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What He's Like

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So this is what he's like, John thinks, breath hitching, stuttering out in ah-ah-ah punches as Sherlock lowers himself onto him.

Sherlock clearly doesn't know what he's doing, only what he's supposed to do, what's supposed to go where and what makes it easier to put it there, textbook knowledge dueling his total lack of practical experience. He breathes as if he's just learnt how, weak little things, shaky things. His belly expands, quivers, he tenses and relaxes.

"Alright?" John asks, taking Sherlock by the hip and giving him a soothing stroke. Sherlock's on his knees, thighs trembling with the effort, and his hands are braced hard on John's chest, holding himself up as if afraid to lower.

"It's." Sherlock closes his eyes, embarrassed, before shifting, squirming. John feels Sherlock's rim squeeze the first third of him. "It's a lot. Forgive me."

"God, no." John rubs Sherlock's belly. "Take your time. I'm good here."

Sherlock's eyes squeeze, forming crinkles, before relaxing again, still closed. "Are you? Is it--" His mouth drops as he sinks, centimetre by centimetre.

"Perfect, love. Promise." John moves his legs, restless, feeling the sheets bunched up round his ankles where they'd shoved them down in their haste. "God, you're--"

Sherlock's knees bend, more and more, slowly, as he lowers himself, finally, finally.

"John. Oh." His breath coughs out like he's been punched in the back. "This is--"

His eyes open as he seats himself fully.

John feels the warm weight of him, the softness of his bollocks against his pelvis, the crinkly, prickly hair. "Sherlock."

Sherlock breathes quickly, shallowly, in-out-in-out, chest hardly moving with it.

John grasps him about the waist. "Breathe, Sherlock, you've got to-- Got to breathe." He pants, himself, feeling the squeeze, the flutters of muscles around his cock as Sherlock takes time to adjust. "Alright? Does it hurt?"

"Yes," Sherlock says, immediately, hands still pressing against John's chest, still bracing himself. "No. Just. Full." He takes one hand back, as if testing, before placing it once more against John's ribcage.

Sweat drips from his brow, follows a beautiful track down his cheek like a tear. "I'm not used to this."

"Give it a bit." John runs his hands up and down Sherlock's sides. "We'll wait. No rush."

"No, it's fine, it's just--" Sherlock sighs. He studies John's face and worries his upper lip between his teeth. "Sorry."

John taps his hip. "Nothing to be sorry for." He pauses, then chuckles.


"Just." John smiles brilliantly. He reaches his arm back and rubs at Sherlock's sacrum. "My dick's in your arse."

"Oh, hell, John," Sherlock groans, swatting at John's chest but breaking into a smile. And it's completely unsexy, this, the giggling, the clinical nature, the adjusting period. Sherlock is nearly entirely soft, his penis flopped to the side at half-mast, and John's cock is being squeezed within an inch of its life from Sherlock's tensing muscles, but God. It's lovely. John giggles and rubs Sherlock's warm skin and loves his body as best he can.

He has a look, then, eyes wandering, as Sherlock slowly begins to loosen up, to relax, hands on John's chest less bracing and more stroking. John examines Sherlock's spread thighs, the creamy whiteness of them, rarely seen the light of day, examines his messy pubic hair, the surgical scar on his abdomen--appendix--his tightened nipples, the flat oval below that nearly ended his life, nearly ended John's with it.

"You're perfect," John says, watching him, fondness breaking his heart.

Sherlock flushes up even more, blinks slowly, and removes his hands from John's chest.

"Ah," he murmurs, all his weight down as he's now flush against John, taking him to the root. "Wow."

John feels him squeeze inside, rhythmic, as if feeling out the length and girth of him.

Unsexy but entirely charming. Heat gathers in John's abdomen.

John snatches Sherlock's hands with his own, threading their fingers together.

"Can you?" he asks, giving those fingers a squeeze.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and nods, clenching-unclenching-clenching-unclenching. "I'll--" He slowly presses upwards, sitting up at the knees, just shifting against John more than anything.

John huffs out a pleasure-sigh at the feel of it. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, just--" He grips Sherlock's hands, knuckles white.

Sherlock blows out a breath and lowers. Sucks one in through his teeth, raises up. "Okay, yes, that's-- That's--" He digs his nails into the back of John's hand as he does it, as he starts a gentle rhythm, impossibly slow, endlessly endearing.

"Lovely," John whispers, rubbing at Sherlock's palms with his thumbs. "Look at you."

"John," Sherlock scolds, face aflame. He squeezes his eyes shut for a beat, two, before opening them along with his mouth, which drops with a sigh of pleasure. "This is--" Awkward stutter of his hips, a tiny, downward jerk. "Dunno. Odd, I think."

John smirks. "Odd, eh?"

"Mm. Perhaps."

"D'you like it, then?"

Sherlock huffs, a breathy little thing, kissed with a smile, "S'pose."

"Does it feel nice?"

"Stop talking, John." He's embarrassed. Embarrassed.

John chuckles, deep, low in his gut, and gives a bit of a tug on Sherlock's hands, pulling him forwards. It occurs to John that Sherlock's not done any of this before, not the sex, not the talking, not even the hand-holding, the sweating, the loving. "A kiss before I shut up?" he asks, peering up into that flushed face.

Sherlock bites the insides of his cheeks as if thinking, and with a gentle arch of his spine, a graceless swoop, bending chest-to-chest around a gut-punch exhale, presses their lips together.

It's awkward, a bit, Sherlock bent and John pressing up, but when it turns to hot breath, tender touches of tongues, and Sherlock losing his breath, attempting some semblance of a rocking thrust as he kisses, oh, it's perfect. John drops one of Sherlock's hands and takes him by the nape of the neck, instead, squeezing, pulling him close, running his mouth across and against his lips, his nose, his chin.

"Is it alright if I--?" John tilts his hips in a gentle upward thrust, a single press to Sherlock's grind, and Sherlock breathes harder and runs his free hand across John's ear, framing his face, rubbing his cheek, patting his hair.

He's plumping up, his cock thickening once more. John slides his hand from Sherlock's nape, down his spine, bump-bump-bump across the knobs, across the terrain of his scarred back, down to his bum and, finally, in a rough, pressing stroke, to his front.

Hips beginning a steady rhythm, as much as he can manage whilst on his back, John touches at Sherlock's cock, holding it in his palm and giving it a sensual rub, sliding back the foreskin, and running his thumb across the head in gentle sweeps.

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut and breathes all the harder. He pulls the hand still clasped to John's towards his face and plants a tender, lingering kiss on John's skin.

"Thank you," he says, and it's puzzling to John, impossible even, that such a man would thank someone for love.

John smiles and lightly returns, "Don't mention it," but what he thinks is, "How?" and "Why?" and "Can't you see yourself, you beautiful creature?"

John wraps his free arm around Sherlock's waist and guides Sherlock's presses down, his own presses up, and he loses his breath a bit at it, at the body he's inside, at the humanness of Sherlock, the fear, the insecurity, the worry that should never be there, only pleased smiles and confidence. Self-esteem.

"You're incredible," he murmurs, thrusting up, and Sherlock's breath thrusts out, his shyness worn in the pink of his cheeks.

"Thank you," Sherlock says again, and John cannot take it.

"Can I?" he asks, twisting his hips a bit in question.

Sherlock, perplexed, presses his lips together. "How--"

"Can I--? I want to--"

"Er." Sherlock swallows, a squeaky thing, and shifts. He squeezes around John once, twice, and wriggles his hips.

John grips him about the waist and, with a heave, tips them over.

Even unsexier than the adjusting is the readjusting, repositioning, as John flips Sherlock on his back and eases inside.

It's different, this, and Sherlock notices it immediately, fingers digging into the skin of John's neck, into the tops of his arms, his shoulders.

John sniggers a bit as he takes Sherlock by the hips. He presses an affectionate kiss to his nose and whispers, "Unclench, please."

That embarrasses Sherlock again but in the loveliest of ways. John giggles the entire time he works himself inside, huffy giggles against the skin of Sherlock's jaw.

"I adore you," he says, meaning it with his life's blood.

Sherlock exhales audibly and gets his knees up on the sides of John's hips.

"You're beautiful." He kisses Sherlock's neck. "And amazing." Sherlock's jaw. "And I'm lucky to have you." Chin.

Sherlock opens his mouth as if to speak, as if to say it again, that dreadful "thank you" that carries with it the weight of the world, the weight of stories John's not yet heard, stories of a lonely and rejected young man who always, always felt things so deeply in spite of himself.

John presses his mouth to Sherlock's cheek.

He shifts his hips the littlest bit, and Sherlock blows out a breath, leaning back and exposing his throat for kissing.

"I can't believe it," he murmurs, barely a whisper, as John licks across his Adam's apple, hips beginning a slow, slow grind.


Sherlock huffs and scrabbles his hands across John's shoulders, pulling him in, tightening the grip of his legs. "Nothing, just--"

John presses up, peering right into his face.

Sherlock isn't going to finish his sentence. His mouth is closed but gently, not holding back but taking in, eyes wandering the expanse of John's sweaty, flushed face.

"I'm so in love with you," John says, a statement of fact. "I will never not be in love with you."

Sherlock's mouth drops open, forming a small space through which to exhale. His hands trail up to John's hair, and he stares at him, expression as open as John's ever seen it.

"John," he says, petting him gently. "John."

John moves in him then, slowly, so, so slowly, sucking the skin at his suprasternal notch, down, down, between his pectorals, above his nipple. Sherlock squeezes him with his knees, bites his nails into his shoulders, and makes gaspy sound after gaspy sound as John's hips press in and retreat, press in and retreat.

They drink each other in, taste each other, touch every sweaty inch of every sweaty bit of their bodies, and it's marvellous, breathtaking. John holds himself up by the elbows on either side of Sherlock's body and picks up the pace, hips moving in a solid rhythm, quickening as the two of them pant harder, harder.

"I might come," Sherlock says suddenly, snaking a hand down his own belly to squeeze at his cock. "I might, John, I'm sorry, I--"

John feels him squeezing around him, a flutter followed by a pulse, and John simply presses his open mouth to the centre of Sherlock's chest and sucks on him as he begins to piston his hips, harder, harder, faster, faster.

Sherlock groans, hand shoved down, grabbing at himself more than stroking. "Will you-- Can you--" he starts, stops, around his erratic breaths. "John, I'm going to--"

"Oh, fuck," John murmurs, jerking his hips, losing his rhythm. "God, yes, Sherlock. You're amazing. You feel--" He gasps, overwhelmed. "Brilliant, fuck. Come, Sherlock." He thrusts once, twice, so hard Sherlock's body slips up the sheets. "Come around my cock. God, I feel you--"

At John's language, Sherlock loses it.

"Come-inside-me, fuuuck," he pushes out, all in one breath as he strokes himself once, twice, and falls apart. He squeezes John's cock over and over again as he comes, huffing, huffing, wheezing, striping thick, milky fluid clear up his chest.

"Oh, you gorgeous, gorgeous--" John pants, gentling but not slowing his thrusts, feeling his body light from the inside, heat pooling low in his belly and spreading.

He flattens himself against Sherlock, chest to chest, feeling Sherlock's semen smear across his belly, buries himself to the root, and with a grunt and "fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck," comes deep inside him.

"Oh, God," he says, exhausted, grinding his hips, pulling out just the littlest bit before sliding in again, making a mess of things, his come dripping out of Sherlock and travelling down the crack of his arse. He wants to do it again and again and again, come inside him, make Sherlock tremble with his own release, give him the most incredible amount of pleasure.

After he has softened, John pulls out completely and presses a soft kiss to Sherlock's belly, right above his navel and right over a smeared stripe of come. Teasing, he drags his mouth down and takes in the tip of Sherlock's cock, giving it a bit of a loving suck.

Sherlock's thighs jerk almost comically, twitching uncontrollably as he presses on John's head and makes a sound of displeasure driven by his oversensitivity.

John grins, pulls back, and gives that last bead of come pooling in his slit a lick. Sherlock kicks at him playfully.

"Joooohn," he whines, grabbing for John's arms in an attempt to pull him up so they can kiss.

"Mm," John hums before complying, sliding up and pressing a series of gentle, gentle, gentle kisses to Sherlock's lips. "You beautiful thing. How was that?"

Sherlock sighs, so pleased, and brings his hands up to pet at John's hair. "Incredible."

John nods in agreement and lowers, sticking out his tongue and encouraging, with a bounce of his eyebrows, Sherlock to stick out his own tongue to meet his in the air between their lips.

Sherlock rolls his eyes but eventually does it, cheeks flaming up at the explicit sexuality of the act, and John huffs a laugh and chases his tongue back into his mouth.

When he pulls back, John smirks, rubs his nose to Sherlock's, and murmurs, "I'm going to give you so many orgasms. You've no idea."

Sherlock snorts, embarrassed, and pulls his hands up to cover his face.

John bats his hands away and gives him rapid-fire kisses all over his cheeks. "So many," he reiterates between kisses, dropping his hips low and thrusting playfully, not intending to arouse but to tease.

"Shut up," Sherlock says, taking John by the face and giving him a kiss on the nose. "Be careful or I may expect the next in a matter of moments."

John laughs. "Ah, would be nice, wouldn't it. Suppose you can, though, you horny thing." He groans. "I'm getting old, Sherlock, so don't expect my dick for the next hour."

"I think you underestimate yourself, John."

"Oh, do I?"

"Indeed." Sherlock preens, lips curled upwards in a tiny grin.

John presses his mouth to Sherlock's shoulder and blows a raspberry.

They snuggle in after a bout of giggles, sweaty and soft and overloaded with endorphins. John tap-taps Sherlock's heartbeat against his chest.

"You're kind," Sherlock murmurs, stroking up and down John's arm.

John gives Sherlock a squeeze around the middle. "You deserve every bit of kindness."

"Mm. Many would disagree."

"Many are arseholes."

"Even so." Sherlock gives John's arm an affectionate pat. "Thank you for. Well."

"You don't have to thank me for loving you, Sherlock. It doesn't work that way." He presses a kiss to Sherlock's chin. "You're as deserving of love and affection and-- fuckin' orgasms as anybody else."

Sherlock chuckles and, though John knows he fights it, knows by the war in the corners of his mouth, the upward curve pulled back down by insistent muscles, looks awfully pleased.

"I never--" Sherlock pauses, and in that pause, allows his smile to come to fruition, bright and lovely. "I never thought I'd have you."

John kisses that smile. "You've had me, you know. Maybe not like this, but." He drags his lips across Sherlock's cheek. "You've had me always. Loving you is the easiest thing in the world. I'm lucky to. Chuffed, in fact."

Sherlock runs a hand up John's arm to his shoulder. "John," he says with such love.

"Delirious with it."

Sherlock bops John on the side of the head and pulls him down for a kiss.

"I adore you," he whispers around the kiss, and its so gentle and muffled that John questions whether he heard it at all. But at that moment, Sherlock pulls back, face set in determination:

"Always have. Since the moment we met. You've ruined me forever, and I'm not the least bit sorry, and the oxytocin is making me this way now, you know, I apologise, but I suppose since I've said it, I'll say it all, that I love you with my entire being, John Watson, have done for ages, and I always will. And we've had fantastic sex now and I'd like to have so much more--every day, in fact, if it suits."

John bursts out laughing, burying his face in Sherlock's neck and snorting with it. "God, I love you," he says.

When he raises his head, he sees Sherlock blushing, eyes squeezed shut with embarrassment, and John kisses him and kisses him and gentles him until they're both falling to pieces with laughter.

"That was a hint, you know," Sherlock breathes, shaking with giggles. "That last bit."

John slides his fingers into Sherlock's, interlocking their hands. "Was it?"


"All the best things are."

Sherlock smiles, soft and sweet. "Indeed."