Since both of them were apparently completely okay with never talking about it ever, and neither of them had a clue what they were doing, he felt like it was working out pretty well so far. Nobody had had a nervous breakdown, they didn’t hold hands at crime scenes, and Sherlock wasn’t (as John had briefly feared and anticipated) going to just strap him down and fuck the trepidation out of him.
Ever since that night on the sofa involving a bored Sherlock, a bottle of very expensive whisky pilfered from Mycroft and a pile of increasingly bizarre cold cases which Lestrade had given Sherlock as a birthday gift, things had shifted.
John, unobservant as he was compared to Sherlock, was still aware of the subtle change in atmosphere caused by one party pinning the other to the sofa and snogging them thoroughly. At the time, it had seemed like a nice, brotherly gesture of affection; the next morning, not so much. Sherlock didn’t mention it though, and if the occasional heart stopping pinned-to-the-wall post-case kiss happened, well. That was that.
The occasional heart stopping kiss became the occasional heart stopping oh god oh god rutting against the wall (sofa, kitchen sink, fridge) after a while. Once, with his head thrown back and his arms pinned above his head as Sherlock angled their hips together precisely, he felt the ghost of fingers rubbing along his waistband underneath his t-shirt. He came with a bitten off hng of surprise seconds later. He was still a little uneasy about the feeling of a hard cock pressing against his. Clothed, it was a bit like they weren’t having sex. And if they weren’t having sex, it wasn’t weird.
That was fine until suddenly they were having sex. Sherlock straddled him as he was sitting on his chair one afternoon, and without so much as a by-your-leave popped open the zip on John’s jeans and shoved his hand in there. It was clear he wasn’t exactly sure what he was supposed to be doing, but there was friction and movement and John was so turned on his teeth ached and it took about a minute for him to come gasping all over Sherlock’s hand. He returned the favour, and found Sherlock’s look of blissful surprise to be quite satisfying.
And suddenly, he wanted more. Of what, he wasn’t quite sure, but definitely something. With a woman, he might have crawled over her on the sofa, pulled down her knickers and sucked on her until she was begging. Then he might have pulled her onto his lap and fucked her senseless. With Sherlock…
He wasn’t sure exactly how experienced or inexperienced Sherlock was (well, it just wasn’t the sort of thing you asked a bloke, was it? Even if you were having semi-regular frottage against various household appliances) but he was almost certain that in this particular area, he had as much experience as John (ie. None).
He wanted though, how he wanted.
On Sherlock’s bed, they lay together fully clothed. Actually being on the bed was somewhat thrilling, it made everything seem more like actual sex and less like frenzied kissing and groping. There was that too, of course. John stretched himself out on top of Sherlock and writhed lazily against him. Sherlock moaned quietly.
“Can we try something?” he murmured against Sherlock’s slightly parted lips.
“Maybe,” gasped Sherlock, always the pragmatist.
“I want to--” John swallowed, “I want to spread you open a bit. Just to see.”
Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed. The colour in his cheeks rose slightly.
He wriggled out of his trousers, leaving his t-shirt and boxers on, and rolled onto his stomach. John stroked two hands down his back, hooking his fingers into the waistband of his boxers on the way past and dragging them down. He left the t-shirt on.
His fingers trembled slightly as he smoothed his hands over the firm pale skin of Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock squirmed slightly, pushing himself back into John’s grip. Gently, John pushed his thighs apart. Sherlock moaned, dropping his head forward, and spread his legs further.
"You like that.” John pushed a little more at Sherlock’s thighs.
“Oh,” managed Sherlock.
He hesitantly ran a hand along the last few bumps of Sherlock’s spine and drew his finger down, brushing ever so lightly over his arsehole, which twitched and fluttered slightly at the contact. God, he was so turned on it hurt. He adjusted himself a little in his jeans.
“Take them off.” Sherlock’s voice was muffled by his arm, which he seemed to be biting. John hurried to comply, not wanting to waste any time.
He climbed back onto the bed, kneeling between Sherlock’s splayed legs and stroking gently up the backs of his thighs. Suddenly struck by inspiration, he slid a finger into his mouth, wet it thoroughly, then drew it slickly over Sherlock’s hole.
Pleased, he did it again, watching with interest as Sherlock squirmed on the mattress. His cock felt hot, heavy. After a few more delicate passes with his one wet finger, he daringly pressed slightly, pushing just the tip inside. Sherlock spread his thighs impossibly wider.
“Are you sure?”
“Ungh, yes, feels fantastic.”
He spat a bit more onto his finger and pushed a little further in, slowly, oh so slowly. Sherlock groaned. John pumped his hand, sliding in and out shallowly, just teasing.
His own cock was leaking copiously now, he wanted desperately to do something; the sight of his finger disappearing slickly inside of Sherlock was so incredibly hot. He wondered if Sherlock would let him--
“Uh--What? Why are you stopping?”
“Just, hang on a sec--”
He shuffled forward on the bed, biting his lip in anticipation, and dragged his cock down over Sherlock’s wet opening.
“Just wanna feel you a bit,” he murmured, sliding slowly back up and pushing slightly, ever so slightly. He spat into his hand and slicked everything up a bit more before moving forward again, pulling back his foreskin and watching the glossy head of his cock slip wetly over Sherlock’s pink little arsehole.
Sherlock breathed heavily into the sheets, pressing back; John responded by pushing a little harder over his hole with each pass. It twitched and opened slightly each time.
“Can I--just a little?” He pressed a little harder.
“God, fuck, yes. Yes.”
He pushed forward. The head of his cock looked incredible being swallowed slowly by Sherlock’s body. He shuddered, feeling every spasm and clench of Sherlock’s muscles as he adjusted. Sherlock moaned steadily under his breath, his hands had come back to spread himself open wider and his hips moved in a small shivery rhythm as he fucked into the mattress. John used his free hand to hold him still, his other he brought round to jerk himself slowly, keeping his cock dipped in just up to the fraenulum. Gorgeous.
He moved his hand faster, pushing Sherlock’s hips down harder to stop him pushing back, and watching the minute slick movements of his cock as it pushed slightly in and out. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the way Sherlock’s hole opened around the flared crown every time he moved.
“God, Sherlock. I’m going to come in you.”
“Yes. Do it.”
“Oh, fuck. Are you close?”
His hand flew on his cock, and he struggled to keep from pushing deeper. Sherlock was choking out moans, each of them firing bolts of heat straight down his spine, pushing him closer and closer.
“Oh, God,” Sherlock gritted out, hips jerking as he came onto the mattress, just from the friction. “John, fuck, fuck.”
His hole fluttered and clenched, and John felt himself start to come with a shudder.
“Oh yeah,” he gasped out, fisting his cock hard, “Fuck, that’s gorgeous.”
He stroked himself through it and with a little effort held himself just inside Sherlock as he came and came, not wanting to spill a drop.
He pulled out slowly. Sherlock stayed a little open and he watched, rapt, as come dripped down Sherlock’s thighs. He dipped a finger in shallowly.
Sherlock shivered and shifted, “Let me move. It’s wet.”
As he moved, more come spilled slickly onto the sheets and down his legs. John swallowed, feeling his mouth water unaccountably.
Maybe next time.