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John's lying naked on his back, gripping the iron bedframe and trying to hold himself still, because he knows what will happen if he moves. He should have known Sherlock wouldn't be able to resist finding out the range of his body's reactions. He's an experiment, or possibly an exciting new instrument Sherlock's still learning to play - still finding out what it can do, what sounds he can draw from it.
Sherlock's long fingers trail teasingly down John's chest and move in light circles on his abdomen. John moans with frustration. His cock is painfully hard and he feels as if Sherlock's been doing this for hours, touching him all over, too lightly to get him off. His skin feels impossibly sensitive, and Sherlock seems to know the exact right touch to drive him crazy, keep him on the edge.
"Please, Sherlock," John groans. "I can't stand it."
"Oh, I think you can," Sherlock says.
He's right, of course, damn him. He knows exactly how much John can stand, though he keeps pushing it a little more each time.
"Don't move," Sherlock says warningly.
John needs to move, he's got to, but he knows if he does Sherlock will stop, take his hands away altogether. He bites his lip and wills himself to lie still.
Sherlock's hand brushes against the head of John's cock, a fleeting, barely-there touch that feels almost accidental. John can't stop himself from crying out, and Sherlock makes a small satisfied noise that's not quite a purr but close to it. He closes his fingers around the base of John's cock, making a ring of his hand that's just that bit too loose for what John needs, and slides his hand up and down, sometimes touching, sometimes not quite. John can feel the heat of Sherlock's hand, the maddening closeness, not enough, never enough –
"Please," he says again. "Sherlock, please, I can't, it's –"
"Lie still," Sherlock says, as John's hips buck in spite of himself.
"Tighter," John begs, "harder, Sherlock, please, please, I need to –"
He grips the bedframe desperately as Sherlock's fingers and palm twist around his cock, teasing him till he's beside himself, till he'd do anything, anything at all if Sherlock would only let him come, make him come.
Sherlock's eyes are dark with lust and his face is flushed. "If you could see yourself," he says, voice tight with arousal. "God, the way you look, John, so beautiful, it's amazing –"
John knows how he looks: he looks a mess. Wrecked, sweating, desperate. He doesn't need a mirror to tell him that; the look on Sherlock's face is enough.
"Come for me," Sherlock says, and he tightens his hand just enough, finally, precome making his grip slide easily as he pulls and twists. "Come now."
John comes, shuddering and moaning, so hard he sees stars.
Sherlock throws himself on top of John, his cock slipping and sliding as he rubs himself against John's stomach. He's sobbing for breath, and it doesn't take long at all - just long enough for John to grip him and squeeze once, twice, three times, and then Sherlock is coming, crying out with each pulse of orgasm.
"One of these days I'm going to make you wait for it," John says, when he can speak again.
"Mmm," Sherlock says, wriggling luxuriously against him.
"If you don't kill me first," John adds. "Jesus, Sherlock, I thought my head was going to explode."
Sherlock laughs, a deep satisfied sound, and pushes his face into the crook of John's neck. His lips move, but John can't work out what Sherlock's mumbling against his skin.
"Hmm?" John says.
"I said, you love it," Sherlock repeats, sounding impossibly smug.
"Huh," John says, but he doesn't deny it.
They both know it's true, after all.