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All the Flavours, Cherry and More

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March 31: John Watson's birthday

Sherlock bends at the waist, angling himself toward the mirror of the vanity, the edges of the marble top pressing into his thighs. Just a few more touches and he'll be done, dressed and ready for John's birthday. He glances down at the small pots and brushes scattered across the surface in front of him, and chooses a small round container of the palest violet eye cream. He dips the tip of his pinky in carefully, not wanting to use too much, and pats the colour onto one eyelid, then the next. He steps back to examine his work, and dabs on a bit more in the creases and at the outer corners. It's slightly iridescent, and he thinks it works well with the almost grey of his irises.

The liquid eyeliner is new, but he had experimented at the cosmetics counter until the young sales boy had murmured breathlessly that his cat eye was perfect, that it looked divine with the shape of his eyes. He removes the tiny brush and presses it against the tip of an index finger, testing for the right pressure, then lines his upper and lower lids with stripes that swan out at the edges, up and out, dramatic and exotic. He takes one step back and turns his head to the side, then back, checking that it is precise and balanced.

Back to the pots and powders and creams, he selects a powder rouge and puts the brush aside, using his finger instead to swipe and gather the colour. He tugs his corset down a bit to make sure his nipples are uncovered, then swirls the rosy pigment onto each oval, making the peaks stand out, popping pink against the pale skin of his lean chest.

Almost done, he thinks, tapping his lower lip. Ah yes, mouth. He rummages through a bright green shopping bag until he finds what he's looking for, a small glass vial of thick gloss with a tart cherry flavour. He rolls the applier carefully over his full lower lip, then presses it to the upper, blotting and covering at the same time. He sucks the corner of an exaggerated pout into his mouth, tasting the sharp sweetness, then pats on just a touch more right in the middle of his lower lip.

He steps back and turns to face the full length mirror, an antique oval that tilts on its frame, angled to capture his entire reflection. His hair is dishevelled, one wisp dangling seductively over his left eye. He let it dry naturally tonight, with no product, so that his chestnut curls are wild and untamed around his face.

A black, ribbed corset cinches his waist into a smooth hourglass, and his rouged nipples just barely crest the sheer trim lining the top of the garment. The corset is cut high on the sides, framing his narrow hips above his endless legs, slender but firmly muscled.

His thigh-high stockings are sheer and shimmery, topped with a wide band of scalloped lace that is run through with a red ribbon and bow. They were a small fortune, almost £100 per pair, and he has taken great pains to make sure that the seams are straight from heel to calf to knee to thigh. He turns now and peers over one naked shoulder, checking that nothing has moved or shifted or God forbid, snagged. Perfect.

He studies the pièce de résistance, the one item that had first caught his eye and started him down this particular path. The Agent Provocateur G-string is exceptional for its detail and cut. The sheer black panty is triangular in front, just big enough to cover his penis in its flaccid state. Putting it on tonight had made him hard, and when fully erect he was delighted with the way the plump head stood proud above the trim.

Red ribbons weave through the delicate lace from the top and back, meeting and tying into two neat bows at the sides. His bollocks are barely contained, straining against the narrow strip that hugs him underneath, offering a seductive peek. Tiny red ruffles adorn the ribbons along the back, fanning out like small seashells, begging to be touched. This one item alone had cost £220, but sliding his credit card across the sales counter hadn't hurt one bit.

He tugs the panty down now, revisiting his freshly waxed and lotion-slathered groin. He hadn't been sure about this aspect of his appearance, but a few easy deductions suggested that John would welcome the clean aesthetic hidden under the ribbons and lace. The waxing had hurt, he couldn't deny that, but it had been worth it. He had purchased the calming, glistening moisturizer, too – another £80 on the card – but he had no regrets. Tonight after he bathed he had rubbed the lotion into the cleft of his arse and over his bollocks, dabbing an extra bit directly on his puckered hole. He is just shy of glowing now, the curves of his bottom smooth and shiny.

He knows he may be taking a chance tonight, presenting himself this way. He and John have been together almost a year, and although John is open-minded and adventurous in bed, he is also used to seeing Sherlock through the filter of an entirely different disguise: bespoke suits, straining button-ups, and a long, heavy, wool coat. John admires the well-fitted suits, delights in how those buttons pull tight across his chest, affectionately mocks the turned up collar of the Belstaff. Even at his most casual, Sherlock wears gender normative pyjama bottoms and tee-shirts around the flat. At his most most casual, Sherlock sleeps naked, pressed up against John's back, or under his arm, but this – this departure into lingerie and lip gloss is a rather untested premise. Potentially dangerous. Is it a bit-not-good?

It was very much not-good for Victor, and even though it was such a long time ago, the memory is easy to conjure up. He momentarily swims in it, tasting the memory of humiliation and rejection. Victor had made a habit of coming to his flat at night, late, when he was tired and needy. Sherlock had misunderstood, believing that he was Victor's reward at the end of a long day, the carefully chosen recipient of all that barely contained lust, something cherished and savoured and kept hidden away because he was so special.

Victor never planned ahead, never called, but Sherlock knew he would come on Christmas Eve, after his employer's holiday party, when he was done fraternizing with his stodgy, pompous colleagues. Victor would come to him, he would knock lightly at Sherlock's door, would take Sherlock to bed and make love to him, tell him how good he was, how brilliant. Sherlock was ready, wrapped like a present, adorned in silk and lace the way he was tonight. He hadn't at all thought it was a risk. He thought that Victor would see it for what it was, an offering and an altar both, one on which he would willingly sacrifice himself.

Victor had barely noticed until he had Sherlock underneath him on the couch, and then he had muttered and mumbled about everything that was in the way. He had flicked on a lamp and grimaced, then laughed. He had called Sherlock a freak. He didn't undress Sherlock, didn't take the time to undo the ribbons and untie the corset, to roll down the stockings and run his fingers through his scented hair. He had tugged the G-string to the side and pushed in, roughly, not bothering to prepare him.

When he was done he had tucked himself back into the tuxedo trousers he'd never bothered to remove, and turned to go. Sherlock had been stunned, had felt his heart in his throat, bleeding out on his tongue. He tried to remain calm and unaffected. He asked Victor if they would see each other again before New Year's Eve. Victor had chuckled and said no, that he'd be at his girlfriend's parents' chalet for the rest of the holiday.

Sherlock hadn't known that Victor had a girlfriend. Victor never came over again.

He shakes the memory from his head now, runs his fingers down his chest and abdomen and along the bulge in his panties. He steps back to take one final look, and he thinks about John.

John is definitely not Victor. Sherlock knows the who and what of John. He is kind and loving and protective. Perhaps more importantly, John knows who John is, and he accepts himself, and Sherlock, and who they are together, flaws and all. John would never laugh or call Sherlock a freak or dismiss him like any other bit of used flesh. John cherishes and kisses and praises him. He holds Sherlock carefully, and pleasures him every way possible, and then holds him tight all night long, sometimes waking him before dawn to make love to him again.

John loves him. Because of John, Sherlock is loved. Because of John, Sherlock is learning to love himself.

Sherlock smiles, lost in his thoughts, and dabs on a bit more lip gloss. He sweeps all of his preparations into the drawer, glides it shut, and fluffs his hair with his fingertips. He dims the bedroom lights and checks that the candles aren't burning too high, he plumps the bed pillows and closes the bathroom door, then he scoops up his discarded clothes and tosses them into the hamper. He is ready for John's birthday, ready to give himself.

The key in the downstairs lock is perfectly timed, and Sherlock races down the hallway to get to the door of their flat before John can open it. He rests his hand on the doorknob and waits for the sound of John's footsteps before unlocking it and pulling it open a crack. For god's sake, he chides himself, why is he so nervous all of a sudden? He remains hidden behind the door, showing only a sliver of his face.

“Happy birthday, John.”

“Thank you, love.”

“I'm so glad you're home.”

“Me, too. Is everything all right?”

“Yes, everything is fine. Good day at work?”

“Em, yeah. Fine. Can I come in?”

“Yes, yes, of course you can come in. I should tell you, though, I have something for you, a birthday present, and I find myself questioning whether or not you'll like it.”

John smiles and raises an eyebrow, then takes another step toward the threshold and holds up a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. “I can't see it if you don't let me in, love, but if it's from you I'm pretty sure it's perfect.”

Sherlock nods and pulls the door open, remaining safely behind it as John steps through. Sherlock looks down at his silk-clad toes as John closes the door behind him, not wanting to see the look on his lover's face. The sharp inhale of breath makes him close his eyes.

“Oh. Oh, my. Oh, Sherlock.”

Sherlock winces.

“Hey, no. Look at me.”

Sherlock can't deduce his tone, can't anticipate what he is about to say. His own emotions are too high, overriding his tools of logic and observation. He opens his eyes and peers at John from under his mascaraed eyelashes. John's eyes are wide and sincere, and his tongue is wetting his lower lip.

“Is all of this for me, love?” He gestures toward Sherlock, his eyes sweeping up and down, lingering on every detail, every bow and ruffle and turn of lace. “Did you dress up like this for me?” His voice is low and soft and kind.

“Yes. I know I didn't ask first, to see if this was something you might like – ”

“Stop. Dear God, you are gorgeous and completely breathtaking, and I love every single bit of it. Every single bit. Turn around. Let me see.”

Sherlock pivots on his toes, hands flexed out to the sides. He hears John let out a long breath and something that sounds an awful lot like a moan, and then he pirouettes back to face John, who steps forward and cups his jaw with one hand and kisses him, soft and lingering.

“Mm, what is that? You taste good.”

“Cherry lip gloss.”

“Fabulous. What other secrets do you have for me, then?”

Sherlock feels a blush rising to touch his cheeks, more sensual than uncomfortable now that he knows John isn't disgusted by him. No, John is responding exactly the way he had hoped. Sherlock stands tall now, but his voice is barely a whisper, his throat tight with anticipation when he says, “John, I've, I've altered something in a way I think you'll like.”

“Yeah?”

John steps forward and places a warm hand on Sherlock's waist, over the corset, his thumb rubbing lightly against one of the stays. His eyes are on Sherlock's rosy nipples now, pert little nubs that peaked in the cool air that came in with John. He runs one hand up Sherlock's long, graceful neck, and into the curls at the back of his head. He holds out the bottle of champagne in his other hand, eyes dropping to the stockings and G-string. “Why don't you open this and pour us some, and I'll, em, go get a bit more comfortable?”

Sherlock takes the bottle from his hand and leans in for another kiss, and John tugs his shiny lower lip between his, sucking it gently before releasing him. Sherlock feels himself running hot, melting, and he presses himself up against John, revelling in his approval. John grins into his mouth and pulls away, twirls his index finger in the air and nudges Sherlock back. Sherlock turns and walks to the kitchen, his hips and buttocks swaying as he goes, and he knows that John's eyes are glued to his ribbon-tied arse until he turns the corner into the kitchen and is out of sight.

Sherlock is heady with the relief of John's enthusiasm. He rummages around in the cupboards for two flutes, then twists the metal ring off the top of the bottle and pops the cork. He pours slowly, letting the foam rest before pouring again. He tucks the bottle under his arm and picks up the two flutes, eager to join John in the bedroom.

John is standing by the dresser, half-undressed. He's already slipped out of his socks and shoes and jumper, and when he turns, Sherlock sees that he's unbuttoned his shirt, too, revealing a broad stripe of chest and belly.

John is holding the lip gloss in one palm, and he licks his lips now and gives Sherlock a curious look. “Is this what you used on your lips, love?”

“It is.”

“Mm. Good.” He tosses it onto the bed and then sits down at the edge, thighs parted and feet planted firmly on the floorboards. Sherlock hands him a glass of champagne, and he takes a sip before saying, “Com'ere, love, let me look at you.”

Sherlock puts his own glass down on the nightstand and moves to stand in front of John, smoothing his hands down over his waist and rolling his shoulders just a touch, feeling the ruffled trim of the corset tickle his bare skin.

“I didn't know you liked to dress up.”

“Only sometimes. It's been a long time. You don't mind?”

“Mind? Not at all. It makes sense, actually. There's nothing about you that's not ... more ... than everyone else. Your mind, the way it works, so many angles, so many dimensions. You've never been containable, have you? Never been predictable."

"And that's a good thing? You like it?"

"A very good thing. I love it," John says, trailing his fingertips over the bands of Sherlock's stockings. "Where'd you get all of this?”

“I went shopping today, while you were at the surgery. Harrods.”

Sherlock takes a step closer, positioning himself between John's legs. He blinks down at him and pouts just the tiniest bit.

“You deserve only the best, John, especially for your birthday. I asked the sales boy, and he helped me.”

John leans back on his elbows and looks up at the gorgeous work of art in front of him. “Oh, I bet he was very, very happy to help you. Did he pick these out for you, help you put them on? Did he touch you, Sherlock?”

“No one but you, you know that.”

“Hm. I bet he wanted to touch you, though, didn't he?”

Sherlock smirks and ducks his head to the side, peers out at John through violet-lidded eyes. “He gave me his phone number, so I sucked him off in the back room.”

John sits up and hooks a finger into the ribbon at Sherlock's hip and pulls him forward, almost toppling him into his lap. Sherlock braces himself against John's shoulders and leans back to look down at him.

“That's not funny.”

“John, please. You aren't really worried about that, are you?”

John sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “No, not really. You know I get jealous from time to time, but I know what we are to each other. You really are so good to me, aren't you?”

John's hands are running up the firm backs of Sherlock's thighs now, skimming over his stockings, edging closer and closer to the swell of his bottom.

Sherlock leans down low and presses his lips to the shell of John's ear. “You're the one who is so very, very good to me.” He circles the tip of his tongue into the swirl of John's ear and sucks on the soft earlobe, then bites it gently and stands up again. John's hands finish the journey and squeeze Sherlock's arse.

“Would you like to see what I did for you?”

“There's more than this?”

“Mhmm.”

Sherlock steps back, retrieves his drink from the vanity and lifts it to his mouth. He takes a small sip, licks his lips, and then finishes the rest in two long gulps. John finishes his own champagne and passes his glass to Sherlock to set out of the way.

Sherlock swivels back when the glasses are dealt with, and gives John his full attention. “Okay. I'll show you. But first, do you like my panties?”

“I love your … panties.”

“They're tiny, aren't they?”

“Very, very, extremely tiny.”

“They barely fit me, see?” Sherlock runs his fingers up his inner thighs and rubs against the sensitive flesh spilling out the sides of the strip of silk. He's growing hard now, his cock thickening and pressing against its bindings.

John licks his lips and Sherlock can see him swallow, hard, can see his chest rise and fall with deep inhalations.

“I see, love. You're spilling right out of them, aren't you?”

“And I thought it wouldn't look very good if, you know, if there was a lot of hair peeking out, too.”

“Oh my god.”

Sherlock runs the tip of one finger along the taut ribbon drawn across his hips. “And it wouldn't look good here, either, would it?” He palms his rigid cock now, and rolls his hips, the movement forcing the plump, pink head up and out of the scrap of material. “Oops. These really are too small.”

John can't keep his mouth closed now, he's too busy trying to breath.

“John?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock pinches the end of the ribbon between two fingertips. He tugs gently, feeling the little strip of satin give a bit. He pulls harder, and the bow starts to come undone, then the triangle of silk covering his erection and cradling his bollocks begins to slip. John's eyes are locked on the reveal. He does the same on the other side, tugging until the ribbon is undone and the bit of lingerie is slipping off his hips. He feels the brush of slick fabric against his shaft as it falls away, caught between his fingers by the end of the ribbon.

“See?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, yes, I certainly do.”

Sherlock steps his feet apart so that his sac hangs freely below his pelvis, all of it smooth and exposed and naked. John stares, seemingly unaware that the tip of his tongue is resting on his lower lip.

“John?”

“Yes?”

“I did back there, too,” Sherlock says, pointing behind him.

John tilts his head back, eyes closed, and swallows. “Show me.”

Sherlock turns and bends at the waist, grabbing his spread ankles and arching his back. He can't see John now, but he can hear him, and he sounds very, very happy.

“Sherlock, love?” John murmurs.

“Mm?”

“You're sparkling.”

“That's lotion, John.”

“Oh. Did you buy that today, too?”

“I did.”

“It's perfect. You're perfect.” John shifts to the edge of the bed and leans forward, planting one small kiss at the centre of each of Sherlock's glistening arse cheeks. Sherlock rocks back on his heels and wiggles, so John grabs him by the hips and licks one unbroken swipe from perineum to sacrum, then tugs him back, seating Sherlock on his lap, back to front.

Sherlock rolls his head back and rests it on John's shoulder, and grinds tiny little circles into John's crotch. Sherlock wants to be a gift to be unravelled, pried open, taken apart and consumed. He's as breathless as John now, wound tight with need and want, lost in the bliss of letting this other man take control and lead them wherever he wants them to go. He lets out a guttural moan, completely at odds with the delicate lace and ribbons, and John hums back, empathetic.

“I know, I know. I've thought about you all day long, but you … you've been doing more than thinking about me, haven't you? You've been shopping, preparing, getting yourself ready, yeah? All for me, you sweet thing. I'm going to make you feel so good, love, I'm going to take such good care of you.”

John's hands are feather light as they travel up Sherlock's thighs, hips, and waist. He teases Sherlock's nipples, circling and flicking them, plucking at them with the tips of his fingers. Sherlock's body is like a finely tuned instrument, resonating with each touch. When John's fingers dip under the corset to splay across his chest, Sherlock pushes into the touch, rubbing himself against John's hands like a cat.

John strokes and squeezes Sherlock's pecs, rucking the corset down further, then reaches a hand underneath Sherlock, finding and lightly clenching the bollocks hanging between their thighs. He tugs gently, rolling them on his palm and between his fingers, and Sherlock spreads his legs as far as he can, hooking his feet around John's ankles for leverage.

“You're so smooth, so soft. Did you touch yourself earlier? Did you explore how you feel now?”

“Yeh – yes, I touched myself, I – I rubbed myself with the cream and – I rubbed it in, all over.”

“Oh, I bet you did. Tell me, did you get yourself off?”

“No, I didn't – I wanted to save it all, everything – for you."

“Mm,” John croons into the soft curls pressed against his cheek. “You must be ready to burst by now, so hard for me.”

Sherlock whimpers and tries to twist in John's lap, but John holds him still, pressing firmly on his thighs.

“Shh, easy there, easy,” he whispers into his ear. “I'm going to let you up now, and you're going to stand up, turn around, and undress me, all right? Can you do that for me, love?”

“Yes, John.”

John slowly slips his hands off Sherlock's legs, and Sherlock slides forward, falling to his knees before turning himself between John's legs. He pushes the curls out of his eyes as he looks up, and rubs his cheek along John's inner thigh, moving toward the erection visible in John's trousers. He wants to feel it, wants to press his lips against it through the layers of fabric. He's just inches from it now, so close, his hands running up John's sides as he wiggles forward, but then John chuckles and stops his progress with one hand on his shoulder and says, “What did I ask you to do, love?”

Sherlock groans, but stops. “Please, I need to touch you. I need you.”

“You will, love. You'll have me, but right now, let's get me undressed."

Sherlock stands and tucks himself in tight between John's legs before reaching for his already unbuttoned shirt. He runs his hands under the fabric and over John's shoulders, slipping the shirt off with each caress. He runs his hands down John's arms, pushing the sleeves over his wrists. He takes his time, folding the shirt neatly lengthwise, aligning the sleeves, then folding the shirt in half again. He holds it up and presses it to his face, taking a deep breath of John.

John is smiling up at him, rolling his shoulders and sliding his elbows back on the bed, lowering himself so that Sherlock can undo his belt and flies. Sherlock traces John's torso from clavicle to the trouser clasp. John is warm and eager beneath him, open and inviting, all for Sherlock. All for Sherlock.

He bends low again, canting his hips to one side, his own erection bobbing between the black lines of corset and stockings. He undoes the clasp and zip of John's trousers and pulls them down and off his legs, then folds them neatly and places them with the shirt. John is wearing snug boxer briefs that are stretched over the bulge of his cock, tight around his upper thighs. John has his arms folded underneath his head now, his biceps and deltoids sharply defined, the hollows of his underarms pale beneath the soft tufts of hair. The expanse of his chest is broad, his abdomen flat and smooth, adorned only by the line of darkening hair that disappears into his briefs. Sherlock's mouth is watering now, his heart rate running wild.

“You are so beautiful,” he says.

“Mm, no. You are. Take my pants off, please?”

“Once these come off, I don't think I'll be able to control myself, John."

“I hope not.”

Sherlock hooks his index fingers into the waistband of John's briefs and removes them slowly, turning this into his own little peepshow. First the head of John's cock appears, red and flushed and wet. He is so very tempted to lick it into his mouth, but he stays on course, tugging and sliding until he can see most of the shaft, and then the base. At that point he stops, the roll of those pants coming to a halt around John's hips and across the swell of his arse.

Sherlock lowers himself more, the point of his tongue resting in the sharp dip of his upper lip, and John watches, amused, as he lays his cheek flat on John's hip, his nose a hair's breadth from John's cock, and inhales dramatically.

“You smell so good.”

“Yeah?”

“So good.”

“I bet I taste even better. Wanna find out?”

Sherlock straightens up enough to finish taking off John's briefs. He does not fold these neatly; he tosses them onto the floor, never taking his eyes off John. Sherlock doesn't wait to be asked twice. He splays his large hands on John's inner thighs and pushes gently, gesturing to spread, and John complies. Sherlock kneels near the edge of the bed and frames John's bollocks with his hands, then he presses his face into the warm flesh, breathing in the hidden musk.

John reaches down and ruffles Sherlock hair, a fond, affectionate gesture, but when Sherlock begins to suckle one testicle into his mouth, the grip in his hair tightens, and they both moan, low and long. Sherlock's cock twitches with arousal, and he begins to rub it against the bed skirt, seeking any little bit of friction. It is not nearly enough of what he needs, but he cannot stop. Above him on the bed John bites the knuckle of his index finger, letting himself go just long enough, but not so long that he can't come back.

Sherlock's mouth is magic, his tongue is bliss, his lips are a miracle. All three are working John's cock now, and Sherlock's desperate enthusiasm is as arousing as the blow job he's giving. He keens and grunts as he sucks, and John is quickly losing the ability to think whatsoever, let alone clearly. He does pull back, though, and when he tells Sherlock to wait, they are both gasping for air, flushed and sweating.

“Fuck, Sherlock, that's so good, you're so good. Come here, love.”

Sherlock wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and presses a kiss to John's hip, then another to his inner thigh, and rises to his feet. John drinks him in, all six, glorious feet of him, and Sherlock finds himself shivering under that appreciative gaze. John sees him.

John reaches toward Sherlock and hooks his finger under the hem of the corset, yanking him forward, then begins undoing the hook and eye clasps holding the edges together. As each one pops open John runs his fingers along the revealed skin, and when the last one is undone he places the corset on the bed, then runs his hands up and down Sherlock's ribs.

“Look at you, poor thing. You've got indentation marks all over you.”

“It doesn't hurt.”

“You sure?”

“I'm sure. John?”

“Hm?”

“Do you mind if I keep the stockings on?”

“Whatever you want. I love the stockings. Keep the stockings.”

Whatever I want, Sherlock thinks. He loves the stockings. He loves me.

John pulls Sherlock down next to him and settles him on his back, then rolls to his side and licks his way from shoulder, to neck, to mouth. They kiss softly, sweetly, until John pulls back and says, “More lip gloss, I think. I like the way it tastes.” He feels behind him on the duvet until he finds it, then undoes the top and carefully rolls the tip over Sherlock's upper and lower lips. Sherlock blots and puckers, and John smiles and kisses him again.

Sherlock thinks he could stay like this forever, with John's hands in his hair and his mouth on his skin. He feels languid and easy, knowing he can let the hard edges of being Sherlock Holmes fall away when he's with John. He could stay here forever, but then John's hand starts teasing its way down his body, dancing off ribs and belly and hip. His fingers skim inner thighs and groin, tracing the pull of tendons as Sherlock spreads his legs wide, stretching one up and over John's thighs, the other angled away, bent at the knee.

John keeps kissing him, keeps Sherlock from looking, so he's not expecting it when he feels something hard and cold replace John's hand. John grins into the kiss, and Sherlock feels the smooth tip of the lip gloss glide up his cock and around the head. John pulls back and quirks an eyebrow in question, and Sherlock whispers, “Cherry flavoured.”

“Indeed.”

John rolls the gloss up and down his erection, spending extra attention on the delicate skin of his frenulum, then up to the tip, back and forth over the slit. Sherlock gasps through a kiss and arches his back while pushing his foot against the mattress to leverage his hips higher. He needs to thrust, he needs friction, he needs John to –

John shushes him and kisses his jaw, then moves out from under Sherlock's canted leg so he can reposition himself between his splayed thighs. He's still for a moment, his hands running the length of Sherlock's calves, and then he says, “God, just look at you.”

Sherlock looks, looks down at himself, at his narrow chest, his pale, straight torso, his stockinged legs spread high in the air, his toes pointed. He looks at his cock tapping against his belly with each breath, sticky and shiny with cherry-flavoured lip gloss. He looks up at John, and he sees in John's expression that he is beautiful. He is wanted, just the way he is.

John loves him, maybe even as much as he loves John.

John kneels and plants his hands on either side of Sherlock's hips, then lowers his head and sucks the tip of Sherlock's cherry-slicked cock into his mouth. The gloss is thick and sticky, and the combination of that and John's saliva feels like murder on his needy flesh, he is sure he is going to die of his own arousal. John's movements are slow and teasing, and Sherlock can only moan his need for more.

Once again, John surprises him. He gives him more, much more, but not with his mouth. Sherlock feels the round glass tube smearing liquid around his anus, over and over again, and when he is thoroughly coated John nudges just the tip of the vial into him, twisting it around in teasing circles.

The entire room smells like cherry now, and sweat, and need. The room is filled with the scent of Sherlock being loved, and loving back.

John slips his mouth off Sherlock's cock and licks him, licks long, broad stripes up and down his erection, tasting and sucking up and down the slippery shaft. John is eating him up, using his lips and tongue to get at sweet gloss and flesh, all the while twisting and turning the round tip of the glass cylinder inside him.

“Fucking delicious,” John whispers, licking his lips, and then he moves down lower, and replaces his hand and the glass vial with his face. He can feel John's hands spreading him apart, and his nose nudging against his bollocks, but mostly, Sherlock can feel John's mouth sucking at his hole, his tongue flicking back and forth, poking and thrusting into him.

Sherlock's hips are rolling up and off the bed, his legs shaking in the air above him. Every nerve in his body is sending sympathetic signals to his cock, everything is tight and heavy inside him, coalescing, if only John would touch him again, just one stroke, he's sure that's all he needs, just one stroke –

John stands and shushes him, and the room goes silent as Sherlock's keening dwindles to hushed begging. “Oh god John please I can't I can't please, oh my god, oh please …”

John smiles down at him, his mouth and chin shiny and wet. He hooks Sherlock's legs over his shoulders, wraps his arms around Sherlock's thighs, then pulls him flush against him.

“Just look at you. You want it so bad, don't you? You need it, yeah? Need my cock in you? Need a good fucking? I'm gonna give it to you now, yeah? I'm gonna give it to you just the way you like it, you gorgeous thing.”

John doesn't look away from Sherlock as he rubs the rest of the lip gloss on both of them. He raises one questioning eyebrow, and Sherlock answers with a silent nod. John takes his cock in hand and rubs it up and down Sherlock's crack until he bumps up against that slick hole, and he pushes in. He bites his lower lip and blinks slowly, blinks again, again, runs his fingertips up and down the silk stockings pressed up against him. “So – fucking – good,” he pants as he thrusts, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back. “So – fucking – fucking – fucking – good.”

“J – John – yes – yes – yes – oh my god, please!”

“You – are – fucking – un – believable.”

“Oh god – oh god – oh god – yes – yes – yes –”

“Yeah? Like that? Like – unghthat? All right, yeah – fuck yeah – fuck yeah – oh shit, oh god –”

In the end, Sherlock doesn't need John to stroke him. In the end, John's frantic thrusting is stimulation enough, and Sherlock's eyes widen in disbelief as he feels the unstoppable gather up inside him, no going back, no going back, and at the last shrinking second he arches off the bed, shifting himself on John's cock, and around him, over him, in him, he hears John shouting his own beatific release.

He tries to lift his arms and wrap them around John where he has come to rest on top of him, but cannot find the strength or coordination. He feels John nuzzle into his neck, hears John murmur into his skin, “Amazing. Fucking amazing.” Either he dies, or they doze, Sherlock isn't sure until sometime later when he hears John calling to him, softly, close.

The room is dark and they are covered in the half of the duvet that John must have flipped up over them. Sherlock struggles to wakefulness and turns toward John where he lies at his side.

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“This was amazing. I have to tell you something, though, something not good. Don't be mad, all right?”

Sherlock blinks, still groggy, his mind reaching for something that happened a long time ago. He sighs.

“Tell me.”

“I tore your stockings. Both of them. They're totally ruined. I'm really sorry.”

Sherlock's response is a rumble from deep inside his chest, and when the laughter bursts out of him it is deep and satisfied.

“I think you owe me some new lip gloss, too, John.”

“I'm buying you a whole case of that lip gloss, Sherlock. No, a lifetime supply."

"I believe it comes in other flavours, too."

"Whatever flavour you want."

Sherlock reaches over the side of the bed and tugs the other side of the duvet up and over them. John pulls him back and wraps him up in his arms, holds him like a treasure, and Sherlock knows he is loved.

He is loved, exactly the way he is.