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"Oh, for God’s sake,” John muttered, followed by a louder clatter and a shout of “Fuck me! Sherlock, did you have to use my mug for an experiment? Again?”

Sherlock sighed. It was just an expression, he knew. John didn't actually curse all that frequently, but in his frustration or anger, John had a series of colorful phrases that came tumbling out.

Sherlock winced, not bothering with the cultivated mask he reserved for outside their flat. It was sometimes the anger, not the cursing, as John assumed, that made him twitch. Too many memories of shouting matches with Father, no doubt. But mostly, it was that particular phrase. John kept saying 'fuck me' and, despite his best intentions to stay strictly flatmates, Sherlock would love to do just that.

Or be fucked. Not really picky about positioning as long as they were both getting off.

He knew John didn't mean it that way, that was a turn of phrase, an outburst of anger, of frustration, of anything but sexual desire. But that didn't stop it from sending sparks to Sherlock's groin every time.

Sometimes his greatcoat covered his reaction. Sometimes a repositioned throw pillow became necessary, or a timely text from Lestrade that allowed him to whirl away out of sight on the pretense of getting case details until the humiliating demonstration of his inability to control his body passed.  Occasionally, he'd simply ignore John's comment all together and head off to the loo to take care of the problem or wait it out. So far he was grateful for John's complete lack of observational skills.

But he had to get John to stop. Better would be getting John in bed, but that wasn't going to happen.

This time, as soon as he could manage, Sherlock escaped to the loo. It was a quick wank, hardly satisfactory, but it did the job.

It was becoming insufferable. To live like this. He had to stop feeling this way. To stop reacting. Or, to have John. But how?

---
Two weeks later, a tiny voice in the back of Sherlock’s mind had begun to whisper that he was irritating John just to hear him say it. He didn’t need to use John’s mug for the experiment with the pig’s feet and his own towel would have been perfectly adequate. John’s was merely closer to hand. But if he did bother John enough, perhaps he’d become inured to that stupidridiculoussexyirritating phrase. But after the 5th time in one week, with no significant diminishing of his reaction, Sherlock couldn’t stop himself.

“All right, John, if you insist,” Sherlock grumbled sarcastically.

“What was that?” John called out.

Sherlock’s hand flew to his mouth involuntarily, horrified that he’d let that out even for a moment, but as he looked at John, he didn’t want to take the words back.

Standing up and crossing to the kitchen in a few short strides, he towered over John, crowding into his space and took a steadying breath, before launching in, "You could choose any phrase. There are a plethora of other expletives to choose from. ‘Oh, Shit’, ‘Sod this,’ ‘Bloody Hell,’ and ‘Goddamn it’ easily accessible among them, but nine times out of ten that isn't what comes out of your mouth, is it, John? ‘Fuck me,’ you've said. Countless times. Perhaps, I simply should.”

John opened his eyes wider and looked for a moment like he might run out of the flat, but with a deep breath and a minute nod, he stood his ground. John lifted his eyes to meet Sherlock’s gaze, and  breathed, “Fuck me” once more. The intonation was the same as his curse, but the intent had shifted until it was worlds away from an expletive, though the obscenity had become, if anything, more obscene. If Sherlock was having him on, he’d find a way to laugh it off, but John didn’t think he was. He licked his lips.

And suddenly, they moved toward one another, lips pressing together almost too hard, all tongues and a bit of an awkward clash of teeth before they found their rhythm. They managed to bump the kitchen table, sending a cascade of slides to shatter on the lino, but neither could be arsed to care and John didn’t curse this time, merely groaned into Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock’s slid his dressing gown from his shoulders and John rucked up the ratty vest beneath to slide his hand across Sherlock’s stomach. He shivered lightly under John’s touch. They pulled apart long enough to get John’s jumper over his head. Their lips met again as Sherlock’s fingers worked open John’s button up.

Sherlock's hands stroked John’s chest through his vest, his fingers pausing to trace circles around John’s nipples through the soft cotton.

John was sensitive, gasping at the attention, and burying his fingers in the curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck. He drew him down for another kiss. John’s hand dipped lower, sliding Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms down, noting with a spike of pure lust that he wasn’t wearing any pants.

Sherlock moaned at John’s warm fingers wrapping around his length. He broke their kiss to whisper, “Oh God, John,” against his neck as John’s hand moved against him, giving a slight twist of his wrist on the upstroke so his palm slid over the sensitive glans.

Sherlock pressed him back against the wall, bracing them both against the weakness he felt in his knees at the pleasure. His breathing sounded harsh to his own ears as his fingers found their way to John’s flies, unfastening them swiftly and sliding the jeans down. He couldn’t be bothered with the pants,  pushing them down just enough to free John’s cock. He had to touch him, to, well, anything and everything John would give him.

John arched up on the balls of his feet, managing to push their lengths together, despite their vast difference in height. “Sherlock,” he groaned. He reached down and did his best to wrap his hand around both of them.

Sherlock wrapped his hand around John’s and together they began to stroke off.

“Fuck, Sherlock. Yeah, like that. Oh, God”, John cried out and his whole body shook with the pleasure of it, all warmth and friction and the intensity of knowing that this was Sherlock.  

Sherlock rocked his hips and stroked again and again, from root to tip, steadily whispering in his ear. “John, I’ve got you. I’ve wanted this so long. Please. Come for me, with me, all over me. I want you John, all of you. I want to watch you come, to feel you on my skin.”

And if the feeling of Sherlock’s hands on him wasn’t enough, God, his voice saying things like that, was more than he ever dreamed. John came hard, spilling over their entwined hands.

Sherlock eased John’s hand off of him and dropped to his knees, lapping up John’s come and licking his softening cock clean.

When Sherlock paused to glance up at John with a positively wicked smile, and stroked himself, John’s cock gave a twitch like he might just get hard again already.

“Fuck,” John breathed.

“That was the idea, yes.” Sherlock dragged his fingers through the mess John had left on his stomach and used it to slick his own cock, never breaking eye contact with John.

“Bedroom, please, I want you to...”

Sherlock’s  brow quirked as if to ask, ‘really?’ For all his quips, he hadn’t been sure John would actually want that. “Say it. Say it again and I will.”

John licked his lips and drew a soft breath. “Fuck me, Sherlock. I want you to fuck me.”

Sherlock rose, sucking John’s come off his fingers.

“Christ, Sherlock. Upstairs, now.” He took Sherlock’s hand and led him upstairs where he stripped off the rest of his clothes and grabbed the bottle of slick from the bedside table.

“How should I…” he began as he handed it over to Sherlock. He trailed off, not quite sure how to finish.

“On your back. I want to see you.” Sherlock said as he finished undressing, his voice gone gravelly with desire.

John lay down in the center of the bed.

Sherlock slicked his fingers and knelt between John’s legs. He slid them over John’s perineum, stroking and pressing lightly before slipping all the way back to circle the sensitive, wrinkled flesh of John’s hole.

John tensed involuntarily, then willed himself to relax as Sherlock started pressing one finger inside.  John bit his lower lip and closed his eyes tightly as he processed the sensation. Not unpleasant, just unfamiliar outside of his own touch. He sometimes got himself off this way, but he’d never had anyone else penetrate him. He groaned and as Sherlock reached his other hand up to stroke him, John noticed he was already half hard again “Christ, what you do to me.”

Sherlock stroked him and worked him open until he was writhing on the bed. He moaned and whimpered, panting and positively begging for more. “Do it, Sherlock. Fuck me. Now. God, I can’t take this anymore. I need you. P...p...please, fill me.”

Sherlock rolled on a condom before slicking himself. He lined up and then let out a positively sinful groan as he thrust forward, sinking slowly into John.

“Yes, Sherlock. God, yes.”

Sherlock’s hips undulated, sinking in another inch and then retreating, each shift forward taking him a little deeper, then pulling out. “Is that what you need, John?”

Again and again as John panted and moaned beneath him. “Oh, Christ, Sherlock. Fuck, yes, please,” a steady litany of obscenity and encouragement.

When he was fully seated, Sherlock leant down and kissed John deeply. He looked at him with awe, “You’re perfect, John. Incredible...” And then he began to move. He knelt up, his hands free to stroke every bit of John he could reach, his thighs, his stomach, his nipples, appreciating the way John clenched and released around him.  “John,” he groaned and slid down, bracing himself on the bed above him. “Touch yourself, John. Can you do that for me?”

John nodded, reaching down to take himself in hand.

“That’s it,” Sherlock panted, thrusting harder. “I want to feel you come around me.”

John cried out, finding his pleasure again as Sherlock shouted his name and came deep inside him.

They lay together, breathing hard, hearts racing for a long time, joined together, neither even needing to speak.  

Eventually Sherlock slipped out and binned the spent condom. He crawled up to lay beside John, studying his face. “That was amazing.”

“You’re amazing. I can’t believe we just…”

“I can’t believe we’ve wasted a perfectly good year together not.”

John laughed, then kissed Sherlock. “Well, we certainly won’t waste another.”