomen, lingering over the dip of his navel, touching his tongue there and smiling when Sherlock's stomach quivers, a quick jump, like a spasm.
John's kisses are squeaky, tight, wet little sucks of kisses that are loud in the quietness of the bedroom, the only other sounds being Sherlock's breaths and the occasional shuffle of John's knees against the bedsheets. There are eight, nine, ten little squeaking kisses, up the centre of Sherlock's belly, up his chest, between his pectoral muscles. He strokes Sherlock's nipples with his thumbs, and on a whim, latches on to the left, sucking the pale nub to a flushed, pink peak.
Sherlock moans quickly, accidentally, a tone, a note just slipping in under the airy rush of his breaths. John kisses his nipple, a closed-mouth kiss this time, all lips, and affectionately squeezes at the skin at his side, just above his left hip.
It's endearing to John that Sherlock, thin as he is, fit as he is, somehow still has skin to grab on his torso, that when his abdomen is scrunched, when he's hunched over, he gets a tiny roll at the top of his trousers like anyone else. It tells him Sherlock's human, still, even when it doesn't always seem so; he's skin and blood and bones and tissues and hormones and God [John lifts his head and watches his face, watches his pink cheeks and closed eyes].
He's aroused.
John can't help but kiss him then, kiss him right on his parted lips. He crawls up Sherlock's body and presses their noses together, places sucking kisses to his mouth, which is useless now with all the panting he's doing, with his little sighs that make John ache in the pit of his stomach.
He presses two fingers to Sherlock's jaw, angling his face for a deeper kiss, but Sherlock's having none of it, breathing more erratically, instead, swallowing too often. John laughs breathily out his nose because Christ, it's sweet. It really is. Sherlock's all flushed and unable to kiss properly, and when he does finally get his hands up into John's hair, when he does finally start to breathe through his nose and forces his lips to cooperate, it's sloppy and uncoordinated and perfect.
John pulls back and looks down at him, stroking his thumb over the crinkle between his eyebrows and smiling. He wonders what's going on in that brain of his, wonders if he's calculating, if he's focused on data and response times, on how long it takes for his nipples to harden fully when John licks at them, on breathing patterns of experienced men versus virgins.
He leans down and kisses him once more, tilting his head slightly to avoid Sherlock's nose and moving his hand into his unruly mop of curls. It's a better kiss this time, Sherlock's getting the hang of it, he's learning the whens and hows and for how longs and he's sinking into it, pulling John's head down and allowing himself to taste.
John slides the hand not tangled in curls down Sherlock's body and strokes at the warm, soft skin above the waistband of his pants. The skin there is smooth and silky; it's skin so rarely touched, never touched, in this way, by anyone other than John. And as he moves his mouth away from Sherlock's and begins to kiss down his jaw, moving to his neck, to a dip near his collarbone that tastes like salty sweat, he wonders, suddenly, if Sherlock masturbates. Does he ever touch himself at night? Does he stroke himself to the images in his mind? What does he think about?
John wants to ask Sherlock all of these things, wants to kiss his fingers and ask him if he does it, if he ever braces himself against the wall of the shower, squeezes his eyes shut, strokes himself slowly, then faster, harder, and comes.
Does he fantasise?
Even if his body's transport, even if it's just a vessel, a house for his brain, even if he tries to ignore that which doesn't affect his work, does he ever slip? Does he ever want? Does he ever wonder what it's like for another person to kiss him, to touch him, to suck him?
Are there times when his body betrays him, when he's reading up on a case, when he's thinking about sex, one of the great motivators, a catalyst to crimes of passion, and suddenly, without being able to help it, with biology and chemistry overriding his central control unit, does he feel that pressure, that tension, that need for relief, for release?
He'll ask him one day, John decides, slipping his fingers under the waistband of Sherlock's pants and stroking across dry, coarse pubic hair. He kisses right above his navel, laves the skin with his tongue, and then uses his fingers to tug down his pants.
"John," Sherlock mumbles, and it sounds distressed, almost, or uncertain. Anxious.
John looks up at him, watches him pull his bottom lip up over his top lip and blow a puff of air into his own face.
Sherlock's shy like this, nervous, nearly silent save for his breathing, and it causes a twist in John's gut, causes a rush of affection for him. He's the most confident man John's ever met, but here, like this, he's undone, he's inexperienced, he's embarrassed, almost. Embarrassed to be exposed, to be bare and real and raw and so, so very human.
John kisses the crease at Sherlock's thigh. "All right?" he asks, pulling back.
Sherlock hmms at him and begins to run a hand over his own stomach.
His cock is flushed and leaking, lying against his belly at one o'clock and slowly dribbling little dots of clear fluid onto his skin--rushes, more fluid coming when John presses kisses to his thighs, when he tentatively touches his scrotum, smoothing his palm over it, pushing it upward and then letting it fall back to its natural resting position.
At this point, John's own cock is straining painfully in his pants, more erect than it's been at this stage of the game in years. To relieve some of the pressure, he pushes his pants halfway down his arse, freeing his cock from the restricting cotton and allowing it to bob about as he moves, as he takes care of Sherlock, kissing him, touching him, discovering him.
Sherlock groans loudly as John places a kiss to the heated skin of his cock. Instinctively, Sherlock moves the hand stroking his belly up his chest and holds his forearm over his mouth, muffling his inadvertent noises as if embarrassed to hear them, as if they're proof of his lack of control, proof of his enjoyment of his body, his transport, proof of a failure of some sort.
John moves closer, accidentally touching the leaking tip of his own penis to Sherlock's thigh, and gently nudges at the arm across Sherlock's face.
"You're gorgeous," he says, and it's an accident, a pure accident, something he's never said about a man in his life. It slips out without warning when he watches Sherlock scrunch up his face in frustration, and he feels it, truly feels it, feels it like a weight in the pit of his stomach, a warm spark growing to a flame that moves to his cock.
Sherlock rolls his eyes at him but smiles, just barely, a quirk of his lips. "John," he says, voice shaky. "John. I can't…think. I'm going mad."
John leans in and kisses him roughly, a hard kiss to the mouth, and pulls back with a smack. He chuckles, unable to control himself, chuckles at the look on Sherlock's face, like everything he's ever known to be true is disintegrating before his eyes, is turning to dust and blowing away.
"Relax," John tells him, reaching a hand down and grasping Sherlock's cock. "You're not supposed to think." He begins a slow, achingly slow, rhythm, stroking the shaft in his fist, running his palm over the head on the upstroke and using Sherlock's precome to lubricate the process. "Enjoy it."
He grins when Sherlock tries to give him that look again but has to bite it off in the middle, stifling a groan and an expression of unadulterated pleasure.
Something tells John Sherlock's enjoying it just fine.
His own cock draws lazy streaks of fluid on Sherlock's thigh as he works him in his fist and watches his face go from God to OhdearGodfuckinghell. As he strokes him and sighs against his chin, the underside of his penis brushes against Sherlock's skin and gives him a rush of desire, causes a tightening in his abdomen, causes yes, please to bounce about, caught in his throat.
Slowly, keeping an eye on Sherlock to make sure he remains comfortable, John straddles his thighs, fumbling with awkward legs and positions, accidentally kneeing him in the process of tugging Sherlock's pants the rest of the way off.
Sherlock huffs a laugh at that, getting his arms up around John's neck once completely nude and using his body to help him shift into a comfortable position. The bed creaks as John moves, as he settles himself between Sherlock's legs and tries to push his own pants off his arse with one hand, wiggling his hips around and causing his cock to bounce against Sherlock's abdomen.
"What the hell are you doing?" Sherlock asks, and his voice is light and amused. He leans to the side and sits up a bit to see, his mouth curling into a smile when he spies John's wine-coloured briefs caught under the swell of his arse. "Shove up," he says, pushing against John's chest and sitting completely upright on the bed. He lifts both legs and hooks his toes in the waistband of John's pants, using his feet to work them down his thighs.
John lifts one knee at a time and finally frees himself, laughing and shaking his head. "Fucking…pants," he says, kicking them onto the floor.
Sherlock smirks and takes him by the sides, hands pressing firmly just under his ribcage, fingers curled around, thumbs digging into the [softer than John would like] flesh of his stomach. He wiggles his digits, feeling the sensation of a warm, chuckling, very naked body, feeling the shudders as lungs expand, as stomach muscles tremble in John's amusement. Calculating.
"Stop measuring my fat," John grumbles in mock-annoyance after several moments, taking Sherlock by the wrists and tugging his hands away. He leans in, kisses him once, quickly, and then presses him back to lie on the mattress once more. He stretches out on top of him, nuzzling his nose against the stubble-less skin of Sherlock's jaw and whispering, "Skinny bastard."
Sherlock laughs through his nose, little forceful puffs of air that land on John's cheek, that make John groan in false exasperation and move up to capture Sherlock's mouth because God, this is happening. He feels a surge of realisation in the pit of his stomach, a jolt of adrenaline. Sherlock Holmes is naked and hard and under him and around him and laughing in his face and…when did it come to this? How did they get here?
They were just friends three hours ago, weren't they?
Closer friends than most, surely--friends who stroked palms through hair, friends who casually brushed debris from each other's clothing, friends who killed for one another, who occasionally fell asleep together on the sofa. But friends. Yes.
Right?
But it still seemed that the declaration and kiss that started it all, that occurred not an hour ago, had somehow been coming for nearly a year, had been words, an action, on the tips of their tongues, waiting, waiting. The event was sudden, abrupt, shocking in a sense, but not entirely surprising. Not surprising at all, really. It didn't cause John to think, "My God. I just told my male flatmate that… I just. Fuck, my flatmate just kissed me. We kissed."
Instead, all he could think was, "Okay. Yes. It's happened."
[Finally.]
They were crowded together in the kitchen following a case, following a night of almosts, of gun muzzles to temples and the awful weight of fear in the pits of stomachs, and Sherlock simply looked at John as if seeing him for the first time, nudged him with his elbow as he snatched up his mug of tea, and said, "John. John, I think perhaps I might. I think I might." And John nodded his head once in confirmation, switched off the kettle, and replied, "Yes." He heaved a sigh and rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his palm. "Yes, it's mutual, I think."
It wasn't a happy declaration, all twinkles in eyes and beaming smiles, hearts and rainbows and a swell of violins. It was quiet and it was mundane and it was said with an air of, "This is how it is, you know. We're very much in love, aren't we? All right, then."
And Sherlock set his mug on the kitchen table, stepped up to John, close, so close he was blocking out the overhead lighting, and bent down like some sort of awkward, flightless bird. He pressed their mouths together [not even so much lips, really], and John took him by the waist and tried to still him, to kiss him properly, to hold his wriggling figure, which thrummed like a live wire.
It was all breath and noses, and it wasn't very good, objectively, but subjectively it was…oh. Right. Yes.
John smiles at the memory, feels a clench in his gut at the thought of the tea growing cold in the kitchen, of Sherlock's red cheeks, his slight deerlike expression as John helped him to remove his shirt. The rush of breath, the pinch of Sherlock's fingers grasping John's sides as John placed a single kiss to Sherlock's chest, right over his heart, right where no one else had ever kissed him, had ever touched him. The open and close of Sherlock's mouth as the two of them stripped down to their pants and spread out on the bed, like he wanted to say something, anything, but couldn't find the words.
Quiet Sherlock. A first, for sure.
Quiet, nervous, inexperienced, unconfident Sherlock.
John kisses down Sherlock's neck, down his chest, his belly, and aches with affection, with the knowledge that he gets to show him something, that for once [undoubtedly only once, since Sherlock learns impossibly quickly], John is the guide, is the leader.
He wonders what Sherlock will be like later on [if there's a later on]--whether he'll be dominant and playfully aggressive, whether he'll prefer it fast and hard or slow and soft. Whether he'll shove John down on the bed and consume him or whether he'll stretch him across the mattress and pull him apart bit by bit, unraveling him with a gentle mouth, with touches, strokes, thrusts.
His chin bumps Sherlock's cock, which leaves a dot of warm fluid on his skin, and Sherlock sighs heavily at the contact.
John's never performed oral sex on a man before; frankly, he's never done anything at all with a man, save for a strange instance or two of drunken kissing [chaste, mostly] when he was much, much younger. He tells Sherlock this, mumbling against the skin of his lower abdomen and curling his fingers around his cock.
"You don't have to," Sherlock responds, voice hardly a thing but a breath.
"Want to." Because John does. He really, really does. The thought of it, of Sherlock's cock in his mouth, burns him from the inside, settles in his belly like a warm stone, sizzles. He feels a stringy drip of his own precome land on his thigh as he teases some from Sherlock, squeezing gently near the head of his cock and watching as a bit bubbles from the slit.
Sherlock sighs and places a hand flat on his belly, rubbing slowly, unconsciously. "Well, I've never received fellatio," he says, voice strained, "so it's unlikely I'll immediately notice a lack of technique should you--"
He seizes up, back arching, spine lifting from the mattress, when John goes in all at once and wraps his lips around the glans of his penis.
"God."
Sherlock tastes slightly salty, like skin moistened by sweat. John takes Sherlock's hand, the one on his belly, and threads their fingers together as he sucks gently, overly-mindful of his teeth, and breathes harshly out his nose.
Sherlock's fingers are incredibly warm but strangely dry, and his palms are calloused. His fingernails bite into the skin of John's hand but retreat nearly immediately as he tries to relax.
John pulls back and looks length-wise across his body at his face, feeling a rush of desire at the sight of Sherlock's open mouth, his shut eyes, and the hand grasping at his curls. He uses his palm to gently press Sherlock's cock flush against his belly and drags his tongue up the shaft, teasing, kissing, sucking, before closing his mouth around the head once more.
He's not about to take too much of him, fearful of gagging, choking, and vomiting [sixth form--Jane Bryce], but he does take more of him in his mouth, sliding down perhaps an inch. He wraps the hand not clasping Sherlock's around the bit he won't attempt to insert and slowly strokes as he pulls back and then lowers, pulls back and lowers.
Sherlock makes a sound, a sound like nothing John's ever heard, a mixture between a gasp and a moan and something else, like he's been stroked, punched in the gut, and frightened all at once.
John hesitates for a moment, pauses his slow but steady rhythm, half-wondering if Sherlock's in distress, half-wondering if he's about to come.
A rush of fluid against his tongue points toward the latter, and John squeezes Sherlock's fingers, breathes slowly out his nose, and waits. Remembers that Sherlock's never done this before, done any of it, that John's own first time lasted approximately ninety seconds and resulted in sticky underwear and a very disappointed first girlfriend.
He pulls off for a moment and kisses messily at Sherlock's trembling thigh.
"It's…" Sherlock begins. Stops.
"Too much?"
"Yes. I don't know." He's breathing hard, too hard, almost.
John pulls his hand from Sherlock's and rubs at the center of his chest, soothing. "Want me to stop?"
Sherlock begins shaking his head before John's even got all the words out. "Keep going."
He does.
Sherlock places both hands on the sides of John's head this time, gently, stroking fingers through hair, across scalp, rubbing fingers against the warm skin behind John's ears.
The muscles in his thighs jump, shake when John sucks and strokes, mimicking the trembling of his abdomen, the little quivers that signal a surge of precome.
Sherlock leaks so much, and it's arousing and yet sweet, somehow, and it's got John aching, absolutely aching, his own neglected cock resting against Sherlock's leg.
The detective's making noises, too, huffy noises, bursts of air escaping his open mouth and laced with occasional vocalizations, low tones beneath breaths, punctuated by the occasional, "Oh" [an actual "oh," not a moan, really, but a word, like Sherlock's realising something over and over].
John slides his hand down and begins stroking his own cock in time with his sucks, nearly bringing himself off to the sounds and tastes, to the texture of Sherlock's bare skin beneath his tongue and the little taps to his head by frenzied fingers.
"God," Sherlock says, suddenly, quickly, like it has escaped without permission. His hips thrust upwards once, twice, and John knows he's about to lose it. Knows he's about to come.
He feels a sting as hands pull up on his hair, tugging him up and off Sherlock's cock, and he nearly comes himself when he spies the look on that man's face, like he's completely gone, like he's blissed out and flying.
"All right?" he asks, knowing the answer, obviously, but wanting to make sure. He swipes the back of his hand over his mouth, clearing away some of the spit that had dribbled out during his ministrations, and locks his eyes with Sherlock's, watches him scrunch up his face like something's so fucking wrong but also right, like he doesn't know which is which and what is what and how to manage this, any of this, the feelings in his belly and the look on John's face.
And without warning, after almost ten seconds of staring and breathing, of John's waiting, of nothing even touching his cock, Sherlock lifts his hips, thrusting against and into nothing, nothing at all, and comes, somehow, with a heavy exhale, like he's been holding his breath for hours.
It's a first for John, the very first time he's ever seen another man orgasm, ejaculate in his presence, and he doesn't know what to do. He grabs at Sherlock's arm, which is flailing, and strokes his skin as he watches milky come spurt out onto his belly unaided.
The first spurt shoots up the centre, grazing his skin until landing in a sticky streak two inches above his navel, and the second and third hit somewhat lower, in the trail of thin hair John had once kissed and licked.
Sherlock's suddenly inhaling too much, too quickly, on the verge of hyperventilation. His abdomen hardly moves with his breaths, and John has to tell him to "breathe, breathe," crawling up his body and kissing at his cheeks, his mouth, his neck.
He feels the warm wetness of Sherlock's come on his belly and groans a little when their cocks brush in John's movement.
"Are you…?" he makes to ask, lips against the crinkle between Sherlock's eyebrows. All right?
But before he can, he feels hands dig into the skin of his sides, pulling at him, pulling him down, closer, flush.
"Fuck, John," Sherlock murmurs, and it sends John straight to the edge, that word. Fuck. He's not sure he's ever heard Sherlock say it, if he's honest, is fairly sure he hasn't. It's sexy, "fuck" in this context, impossibly so coming from Sherlock.
John drags his lips down Sherlock's face and kisses him, kisses him back to breathing, and groans when he feels knees move up to either side of his body and heels coming to rest against his arse. He begins to thrust, head of his cock rubbing at the come-streaked skin just above the start of Sherlock's pubic hair. He thrusts and he kisses and sighs.
Sherlock's arms wrap around his back and squeeze, and he watches John's face with eyes wide, mouth, too, panting, watches him with fascination, as if he's a particularly interesting experiment, a beaker about to bubble over.
John laughs, he can't help it; he laughs as he thrusts, rubs his cock against Sherlock's skin, and it feels good, right, to be doing this, to laugh like this.
"What…are you…" he gasps, "thinking about?"
Sherlock does nothing, says nothing, eyes still wide, still panting. He watches as John begins to unravel, as his smile begins to fade in favour of an open mouth when orgasm approaches, when that tell-tale tingle begins low in his belly.
But abruptly, when John's given up on an answer, when he doesn't care anymore, really, as fire's coursing through his veins, Sherlock slides his arms up and places both hands on the back of John's head, pulling him down for a kiss so hard, so passionate, John feels he may pass out, collapse in a heap.
It's tongue and teeth and wanting, John knows it is, knows it just as he knows he's about to implode, and he returns the kiss in kind, thrusting again, harder, faster, and finally…
Yes.
God.
It's a tidal wave. A flood. A purge. All at once.
He comes and it's Sherlock's spit on his mouth, his teeth clamped around his lip, a shared groan, and noses damp and warm from breath.
It's wetness between their bodies, the result of it all, of everything, of the kiss in the kitchen, the casual touches on the sofa, the too-long stares, the fascination, the jealousy, the bullet in the cabbie, the soldier and the detective and the wink and the "Afternoon."
John sighs against Sherlock's mouth, feels hands leave his hair and settle against his shoulder blades.
He'll have to roll away soon.
Not now.
He kisses lazily at Sherlock's lips, at his jaw, neck, and tucks his head there, ear against his shoulder, nose buried in sweaty curls.
…
Several moments later, as they've finally begun to catch their breath, John hears Sherlock blow air up into his face again and sigh.
He hmms at him, tired.
"Well," Sherlock says, and that's all. That's it. Well.
John hmms again.
"That was…" Sherlock rubs his hands across the expanse of John's back, lingering over his coccyx.
"What?"
"Good." And he says it just as he said it that night by the pool, only less manic. That thing you did. That you, um, offered to do. That was…uh…good.
John shifts around and pushes up on his elbows. He smiles at Sherlock and wants to just…hide his face…hide his face like a primary schooler…at the sweet flush of Sherlock's cheeks and the sweat glistening on his forehead.
They just had sex. Sex.
John snorts because he can't help it, and gives in, burying his face in Sherlock's neck and laughing like a bloody lunatic.
He feels the shake of Sherlock's stomach before he hears the rumble of laughter, and Jeeesus is it not the best sound? Glorious. Beautiful.
God, he wants to consume him like fire.
He wants to fuck him, he thinks. Not five minutes after orgasm and he's already anticipating more. He's thirty-seven fucking years old.
Dear God. Sherlock Holmes is a menace.
He laughs harder.
"Don't laugh, John," Sherlock says, chuckling himself. "It's rude."
"Mm. What's rude?"
"The laughing. Obviously."
John smirks and kisses the skin closest to his mouth [neck--warm and soft]. "'s'not rude," he mumbles, reaching a hand up blindly and patting around until he finds Sherlock's hair. Strokes. "It's how you know."
"How you know what?" Sherlock's voice is taking on its usual tone; his breath's slowing, evening out, and he's speaking with an air of, Everything is just so curious.
John shrugs a shoulder. He can't answer that, really--isn't even sure if he knows the answer quite yet. He rolls off of Sherlock with a groan and stretches out on the bed, limbs like jelly.
"So what are we thinking?" John inquires, tilting his head sideways on the pillow and watching Sherlock's face. The other man is staring straight up at the ceiling, and his hands, John can tell, are a moment away from steepling beneath his chin.
He doesn't answer immediately, choosing instead to narrow his eyes and purse his lips.
John pokes at his side.
"Sex is…" he finally begins, then hesitates, getting his hands up under his chin.
"Brilliant? Amazing? Mind-blowingly--"
"Strange."
John sighs, but Sherlock shakes his head at him, like Don't be that way, and continues:
"I found it difficult to think clearly during much of the process, which was frustrating, if not unbearable, but the physical sensations experienced throughout the act--particularly the climax--were…remarkable." He shifts, rolling onto his side to face John but maintaining his steeple pose.
"Enjoyed the orgasm, did you?" John asks, smiling.
Sherlock's face colours all at once, cheeks going from happy-heated to embarrassed-flushed in moments, and he quickly diverts his eyes. "I suppose."
"You suppose."
"Mm."
John smirks at him and scoots closer, throwing an arm over his waist. "You couldn't breathe properly there for a while," he notes, stroking his palm up and down Sherlock's back.
"Shut up."
Embarrassed Sherlock is perhaps John's new favourite thing. He chuckles into his neck and hmms.
It's going on four in the morning, and all the lights in the flat are on, and their tea's still in the kitchen, cold and likely verging on congealed.
And they just had sex and are now cuddled together, naked and sticky and satisfied, and John doesn't know what to make of this. Doesn't know where to even begin.
But then:
"It was enjoyable," Sherlock says quietly, an admission, and John feels a warm hand on his hip, fingers stroking the skin there.
"It was."
He feels a kiss to the top of his head, and the hand on his hip moves up and around to his back, his shoulder blades, his neck.
"Oxytocin," Sherlock says, as if explaining his actions, body seeming to settle somewhat, to sink further into the mattress. Tired.
John smiles and nuzzles his nose against the warm skin of Sherlock's throat. "Oxytocin," he repeats, and closes his eyes.