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A Turn of Phrase

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Sherlock finally brought up the subject over dinner at Angelo's one evening, when they hadn't had a case in over a week and his mind must have been aching from the boredom. John had a dish of particularly delicious meat cavatini and had just taken a bite when Sherlock said in an even, calculating tone whilst gazing out the window, "I think we ought to have sex, John."

John paused only briefly in chewing; he wasn't surprised, except perhaps at how long the statement had been in coming. He then resumed chewing and swallowed. "I wouldn't be adverse to it," he said. "Are you experienced in that area, then?"

Sherlock looked at him, knitting his brow. His hands were clasped under his chin. He actually had a plate in front of him but had only been picking.  "A man my age?"  He asked. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, the whole 'girlfriends not really my area, don't have a boyfriend' bit."

"Both those statements are true. Doesn't mean they always have been. Aside from the girlfriend part."

John shrugged and reached for his glass of water. "You also said you were married to your work. Thought maybe sex wasn't something you fancied."

"I quite like sex." Sherlock looked out the window again. "It's enjoyable, if a bit messy. Also the most direct way to dissect another person's psyche."

John wasn't sure he wanted his psyche molested by Sherlock, but he doubted much of it was still virginal on that front anyway. "So you're experienced." A statement, not a question. He took a drink.

Sherlock looked back at him. "Quite. Or, at least, I have no issues in that area. I'm told I'm physically attractive. I don't have a hard time drawing interest."

"You are." John put the glass down.  "Attractive."

"I don't lack for attention, I just choose when I receive it. I haven't felt like receiving it for a while." His gazed drifted back out the window, fingers flexing beneath his chin. "Now I think I'd enjoy some."

John took up his fork again.  "So, out with it. How did you come to this conclusion?"

"Oh really John, it's not opaque."

"I know, but I want to hear the steps." He stabbed a piece of pasta and smiled. "Consider it foreplay."

Sherlock gave a soft sigh, a thoughtful one, not exasperation. John had learned the difference. He resumed eating while Sherlock's mind twisted and churned. He could practically hear the facts falling into place inside his skull.

"We've been growing increasingly comfortable and companionable with time. I find myself able to relax around you and I also feel a sort of kinship—I wager you feel this as well. Although I don't often let people within my circle of security, you've proven yourself worthy of at least the outer edge."

"Thank you," John said from the corner of his mouth, half-full of a bite.

"You find me aesthetically pleasing, I knew even before you admitted it just now. You have a certain way of looking at me, especially when we're in comfortable, neutral territory at home, your gaze often lingers, when you don't have to worry about the scrutiny of others. You fancy me in that blue dressing gown, you look at me more than at other times when I'm wearing it."

"It brings out your eyes," John said.

Sherlock lifted a hand, as if John were disturbing his process. "I find you increasingly more sexually attractive as well, especially as my libido reemerges from its dormant spell. This feeling is exacerbated by the warm fondness I have for you."

John chuckled, feeling a blush across his cheekbones. "So you think I'm sexy now?"

Sherlock gazed at him intently, the sort of look which made John shift ever so slightly in his seat. Of course, Sherlock would still notice. "'Sexy' is such a broad, subjective concept." Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "And too malleable to be a solid construct. I find certain things about you pleasurable. For example, you've let your hair grow out a bit so it's gotten shaggy. It makes your face look more pleasant."

John had learned not to interpret things the wrong way with Sherlock, so he stopped himself from asking 'was it hideous before, then?'

"Go on." John stabbed at his pasta.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Your shoulders and hips are proportional in a way I find pleasing."

"Is that your way of saying you think I have a nice arse?"

"Don't be crass John, save that talk for later."

John took a bite, chewed, and gave him an expectant look. He wasn't hopping into bed without a bit of sweet talk first.

Sherlock looked briefly strained, and then said, "You smell nice." This sounded awkward, as it was a direct compliment for once.

John swallowed. "Thank you. So do you."

"And all this culminates in a strong urge within me for us to have sex. I think you feel it too, so I believe we should act upon it. Too often people fling themselves into misery by denying their biological urges and emotional needs for the sake of propriety."

"So this is your typically-convoluted way of telling me you're horny."

Sherlock titled his head slightly. "So are you. You're half-erect now. That's why you keep shifting. And your pupils are dilated, skin has a light flush—and your eyelids are drooping. 'Bedroom eyes,' so called because the muscle of the upper eyelid relaxes directly before orgasm."

"I am half-erect," John admitted, chasing a bit of pasta around with his fork. "I'm guessing you are as well, because you're showing the same symptoms."

Sherlock lowered his hands and picked up his own fork.  "Fully erect, actually," he said, unabashed. "We need to change the subject to something more mundane so as not to draw attention when we stand up to leave."

"Yes." John cleared his throat. "This weather—awful, isn't it? All the rain."

"Ghastly."

*****

At home, John feared things might turn a bit awkward, but instead they simply relaxed into a common, comfortable stupor. Sherlock changed into his pajamas and blue dressing gown and John stripped down to his jeans and button-up.  A cup of tea and an hour or so of telly while sitting on the couch together eased things further. Sherlock fussed with his tea, never happy with it—there either wasn't enough milk, or too much, or it wasn't hot enough, or it was too hot. He got up several times.  "Mummy never did it that way…" he muttered at his cup. John was used to this idiosyncrasy and ignored him.

Finally, he seemed content and drank his tea. The show they were watching ended. He turned to John.

"Can we, then?" He asked.

John smirked.  "You're gagging for it, aren't you?"

"Yes." No pretense, just his pale, glimmering eyes focused in hard pinpoints on John's face.

"Well, it's a bit abrupt." John ran a hand through his own hair, deliberately. "But there's no sense in drawing it out. I am too, truth be told."

"Ask me."

"Ask you what?"

"Ask me to come to bed with you."

John opened his mouth, then hesitated and cleared his throat. "Sherlock, would you like to—"

"No." He sat forward, closing the space between them. "Say it that way," he demanded. "Ask me to come to bed with you. That turn of phrase arouses me."

John was only momentarily taken aback. Of course Sherlock would be blunt and ask for exactly what he wanted.  "Sherlock," he dropped his voice, "can I take you to bed?"

A barely perceptible fluttering of his eyelashes. "Yes, John. I'd like to come to bed with you."

"Are you going to tell me what to say all night?"

"No, but I may ask you questions."

Upstairs in John's room, the lights off, in the comfort of the bed, Sherlock was all limbs and hard angles with soft spaces in between. He was also warm, which, although John knew better, he had somehow always thought he'd be cold to the touch and it seemed strange. His hands were warm. His lips, warm.  His hair felt like silk and smelled like the rain.

"Your bed smells like you," Sherlock remarked.  He turned his face to the side and breathed in against the pillow. A streetlight through the window fell stark and silvery across his face, bringing out the sharp lines of his cheekbones in hard relief.

"Should it smell like someone else?" John worked at the buttons on his shirt, hovering over him.

"I find it almost unbearably intimate." Sherlock looked up at him. His eyes glittered. "It intensifies my arousal."

"I can feel that."  John smirked and nudged his thigh up between his.

"You look good in jeans."

"Thank you."

"You do have a nice arse."

"Thank you again." John finished off the last button on his shirt.

"Hmm." Sherlock's voice lowered and turned into a sensuous, baritone rumble which made John's cock twitch and swell further. "You're quite fit." He slid his hands over John's bare chest, beneath the curtains of his open shirt.  "Good bit of muscle from the army still."

"You really know how to talk a man up," John said, a little breathy.

Sherlock tilted his chin up. His throat worked. "What do you find attractive about me?" He asked.  "Tell me."

John smiled and lowered himself. He didn't know where to start, so he went right to the top. He smoothed the pad of his thumb across Sherlock's lips. "Your mouth," he whispered. "These full, pink lips.  They have such a delicate shape.  Do you know when you gasp open-mouthed in surprise they form a perfect heart?"

His lips spread in a wide smile beneath his thumb. "I do actually," he said, sounding amused. "I'm told it's quite a delightful sight around one's cock. Would you like to see?"

John shuddered. "Oh, God."

"Is that a yes?"

"I'm sure you can deduce."

"All right, but first I want to hear the rest."

"The rest?"

"What else do you find alluring about me?"

John chuckled softly. He could barely think, after that one. His cock felt impossibly hard and heavy in his jeans.  "Your eyes," he said, gazing down into them.  "I think they're gorgeous."

"I know. You stare into them more than strictly necessary."

"And your face," he whispered, stroking his thumb down his cheek. "It's so uniquely beautiful."

"Anything else?"

"Your throat." John buried his face against it and kissed the soft skin next to his Adam's apple. "God, the way you smell."  He gasped muffled against his skin.  "I want to fuck you so badly."

John heard the sound he made in his throat, felt it against his lips. "Yes," Sherlock whispered, close to his hair. "Say it like that now."

John stretched up and pressed his lips to the shell of his ear, Sherlock's thick curls dragging across the bridge of his nose. "Please can I fuck you?" He whispered.  "Can I be inside you? Will you let me in?"

He felt Sherlock shudder beneath him, his chest hitch.  Long fingers clutched convulsively at his hip. "Yes," Sherlock answered, rumbling and breathy.  "But first my mouth."

John could barely think or even make his body work well enough to roll off of Sherlock and sit up, as he was instructed.  Sherlock got off the bed, turned on the lamp next to it, and knelt on the floor. His hair was tousled and his cheeks and lips darkly pink.  He urged John to the edge of the bed, legs over the side, and undid his jeans. John pushed down on the mattress with his hands and lifted his hips so Sherlock could drag them down, along with his pants. He was mildly embarrassed at how hard he was and how eagerly his cock sprung out, wet and flushed deep red. He was also a bit embarrassed the whole front panel of his Y-fronts was coated with gooey slickness.

This mild embarrassment turned to a real case of blushing like mad when Sherlock leaned over and licked the soaked front of his underwear, which were spanning the gap between his knees.  He sucked at the fabric for a moment, then slid up and dragged his very hot, very wet tongue up the underside of his shaft to the head. "Oh sweet Jesus," John could only gasp out.

"Your cock is beautiful, John. Look how hard you are. I'm pleased."

"Thanks," he shuddered.

"Make sure you watch," Sherlock said.  "You might have to push my hair out of the way. Don't be shy."

Sherlock placed a hand on his stomach and made him lean back a bit. He then dropped his shoulders and drew John's cock down, so he more or less had a straight line of sight. Indeed, the vision of that pale pink heart slipping over his cock was the most dizzyingly glorious thing he had ever seen. He took a good bit of him in one go too, down to the halfway point on his shaft, before sliding back up again. John did have to reach out, with a shaking hand, and push his hair away from his forehead to keep a clear view.

"Oh God." John couldn't form any coherent thought beyond calling out to a deity which may or may not have been listening. "Oh. God."

Sherlock bobbed smoothly, swiftly, expertly. A few strokes and he took even more than half, his cheeks hallowing.  Then he opened his eyes and gazed up at John as he worked on him, focused and intense. The sight was almost too much.

"Don't keep at that too long," John said, his voice harsh and catching. "I'll put a load right down your throat if you do."

A few more passes and he slid his mouth off. His lips were glistening. John wanted to push his head back down, but at the same time he didn't want to go off before they even got naked.  "Good God, Sherlock." He could barely breathe. He realized his entire body was trembling. "I've never wanted anyone as much as I want you right now."

Sherlock got back on the bed, graceful and languid. "Do you want to do the taking? It’s probably better that way."

"Oh yes." John tried, flailing and boneless, to get the rest of the way out of his jeans and pants. "Wait…why is it better?"

"I'm, as they say, hung like a horse."

John stared at him.

"It might be uncomfortable for you," Sherlock explained evenly. "And you'd need a good deal more preparation than I think you have the patience for at the moment."

John still didn't know how to respond.  He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again.  "So, it…" He paused again.  "Well, 'hung like a horse,' you mean…"

Sherlock waved a hand. "It's not really the dimensions of a horse's penis, of course. That's absurd. Some like the fullness and discomfort and want me to top them, but as I said, it takes some preparation and you seem a bit too aroused," he looked at John's cock, "to withstand that. You'd probably come off while I'm readying you."

John cleared his throat. "Let me see this thing."

Sherlock took his bottoms off, and dear God, the thing was markedly big, especially fully engorged. Thick, though not any more than his own, but notably longer, with a bit of a curve toward the head. It's proportional to his body, he thought deliriously.

"I know, I know," Sherlock said dismissively. "It's not grossly outside of normal range, but it's big enough to get comments, and as I said, cause discomfort without proper preparation." John wished he'd quit alluding to fucking other men, because suddenly the notion made him angry. "You seem more eager to penetrate me anyway, so I didn't think it would be an issue."

"Oh I am," John said. "I prefer to be on top."

"Good, then there's no discussion." He paused, expression thoughtful.  "Do you have any condoms?"

"Yes, just there in the bedside drawer."

"And lubricant?"

John felt a drop in the pit of his stomach. "Um."

"What do you wank with?" Sherlock asked, sounding mildly concerned.

"Uh." John felt his cheeks flush. "My hand?"

Sherlock blinked at him, slowly, the sort of blink which said, 'you're being daft.'

"Er, just…spit, usually," John said. "And as you might have noticed, I leak quite a bit when I'm aroused. I don't usually need lubricant."

"Hm." Sherlock darted his gaze about the room. "All right. Stay put." He worked himself off the bed.  As he left the room he called back, "Put a condom on while I'm gone."

John stared after him a moment, then he snapped out of his stupor and fought the rest of the way out of his clothes, jeans and shirt, until he was finally naked.  He got a condom from the drawer, and, appreciating Sherlock's demand for efficiency at a time like this, opened the package and applied the slick rubber sheath.  He felt a little absurd, sitting there waiting for Sherlock to return with a condom on his cock, and was glad when he heard his footsteps on the stairs.

When Sherlock entered the room he was completely naked, as if his clothes had magically disappeared. He was long and lean and pale and his cock was still fully erect, jutting out obscenely in front of him. He had a clear bottle in his hand. "Baby oil," he announced, as he crawled back on the bed.

"Why do we have baby oil?" John asked.

"It's the perfect viscosity for some of my experiments." He held the bottle out.  "Do you want to prepare me, or watch me do it myself?"

John considered. "I'd like the honors," he said, and took the bottle.

"Very well."  He began to settle down, and then stopped. "Do you want the light on or off?"

"Er." John could barely think, and here he was asking all these maddening questions. "Off, I think.  Makes it a bit more intimate.  I can just listen to you and feel you."

Sherlock turned the light off. They spooned, Sherlock on his right side, John pressed to his back, breathing against the nape of his neck.  Sherlock was hot and pliant against his chest. He slicked his fingers, put the bottle aside, and began carefully pushing one into him.

"That's a nice, tight hole," John murmured against his neck, face full of his hair. He slid through the initial resistance and sunk in. "Oh, my cock's going to feel so nice up there."

Sherlock made a soft sound of approval, such a rumble it sounded like a purr. "I do like how much this bed smells of you. Now I've stepped out I can smell it again."

John ghosted his lips across the back of his neck, just below his hairline. "I had a wank here this morning," he whispered, "right where we're at."

"Did you?" The edge of his voice curled with titillation.  "Were you thinking of me?"

"A bit." He started sliding his finger, smooth and easy, in and out.  "My mind flitted here and there, and came to you every now and then, yes."

"Were you leaking generously? Making your hand slick while you fucked yourself?"

"Oh God, yes. It was so good."

"Did you come off while your mind was on me?"

"Yes." He didn't have to lie.

"Did you get any on the sheets?"

"I might have, I'm not sure. I tried to catch most of it in my hand." Sherlock was so soft and open inside already, John thought he could get a second finger in.  He withdrew, then carefully pushed back in with two. Sherlock gave a soft grunt.

"Next time if you do make a mess on the sheet you should call me up," Sherlock said.  "I'll clean it with my tongue."

"You like licking me up, don't you?" John nuzzled his neck and then pulled his front teeth across his skin.

"You taste as delicious as you smell," Sherlock said. He stretched against him, lengthening his back.  "So decadent, John."

"I don't usually do it in bed. Usually I get it off in the bathroom before I go to work."

"In the shower?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes in front of the sink." If he weren't so aroused he might have felt awkward telling him. "I just come in the sink and wash it down."

"Do you look at yourself in the mirror while you're coming off? At how your face looks?"

"Sometimes," he said breathily.

"I've pleasured myself in front of a mirror before. It feels so delightfully filthy."  He rocked his hips back.  "I had a wank two mornings ago."

"Please tell me about it." John lifted his head so he could kiss his throat, just above his collarbone.

"I woke up feeling completely voluptuous. I kicked the sheets off and took all my clothes off. I like it best completely naked."

"I'm not surprised." John chuckled breathily. "I'm discovering you're quite tactile here."

As if agreeing, Sherlock rolled his hips, so John's fingers went in deeper.  "I was flat on my back," he said, his voice deep and airy. "My legs in the air, knees drawn back. Do you know why?"

John could picture his long, slender legs in that position and almost groaned.  "Tell me."

"I like to put my fingers in myself, while I'm stroking. It feels amazing."

John did groan this time, and punctuated the sound with a firm push upward. Sherlock gasped.

"Did you come off like that?" John asked. He thought listening to Sherlock talk might make him come without being touched. "With your fingers inside you?"  He'd never be able to watch him play the violin again.

"Yes. Just like you're doing now, two of them."

John wanted to add a third, but he still felt too snug.  "I wish I'd heard you. I would have come in and pushed my cock right up you, seeing you spread out like that."

"I wished you would.  I was fantasizing you had, the whole time."

"How hard did you come?"

"So very hard, John. My back arched, and I was nearly writhing. I shot several thick streams across my chest and stomach. And I pressed on my prostate, which had the effect of making me shoot so far I even got a bit on my chin.  I rubbed it up over my lips with my palm and imagined that was how you tasted."

John could no longer speak. He was completely wrapped up in the heat and scent and sound of Sherlock, and if he opened his mouth one more time he was going to combust.

"Don't worry about preparing me further," Sherlock said. "I can feel how bad your need is. Come inside now."

John slid his fingers out of him, trembling again—no, shaking. Shaking with desire and dear God, had anyone before ever turned him into a live wire like this, absolutely thrumming with want?  If they had, he couldn't recall. Sherlock drew his leg up and John slid in smooth and easy, silently thanking whoever was listening for the slightly dulling quality of the rubber.  Otherwise, he would have gone off the second he was seated deep in Sherlock's snug, velvety heat.

"Oh John," Sherlock sighed out.

"How does it feel?" John murmured against his shoulder.  Sherlock's skin was now damp with sweat. John had to slide down a bit to push up into him, so his cheek rested against his scapula. He just wanted Sherlock to keep talking.

Sherlock groaned, a full, throaty sound. "So very lush, John. Your cock is so hot and hard up in me."

John rocked his hips, just a little, trying to keep what little control he had left.  Sherlock was exquisitely tight, but with a few careful movements he relaxed around him, just a bit, just enough to properly thrust.

John shuddered and buried his face against his back.  "Sherlock," he whispered. "I don't think I can last very long."

"It's all right." His voice vibrated deep inside his body. "I rarely come off while being penetrated anyway. The sensations are too intense. Take exactly what you need, as fast as you need it. You can finish me off after."

John felt a sweeping sense of relief, which served to calm him down a bit too. He started moving his hips, slowly, deep inside, but then drew out a bit and pushed back in.

"Fuck, why haven't we been doing this all along?" He asked, and gave a shaky laugh.

"Imagine all the places we could have gone at it by now," Sherlock said, and then gasped as John shoved up hard into him.

"Yes." John let the fantasy romp through his head. "I could have put you back in the booth at Angelo's. Wedged you up in the corner and put your legs over my shoulders."

"Shaking the table with each of your thrusts. Harder, John."

John obliged, snapping his hips. "And you looking up at me with half-lidded eyes, licking your lips, stroking your…oh God…your cock…" He actually needed to come so badly now it hurt.  He was almost too sensitive to continue thrusting.

"Next time we're in the back of a cab," Sherlock said, "I'm going to pay the driver handsomely to take the long way while I suck you off."

"Next time we're at St. Bart's, I'm going to fuck you viciously on the countertop in the lab."

"I'm going to come to your work and make you take me over an exam table."

John's pleasure was nearly at the point of agony.  Sherlock pushed back against him, and turned his head.  Ever observant, he whispered, "John, don't be shy about what you need right now. Take me the way you need to."

"Get on your front," John growled, sounding vicious even to his own ears.

John finally found relief, pounding hard against his upraised ass, Sherlock's face in the pillow, his moans muffled but positively swelling with delight.  The edges of John's vision went black and glittering when he came into the condom, stiffening so hard his muscles burned, and then falling into uncontrollable shudders.  Sherlock turned his face to the side and groaned out.  "Oh John, push up deeper so I can feel you pulsing."

John pushed up hard inside him, and stayed there for a moment, until his body completely sagged and gave up. He hardly had the presence of mind to grip the base of the condom as he drew out.  He fell back on the bed, taking huge, deep breaths, still shaking.  Sherlock rolled over and sat up.

"All right, John?"

"Mm hm." He nodded, breathing in deeply through his nose. "Just…give me a moment.  Need to recover."

Sherlock took the condom off him while he lay there, and tossed it away. He then returned and smoothed his hand up his half-hard length. John shivered and gripped his wrist.  "No," he said softly. "I'm too sensitive right now. Wait a bit."

Sherlock withdrew. After gazing at John for a moment he lay back, and slid a finger up his own hard, curving length. John could see the head glistening in the light from the window.  He watched in a post-orgasmic haze as Sherlock gripped himself in his fist and began a slow, steady stroking, working luxuriously up and down the length.

"Give me just another moment and I'll help you out," John said.

"Take your time," Sherlock said lazily.  "Enjoy the show until then."

John did enjoy the show, nerves still burning, the hard edge of arousal now softened but still lingering. Sherlock stroked a little faster, slick sounds issuing from between his cock and hand. John had to admit, watching Sherlock Holmes fuck his own fist was indeed a show.

Finally John sat up and groped for the bottle. "Keep at it," he murmured.

He slicked up his trembling fingers again, and Sherlock brought his knees up, feet flat on the bed, and spread his thighs wide. John had no trouble sinking two fingers in right away.

"Oh, I've fucked you properly, haven't I?  Look how soft and open you are."

"You have, John.  You felt better than I imagined inside me."

"Come on, put your knees back." John gripped his calf and urged his leg up. "Let me see how it was the other morning."

Sherlock drew his knees up, opening himself even further, and John got a third finger in.  Sherlock panted beneath him, stroking hard, rubbing the head into his palm on the finish of each up-stroke.

"I'm taking notes," John said. "Is that how you like it? That big cock stroked nice and hard?"

"Yes," Sherlock panted out. Then he yelped as John's fingertips grazed a firm little bump deep inside him.

"Oh, is that the spot?" John cooed at him, delighting in watching him come undone beneath him, squirming, head thrashing on the pillow. "Is that the sweet spot?"

"God yes," he choked out, and pulled in a hard breath.  "Oh God, I'm nearly there."

John was almost aroused enough by the sight and by Sherlock's voice to fuck again, already. "Say my name when you come off. I want to hear you say it." He rubbed against the spot again, pressed on it.  He dipped his head and licked the sweat trickling down Sherlock's thigh from his knee.

"Almost…almost!" Sherlock stroked faster, hard and furious, the slick wet sounds frantic.  John noticed his other hand was scrabbling fruitlessly at the edge of the pillow next to his head and he reached up and clasped it, pinning it down. His fingers tightened around John's hand in an almost painful grip.

"That's it," John urged, feeling him clenching inside around his fingers. "Go on…"

"I'm going to come!" He cried out with sudden, imperative urgency. And then, "John! John!"

He stiffened, head thrown back, hips bucking up.  John pressed up against his prostate through the tightening ring of muscle and marveled at how far the first shot went, actually getting on the pillow.  The next few made it lesser, but no less impressive distances.  Sherlock ground out through clenched teeth, "John, I'm coming," as if this weren't plainly obvious.  John almost laughed.

"Yes, you are," he said instead. "And it's the most beautiful goddamn thing I've ever seen."

He didn't even try to remove his fingers until Sherlock sagged against the bed and relaxed a bit. He carefully slid them out and Sherlock put his legs down. John dragged his slick fingers up the crack of his ass to his balls.  "Next time before we have a go, I'll lick you open and get you nice and wet before I go up there," he said.  "No baby oil."

Sherlock gave a languid, rumbling laugh.  "You might not want to do that, or else I'll be demanding your tongue in me on a near-constant basis."

"Eating out your arse every night is preferable to watching crap telly.  In fact I think next time we're watching telly that's exactly what I'll be doing."  John flopped over on the bed and drew a heavy, satisfied sigh.

"Oh, I like that turn of phrase as well," Sherlock said, hand lifted languidly, pointing at nothing in particular.  "Next time we're both turned on you must say you want to eat me out."

John smiled. "Of course, anything you like."

Sherlock lowered his hand.  "Oh no," he drawled. "I've gotten spunk on your pillow case."

"It's all right, now it'll match mine on the sheets."

Sherlock rolled toward him and placed a hand on his chest. "I'm sticky. Want to pop into the shower with me?"

John chuckled. "I don't think I'm quite fit enough for shower sex. I'll land on my face. It's too small to have sex in, anyway."

"It's bigger on the inside."

"Like a TARDIS?" John asked lazily. He smoothed a hand over his lower belly and sighed. "My cock is actually sore. That's how good this was."

"Probably from putting it in too much."