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It had started out completely innocently. Honest.
Sherlock and John had been settled comfortably on the couch, watching a movie. Sherlock was still a bit weird about starting displays of affection, but after John had actually grabbed Sherlock's hand and settled it on his head, he eventually got the message. The Wolf was in the background of John's mind, rumbling incessantly as Sherlock carded his hands through John's hair. His eyes had been growing heavier and heavier, and he had completely forgotten what the plot of the movie was, when Sherlock's fingers slipped from his head and started kneading his neck.
John's eyes crossed and he melted into a relaxed, aroused mess. A groan escaped him and he stared up at his partner. Sherlock's fingers paused, and he stared back. His eyes narrowed inquisitively, and then his fingers dug in again, and rubbed at the lines of tension.
A growl slipped out from John's throat. Sherlock smirked. He shifted his hands slightly lower still, to the part of John's neck where his shoulders began to slope, and twisted his fingers once. John's entire body tensed with pleasure, and then he had Sherlock on the floor, lying on his back with his head tilted up, and Sherlock was laughing and baring his neck.
John stopped. Pulled back, and stared. Sherlock didn't move, didn't ask John what he was doing, didn't bring his chin back down to hide the length and glory of that neck. Just held still, and stared back.
'Mine,' the Wolf managed to snarl out, and then John was on him. He lunged for Sherlock's throat, marking it with tiny, hot, open-mouthed kisses and sharp bites quickly soothed by tender laps of his tongue. He wound a path up to Sherlock's mouth and then, only then, did Sherlock respond.
It was slightly awkward, and more than a bit messy because John was so unbelievably turned on, and neither of them could do more than gasp into each other's mouths as Sherlock's hands continued in their quest to melt John's brain, and John's own fingers explored every line, every valley and hill of Sherlock's body, every expanse of skin he could reach, but it was perfect, in its own way.
Sherlock found that spot on John's neck again, right at the base, the one that made him gasp and writhe, and kneaded it mercilessly until John was just lying on top of Sherlock, twisting and keening, unable to do anything in return and not finding it in him to care. Sherlock gripped him tightly and rolled them both over, descending on top of John like a starving man at a feast.
Frustrated that John was still inconveniently hidden by something so trivial as clothes, Sherlock pulled his jumper, shirt and undershirt off in one go, practically snarling to match the Wolf when it caught slightly on John's arms. John silently thanked Sherlock's irrational need to always wear fancy dress shirts and simply pulled at the buttons until they either gave in and undid, or gave way and popped off.
"Jesus, Sherlock," John managed to grind out as Sherlock bent his head and worked his way down John's chest. "Jesus motherfucking Christ." He felt the curve of Sherlock's lips against his skin and groaned at the sensation. Clever, nimble fingers darted to the top of his jeans, and he heard the slow, quiet rasp of a zipper being drawn down. John surged up and buried his fingers in Sherlock's hair, tugging him up so John could revel in that mouth again.
He rolled them over so Sherlock was back on the bottom, having decided that he'd spent quite enough time writhing helplessly. Now it was Sherlock's turn.
John and the Wolf grinned, delighting in the shiver that ran through the body underneath him. Very, very slowly, John leaned down, opened his mouth, and licked across Sherlock's nipple. He arched suddenly into the touch.
"Fuck, John," he cried. John knew it. Seeing just a little bit of the Wolf in John when he was human turned Sherlock on. Well, if that's what Sherlock wanted...
The Wolf had been whining, desperate for some kind of attention, something that would appease its natural instincts to have, to claim, to mate. He obviously wasn't going to let the Wolf out completely, because that would wouldn’t end well for anybody, but there were some things he could do that would satisfy everyone.
He withdrew from Sherlock's chest, cataloguing the whimper he made in response but ignoring the desire for attention. John looked Sherlock in the eye, made sure he was watching very carefully, and then gently bit his stomach. Sherlock's head slammed against the floor and a groan burst from his lips.
"God-"
John continued, drawing flesh between his teeth and pulling it just enough to hurt a little, before letting go and swiping his tongue over the pink skin in apology. John could quite honestly have kept doing that until one or both of them came, but Sherlock's hand somehow finding its way down his pants decided their course of action from there.
He left Sherlock's stomach and quickly made his way up to those full lips, crying out to be worshipped, and slipped his own hand into Sherlock's trousers.
Commando.
Of fucking course.
John grabbed the slacks at Sherlock's hips and yanked them down, freeing his erection and swallowing down the cry of relief he let out in response. His fingers went around the full length of him, drawing slowly up with a teasing flick at the end until, when John bit down on the side of his neck, Sherlock was coming and coming and coming, gasping John's name into the air and bucking his hips up like a wild animal. The Wolf in John grinned savagely, and he made sure to mark Sherlock's neck hard enough to show for a couple of days. Above the collar. (Let Anderson choke on that.)
Sherlock lay on the floor, utterly spent and panting for breath in a way that made John feel extremely satisfied with himself. And then Sherlock bared his neck, pushed his belly up, and twisted the hand still down John's pants.
And that was the rather abrupt end of it for John.
"Jesus Christ, Sherlock," he muttered, face down in the man's neck. "Warn a man next time you pull a stunt like that."
A huff of breath against his hair told him Sherlock had laughed, and he smiled sleepily.
"Come on," he groaned, managing to push himself up to his feet. "If I don't get into a bed now, I'm never going to make it."
Sherlock grinned up at him lazily and lifted a hand, clearly expecting to be pulled up.
"Arrogant sod," John told him affectionately.
"You love it, though," Sherlock informed him. He rolled his eyes.
"Don't expect me to be at your beck and call though, that's not how it works, Sherlock."
The curly-haired man waved a hand dismissively in response.
"You're already at my beck and call, John. Now I can use sex as a form of reward, so it'll be mutually beneficial for all involved."
John rolled his eyes again, but didn't deny it.
"You're annoying when you've just had sex," he pointed out.
"I'm always annoying."
"You're also very honest."
"I can't help it, the chemicals in my brain have turned me mad."
"Yeah, sure, all I hear is 'I'm fucked out, and that's all thanks to you, John'. Besides, you were already mad."
Sherlock snorted.
"Don't flatter yourself, you were hardly in a state to move earlier, and all I'd done was give you a massage."
Their bickering continued until they made it to Sherlock's bedroom (neither of them could be bothered walking up the stairs) and sunk down on his bed. John looked across at his flatmate and grinned.
"Thank you, Sherlock."
"What ever for?"
"No reason."
"Well then, thank you too, I suppose."
"You're welcome."
Love you.
Love you too.