John watches the sweet, slow slide of a dollop of honey slip down Sherlock’s spine, inescapable momentum rolling it lower, lower, until it pools, suspended, in the dip of his back just above his arse.
Its nights like this John relishes. When they can take their time, indulge in the sensual, the unusual. A little something new, a little something wicked. He’s still not over shaving Sherlock absolutely bare from groin to feet, nor of the sensation of heavy silk bindings around his thighs, of the tinkle of silver chains.
“Shhh, hold still,” John tells him, and kneels across Sherlock’s long legs, bends low and follows the golden sweet line the honey left behind, teasing and tasting with lips and teeth and tongue until Sherlock is shaking with need and his back arches almost involuntarily, the shimmering reservoir of honey cascading down his sides and across his arse, dripping in sticky rivulets into the sheets.
God, he’s a sight: skin gleaming, muscles beautifully cut and defined, black curls glossy and a little bit mussed. John catches what honey he can on his fingers, holds one out in offering so Sherlock can suck it clean. Good Christ, he thinks, desire is made of this: of the heat of Sherlock’s love, of dark nights twined together, the shimmer of honey down his back.