Sherlock does not go to dinner.
It’s not because he’s afraid of seeing Anderson again—no, it isn’t that at all, he tells himself firmly, and only half-believes it—it’s because he feels too tense and jittery, too hot, too full of feeling after those brief moments on the deck with John.
His heart has not stopped pounding since John approached all lean and wet and smelling of the ocean, bright gold and shimmering like the sun itself, his longing for Sherlock pouring off of him in waves.
How foolish, how foolish Sherlock was to think that John would rather not come see him if he could, that John would rather drink with this friends then come to Sherlock’s bed—Sherlock shivers even as he thinks the words, and falls, hard, into the chair beside his desk, legs as weak as water. He thinks of the sorrow so plain in John’s voice and feels the ache of his regret still sharp within him.
He will make it up to John, he thinks fiercely. As soon as John is here, he will show John just how much he missed him.
After dark, John said. He will come to Sherlock after dark.
Sunset is still an hour away at least, Sherlock realizes in a burst of agony. There must be something he can do to occupy himself while he waits, otherwise, he surely will go mad.
Sherlock hunches forward over his desk, his hands buried with frustration in his hair, casting his eyes around the room for anything to take his mind off of the minutes crawling by.
Luck is with him. His eyes alight on the stack of pages that he tucked out of sight yesterday afternoon before the party—was it really only yesterday? It feels like eons ago—the neatly copied pages of his composition.
Sherlock pulls them out and begins flipping through them, running through the music in his mind.
It occurs to him now that the ending is all wrong—the movement with the second violins—no, that isn’t right. That isn’t right at all.
He pulls out his pen and ink, almost spilling it in his haste to wet the nib, and begins scratching out notes to write new ones in.
He finds himself filled with a burst of inspiration as the melodies from the night before, the rhythms of the reels and jigs, unspool within him. He thinks of the sound of that curious drum, the way the stick beat so fast against the skin—how that music made him feel, the raw power in it, how it seemed to stop his breath, so much like the way John made him feel when Sherlock saw him climbing up the side of the ship, the muscles in his arms gleaming as he pulled his body up with just the strength of his arms.
The notes are appearing so fast in Sherlock’s mind that his fingers can’t keep up. He reaches for a fresh sheaf of pages to mark down the unstoppable stream of new music that is welling up within him.
This piece of music is about John, and Sherlock has so much new information about him since the day before. He’s now seen John in action as a surgeon—bent low over Lestrade, brow furrowed in concentration, one nimble-fingered hand reaching into his medical bag to draw out an instrument, every action graceful, filled with confident assurance; he’s seen John in revelry—the way he can command the attention of everyone in the room with his easy laugh, the low cadence of his voice in song—the way he seems to grow brighter in the presence of their open affection.
All of this fills Sherlock’s mind as the music rises up within him like a tide, the memories of John mingling with his memories of the music from last night; the beat of the drum, the reedy, haunting notes of the whistle, and the sweet sonorous sound of his violin moving in him to create something unlike any piece of music he’s ever written.
And of course, that isn’t all that’s new that he’s learned of John—he now knows John, also, as a lover.
He thinks of John stretched out beside him, the heat of John’s body, the power of it under his hands—the way John’s mouth felt against him, the low sounds he made when Sherlock touched him.
Sherlock feels his cheeks heat and bites his lip, pressing his pen so hard against the page that he makes a blot across the last three measures.
Cursing lightly under his breath, Sherlock sits back a moment to wipe at the sweat on his brow.
It’s hot in Sherlock’s cabin.
Now that they’ve entered the tropics, the heat is an ever-present reminder that they are very far from the cold and foggy shores of England. Sherlock does not mind it; for the most part it’s an improvement over the stinging rains and bitter cold that he has grown accustomed to. But tonight, the air feels close and stifling, and he finds himself longing for a window in his narrow berth so that he could feel the cooling touch of the evening air.
The best he can do is to remove his jacket, pull off his neck cloth, and roll up the sleeves of his shirt. It helps a little but the more Sherlock thinks about John, the hotter he gets, until the sweat is dripping off his forehead onto the pages of his composition.
He writes furiously, feverishly—like a man in a trance—for how long he does not know, but suddenly he is aware that the light in his room is so dim he can scarcely see the page beneath him.
He is just rising to light the candle on his desk when a gentle knock sounds at his door.
Sherlock starts like a rabbit at the sound of the hunter’s rifle. He drops the matches he was holding, almost tripping over the chair in his eagerness to reach the door.
He pulls the door open, heart-pounding, terrified in the instant before he does that it will not be John at all but Anderson, or some other passenger come to disturb him.
All of his breath leaves him in relief at the sight of John’s sun-browned face beaming at him through the dimness of the corridor.
John inclines his head in a formal greeting, the light from the candle in Sherlock’s room shining gold off of his hair as he bows his head.
“Good evening,” he says in a low voice before looking up at Sherlock with a grin.
Sherlock’s heart flips over in his chest, and he is so spellbound by the sight of John really there outside his door that he is completely motionless for several pounding heartbeats.
John’s smile lifts at one corner in amusement. “May I come in?”
Sherlock snaps back to life, stepping quickly to one side to let John pass; mortified that one of John’s smiles should cause him to forget all his manners. “Yes, of course. Come in, come in.”
John steps in at Sherlock’s invitation, moving past Sherlock without touching him but close enough that Sherlock can feel the air move as he passes. He shuts the door behind him with a click.
John turns to look at him and his smile in the candlelight seems to flicker with his delight.
“How are you?” he asks, in that same low voice that seems to pull at Sherlock’s belly as though it’s connected to it with an invisible thread.
“I’m—I’m fine,” Sherlock stammers, in awe all over again at the effect that John can have on him, just from being within arm’s reach.
John has changed since Sherlock saw him up on deck; he’s in a worn blue linen shirt, the color faded, the fabric soft with age, but the color of it brings out the blue in John’s eyes, makes them shine a deep indigo. His sleeves are rolled up to reveal the cords of muscle in his golden arms; his jacket is slung over one of his hands. He’s no longer dripping wet but Sherlock can see the salt stains on his temples from the ocean water, and his hair looks softer than usual. Sherlock wants to touch it.
Sherlock can hardly think what to say; he’s suddenly overcome with nervousness. He can scarcely believe that it was just this morning that he and John lay naked in each other’s arms in this very cabin.
Sherlock blushes hotly at the memory.
He finds he does not know what to do with his hands.
“Would you—would you like some water?” Sherlock flush deepens at the utter banality of this offer, but he cannot think what else to say, what else he has that he can give to John.
John throws back his head and laughs, and Sherlock feels some of his nervousness dissolve at the sound. “That’s very kind of you.” He’s smiling at Sherlock in a way that looks as though he’s trying to keep his mouth serious but the smile just keeps finding its way back onto his face. It’s infectious. Sherlock feels his own lips twitch. “Yes, thank you. I’d love some.”
John gestures towards the chair in front of Sherlock’s desk. “May I?”
“Oh, yes. Please. Sit.”
John is like a breath of fresh air in the close space of Sherlock’s cabin. Everything about him is cool and clean and blue. His neat appearance makes Sherlock painfully aware of his own less than pristine state of dress, of the damp hair on his forehead, and the way his shirt is sticking to his back with sweat. He wishes that he had at least had the foresight to change his shirt.
John moves to sit, and as he does so, Sherlock sees what John’s jacket had hidden from view; John is holding a dusky bottle in his hand.
“We could also drink this,” John says, with a mischievous grin, holding it up. “I don’t know much about wine but Styles assures me it’s a very good vintage.”
“How did you—?”
“One of the lads who lost the bet, he didn’t have wages he could offer me, so I accepted this in lieu of payment.”
Sherlock stares at John in utter shock. The mysterious abilities and accomplishments of John Watson are boundless, he realizes. There really isn’t anything that John can’t do.
John is already pulling out the cork with his teeth. “I didn’t bring any glasses though, so we’ll have to share a cup if that’s alright with you.”
Sherlock nods, speechless, the water he has offered John completely forgotten, as he sinks down on the bed to sit opposite John.
“It’s either that or drink straight from the bottle.”
John grins at Sherlock again and Sherlock is very glad that he is sitting down. The promise in that smile makes his knees go weak.
The energy between them that was there up on deck is between them still, shimmering, hot—like a wall of flame, like a living thing twisting its way up Sherlock’s spine, making him feel dizzy and light-headed, shivering, hot and cold at once.
“We can use my cup,” he says, reaching for it, his heartbeat pounding hard in the base of his throat as he leans over.
Sherlock passes it to John who fills it halfway with the deep red liquid, before passing it back to Sherlock for the first drink.
John raises the bottle in a silent toast as Sherlock lifts the cup to his lips.
“To your health,” John says, and Sherlock can scarcely take a drink without spilling, his fingers are shaking so hard.
He does drink, deeply; feels John’s eyes on him all the while, watching the movement of his throat as he swallows.
He lowers the cup, licks his lips; sees John lean slightly forward in his chair, and when he passes the cup to John, the brush of John’s fingers over his own make Sherlock start so violently that he almost does spill the wine then, but he scarcely notices because John’s eyes still haven’t left his.
“John—” he begins.
“Yes?” John says, before he’s even finished, the cup frozen in the air between them, still held by both their hands.
“You look… you look good,” he stammers, feeling his cheeks flush with embarrassment as his words utterly fail to convey what he’s trying to say. He tries again. “I mean, you look nice, tonight… your—your blue shirt.”
Sherlock stammers to a halt, and bites his lip. His face is on fire.
“My blue shirt?” John asks quietly, grinning, his tongue coming out to trace one corner of his smiling mouth. “Do you like it?”
“Yes,” Sherlock says and lets go of his hold on the cup to drop his eyes into his lap.
“I’m glad,” John says and Sherlock feels John lean a little closer still.
There isn’t much space between Sherlock’s desk and his bed, and sitting opposite John now they’re close enough that if Sherlock shifted only slightly, their knees would brush.
“I missed you today,” Sherlock says, painfully aware of the longing plain in his voice. He keeps his gaze firmly affixed in his lap, embarrassed.
“Did you?” John asks, and there is something in the cadence of those two words that seems to respond to Sherlock, something lilting, something lifting, something equally filled with longing.
“I couldn’t—” Sherlock is encouraged by what he hears in John’s voice, but he is still too shy to look up and confirm it. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I couldn’t… I couldn’t think of anything else.”
John has taken the cup of wine from Sherlock but he hasn’t raised it to his mouth—it remains forgotten in his hand.
“What did you do all day?” he asks, his voice soft, filled with genuine curiosity.
“I…” Sherlock dares a look up at John’s face and his breath catches in his throat. “Thought of you mostly,” he admits, cheeks flushing hot as he thinks back to what he did this morning just after John left.
“You did?” John asks, setting the cup of wine on the desk beside him, untouched, his eyes only for Sherlock, all for Sherlock. His voice is growing breathless. “What did you think about?”
Sherlock is squirming where he sits, remembering how he buried his face in the pillow and thought of John, how he couldn’t resist touching himself.
“I…” He darts a nervous hand up to his mouth, worrying the edge of his bottom lip with his finger, unsure as to the source of the gesture, but compelled to do it, and John catches hold of his wrist, stilling the movement.
“What’s this?” John breathes, pulling Sherlock’s fingers towards him, cradling them gently between both his hands, uncurling Sherlock’s fingers one by one to study the length of them.
Sherlock’s fingers, he realizes, are covered in ink-stains.
“I was… composing.”
John’s eyes, as they slide up towards Sherlock’s from his hands, are so filled with tender passion that Sherlock is certain that if he keeps looking into them he will catch fire.
“Oh god, you brilliant thing.”
John’s voice is as near to a caress as any touch Sherlock has ever felt and he gasps softly at the sound of it, leans forward on the bed until his knees brush John’s.
“It… it isn’t finished yet but when it is…” Sherlock swallows hard, studying his long white fingers, curled lovingly against John’s palm. His eyes flicker back up to John’s. “When it is, I’ll play it for you. I want you to hear it.”
Sherlock feels John’s hands tighten on his fingers as he says it, and he can no longer stand the distance between them. He clutches back at John’s hands, holding tightly, so tightly John looks up at him in surprise.
“I missed you,” he says again, this time not bothering to disguise the ache in his voice, the ache in his chest that he’s felt all day, that feels as though it’s tearing a hole open inside of him, that only now might be filled by John’s hands in his.
“I know,” John says, and Sherlock knows now for certain that he’s not imagining the breathless quality in John’s voice, the ache to match his own.
“It was only a day, I know,” Sherlock rattles on, aware that he’s speaking more than he’d like to, but unable to stop the torrent of words that have been burning at the brink of his lips all day, waiting to burst forth. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Your hands, your mouth… the way your body felt against mine…” Sherlock hesitates at the sound of John’s indrawn breath, his eyes darting up to hold John’s. “That’s all I could think about.”
John’s breathing has grown ragged, his fingers tense against Sherlock’s where he holds them.
“I… I couldn’t stop touching myself even after you left.”
John actually groans then, the sound long and loud between them, and Sherlock dropping his voice with embarrassment but encouraged by John’s reaction, goes on speaking, his breathing low and quick.
“I tried to go back to sleep like you said but when I turned over—the pillow, it smelled like you and I…”
John’s nails bite into Sherlock’s palm with sudden force. His voice sounds strangled. “And you…?”
Sherlock’s voice is now a whisper. “I took myself in hand while I remembered… and I… I touched myself… all the while imagining it was you, that it was your hand around me.”
Sherlock risks a look up at John’s face. His lashes are heavy over his eyes, his pupils black and deep and glittering. Sherlock’s eyes drop to the line of John’s lips, which are parted slightly, flushed a lovely pink.
Sherlock wants so badly to kiss him.
“John,” Sherlock says and his voice is shaking. He leans in closer; feels John’s fingers tighten around his. “I want…” Sherlock wets his lips, his eyes never leaving John’s mouth. “Will you let me…”
John leans closer in turn, his posture a mirror for Sherlock’s. His breathing is shallow. “What is it?”
“I want to kiss you.”
John’s answering smile is slow and full of heat. “Good. That’s… good.”
Sherlock is still tipping forward slowly, as though his body is drawn toward John’s through a force of its own.
“May I…?” Sherlock licks his lips again, sees John’s eyes watch the progress of his tongue across his bottom lip. “May I kiss you?”
John’s answer is a sigh. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Emboldened by the longing in John’s voice, Sherlock leans in until he can feel John’s breath—soft against his parted lips. He holds himself there, overwhelmed, his mouth trembling, his own breath loud and quick in the infinitesimal space between them.
Just this is almost too much for Sherlock—just being in this space, so close to John, so close that he can feel his breath, his face a blur in Sherlock’s vision, his fingers tight in Sherlock’s, makes him feel as though his heart will burst within his chest it’s so full up with feeling.
“Sherlock…” John’s voice is a warm exhalation against his mouth. “Close your eyes.”
Sherlock hesitates, his eyes spread wide to take in the sight of John’s cheek so close against his, the curl of his eyelashes just visible in Sherlock’s field of vision.
His heart is pounding—he feels light-headed with the intensity of his desire, like he might fall off the earth if he doesn’t keep a grip on the feeling, as though if he surrenders to it, he will be washed away.
“Sherlock.” John’s voice is so gentle.
Sherlock closes his eyes.
He feels John tilt his head, his eyelashes fluttering against Sherlock’s cheeks as he moves in closer until John’s bottom lip gently grazes his own.
Sherlock gasps at the sensation, made doubly intense by virtue of the fact that his eyes are closed.
John holds himself still, breath coming out warm against Sherlock’s lips, and Sherlock is grateful that John understands, that as much as he wants John to keep moving, to press in further, for his tongue to come out and find Sherlock’s own—he needs a moment to absorb the feeling of just this, the miracle of John’s mouth against his again.
John’s lips are soft, and they feel softer still for the contrast of the stubble on his cheek—he did not have time to shave this morning after leaving Sherlock’s room and Sherlock can feel the vivid scratch of it against his chin. He wants to rub his face in it until his skin is tingling all over.
Up close John smells even more like himself—a lovely blend of sea and fresh wind—and Sherlock draws a breath in to pull the scent into his lungs, let it spread slowly through the heart of him and into the stream of his blood.
Come into me, he thinks. Become a part of me.
Even as he thinks it, he parts his lips and John responds in turn, the soft heat of his own mouth opening, fitting over Sherlock’s so perfectly, the wet sweep of his tongue finding Sherlock’s bottom lip and tracing it with careful reverence, making Sherlock gasp again in shocked delight.
That it can feel so good still fills Sherlock with amazement—why, why is it that having John’s mouth against his mouth can make everything right with the world, can fill him with so much feeling that he wants to cry out as though he is in pain?
John’s tongue is now stroking the dip in Sherlock’s top lip and Sherlock is trembling from the gentle exploration of it, torn between the desire for John to keep doing what he’s doing and for John to plunge his tongue into the heat of Sherlock’s mouth with more force, to stroke the length of his tongue.
John slides his mouth over the curve of Sherlock’s bottom lip, pulling it gently in between his teeth. Sherlock lets him, shivering at the hint of pressure. He feels John’s knee press in against the inside of his thigh, and Sherlock parts his legs wider in response, reaching out as he does so to take hold of John’s forearms so that he can feel the muscles flexing under the skin.
John’s arms are smooth and warm—so warm it’s as though Sherlock can feel the presence of the sun still on John’s skin and he slides his hands up, up over the cords of muscle, gasping into John’s mouth as he feels the shift and flex.
He hears John make a low sound of pleasure in response, somewhere in the back of his throat, and Sherlock feels a flare of heat burst into life between his legs at that sound. He slides his hands back down John’s arms until he’s caught hold of both of his hands and then surges forward, pushing his tongue into John’s mouth.
John’s lips part willingly to let Sherlock in, mouth opening wide, and Sherlock finds John’s tongue and strokes it the way he remembers John doing for him.
John’s hands come up to hold Sherlock by the arms and then his tongue is licking back against Sherlock’s, tiny little lapping movements that make Sherlock’s bones feel like they are turning to jelly, causing the fire burning low inside him to burst into an inferno of need.
John’s knee is pressing hard into Sherlock’s inner thigh and Sherlock realizes if John’s knee just moved slightly further inward it would be rubbing against the part of Sherlock that currently needs the most attention.
He twists on the bed, leaning forward in an effort to get closer to John, almost falling in his eagerness.
John’s hands come up to Sherlock’s shoulders to steady him and John pulls back with a smile on his lips, breathing hard.
Sherlock actually cries out at the loss.
“I think… it might be better if I came and sat next to you.”
Sherlock’s cheeks are hot as he straightens up. He undoes his shoes and kicks them off, then scoots backwards onto the bed.
There’s no reason to feel nervous; he and John just did all this not twelve hours ago, but somehow his anticipation is sharpened to an almost unbearable pitch. It’s like his skin cannot contain the enormity of his desire, it feels as though he will burst open at any moment.
John takes a long drink from the cup of wine on the desk before reaching down to pull off his shoes. When he straightens up to look at Sherlock he is grinning. He offers the cup to Sherlock who takes it and swallows down half the contents without tasting it. He’s too focused on getting John back against him again to notice trivial things like the taste of the wine. Although some distant part of his brain registers that it’s actually quite good. He can feel the effects of it, warm and pleasant, uncurling in his chest.
John takes the cup from Sherlock’s distracted fingers, trying to contain the smile that keeps breaking over his face. He only half-succeeds and the result is that his mouth remains quirked in lopsided amusement.
It makes him look more handsome than ever.
He sets the cup of wine back on the desk and then gestures to the bed, his face sobering as he becomes suddenly formal once again. “May I join you?”
Sherlock nods his head, his hands clenched tight between his shaking thighs.
He is so aroused he feels as though it will all be over as soon as John kisses him again.
John kneels on the bed, his mouth quirking up again in that impossible grin that makes Sherlock feel simultaneously breathless and as though he is looking into the sun.
“Do you know…?” John says, crawling toward Sherlock on his hands and knees, his smile shifting imperceptibly the closer he gets, glimmering at the corners with something dangerous, something full of hunger. “I also couldn’t stop thinking about you all day. No matter what task was before me it seemed to disappear as I found myself thinking of your hands, the sounds you made… your mouth.”
As he says the word, his eyes drop to settle on Sherlock’s mouth, his eyelashes low over his eyes, casting spiky shadows on his cheeks in the candlelight. He leans in and Sherlock can scarcely breathe, he is so desperate for John to close the last inch between them and bring their mouths together again.
“You... you did?” he asks, parting his lips and leaning in towards John even as John brushes his mouth against Sherlock’s.
Sherlock’s entire body shivers once, hard, and then John’s mouth is opening on his and his tongue finds Sherlock’s—lovely, warm and wet, and Sherlock moans softly and leans into the kiss, opening his mouth as wide as possible to invite John in.
John is still on his hands and knees, leaning into Sherlock with his whole body, lapping at the length of Sherlock’s tongue with the same long obscene licks that make Sherlock’s bones feel like they are melting.
The feel of it makes Sherlock remember vividly how John performed the same sort of licking gesture on another part of him the previous evening.
Sherlock makes a whimpering sound in the back of his throat, his hands flying up to seize John by the front of his shirt and pull him closer, thighs spreading apart on the mattress as though of their own volition.
John tips forward into Sherlock and breaks away, laughing, breathless, resettling himself so that he’s sitting on his knees opposite Sherlock. He reaches up a hand to cup Sherlock’s cheek, his thumb smoothing fondly over the corner of Sherlock’s lips. His smile is affectionate but his eyes are dark and full of sin. “You like that don’t you?”
Sherlock nods, unsmiling; his hands still fisted in the material of John’s shirt. He pushes his forehead against John’s, breathing hard, eyes heavy on John’s mouth, before using his grip on John to pull John’s mouth back against his.
John obliges, his tongue coming out to lick into Sherlock’s open mouth, the hand cupping Sherlock’s face holding him gently, guiding his head so that he can deepen the angle of the kiss.
John pulls away after another minute or so, settling his forehead against Sherlock’s just like Sherlock did. His voice is low and heavy, his hand warm on Sherlock’s jaw line. “Do you know which part of you I missed the most?”
Sherlock licks his kiss-stung lips, tasting John and shivering hard. “No,” he whispers, his own voice rough with longing.
“Your hair,” John breathes against Sherlock’s mouth. Even as he says the words his hand is sliding into Sherlock’s curls, nails scraping lightly against Sherlock’s scalp as he goes, and Sherlock melts.
His whole body bows, leaning into the touch of John’s hand and John presses his mouth to Sherlock’s hairline, burying his nose in the dark curls and inhaling deeply. “Oh god, the smell of it—Sherlock... god.”
Sherlock can feel John’s open mouth moving over his part as his fingers card through the hair at the base of Sherlock’s neck.
He goes on talking, mouth still buried in Sherlock’s part. “It’s so dark, so rich. Do you know, Sherlock, how long I wanted to touch it? Ask me. Ask me how long it’s been.”
Sherlock’s head is tipped back; his neck is extended, lost in the sensation of John’s strong fingers working through the thick curls. It’s almost as good as John kissing him. Almost. Sherlock feels drunk from the sensation.
His voice comes out slurred. “How long?”
“Since the first day I met you. God, I wanted to bury my hands in it. Just like this. And do you know what I learned, Sherlock?”
Sherlock’s head rolls forward on his neck as John’s mouth finds his ear, murmuring against it.
“What?” Sherlock asks, already forgetting the question, the hypnotic movement of John’s fingers against his scalp setting his whole body to tingling.
“It’s so much softer than it looks,” John answers, lips sliding over Sherlock’s ear, tongue coming out to trace the whorl at the center, fingers fisting in the curls and pulling.
Sherlock whimpers, letting his head tip back, baring the long curve of his throat.
“Kiss me, John,” Sherlock gasps, his voice breathless, desperate. “God. Please. Kiss me while you’re—”
John falls on Sherlock’s upturned mouth, plunging his tongue between Sherlock’s parted lips and stroking the length of Sherlock’s tongue, hands pulling gently all the while at Sherlock’s curls.
The combination of John’s tongue licking sweetly into his mouth with the pressure of John’s hand on his scalp is almost more than Sherlock can take. He can feel all the blood in his body pounding hot between his legs.
If John doesn’t touch him soon he will surely perish where he sits.
Sherlock kisses John back, hungry, desperate, his mouth slipping over John’s even while John tries to keep his kisses slow and deliberate.
John is sitting up on his knees so that he is above Sherlock, leaning down over him. Sherlock surrenders to the pull of John’s hand in his hair, letting his body curve backwards as far as it will go and he is on the edge of over-balancing when he feels John’s hand slide from his hair down his side until he’s holding him gently at the small of his back, holding him up.
John keeps one hand in Sherlock’s hair, fingers carding through the curls.
He breaks his mouth away from Sherlock’s, kissing down his chin and over the edge of his jaw. He sucks lightly at the underside of Sherlock’s throat and Sherlock cries out, reaching up to seize hold of the front of John’s shirt again and tug John down against him.
John lets himself be pulled, falling in between Sherlock’s spread thighs, his arms braced on either side of Sherlock’s torso to support his weight.
Their hips fall into satisfying alignment. John’s groin is a welcome heaviness against the aching length of Sherlock’s trapped erection.
Sherlock immediately thrusts his hips up against John’s body and is rewarded with the feel of the long ridge of John’s very hard cock pressing through the thin material of his trousers.
Sherlock gasps with pleasure, hands going slack in John’s shirt as John thrusts back against him, his open mouth traveling hot and wet down the length of Sherlock’s bared neck, pausing to suck hard on the side of Sherlock’s throat—so hard that Sherlock feels John’s teeth bite the sensitive skin.
Sherlock cries out, bucking upward with his hips and John’s fingers fly immediately to Sherlock’s mouth to silence him.
“Quiet, my love.” John’s mouth is warm against Sherlock’s ear. “Remember, you’ve got to be quiet.”
Sherlock nods, distracted, breathing hard against John’s fingers, not bothering to close his mouth.
He’s desperate for more friction against his cock; he lets his knees fall wide open, squirming against the heavy weight of John against him, shuddering as the movement causes both their erections to slide against one another.
Sherlock watches John gasp above him in response, mouth falling open, eyelashes fluttering closed.
The movement pushes one of John’s fingers in past Sherlock’s parted lips and Sherlock, seized with some mindless desire that he cannot explain, opens wider, pulling the length of it into his mouth and sucking hard around it.
John groans, his eyes flying open to look down at Sherlock.
“Oh my god,” he manages, voice trembling audibly.
Sherlock sucks harder in response, hips pumping into John, his mind flooded with thoughts of the way John’s mouth felt around his cock the day before. He imagines suddenly what it would feel like to have his mouth not around John’s fingers, but his cock—the hard, silky heat of it against his tongue, his lips stretching wide to take it into his mouth. What would it feel like on his tongue? Would he be able to fit it all? What would it taste like?
His mouth waters at the thought and he watches John’s eyes grow hazy with pleasure as his tongue laps at the calluses on John’s finger, over his knuckles, his own hips still thrusting in an attempt to reestablish the drag of their cocks coming together.
He’s about to pull his mouth away to voice this desire, to ask John if he might return the favor from last night when John, ever attentive to his needs, slides a hand down between their bodies to find Sherlock’s cock, his palm settling over the hard heat of it where it’s straining through his trousers.
All thoughts of Sherlock’s previous plan are lost as John palms the length of him; Sherlock cannot stop himself from thrusting up into the pressure of John’s hand, gasping at the welcome drag of John’s palm against him.
John pulls his hand from Sherlock’s mouth to better prop himself up as his other hand is now occupied. His eyes as he looks down at Sherlock are heavy and dark, his lips parted. “That’s right,” he says, as he begins to slide his spread palm over the ridge of Sherlock’s cock. “You can let go now. I’m here.”
Sherlock’s hands fist helplessly again in the front of John’s shirt. He begins to rock his hips in time with the movement of John’s sliding palm and oh, it feels so good.
He wants so many things—he wants to pull the soft blue shirt from John’s torso, to feel John’s belly against his own, to watch the muscles flexing in John’s lean stomach as he moves—he wants to lick the salt from John’s temples, to feel the softness of John’s hair against his mouth—he wants John’s cock hard and naked in his hand—in his mouth. He wants all of these things but he is so overcome from his yearning for John all day, and John’s hand against him feels so good, that all he can do is cling to the front of John’s shirt, hips rising up to meet his hand with every stroke, breath panting out of him in shallow bursts.
He wants to tell John how good it feels, how relieved he feels to have John here with him again but all he can manage is a broken gasp as John’s fingers find the fastenings to his trousers and begin to work them apart. Before Sherlock can even think to reach down and help him, John’s warm fingers have slid inside his trousers and taken the length of him in hand.
Sherlock does cry out then, the feel of John’s fingers on his bare flesh almost more than he can take, and John leans down to stop his mouth with a kiss as he begins to stroke, fingers slick from the moisture at the head of Sherlock’s cock.
Heaven—Sherlock is in heaven with John’s tongue in his mouth, his hand stroking the length of Sherlock’s erection in long, even strokes.
He’s too far-gone to kiss John properly; he keeps his mouth open and John licks into it, panting slightly at first, and then sucking hard on Sherlock’s tongue as he increases the speed of his hand.
Sherlock can feel the peak of his desire coiling in his belly, drawing up tight at the base of his spine—and he wants to make it last, wants to draw it out so that the bliss of John’s mouth against him and his desire hot and naked in John’s fist can last forever—but the combination proves too much.
John licks obscenely over Sherlock’s tongue, his fingers squeezing slightly at the base of Sherlock’s cock and it’s all over.
Sherlock arches up against John, his cry of pleasure lost in the heat of John’s mouth, hips thrusting brokenly as his orgasm rips through him, sending pulse after pulse of hot liquid splashing over John’s fingers and the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt.
Neither of them even managed to remove a single garment of clothing.
Sherlock sags back down against the bed, feeling boneless and heavy, a low sweet note of pleasure still humming through him, filling him with contentment.
John’s mouth moves to Sherlock’s temple, pressing a kiss to the sweat-soaked curls, and Sherlock unclenches his hands from the front of John’s shirt to slide his arms around John’s shoulders and pull John flush against him.
The weight of John’s body is a welcome one against Sherlock, as is the presence of his very prominent erection pushing in against Sherlock’s hip.
Sherlock wriggles his hips against it and feels John stiffen in response, breath catching.
Sherlock’s breathing is still harsh and quick; he lets his mouth drag over John’s ear, feels John shiver against him.
Sherlock licks dry lips. When he speaks, his voice comes out rough. “I’m sorry that was over so quickly. I wanted—” Sherlock wets his lips again, feeling his shyness returning. “There are so many things I want to do with you but I… it felt so good what you did—I couldn’t…”
John shifts so he is looking down at Sherlock. His eyes are full of tenderness. “Don’t you dare apologize for that,” he says, his voice heavy and soft all at once. “I’ve been wanting to do that all day. And besides,” he goes on, mouth curling into a wicked smile. “We’ve got all night ahead of us.”
“Yes,” Sherlock breathes, happiness stealing over him warm and sweet, like stepping into a sudden beam of sunlight. He wiggles his hips under John to settle John firmer against him, looping his arms around John’s neck to pull him down for a kiss. “Yes, we do, don’t we?”