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"Please don't order the aubergine parmigiana."

John flinched and looked up from the email on his phone. Standing before him was a tall, slim man in a crisp white shirt and a striped silk tie, which looked far too expensive for a waiter to afford, especially one this young. He couldn't have been older than mid-twenties, and that was a liberal estimate. But judging by the short apron slung low across his hips, he couldn’t have been anyone else.

"I'm sorry. What?" John asked, jutting out his chin and cocking his head to hear better.

"You always order the aubergine parmigiana. You're already dining at a different restaurant than your usual; why not live a little?"

John blinked for a moment before he remembered to close his mouth. A smirk crooked at the corner of the waiter's mouth, his eyes glittering in the light from the candle on the table. "Do I know you?" John asked. "Have you waited on me before?"

"No." The waiter's curls tousled softly as he shook his head, a single curl falling to the middle of his forehead.

"Then how did you know what I was going to order?"

"I didn't know. I observed."

John sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. Someone had to be playing a prank on him, but at least he had some good eye candy to view while it was happening. "Oh really."

"Yes. You barely glanced at your menu before setting it down. Therefore, regular order. You were looking at the middle portion of the top side, so it's something in our Italian favorites collection. That narrows it down to lasagna, chicken, veal or aubergine parmigiana, or spaghetti and meatballs. But, you grimaced--a microexpression, really, most people wouldn't have noticed--as a plate of charcuterie went past your table. So, vegetarian, then. Aubergine parmigiana."

John's arms dropped to his sides. "Wow"--a guffaw burst from his mouth--"that was amazing. What's a brain like yours doing in a place like this?"

The waiter shrugged, his body language giving off nonchalance, but his mouth twitched and his eyes sparkled. John settled back into his chair again, crossing his arms. "So what should I order instead?"

The waiter chewed his bottom lip as he appraised John. "Eggs in hell, I think."

"What is that?"

"Eggs poached in a spicy arrabiata sauce served over either toast or a bed of linguine. I would suggest a tomato and basil salad to start, and for wine, a Vermentino."

"And for dessert?" John asked, his tongue dragging across his lower lip.

As if the waiter shared a private joke with himself, the smirk crooked again. "We'll see."

John handed over the menu, watching the waiter’s fingers as they grasped the menu. "I'm in your capable hands."

As the waiter tucked the menu under his arm, he asked, "Would you like the eggs on toast or pasta?"

"I'll have it on a bed," John replied, pretending to consider as he dragged his thumb over his lips, "of angel hair."

"Very good." And with that, the waiter turned and strode away, giving John a good look at his round, smackable arse in tight black trousers. John watched that arse saunter into the kitchen and rubbed his thumb along his lower lip. John wondered if the alabaster skin on the young man's face and hands extended to the rest of his body. He could just imagine digging fingers and teeth into that pale flesh, turning it red and purple--his own personal canvas.

The waiter sauntered back out of the kitchen, grabbing a pitcher of water before gliding confidently towards John's table. John could watch him move all night.

As the waiter poured a glass of water, John said, "You're in university, aren't you."

He set down the glass. "Trying to impress me, doctor?"

The waiter walked away to refill other glasses, and John's heartbeat accelerated. Remarkable. John watched him unabashedly until he returned to the table with a bottle of wine and a glass.

"So," John said as the waiter uncorked the bottle, "lay it on me. How did you know I was a doctor?"

"That one's easy. There's a medical journal tucked in the outside pocket of your briefcase."

John looked down at his feet, and indeed, there was. "Ah," he replied as the waiter handed him the cork.

While John read the name of the wine from the cork, the waiter asked, "Heart surgeon. Am I right?"

"Amazing," John shook his head in awe. "How?"

As the waiter poured a taste of wine, he began, "Well, it's obvious enough that you're a doctor, and your briefcase tells me it's quite a successful practice. It's expensive, and it’s bursting with paperwork. Of course, you could just be behind, but you're fastidious. You wouldn't let that happen. Plus the wear on it tells me that it is regularly stuffed and emptied. Is the wine to your satisfaction?"

John took a sip and nodded. The waiter poured as he continued.

"Between that and your clothes, I could surmise that though your practice is quite successful, you are not rich enough to be in one of the especially lucrative fields such as plastic surgery. The most common option of those that would fit within your income range is heart surgeon."

"And what about my clothes says I'm not rich enough?" John asked as the waiter placed the wine and its bottle on the table.

"Your suit is lovely, and the fit is exquisite. Made by a top designer but purchased off the rack and tailored. Not bespoke." The waiter's fingers curled around the neck of the wine bottle, and his thumb began to slide up and down, smearing the condensation gathered there. "And a very good tailor, too. It really is an excellent fit, and judging by the wear at the shoulder seams and your chosen profession, I would estimate it to be around eight months old. I would come up with a better estimate, but I can’t see the seat of your trousers. So, your weight doesn't fluctuate much. You must be health conscious, and your build suggests that you exercise, but not weight lifting or running, at least not primarily." The waiter looked him up and down, tapping a finger against his upper lip. "Some kind of sport, I think."

John winced at the sound of fingers snapping behind him, and just like that, the waiter was gone with just the slightest brush of knuckles against John’s arm, off to serve another table, leaving John in suspense. He wanted to hear more. He sipped his wine, waiting, almost patiently, for the waiter to return, his emails and paperwork forgotten. The waiter moved effortlessly from table to table, seeming to acquire a different personality at each, though his face would fall to the same neutral expression whenever he was not at a table. John was the only one who saw that expression, or the barely contained smirk, and he wondered why the waiter shared his true personality with him. Or perhaps it was another act for his benefit.

"Tomato and basil salad, sir." The waiter sidled up to John's table and set down a plate full of the most succulent sliced tomatoes and sweetest smelling basil that John had seen in a long time.

"It looks delicious. Thank you." The waiter poured more wine as John sliced into his first tomato. "What are you studying?"

"Chemistry."

"Good field."

"Yes."

And with that, the waiter was off again. John settled in to enjoy the salad and the view, especially of the firm globes of arse flexing and contracting within the confines of trousers that left little to the imagination. And curls shaking as he nodded or shook his head. Oh, John wanted to tangle his fingers in that hair, watch those full, rosy lips slide up and down his cock. He could really have fun with this one.

Finally, the waiter came back to trade out John's salad for his entree, a perfectly poached egg perched atop a smooth red sauce, all in a nest of pasta.

"Military career," the waiter spoke as he balance John's empty plate on his fingertips.

John sliced through the egg with the side of his fork. "Right again. H-"

"Shoes, posture, haircut," the waiter interrupted, pointing at each feature.

John gathered pasta onto his fork. With a shake of the head and a chuckle, he took the first bite.

"Is everything to your satisfaction?"

Though the dish was indeed quite tasty, fresh and spicy with a surprisingly velvety mouthfeel, John made sure to take a good look at the waiter's body before answering. He swallowed and licked his lips as his eyes met the waiter's. "Delicious."

The waiter's eyes glittered, though a smile barely flickered across his mouth, before he tapped the table with a long, tapered index finger. "Very good," he rumbled and was off to another table.

The moment John finished his last bite of pasta, the waiter reappeared, sweeping up the empty plate. "Can I interest you in dessert?"

John considered, studying the waiter's face as color rose on its sharp cheekbones. The tapered index finger trailed slowly across the tablecloth. "I think I'll have dessert at home. Just a coffee and the check for now."

"Of course."

The waiter returned momentarily with the coffee and check, and John pulled his credit card from his wallet, holding it out for the waiter. The waiter took it from him, fingers trailing the back of John's hand before grasping the card. "I'll be right back."

John sipped his coffee as he watched his waiter stride across the restaurant to run John's card. Oh God, he hoped the waiter would agree to go home with him tonight. If not, he was going to be dreaming of that arse for weeks.

As the waiter set John's card and slip on the table he said, "Thank you, sir, and be sure to ask for Sherlock next time you come in."

"Definitely," John replied, and the waiter winked.

John took a long gulp of coffee as he considered just how hefty a tip to leave. As soon as he signed the slip, he reached into the pocket of his briefcase to retrieve a pad of paper. He tore off the top sheet, wrote his phone number and address, and then added, "Cab fare is on me," below it. After he put his credit card away, he pulled out a 20 pound note and folded it into the paper.

He was going to leave it on the table, but as he stood, the waiter greeted the patrons at a table just across from John. John picked up his briefcase, and as he walked towards the door, he dropped the note into the waiter's pocket and murmured, "Thank you for the lovely meal."

As Sherlock’s gaze flickered over to John and a smirk flickered on the corner of his mouth, he replied, "My pleasure, sir."

 

John woke up to the sound of his mobile ringing. He squinted at the clock as he picked up the phone. One a.m. And he didn't recognize the number. He swiped to answer. "Hello?"

"Good evening, doctor," replied a silky baritone.

John's heart leapt as he threw the covers aside, nearly off the bed entirely, and hopped out of bed. "It's good to hear from you."

"I've woken you."

"Doesn't matter. Get a cab."

"I'm already here."

John scurried to the intercom by the front door. "Sixth floor. I'll tell the doorman to let you up."

John hung up the phone and pressed the intercom to the lobby. "Hi," he said, trying to remember the name of the night doorman and failing, "there should be a young man waiting for me. Please send him up."

Without waiting for an answer, he unlocked his front door and threw it open so he could meet Sherlock at the elevator, but he stopped short. There his Adonis stood, looking like pure sex. His curls were even more tousled than the last time John saw them, flyaways creating a halo around his crown. His tie had been abandoned, the collar of his crumpled shirt open to the third button, revealing a delectable neck and just the slightest hint of chest hair. And it was all wrapped in a gorgeous, long, black coat, like a gift waiting to be opened.

John gaped for a moment and started to ask, "How-"

"I told you I was here," he dismissed. "May I come in?"

"God, yes." John grabbed the young man by his coat collar and dragged him through the door. He pushed Sherlock's coat off his shoulders and tossed it over the back of the sofa before continuing, "I was beginning to think you had manipulated me into a big tip."

Sherlock bit his lip as John yanked the once-crisp shirt from black trousers and ran his fingertips over taut abdominal muscles. "Who says I didn't?"

John chuckled. "Well, then you're very dedicated."

At that, John tangled his fist in messy curls. Sherlock barely got out a gasp as John yanked him down into a kiss. God, he had wanted to do that all night, wondering how Sherlock's lips would feel, how his mouth would taste. He smelled like basil and balsamic vinegar and sweat, and his lips tasted of cigarettes and fresh mint. Sherlock stumbled backwards as John maneuvered him towards the wall, John's chest hairs ruffling against the wilted starch of Sherlock's shirt. He kissed clumsily, his tongue and lips barely able to keep up with John's, and John found himself licking along a closed seam of lips as often as he found his tongue meeting an over-enthusiastic mate.

Finally, Sherlock's back was against the wall, and John came up for air. "How old are you?" John asked as he worked Sherlock's buttons deftly from their holes.

Sherlock jutted out his chin. "Tw- twenty-two."

John chuckled as he worked free the last button and pushed Sherlock's shirt off his shoulders. "How old are you really?"

As John rolled his thumb over an erect nipple, Sherlock gasped and groaned out, "Nineteen."

"Oh," John sighed, "you naughty boy. I'm old enough to be your father."

John ran his fingers over sharp collarbones and down lean arms as he crowded into Sherlock's space. "And that excites you," Sherlock replied as John's mouth met the crook between neck and shoulder, his voice growing ragged, "you find the prospect of my inexperience arousing."

John's teeth pressed against Sherlock's pulse point, and his hands reached around to cup Sherlock's arse. Sherlock shuddered and groaned before continuing, "In fact, when I told you my age, your eyes dilated approximately twenty percent, and your respiration increased as well."

John hooked his thumbs into the back of Sherlock's trousers, jerking Sherlock forward so their groins pressed together. He pressed a thigh between Sherlock's and rolled his hips, feeling the tumescent length of Sherlock twitch against his hips. Like putty in his hands. Oh, it was intoxicating. "Keep talking," John murmured as he circled his thumbs around to Sherlock's belt buckle.

"You want to show me how to please a man. You get off on the idea of teaching me how to suck your cock. But what if I'm more experienced than you'd like, doctor?" Sherlock's breath hitched as John eased down his zipper, his eyes going wide. And his breathing devolved into a pant when John's hand slipped into the gap in his trousers to press his palm to Sherlock's erection. John smirked as Sherlock's head hit the wall with a thunk.

"I don't think that will be a problem." John dragged his hand along the underside of Sherlock's cock, relishing the feel of it, long and hot in his hand and the way John's touch rendered the genius speechless. He circled his thumb over the wet patch forming on Sherlock's pants. God, he was beautiful. John had to get a better look. Before stepping back to take in the sight, he whispered to Sherlock, "Take off your shoes and your trousers."

Sherlock quickly complied, toeing off his shoes and letting his trousers fall to the ground. As Sherlock pulled his feet from the trousers and kicked them aside, John murmured, "Good boy," and didn't miss the slight loss of balance and the twitch in Sherlock's pants. John ran his thumb along his bottom lip as he surveyed the body of the man before him. Which part of his body did John want to ruin first? The teeth marks on his neck were already blushing. They would probably form a nice hickey that he wouldn't quite be able to hide under his waiter's uniform.

John licked his lips as he pointed to Sherlock's feet. "And now the socks, I think."

"Yes, doctor," Sherlock replied, easing the black dress socks from his feet. Oh, he was really getting the hang of this.

Once the socks were tossed onto the pile of clothes, John twirled his index finger and ordered, "Turn around."

And there he was, a vision in black boxer-briefs just barely long enough to earn the first half of their moniker. "Shall I take these off?" Asked Sherlock, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and slowly pulling them down until just a sliver of cleft appeared. And then he paused, peering over his shoulder.

Oh yes, this was going to work quite nicely. "Not yet," John replied, watching as that tempting bit of bare arse disappeared. "A beautiful body and a beautiful brain." John stepped up behind Sherlock and ran his fingers down lithe back muscles. "How did I get so lucky?"

Sherlock groaned, pushing his body into John's touch. "Luck had nothing to do with it. I had you pegged the moment you walked in. You weren't even sitting in my section."

John pressed his fingers into Sherlock's hips and tugged him backwards until his arse cheeks nestled against John's still-clothed cock. He could listen to Sherlock talk all night. "Tell me more."

"You're bored." He gasped as John rolled his hips. "You were looking for excitement. I thought we could be," he groaned as he pressed back against John's groin, "symbiotic."

"How so?" John rubbed circles with his thumbs against the small of Sherlock's back.

Sherlock's back sank against John's fingers as he murmured, "It's an experiment." And then John froze.

"Experimenting with men?"

"With sex in general."

"I see," John replied, resuming his rubdown of Sherlock's lower back, "and how many test subjects have there been?"

"This is the first trial."

John paused again, his heart racing, though whether it was from nerves or excitement or alarm, he couldn’t quite pinpoint. “Ever?”

“Yes,” Sherlock responded, obviously annoyed.

John dipped his thumbs down Sherlock's waistband, massaging the muscle just below the iliac crest. As Sherlock pressed and writhed against him, he considered their position. He had to admit that the prospect was exciting. And Sherlock certainly was enthusiastic, though John wondered whether he was making the right decision. Then again, Sherlock would never forget him, and the fact that this young, vibrant, brilliant man might think of John years from now was just too much to take.

He could make this good for Sherlock. He could make it unforgettable. If he played this right, every lover Sherlock had would implicitly thank John for this night. And although he wasn't sure how he felt about being the first of a long line of experimental partners, he thrilled at the chance to spend even one night with the beautiful, brilliant man. That settled it then. Though, to satisfy his own curiosity, "How long do you expect this trial to last?"

"As long as we both find it mutually beneficial."

"You make it sound like a business transaction." John chuckled, skimming his palms over Sherlock's hips and kissing and nibbling at his shoulder blade.

Sherlock panted as John sunk his teeth into Sherlock's shoulder blade. Ah yes, this could work. "There's no need to romanticize this."

A sharp laugh erupted from John's mouth before he could stop it. How could Sherlock’s body seem strung out with want like a piano wire while saying sentences like that? But, "Isn't this your virginity we're talking about?"

"Virginity is a social construct, John. Don't be dull. I've spent months waiting for someone to pique my interests. I will not be wasting this opportunity."

Months? How did John manage to intrigue him? "You're amazing," John sighed with a shake of his head. “Absolutely astonishing.”

All the tension seemed to leave Sherlock's body, and he sighed.

John threaded his fingers into Sherlock's curls. "Oh, you like that, do you?"

Sherlock nodded.

John stroked through Sherlock's hair, skating his fingers along scalp. "You like me to compliment you? Want me to tell you what a good boy you are?"

"Yes, please."

"I wonder," John replied as he tightened his grip on Sherlock's hair, "what it would take to get that gorgeous brain to stop thinking."

Sherlock panted, "I hope we find out."

Oh, there it was. This man was perfect. John shuddered and growled, "Bedroom. Hands and knees on the bed."

"Yes, daddy."

"Oh, you're dirty," John rumbled as he followed that perfect arse to his bedroom. It figured that Sherlock would just know where to go.

Sherlock slinked onto the bed, all long limbs and fair skin marked only with the smallest smattering of freckles and the bruise forming on his neck. And hopefully, John's mind supplied, fingertip-shaped marks on his hips. Sherlock got in position and arched his back, presenting his arse, before he reached back one hand to tug at the waistband of his pants. "Now shall I take them off?"

"You'll take them off when I say," John bit in return, and Sherlock's hand returned reluctantly to the bed. "There's my good lad."

Sherlock seemed to melt and preen at those words, letting out a long sigh and holding his body as enticingly as he could. John knelt beside Sherlock on the bed and ran his palms up from Sherlock's hips to shoulders, savoring the smooth skin and lean musculature.

“Do you like me telling you what to do?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Do you want to be a good boy for me?”

Sherlock nodded again, and John’s whole body thrummed with nervous excitement. John threaded his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and dragged them back down his neck. “Now, I have to ask. Are you sure this is what you want? I’m happy to be more conventional with you. I don’t want you to get in over your head.”

John could practically hear Sherlock’s eyes roll, “Really John, I would never initiate an experiment without due diligence.”

Amazing. John shook his head. What a unique creature Sherlock was. “All right. So, you like praise and you like following orders. Am I right so far?”

“Yes, daddy.”

John’s hands explored Sherlock’s back and shoulders, easing any muscle tension he found. “And you like calling me daddy. Do you want me to stick with those, or is there something else you’d like to explore? Don’t be embarrassed. I’m here for you.” John pressed a kiss behind Sherlock’s ear and whispered. “Anything you want.”

“Nothing else. This is what I want. Please, daddy.”

John smoothed his hands over Sherlock's sides, running fingertips along the hair in his underarms to reach his chest. "I'd like to thank whatever deity created such a perfect specimen as you."

Sherlock shuddered, and his usually low voice escaped in a keening whine, though whether from the praise or from the way John was toying with his nipples, John could’nt say. John passed his fingers over Sherlock's nipples, taking in the shudders of Sherlock's body and the goosepimples forming under John's fingers. Though Sherlock tried to press himself into John's touch, John kept the touches feather light until the flesh was as taut and erect as it was going to get. And then he pinched those perfect, pink nipples.

Sherlock surged into John's touch, a surprised yelp bursting out before devolving into a low moan. "God, you're so responsive," John said as his smoothed a hand up Sherlock's back to cradle his neck. His own cock pulsed and ached just from watching the way Sherlock responded to him, and he could feel a wet patch cooling along the fly of his pyjama bottoms. While he rubbed circles at the base of Sherlock's skull, he asked, "Has anyone ever touched you like this before?"

"No, daddy." John closed his eyes, trying not to be too disturbed by the effect those words had on him. Of course Sherlock would know something about John that even he didn't realize.

John placed a gentle kiss on Sherlock's jaw. "Don't worry; daddy's going to take good care of you. Now tell me, love." He ran fingers through Sherlock's hair. "Can you pick a safeword for me?"

"Potassium."

"Good boy, and don't be afraid to use it. Daddy won't be mad. Do you promise?"

"I promise, daddy."

"Very good." John backed off the bed, stepped out of his pajama bottoms, and climbed back onto the bed to kneel in front of Sherlock. "Are you certain this is how you want to lose your virginity?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to make a response, his haughty confidence flicking over his features, before he seemed to think better of it and nodded mutely instead.

John ran a finger gently down Sherlock's cheek as galaxy-laden eyes stared up at him. He smiled softly. "Open up for me."

Sherlock complied immediately, his jaw dropping almost audibly, his eyes growing wide and hungry. John shuffled forward until his glans rested on Sherlock's lower lip. "Go on," he urged when Sherlock didn't make any move. "You can explore."

Sherlock's tongue finally made its way past his teeth to press against John's slit, licking up the precome gathered there. Sherlock pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, spreading John's taste, and John groaned as his head fell back. He felt Sherlock's tongue swirl around the head, explore the frenulum, and trace around the corona. He struggled to keep still, his hips stuttering despite his efforts. He wanted to let Sherlock take his time, explore what he needed. But John was so keyed up.

Finally, Sherlock's lips closed around John's cock just below the head, and he sucked lightly. "Yeah, that's good," John huffed. "Not too much pressure. It's okay to start slow. Don't forget your tongue."

Sherlock's tongue pressed lightly to the underside of John's cock, licking up and down the small amount of shaft in his mouth.

"Try circles," John instructed, and Sherlock pressed the flat of his tongue to John's frenulum, drawing circles and humming as a drop of precome hit his tongue. "God yeah. Now swirl your tongue around the head."

Sherlock did so, and John somehow put together the wherewithal to look down at Sherlock. His gaze met eyes, hooded but open, staring back up at him. Oh fuck, that was beautiful. John cradled Sherlock's jaw in his hand and threaded fingertips into the curls at his nape. "You’re doing brilliantly. Can you take any more of me?"

Sherlock made a "mmph" sound that must have been assent because he crept forward and slid his mouth down. John was trapped between tongue and palate as Sherlock slid up and down, taking John in a bit more with each slide. After a moment, Sherlock seemed to reach his limit.

John smoothed down the hair on Sherlock's nape. He was about to tell Sherlock that it was fine--he was doing well and shouldn't push it--but Sherlock cut that thought short as his mouth slowly sank down John's cock. John watched as the gap between Sherlock's lips and John's groin slowly closed. "Fuck," John shouted as his legs trembled, "oh, fuck!"

Finally, the gap was closed, and John could feel Sherlock's throat pressed against the head of his cock. And then Sherlock’s tongue started moving. John's thighs shook, and his eyes slammed shut, his fist clenching reflexively in Sherlock's hair. A stream of nonsense syllables erupted from his mouth before he was finally able to say, "Stop." He pressed against Sherlock's shoulder. "Pull off."

Sherlock winced, falling backwards onto his haunches. As John gripped the base of his cock and Sherlock struggled to catch his breath, Sherlock panted, "Did I do it wrong?"

"No, it was perfect." John shook his head, struggling to think of something that wasn't arousing. "I just don't want to come yet."

The crooked smirk that had so beguiled John at the restaurant reappeared on Sherlock's face, but John couldn’t pay attention to that as he waited for the hard edge of impending orgasm to dissipate. Finally, the urgency abated and was replaced with an aching need. "Now it's time to lose the pants," John ordered as he leapt from the bed.

"Yes, sir," Sherlock replied as John rummaged through the bedside table.

John picked up the lube and prayed that there was a condom somewhere in there when a thought occurred. "Wait," he said, throwing his hand up in the air in a halt sign. Sherlock froze with his pants pulled halfway down his thighs. "Just to the knees. And resume the position."

John turned back to his rummaging, confident that his orders would be obeyed to the letter. And he was not disappointed when he stood up, condom triumphantly in hand. Sherlock was a vision, plump arse pushed to the sky and black cotton bundled at his knees. John knelt behind Sherlock as he squeezed lube onto his fingers. He ran slick fingers between Sherlock's cheeks, sliding up and down, teasing over Sherlock's hole. Sherlock huffed a silent breath and pressed his legs wider, stretched his pants to their limit. A rivulet of lube trickled down to Sherlock's balls, and John gathered it up with his fingertips. At that, a low keening whine leaked from Sherlock. He had been so patient. Perhaps it was time to take a little mercy.

John squirted a little more lube into his hand and spread it across his palm. He ran slick fingers over Sherlock's perineum and testicles until he could cup them in his hand. They were already pulled up tight to his body, and John could feel Sherlock's cock twitch through them. Finally, John wrapped his hand around Sherlock's cock and stroked slowly, making Sherlock groan. His back arched upwards and his head dipped down as his hips canted into John's hand.

"It's okay; rest your head." Sherlock grabbed a pillow and clutched it to his chest as he laid his head down on it. John felt all the tension leave Sherlock's body as he sighed and writhed more freely against John's hand. "Do you like this?"

Sherlock nodded, his eyes closed and his mouth slack.

"Still having fun?"

Sherlock nodded again and groaned as John stroked his thumb over the tip of Sherlock's cock. As he paused to squeeze lube onto the fingers of his other hand, Sherlock whined. "Shh," John soothed as he spread lube on his fingers and reached back around for Sherlock's cock. "I've got you. I'll take care of you."

John pressed a finger against Sherlock's hole, gently pushing and caressing until the sphincter gave way. As he slowly thrust his finger into Sherlock, he let it slip out a bit with the cant of Sherlock's hips and pressed in farther as Sherlock's hips rocked upwards. Sherlock undulated beneath him, his face a mask of pure pleasure, eyes shut and mouth slack. "God, you're beautiful," John huffed, pressing a second finger into Sherlock, watching it slowly disappear into his body. "I could come just from watching you. Do you like this? Do you like my fingers inside you?"

"Yes, daddy," Sherlock panted, barely above a whisper. "Yes."

"You've been such a good boy," John cooed. "Are you ready for your reward?" As Sherlock nodded, John stilled his hands. "Hmm?"

"Yes, daddy."

John released Sherlock's cock and twisted his fingers inside Sherlock. "Would you like me to fuck you here?" He asked, pressing into Sherlock's prostate.

"Yes," Sherlock huffed, "yes, daddy. Please."

John finished prepping Sherlock as quickly as he reasonably could. Which still took too long for John's taste, but the last thing he wanted to do was hurt the lad. He gently spread and twisted his fingers, making sure there was plenty of lube. When Sherlock's rocking back onto John's fingers and his chorus of pleas drowned out all other thought, John pulled his fingers from Sherlock. In haste, he rolled on his condom and slicked himself.

"Ready?" He asked, wrapping a hand gently around Sherlock's hip.

Sherlock broke character for a moment, shouting, "For God's sake, John, get on with it."

John chuckled as he lightly swatted Sherlock's arse. "Impatient twat."

But John pressed his hips forward, slowly pushing into Sherlock as Sherlock sank beneath him, a long relieved groan emanating from him. As John lay on top of him, slowly rocking his hips as Sherlock's body grew accustomed to him, Sherlock whispered, "Thank you, daddy."

"You know," John huffed, "I'm not going to believe the act anymore."

"I'm sorry, daddy. Please forgive me."

John kissed him between the shoulder blades. "You're forgiven."

At that, John spread his legs and trapped Sherlock's thighs between his knees, snapping his hips forward. After a couple of thrusts, he found Sherlock's prostate, starting him on a refrain of, "Yes, more." John grinned. It appeared Sherlock's brain had well and truly shut down.

Sherlock's hips rocked, pressing himself into the mattress and then back on John's cock in debauched glory. "That's good. Rut against the mattress for me, love." He threaded his fingers into Sherlock's hair and laid his body across Sherlock's back as his own orgasm began to coil low in his gut. "Make yourself come for me."

John thrust hard two, three times, before they grew ragged as he felt himself approach the crest. "Oh fuck," John cried, and Sherlock replied, "Pull my hair, John, pull it."

John's fist clenched as he came, and he felt the body below him shudder and squeeze around him. His body grew rigid and sparks flew behind his eyelids as he spent himself in Sherlock's body. Finally, as he came down, he released Sherlock's hair. He soothed the scalp with his fingertips as he gripped the base of the condom with his other hand and pulled out. He kissed Sherlock--who lay still on the mattress, the deep rise and fall of his chest the only movement--between the shoulder blades and said, "I'll be right back."

When John returned from disposing of the condom with a damp flannel, Sherlock was in exactly the same position, fast asleep. "I'll take it that it was good for you too, then," John chortled.

Though he attempted roll Sherlock over enough to clean him off, Sherlock grumbled and flopped himself back onto his stomach. So, John settled with covering Sherlock with the bedclothes. He hadn't marked that beautiful body quite as much as he'd originally intended, but he had a feeling there would be plenty of time for that. He pulled on his pajama bottoms and climbed into bed beside Sherlock. "I think," he murmured as he ran his fingers through Sherlock's damp curls, "this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."