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a fool could see just how much i adore you

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Nocturnal penile  tumescence, Sherlock thinks, fisting himself furiously, is hateful.

"NPT?" the John in his head asks, amused. "Mate, it's just morning wood."

"Shut up," he grits out, "shut up, shut up."

He closes his eyes and gentles his touch, loosens his fist, pulls off to tease the head of his cock with his fingertips, but it doesn't work, nothing works and he's not even close to, to -

"Rubbing one out?" the John in his head prompts, and Sherlock groans in frustration, head falling back onto his pillow. He closes his eyes, folds his hands together over his stomach and swallows, heavily. He doesn't do this often, anymore, and it's a bad idea, terrible idea, but - he takes a breath and concentrates and  --

 




"Morning,"  a warm and sleepy John murmurs, pressing a kiss to the closest part of Sherlock he can reach (his shoulder, and John's lips are soft and dry).

"Good morning," Sherlock replies, with a tiny smile, and there's a snort from beside the bed.

"Terribly domestic masturbatory fantasy," Mycroft observes, "A bit pedestrian, brother."

"Oh, why are you here?" Sherlock groans.

"Make him go away," John mumbles, rolling into Sherlock's side, and Sherlock wraps an arm around him.

"I wish I could," Sherlock replies, before John catches his mouth in a gentle, close-mouthed kiss. When he pulls back slightly; "I've been trying my entire life."

John smiles against his mouth, and Sherlock trails his fingertips down John's side, beneath the sheet, and John twitches away from the touch.

"You think he's ticklish?" Mycroft asks, dubiously, "Evidence?"

Sherlock rolls his head on the pillow to glare at Mycroft, over John's head. "Hard to collect," he snaps, "Short of actually tickling him-"

"And you never have?" Mycroft asks.

"Mmmn, slightly inappropriate for flatmates," Sherlock says.

"Yes," Mycroft says, slowly, "Always a primary concern of yours." Sherlock rolls his eyes and turns his attention to the John pressed up against his side - but not quickly enough to miss Mycroft's, "And former flatmates, Sherlock."

John rolls his eyes, now. "Ignore him," he says, two fingers tilting Sherlock's jaw towards him, "Just ignore him," and he kisses Sherlock slowly, teasing his mouth open, and when Sherlock touches John's bottom lip with his tongue, John pushes up and rolls on top of him, without breaking the kiss.

John kicks the sheet off them, and Sherlock shifts beneath him, spreading his legs a bit until John settles against him fully, and he hooks a leg over one of John's, tracing his heel up the back of John's calf and John kisses him harder.

The door to his bedroom opens -

"Oh," the John permanently in his mind palace says, pulling up short, turning his head away, embarrassed. "I can come back later."

Sherlock breaks the kiss, and, unfazed, John leans down to nip at his earlobe, and Sherlock's panting, just noticeably.

"He's multiplying," Mycroft says, "Oh, happy days."

"Hang on," John says, taking another look at the bed, "Is that - me?"

"His observation skills are fairly true to life," Mycroft says, and although he means it as an insult -

"Thank you," Sherlock deadpans, as the John on top of him kisses down his neck, across his collarbones.

"Oi," the new John protests.

"Don't be like that," Sherlock murmurs, as the John in his bed kisses his chest, his thumb brushing Sherlock's right nipple.

 

[He thumbs his own nipple, eyes still closed].

 

Sherlock's breath catches, and John lifts his head to look at him for a long moment, before lowering his mouth and biting at Sherlock's nipple.

 

[He pinches his nipple, now, hard].

 

"Oh," Sherlock murmurs, and John moves lower, kissing his belly, his hips; affectionate but purposeful, and Sherlock's leg slides off John, falling open, as the head of his cock butts at John's chin.

"You're gorgeous," John murmurs, lips dragging along the crease of his groin, and Sherlock's toes curl into the bed, even as Mycroft sighs beside them.

"No stubble?" Mycroft asks, almost disappointed. "How'd he manage that, Sherlock? It's first thing in the morning."

"Shut up," John barks, running a hand up and down Sherlock's bare calf.

"John," he says, pleadingly, and John kisses the inside of his thigh.

"Yes?" he asks, with a grin, light and happy and it almost sticks in his throat -

"John," he says, again, all he can say, and John lowers his head and takes him in his mouth -

 

[He reaches for the lube again, and fists just the head of his cock, warm and wet].

 

- tongue teasing the underside of Sherlock's cock, and the John beside the bed shifts, uncomfortably.

John wraps a hand around what he can't swallow and pulls in time with his bobbing head, not even looking up when a familiar female voice sighs, almost wistfully, "Oh, that's lovely."

"Now?" Sherlock groans, lifting his head, gaze staying above her shoulders. "I'm a bit busy."

The John from his mind palace frowns. "Do you ... think about her a lot, when you-?"

"I'm imagining you sucking my cock," Sherlock says, irritably, "I'll leave you to the deductions, today."

"Why?" The Woman says, "Jealous?"

"I'm not gay," John says, crossing his arms.

The John between Sherlock's legs lifts his head for a moment, replaces his mouth with his hand, and Sherlock shivers as he rolls his palm over the head of Sherlock's cock. "Mate, you're not entirely straight, though," and the John beside the bed scowls at him.

 

[Sherlock mimics the movement, spreads a bit of pre-ejaculate around with the roll of his palm].

 

The John on the bed shrugs, and turns back to Sherlock.

"How are we feeling this morning?" John asks, his hand stealing between Sherlock's thighs, and Sherlock pauses.

How should he be feeling the morning after, presumably, penetrative intercourse?

(And because they're all his mind, they all hear it).

"You don't know, do you?" The Woman says, and she leans over to brush a gentle thumb over his cheek, "What it feels like to be taken?"

"Irrelevant," Sherlock says, tightly, turning his head away from the touch, and Mycroft sighs but --

"Penetrative intercourse?" the John on the bed echoes, with a grin. "Christ, the mouth on you." He's teasing him, Sherlock knows, but he kisses the inside of Sherlock's knee affectionately. "Not too sore?" he checks, and Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

"Depends on what you had in mind," he murmurs, and John moves up to kiss him again, hard and breathless.

"Twice in eight hours?" Mycroft asks, mildly. "He's not as young as he used to be, Sherlock."

"Oh, piss off, Mycroft," the John beside the bed says, with a frown.

"Cheers," the John on top of Sherlock says, without lifting his mouth far from Sherlock's, and the John beside them nods, once.

"If your refractory period's that long, you should see a doctor," mind palace John mutters.

"I'm not offering," fantasy John adds, from the bed, and even Sherlock's snickering, and Mycroft's lips twist, unhappily.

"You're being childish," he admonishes them.

"Yes," John says, against Sherlock's mouth, "Now shut up."

He kisses Sherlock again, grabs the lube one-handed -

"Where did that come from?" Mycroft prompts.

"Didn't put it away last night," Sherlock improvises, and John hums his approval as he slicks up his hand. He reaches down between them and encircles both of their erections, and Sherlock gasps.

 

[He wraps his around the base of his cock].

 

John braces his right hand on the mattress and jacks them with his left, slowly at first, just up and down, pushing against Sherlock, hips rocking back and forth, and Sherlock sighs, shakily.

"John," he breathes, as John's hand speeds up.

"What is this, Sherlock?" Mycroft asks.

"Thought that'd be pretty obvious," the John beside the bed deadpans, and Mycroft smiles at him, wanly.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft prompts, as John rubs his thumb over the head of Sherlock's cock (and, oh, it's marvellous).

 

[He does it again, shivery and tingly and oh].

 

"Familiarity," Sherlock grits out.

"You've known the Detective Inspector longer," Mycroft says, "No. Why John? What is this?"

"Friendship," Sherlock says, as John's strokes become shorter.

"Closer," Mycroft says. "But look at him, Sherlock."

John writhes above him, breath hitching, and he's getting close -

"Affection," Sherlock murmurs, reluctantly, and John's hips buck, pressing harder against him, as he comes over his fist, Sherlock's stomach. His hand slows, stroking himself through it, slicking Sherlock with his come -

 

[He squeezes some more lube over his erection].

 

"Which indicates?" Mycroft asks, and John's still stroking them, twitching at the touch (so close to too much), trying to catch his breath and Sherlock's bollocks are tightening, the base of his spine tingling -

 

[He pushes up into his fist, over and over, and he's almost there -]

 

He comes with a gasp, trembling underneath John, and John gentles his touch as he pulses again, weakly. John fists them once more, a long stroke down and up again, before letting go. He grins at Sherlock, and Sherlock smiles back.

"Which indicates?" Mycroft repeats.

John ignores him and leans forward to kiss Sherlock, who closes his eyes and kisses back, hard (and only partly so he doesn't have to answer right away).

"Sentiment," Sherlock murmurs, when John draws back, and John smoothes Sherlock's hair back with his right hand.

"I'll grab something to clean up," he whispers, and when he climbs off the bed, mind palace John averts his eyes.

"Precisely," Mycroft says, gently, ignoring them. "Sentiment."

"What's wrong with-" Sherlock cuts himself off, and Mycroft looks at him with pity.

"Oh," The Woman says, sympathetically, from the other side of the bed. "You poor thing."

He glares at her, then Mycroft, then at the wedding band on the John beside his bed. The fingers of John's left hand curl and uncurl, reflexively.

"I'm not in love with John," Sherlock says, defensively.

Mycroft's expression softens hideously. "Of course you're not."

"Go away," Sherlock says, closing his eyes. "All of you. Just - go away."

 



He opens his eyes. Stretches his legs, his neck.

He trails a fingertip, absently, through the cooling mess on his stomach and stares at the ceiling.


In a minute, he'll rise and shower, scrub all traces of this morning off, scrub until his skin's pink and tingling, but - for a moment - he can lie there and pretend that, any second now, John - damp flannel in hand, fond smile in place - will return.