They work so well because they balance the other with what they are missing on their own. Sherlock provides John with a brilliant disregard for convention; even days without cases are filled with a unique brand of excitement that is distinctly Sherlock. And John grounds Sherlock in turn, allows that Big Brain—strange though it is—to bask in the glow of being singularly accepted as it is. Sherlock spins John’s world out of orbit, John gently guides Sherlock into orbit around him.
It works, it’s perfect.
Of course, Sherlock is loath to admit how much John anchors him, out loud at least. He bitches and moans, but allows John to make sure he eats and sleeps and curls into his side with a single, “Come here, you” when manically frustrated. John doesn’t take for granted what a gift Sherlock’s absolute trust in him is, to allow him to see past the walls he built after so many years of being ostracized by the very things John adores about him. John is the center of Sherlock; in the constant whir of information and stimulation, a single point he can focus on.
Obviously, these things translated over into their sex life. Sherlock had been a bundle of nerves that first time, almost four months ago (two months after John had returned to Baker Street, “for good, Sherlock”), eager for John’s touch but rapidly retreating into the confines of anxious self-loathing when his lack of experience became obvious and the overstimulation of all his senses at once was too much to handle.
“Sherlock, it’s fine…it’s all fine,” John gently kissed a sharp cheekbone; Sherlock’s skin was hot and flushed under his mouth. “I can show you everything…or nothing at all. It’s all up to you, love.”
Sherlock’s cheeks flushed even deeper at the endearment. “I want to, so much, John.” Sherlock ducked his head. “It’s just,” he rolled his eyes back up to the ceiling, “just…” he waved his hands around his head, clearly frustrated. John grabbed them in his and squeezed.
“I know,” he ran his thumbs soothingly over Sherlock’s wrists. “Just remember…it’s us, just you and me. It’s me, Sherlock.” He released on of Sherlock’s hands and tilted his chin up to meet his eyes. “Just remember, it’s only ME.”
“John,” Sherlock sighed, and leaned forward to kiss him, soft and open. That night, John slowly pulled Sherlock apart, piece by piece, and when he froze or shied away, when it became too much, John whispered, “open your eyes, look at ME, Sherlock.” By early morning, the bed linens were a mess and John felt Sherlock come from the inside, his legs tight around John’s hips and eyes boring into his face.
Sherlock is shockingly open and receptive, welcoming of John’s ministrations with John there to ground him. John’s a bad man, always has been; a slag willing to do anything with anyone. But with Sherlock, it’s an entirely different experience. John is, of course, the chief choreographer, and it’s delightful to watch Sherlock follow and learn all the things he denied himself for so long. (Even though, John will never admit it out loud, he’s thrilled and proud he’s the only person to ever touch Sherlock.)
Some days it’s hard, despite how much Sherlock wants to lie with John in their bed, to shut off and allow himself to be swept away. Others are remarkably easy, more than John would ever expect. But always, there’s a moment, or two, when Sherlock’s breath hitches and he presses the heel of his hands into his eyes because it’s TOO MUCH. Then John gently presses his lips to Sherlock’s forehead and pries his hands away from his eyes, and asks him if he wants to stop while Sherlock frantically shakes his head, curls bouncing. John smiles, gently kisses him, and reminds him to just focus on him, to look at his face and remember it’s just him behind the confusing signals of his body as they overrides his mind.
It always works. John takes immense pride in knowing he has that power over Sherlock, so freely given and enjoyed.
Until one time, just one, he didn’t.
They are quite adventurous, Sherlock eager and willing to learn whatever John wants to show him, and this wasn’t even that adventurous. It was late one night three weeks into their new arrangement, after a case, when their nerves were still singing with adrenaline and they hadn’t spent so many days awake that sex wasn’t possible. Those times were hard and fast, almost blinding in their intensity, and John had already had to tell Sherlock to breathe and look at him. Sherlock was panting against his face, cock pressed hot and wet against John’s belly as he cradled him in his arms and rocked three fingers in and out of his arse.
“John…” Sherlock’s breath was hot and moist against John’s lips, their sweaty foreheads pressed together.
“You’re so tight, love…always so tight,” John kissed him, eyes open. “Do you think you’re ready?”
Sherlock nodded frantically, curls brushing against John’s face. “Yes, John, yes, please!”
“Alright, sweet boy,” he kissed him again. Sherlock grimaced as his slid his fingers out and reached between them to stroke his cock. “On your front for me, up on your knees.” They’d never done it this way before, for some reason; they’d ridden each other and writhed together face-to-face, but John had never pounded into Sherlock from behind. He loved it this way, loved seeing the muscles in his lovers’ (both male and female) backs quiver and contract while he draped over them.
Sherlock was lovely from behind, head bowed, and John ran his hands over the expanse of his long, white back, tracing the twisting scars that littered his smooth, porcelain skin. When he sank inside Sherlock’s tight, hot body, he arched and moaned. Perfect.
It took several thrusts for John to realize it wasn’t so perfect. Sherlock’s breaths weren’t the shallow gasps of pleasure, but rough gulps that hitched in his throat. He wasn’t moaning and whimpering unabashedly, as he usually did when John rocked into him. When John ran his hand down Sherlock’s stomach to his cock, John felt it deflating rapidly. Not good.
John stopped his hips, and draped over Sherlock to kiss his shoulder. He was trembling, and not in a particularly delightful way. His head was hanging. John knew. Of course John knew.
“Sherlock, love, alright?” No answer except a gasping exhale. John pressed his nose into Sherlock’s neck. “Sherlock, you have to tell me…too much?”
John felt him swallow hard as he nodded, head still down. Well, fuck.
“Alright, sweetheart…it’s alright.” He straightened. “Do you want me to pull out?”
“Yes,” Sherlock’s voice was rough and quivering, his shoulders shaking in earnest now.
“Alright,” John gently pulled out and stroked his hand across Sherlock’s chest. His heart was pounding. “Lay down, darling, take slow, deep breaths.”
Sherlock immediately collapsed to the bed, curling into himself as he tried to take a deep breath. He pressed his face into the pillow. John’s heart throbbed and his cock quickly started deflating.
“That’s it,” John soothed, rubbing the back of Sherlock’s neck gently. “Deep breaths. I’m sorry, love, I didn’t mean to overwhelm you.” He stroked and rubbed a few moments longer, until Sherlock’s shaking calmed and his breathing slowed. “I’m going to get a flannel and make some tea. You alright?”
Sherlock nodded into the pillow, body loosening a little.
“Be right back, love,” John leaned over and kissed Sherlock’s cheek gently. It was salty and wet.
A while later, after John wiped himself and Sherlock down with a warm flannel, and made Sherlock drink half a cup of tea, they laid together, Sherlock’s face in the crook of John’s neck.
“I’m sorry, John,” his voice was rough and gravelly. “I don’t know what happened.”
“It’s alright, love,” John kissed his forehead. “Sometimes it’s overwhelming. It happens.”
“I don’t understand it, it’s just, sometimes…sometimes…”
“I know,” John pressed his nose into Sherlock’s curls. It was much easier to talk, to express himself, in their bed in the dark. That’s when most of their darkest secrets and greatest confessions came out. “You’re so sensitive, love, and your brain moves so fast. You process so many more things than the rest of us. It’s not a surprise that something can be too much, especially something as intense as sex. You have so many things bouncing around in there already,” He tapped his fingers against the back of Sherlock’s skull.
“It’s easy, when I focus on you. And I knew it was you, John, but…you felt so far away. I couldn’t see you, and it just…”
“It’s fine, my love.”
“Do you want me to—?”
“Nope. I think the mood is sufficiently killed. For now.” John ruffled Sherlock’s hair, kissed his forehead again. “Go to sleep. Greg is going to have a stack of paper work for us first thing in the morning.”
“Jesus Christ, Sherlock. Greg Lestrade.”
“You sure you’re alright?”
They didn’t talk about that incident again, although it always hung in the back of John’s mind. There were two reasons for it, and the first was purely to be expected: Sherlock was John’s priority. His well-being had been the foremost thing in John’s mind since the night he shot the cabbie, five years ago, and always would be. Now he always watches, just a bit more, to make sure Sherlock is comfortable and can see his face.
The second, is purely selfish and entirely unreasonable: John now wants to fuck Sherlock from behind more than ever. It’d barely been a second thought before they first tried it; things had never moved that way and it was no big deal. It’s not even that exciting. But now that it’s taboo, that it’s something John doesn’t want to broach again, it’s all he can think about. The hot shame he feels, knowing how uncomfortable it made Sherlock and still fantasizing about it, is terrifying and embarrassing.
Not that their sex life is incomplete without it. John is happier than he’s ever been, and it may be clichéd, but John honestly loves Sherlock more every day. Being sexual with Sherlock and seeing a softer side of him is more satisfying than anything he’s ever done. Plus, John can’t deny the intimacy of watching Sherlock’s face while they make love; he is beautiful, and even more so in the throes of orgasm, when his eyes glaze and his mouth drops open in a swollen little “o” as he loses all sense of everything other than his body and John’s eyes. But in the past John also enjoyed the closeness only offered by not being face-to-face or perched in your lover’s lap: deeper penetration, greater purchase to rock and swivel and pound, being able to drape completely over someone or pull them up tight against his chest, touching at every point it was possible to touch. John also wanted to watch from behind, the filthy intimacy of seeing Sherlock stretched tight around him, the redness that would develop as John pounded him raw. He wanted to pull those milky white buttocks apart and watch his cock slide between them. He wanted to grip his hips and surge into Sherlock’s body, press bruises into his flank and gently stroke and kiss the lines and divots marring his back.
It’s not a big deal. It really isn’t. John cherishes every moment with Sherlock; he loves the whole of him, unconditionally, even the damaged parts that contribute to his insecurity and harsh personality, and if this is Sherlock’s one reservation in everything else he whole-heartedly trusts John with, so be it. It’s quite flattering actually (maybe not), that it’s singularly seeing John with him that allows Sherlock to fully let himself go and shut down.
Sherlock needs to see John’s face while they’re having sex. It’s really not that big of a deal. Still, John can’t help thinking about it, ruminating on it, whenever he’s pressed against Sherlock’s back when they’ve retired for the night and Sherlock has deemed it worth his while to actually sleep. He fixates on it, thinking about gripping Sherlock tight and pushing inside, rutting against that long, taut body while Sherlock moans and gasps into the empty space in front of him.
Then Sherlock rolls over and presses into John’s chest, mumbling softy and John realizes what an arsehole he is. Everyone has their thing; John hates all manner of secretions on his face (in his mouth or down his throat is fine). This is Sherlock’s. He squeezes tighter as Sherlock wriggles a bit and falls back into a deep sleep.
It’s not that big of a deal. And it’s not worth it to approach it again.
John wanders around the dark, dusty shop while Sherlock interrogates the owner’s wife. It’s obvious the couple wasn’t actively involved, however the case is convoluted and an 18th century tea kettle found in the bedroom at the head of the victim lead Sherlock to speak to the owners. It shouldn’t take long.
The shop is small and cramped, the air humid and overly heavy with the scent of lavender. John picks up a silver serving tray and flips it over in his hands, tracing the engravings before setting it back. He turns, and an old surgeon’s case, complete with blood-letting set is sitting on an old buffet against the far wall. He heads over, peering into the worn leather case. Most of the instruments are missing, their slots empty in the velvet lining, but there’s a lancet and three cups, and a leather tourniquet. John isn’t sure of the authenticity, but he’s always been fascinated by medical antiques; one of his most prized possessions is a barber-surgeon’s case Harry gave him as a gift when he completed medical training.
“Sherlock will get a kick out of this,” he murmurs to no one, and flips the top down to see a price--£500. “Nooooo,” John chuckles and flips the lid back up. Not that they’re short on money—the ransom for Agatha’s capture left both of them without a need to work ever again—but even wealthy John can’t bring himself to spend so much on something so trivial. And incomplete.
John turns his head as he hears the voice of the owner’s wife coming closer down the hall from behind the register. Sherlock’s familiar footfall follows her clicking heels; she doesn’t sound distressed. Odd, as Sherlock can be quite distressing on even his best days. As he turns, he sees a tall cheval mirror resting against the wall. The silvered glass is speckled and slightly hazy around the edges, and the mahogany mount is slightly chipped in spots. John catches his reflection in it; he looks a bit peaky—too little sleep and food—and he needs a shave.
Sherlock suddenly rushes behind him. “Come along, John!” He heads toward the door.
“Er, just a moment,” the words leave John’s mouth before he even realizes he’s saying them. He quickly turns back to the incomplete medical case. “Are we heading back to the flat? I think I want to get this…” he gestures to the leather case.
Sherlock turns back to look at the case, obviously perplexed but trying to hide it. “For Godssake’s John, we aren’t doing the holiday shopping,” he huffs, but it’s good-natured. He must have gotten what he needed. “But yes, I believe I have what I need. I’ll phone Gavin. Thank you, Mrs. Bernsbury,” Sherlock nods to the old woman, then turns on his heel and reaches into the pocket of his Belstaff.
“It’ll just be a mo’…and don’t you dare smoke!” John calls, then heads to the counter. “I’ll take that medical kit, wrapped today. And that mirror…”
“Ah, yes!” The old woman titters. Her voice is overly high-pitched, kind but grating at the same time. “The cheval? Mahogany and ebony, brass fittings. Barlow and Company…engraved 1895 in Buckinghamshire—“
“How much?” John interjects.
“£2899…if you don’t have a lorry, we can have it delivered for an additional £150.”
“Yes. I mean, I’d like it as well,” John pulls his wallet out of his back pocket, pulls out his Black Card (ridiculous). “And delivery, please. I’ll take the case with me.”
“Very good, Mister…Watson,” the woman picks up the card.
“Ah, Dr. Watson.” She begins typing into an alarmingly modern register. “We can have it delivered this afternoon, or tomorrow, if you prefer.”
“Can I ring you?” John clears his throat. “I may be out of town off and on…doctor and all.” He shrugs nonchalantly.
“Of course, Dr. Watson. The number will be on your receipt…ring us the morning you’d like it delivered and we can get it to you shortly after lunchtime.” Mrs. Bernsbury pulls a receipt off the register tape.
Sign here, please, Dr. Watson. I’ll just wrap this up for you…nasty business, bloodletting, but fascinating in its way…” John turns back to the mirror as the woman chatters on behind him, wondering what the hell he just did. “I’ll also include a card for an insurer…antiques should always have insurance, you know…”
John steps through the glass door into their bedroom, steam billowing behind him. Sherlock is off at St. Bart’s, doing something disgusting, no doubt. The antique cheval—delivered an hour after he left the flat—is now nestled against the wall, between the two wardrobes opposite the end of the bed. It looks nice, if a little cramped. The worn, slightly blurred edges of the mirror glow in the light from the bedside table lamp.
John dresses quickly, an old pair of jeans and worn t-shirt, not even bothering with pants. He heads out into the sitting room.
Two hours and seventeen minutes later, the door downstairs slams shut and a pair of size 11 Yves Saint Laurent shoes comes pounding up the staircase. Sherlock bursts through the door in his usual exuberant manner, spinning on his heels and whipping his Belstaff off.
John looks up from his journal and smiles. “’Lo, love, how was—oh Christ! What the fuck is that smell?”
“What?” Sherlock says absentmindedly, tossing his scarf on the hook over his coat. He smells like death itself. “Oh, that. Yes. The cadaver wasn’t properly embalmed, Molly thinks the femoral vein ripped. Fascinating though, died of untreated acute lymphoblastic leukemia. Very uncommon in a fifty-year-old female, there were leukemic cells infiltrating the central nervous—”
“Did you take a cab, smelling like that?” John coughs and covers his nose with his sleeve. It’s awful…the unique, sweet smell of human putrefaction. He fights a retch. Not exactly what he’d been expecting.
“Obviously, John. Was I supposed to take the tube?”
“I don’t know—NO! You are not sitting in that chair!” John stands, grips Sherlock by the elbow and guides him through the kitchen to the door of the loo. “Shower.”
“No. Shower. Leave your clothes on the floor, I’m going to put them outside. And your coat, too. Christ almighty, did you roll around in it?” He coughs.
“Honestly, John, you surely spent time in a gross anatomy lab.”
“Yes, and somehow I never left smelling like this,” he bends over, turns on the taps in the old tub. “Clothes off. Now.”
Sherlock huffs but complies, unbuttoning his shirt and dropping it on the floor behind him. He stares pointedly at John as he unbuttons his trousers and shimmies them down his slim hips. “Will you be joining me?”
“Not a chance. In.”
“Hrmph,” Sherlock steps out of his pants and over to the tub.
“Scrub. Hard.” John picks up Sherlock’s shirt and grimaces. “Oh, God.” He gathers Sherlock’s clothes and holds them out in front of him, then runs out to the kitchen and grabs a bag from under the sink, along with a bottle of Febreeze. He should really invest in some of their stock, they go through it like milk. The coat isn’t quite as bad, but will still need to spend the night out on Mrs. Hudson’s patio.
A lesser man would be deterred by his lover returning home smelling like a two-week-old corpse. But, John was a man in love with Sherlock Holmes, so it would take more than that.
Twenty minutes later Sherlock steps into the bedroom, damp and nude, his wet hair already starting to spring up into curls on his forehead. Moisture glistens on his milky white skin in the soft light. John will never get used to Sherlock’s dual nature when they’re alone in their bedroom: dripping both guilelessness and pure sex. John watches as he walks over to the bureau, seemingly indifferent to his nudity.
“What?” Sherlock opens a drawer and looks back at John where he is sitting on the bed.
“Nothing, love. I just like looking at you.”
Sherlock’s nose crinkles in (mock) disdain, as it always does when John heaps a compliment on an endearment, but his cheeks color adorably. He’s still not used to John’s unabashed affection.
“Did you scrub hard?” John gets off the bed, walks over to stand behind Sherlock.
“I can tell,” John rests his hands on Sherlock’s sharp hips and leans in to press his nose into the nape of his neck. Wet, overlong curls tickle his face. “You smell much better.”
“Mmmmm…not boring. Delicious.” John nips at the soft, white skin of Sherlock’s back, moves his hand around to rest on Sherlock’s taught belly. “Positively scrumptious.”
“Mmmmhmmm…scrumptious.” John reaches down, gently cups Sherlock’s flaccid penis in his hand. He rolls his foreskin between his thumb and forefinger gently, then runs his fingers up his velvety shaft. He can fill the skin grown hotter in his hand, heavier.
“John,” Sherlock sighs and leans his head back briefly, pressing his cheek against John’s.
“Hmmmm?” John continues to stroke, gently, and lifts his other hand from Sherlock’s hip to cover the small bullet scar next to his sternum. He pulls back and begins to press soft, open-mouthed kisses against Sherlock’s broad shoulders.
“I’m incorrigible?” John teases, swirling his tongue over a burn mark on Sherlock’s left shoulder blade. His cock is thickening nicely in John’s hand.
“Entirely. I’m a saint for putting up with you and your appetites,” Sherlock all but purrs, then tries to turn in John’s arms. John tightens his grip on Sherlock’s chest and stops stroking his prick, just gently holds it in his hand. “John.”
“Shhhhh,” John strokes gently over Sherlock’s bullet scar, his heart. “Do you trust me, love?”
“Yes,” Sherlock swallows hard. His cock is still hard in John’s hand. “Obviously.”
“Good. That’s good, darling.” He leans his head against Sherlock’s shoulder and rocks him gently in his arms where they stand. His anxiety hasn’t gotten the best of him yet. Good. “I love you. I love you, so much.”
“I love you, too…”
“I know, Sherlock. I know.” John rocks him one more time, and presses his thumb into the sensitive head of Sherlock’s prink where his foreskin is pulled back. Sherlock shudders and his breath hitches. “That feel good, love?”
“Yes,” Sherlock exhales hard and shudders again. “But I want to see—”
“I know, darling. You will.” John presses one last kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder then releases his prick. “I want to try something.
“Come over to the bed,” John lets go of Sherlock and takes his hand instead, turning him around. Sherlock’s face flushes some more when he sees John smiling brightly at him. He follows across the short expanse of space between the bureau and the bed.
“Did we always have a mirror there, John?”
John practically guffaws. “No, love, it’s new.”
“It’s from Bernsbury’s shop? I saw you staring at it.”
“You don’t miss a thing, brilliant boy,” John pushes up, now that they’re face to face, and captures Sherlock’s mouth in a hot, searing kiss. “I saw it, thought it would like nice there. Across from the bed.”
Sherlock eyes him for a moment, then looks up again at the mirror. John watches, amused, as his brain churns. “Oh.” His eyes widen and his mouth drops open in its perfect little O of understanding. He looks at John. “You never said anything, we could have tried—”
“And make you uncomfortable again?” John steps closer, into Sherlock’s space. “Not a chance. So I found a middle ground…”
“Oh, John,” Sherlock’s face screws up, almost uncomfortable with the blatant thoughtfulness of John’s purchase.
“On the bed, sweetheart. On your front,” John leans up to kiss Sherlock softly, licking gently into Sherlock’s mouth once. “Face the mirror.”
Sherlock takes a deep breath and nods once, then allows John to guide him up on and the bed. John grabs two pillows, one for under Sherlock’s chin, then taps his hip and slides one under his stomach. Sherlock wriggles as his cock settles pressed against the soft down. John then quickly strips, tossing his clothes aside and crawling on the bed next to Sherlock. He strokes damp curls once, imploring Sherlock to look up at him. His eyes are wide, a bit apprehensive already, but his face and neck are still flushed with the beginnings of arousal. John dips his head, and kisses him deeply, passionately.
“You want to try this?” He murmurs against Sherlock’s swollen mouth.
“Good boy,” John strokes Sherlock’s hair again, scratching his nails gently against his scalp. “Watch in the mirror. Watch me, like always.” He gently suckles on Sherlock’s lower lip an reaches back to run his hand over Sherlock’s plump arse. It’s soft and deliciously smooth. “If it doesn’t work, if it’s too much like before…you tell me, alright?”
“Alright,” Sherlock exhales softly. John crawls on the mattress to behind Sherlock and reaches to pull his hips up. A quick peak between his thighs assures John he’s still mostly hard, his cock and balls hanging heavily in front of him.
“Up, sweetheart, like that,” John strokes Sherlock’s flanks. He looks at the mirror, and sees Sherlock’s wide eyes watching him back. “You can see me alright, like that?”
“That’s good. That’s perfect,” John leans over to kiss Sherlock’s shoulder blade, careful to keep his eyes up and on Sherlock’s in the mirror and he kisses and licks down Sherlock’s back. His head is positioned on a pillow, lower than his hips, so John can look down the long expanse of his back into where his face is reflected in the mirror. When he reaches Sherlock’s arse, he gently bites one cheek, then the other, causing Sherlock to yelp. He rests the side of his face against one cheek, the sparse, soft hairs tickling his lips as he mouths closer to Sherlock’s cleft. “Still alright?” John looks pointedly into the mirror.
“Yes, John,” Sherlock sighs, and to emphasize, wriggles his arse back against John’s face.
“Mmmm, wonderful,” John nips once more, then moves his mouth fully into the cleft of Sherlock’s arse, licking over the soft skin then swirling his tongue around the small, pink ring of muscle there. “Spread your knees a bit for me, love,” John murmurs, his lips brushing against the tight furl as Sherlock complies, exposing more of himself. They’ve done this before from the front, and so Sherlock has never been so openly exposed to John like this. It’s lovely and filthy, sparse, soft hairs and his tiny, pink hole, the same color as his flushed cheeks, nestled amongst alabaster skin the same color as the rest of him. John looks his fill (if there ever could be one), then looks back up into the mirror as he places his open mouth over the soft, crinkled skin and sucks wantonly. Sherlock is positioned perfectly; John can look directly down into Sherlock’s face in the mirror above the globes of his arse.
“Oh!” Sherlock is looking back at him, eyes wide and mouth falling open. John swirls his tongue again, stiffens it and presses in, just a bit, the tight muscle clenching and twitching around him. Sherlock’s eyes are watching him attentively, staring at him while he sucks and licks and thrusts into his tight hole, and John’s cock throbs. It’s absolutely, numbingly filthy, watching Sherlock look back at him while he devours his arse.
“Delicious,” John teases, taking his eyes off the mirror for a moment to survey his handy work. Sherlock’s perineum and anus are glistening wet with saliva. John spreads his arse cheeks further, opening him up more, and John watches as a small bead of precome drips from the head of his cock onto the pillow he put underneath his hips. His sphincter spreads as John pulls, opening just a bit before John leans forward and pushes his tongue back in. He looks back up in the mirror to see Sherlock twist his back, his eyes rolling back as John rolls his tongue a bit and resumes sucking. He closes his eyes briefly and pushes his tongue once more, then pulls back and presses soft, open mouthed kisses to Sherlock’s pink anus as he looks back into the mirror.
Sherlock is watching him again, and looks positively angelic in the glow of the fuzzy glass. His hair is drying frizzy, a messy halo around his head, his pupils blown wide. A deeper flush is creeping down his cheeks onto his neck and chest, contrasting beautifully against the white of the pillow. His long fingers are clenched in the linens.
“Still alright, love?” John gives him on last open kiss, then lifts his hand and gently pushes the tip of his finger into Sherlock’s hole. He jerks back and gasps.
“Oh, yes, John…” Sherlock’s voice is breathy with arousal, and he gasps as John pushes his finger in further, feeling the tight muscle twitch and grip at him. John raises up on his knees, eyes still on the mirror, and runs his palm over the long expanse of Sherlock’s back.
“Good. You’re so beautiful like this, laid out in front of me, arse in the air,” John twists his finger, his callouses dragging around the unlubricated flesh, and presses gently forward towards the nub of Sherlock’s prostate. His eyes widen in the mirror and he jumps. “Want me to keep going, darling?”
“Yes,” Sherlock looks directly back at him. “Yes, please!”
“Good,” John turns briefly to grab the bottle of lube from its hiding spot under the pillows at the head of the bed, finger still buried in Sherlock’s arse. He turns back and pulls out, staring Sherlock down in the mirror as he flips the cap and drizzles some onto his fingers. He’s torn between a cursory preparation and dragging it out; Sherlock is stunning as he stares back at John in the mirror, but John is achingly hard and it’s taking all his resolve not to just drive into his waiting arsehole. “Alright,” John slides two fingers in and scissors.
“That’s it, sweetheart. Eyes on me,” John brushes against Sherlock’s prostate again, circling with two fingers, then pulls out and adds a third. Sherlock clenches and his back arches as he pushes himself up on his elbows. His cock is bright red between his milky thighs. “You’re so fucking beautiful…”
“So beautiful, so hot,” John leans forward and runs his tongue over a long scar on Sherlock’s back, from a fish knife in Serbia Sherlock told him, careful to keep his eyes on Sherlock’s in the mirror. “Absolutely filthy.” He rocks his fingers harder, curling into his swelling prostate. “Mine…”
“Yes…yes, John, please,” Sherlock is pushing back into John’s hand, rolling on his knees. He drops his head and bites into the pillow.
“Head up, Sherlock,” John growls, maybe a bit roughly. “Watch me in the mirror, love…” Sherlock immediately lifts his head, eyes wide and glassy as he looks back at John. “Good boy…do you want my cock now?”
“Yes, please, John…”
“You’re still tight,” John spreads his fingers against the resistance of Sherlock’s body. “It’s going to hurt…”
“I don’t care,” Sherlock bores into John’s eyes in the mirror. “Please, John!”
“Alright,” John pulls his fingers out with a wet *squelch* and Sherlock jerks. “Slide down a bit, love, rest on the pillow…that’s it.” Sherlock slumps down and John moves the pillow up farther under Sherlock’s belly so he’ll eventually have unimpeded access to Sherlock’s cock. He lowers himself from his elbows and rests his head on the pillow at the end of the bed, watching as John grabs the lube and slicks his cock, hissing at the contact after being neglected for the proceedings so far.
“John,” Sherlock whines impatiently, so John rubs a bit more lube around his slightly gaping hole, then catches Sherlock’s eyes directly in the mirror as he leans down with his right hand next to Sherlock’s shoulder. He’s low enough on the bed that John can drape over him.
“Eyes on me, Sherlock,” John takes himself in hand and lines up, popping the very head of his cock past Sherlock’s rim and in. It’s marvelous. “I want to watch this, but you keep your eyes on my face. And you tell me, Sherlock, if you need to. Understand?” John’s voice is tender but commanding, and Sherlock nods in the mirror, his entire body wire-tight.
“Good,” John breathes, then places his hand in the small of Sherlock’s back, looking down to watch as he slides the rest of the way in, Sherlock’s tight, pink hole stretching unbelievable wide to accommodate him. He moans hard when John is buried to the hilt. John pulls out once, twice, watching himself slide in and out before lifting his eyes back to the mirror. Sherlock is staring at him intently, eyes and mouth wide, as John starts to thrust in earnest. “Oh, fuck, you’re so perfect inside, my love…”
“Watch me, Sherlock,” John rises up on his knees, running both hands down Sherlock’s back, the muscles undulating and twitching under his fingers. His curls are bouncing against his head as John grabs his flank, thrusting harder in this position than he’s ever been able to do before, the slick, tight pull of Sherlock’s arse unbelievable around his throbbing prick.
“John, harder, please.”
“Yes, fuck,” John watches Sherlock’s face in the mirror, watching his eyes and mouth, the sweet, almost pained look of ecstasy that is so perfectly Sherlock as he starts to let himself so. “Fuck, love…you’re so beautiful, so beautiful…”
“Rise up for me, love,” John places his hands on Sherlock’s chest and pulls as he thrusts. “Keep watching me…”
“Yes…” Sherlock hisses as John pulls him up, off the bed, and drags his back against his chest. John is just able to rest his chin on Sherlock’s shoulder, watching him in the mirror and he sinks back, his arse resting on John’s thighs.
“Roll your hips,” John continues thrusting up, his thighs burning, and Sherlock tentatively drags his hips in a circle counter to John’s thrusts. “Oh, just like that, you fucking gorgeous thing…perfect, so perfect…”
“Oh, God, John!” Sherlock’s cock is bouncing against his belly, so hard the skin is pulled tight and shiny. The vision of him in the speckled, fuzzy glass is achingly obscene, bouncing and rolling on John’s cock, watching him, and John is suddenly, intensely close to orgasm. He doesn’t know if he can slow down, doesn’t know if he even wants to as Sherlock rocks and presses down, already starting to twitch. His sweaty back is slick and hot against John’s chest, curls tickling John’s face, and all the while, watching, staring into John’s face. It will not be long.
“Jesus Christ, Sherlock,” John gulps, thrusting up harder. His cock bumps directly against Sherlock’s prostate and he shudders hard in his arms, twitching harder around John. “I have never…you are so beautiful. So fucking beautiful.” John runs his hand down Sherlock’s front, watches himself grab Sherlock’s cock with his slick left hand and jerk up once.
“I know, love, I can feel you,” John thrusts up harder, gripping Sherlock’s hip with one hand and twisting the other around his impossibly hot and hard cock. John sees a bit of precome dribble out of the tip in the mirror and almost explodes then and there. “Fuck, fuck, Sherlock…you gotta come for me now…”
“Yes, John,” Sherlock rolls harder and grips John’s hand where it’s on his hip. “Please…PLEASE.”
“Watch me, eyes on my face,” John pants, twisting Sherlock’s cock harder and angling his thrusts forward just a bit. “Come for me, you dirty, gorgeous thing…”
And he does. Sherlock’s eyes widen in the mirror and his mouth drops open in a silent scream as John feels the first clench around his cock, then warm wetness over his hand as Sherlock’s prick twitches. He inhales hard and his eyes rolling back, thrusting forward into John’s fist and spurting a second, third, fourth time, his arse squeezing and milking along John’s cock, dragging him to the very edge. Before he can stop himself, John pushes Sherlock down and into the mattress, draping over him and rutting while his hand continues to wring around Sherlock’s cock. A few more hard thrusts and John comes, hard, pouring into Sherlock’s twitching body. He wraps both his arms around Sherlock’s waist, face pressed into his hard shoulder and humps through it, his semen overflowing and running down John’s scrotum and the inside of Sherlock’s thighs.
When John comes back to himself several moments later, he’s slumped over Sherlock’s hot, sweaty body, arms still snug around his waist. He looks up and sees Sherlock’s eyes in the mirror, glazed and half-lidded, cheek pressed against the pillow. “Hi,” he murmurs, as John shifts up a bit with difficulty and hooks his chin back over Sherlock’s shoulder. His thighs are burning, and his arms feel like jelly.
“Hi,” John returns hoarsely. He kisses Sherlock’s ear. “Alright?”
“If what I’m lying in is any indication, obviously,” Sherlock’s lips quick in a smirk. He’s still a bit breathless. “Who knew you would be capable of such a brilliant work-around?” Sherlock says archly, then his lips curl up into a genuine, soft smile, John’s smile, his eyes sparkling and sated.
John huffs a laugh and smiles back, wide, and he wishes he had his phone on him to take a picture. The image reflecting back at them is absolutely gut-wrenching: him stretched over Sherlock from behind, their cheeks pressed together in the soft light as they smile at each other’s reflection. Although it’s unlikely he’ll ever forget this image.
“Remember this when you see the credit card statement, love.”
“Well, I can hardly think of a better way to spend disposable cash, than on an extravagance that gets me so well-fucked.” While Sherlock is well above vulgarity normally, post-orgasm he swears like a sailor. It’s delightful.
“You sure you’re alright, my love? Not too much?”
“No, John, it was wonderful,” Sherlock shifts a bit, jostling John where he’s still inside him, and turns his head on the pillow so he can look John in the face for real. “Thank you.”
“Thank YOU,” John murmurs, kissing Sherlock’s lips, then cheek, softly. He pulls his arms out from under Sherlock (wiping his semen-covered left hand on the sheets) and reaches up to stroke along Sherlock’s forearms. “Stay like this a bit?”
“Mmmmm,” Sherlock hums as John kisses his eyebrow, his nose, and shifts his leg so he can hook his foot over the John’s ankle, where he still lies between Sherlock’s legs.
John looks back into the mirror and rubs his thumb against Sherlock’s forearm, settling down against his back as Sherlock closes his eyes and relaxes deeper into the pillow.
The next thing John knows, he’s waking up a few hours later, stuck to Sherlock. Sherlock is undoubtedly stuck to the sheets. He’s sleeping, absolutely beautiful, reflected back in the mirror.