Trudging up the stars to the flat after his shift at the surgery, John began to worry. Not a single sound emanated from 221b as he scaled the steps to their door—none of the gunfire or thrown crockery or the violin screechings that usually accompanied Sherlock’s boredom. The man had been nearly two weeks without a case at this point. Up until now, Sherlock had been hip-deep in his usual cacophony of post-case petulance, which featured with thrown crockery (“You could have ducked, John.”) and a rather memorable experiment on the abilities of chemical dyes to eat through various types of rubber gloves (“Well, Sherlock, at least your hands are an interesting shade of violet.”). Now, John wasn’t even getting so much as a whiff of one of the more malodorous experiments Sherlock had been working on.
Keying open the lock, John slipped inside and found…nothing. No Sherlock sulking on the couch or brooding in his chair. No detective hunched over his microscope in an attempt to alleviate the boredom he’d been complaining of when John left. Assuming Sherlock must have gone out and forgotten to let him know, John hung up his coat by the door and went to the kitchen to make tea.
He was pouring water into his mug when he heard a soft sound from their shared bedroom. Like a deer alerted to the snap of a twig, John turned to face the source of the sound, eyes wide. He heard another noise—something like a low groan—from the bedroom. Abandoning his tea, he padded toward the room’s closed door, fearing an intruder had broken in and subdued Sherlock.
His hand was on the doorknob when John heard the sound again, and this time he was close enough to identify it. His worry instantly dissipated, and, grinning, he opened the door.
On the bed lay Sherlock, face down, and moaning as he rutted slowly into the mattress.
All John could do for the next minute, the next hour, the rest of his life was watch that pale body undulating on their bed, his lover’s skin glistening. John felt his face heating as he looked on, managed to gasp in a breath that turned into a moan as he palmed his hardening cock through his trousers. His sound was answered by another stifled groan from Sherlock.
“J-ohn,” Sherlock breathed, still grinding against the bed, but slowly now, so slowly, his body a sinuous curve as he sought friction. He turned his head to look at John, long neck craning. “Please.”
Fingers struggling with buttons and legs tangling in trousers pushed off too quickly, John crossed the room and slid into bed with his partner. He leaned in close to nose against curls still damp from the shower Sherlock must’ve taken while John was out and felt the dip of the bed as Sherlock rolled so they were almost pressed back to chest, listened to him shiver out a breath. Hands hovering over skin so damp it shone in the afternoon light sieving through the curtains, John kissed over Sherlock’s shoulders, breathed in as he pressed lips to slick flesh, and oh, god.
John breathed deep, moaning as the scent of the coconut oil on Sherlock’s skin filled his airways, warm and soft and just a little bit sweet. His cock ached, throbbing when the smell hit his nose, and John was taken back to stroking suntan oil over the shoulders and backs of sunbathing girls during his high school years, his hands allowed to rake over miles and miles of sun-warm flesh, provided he kept his erection hidden by his swim trunks. His skin tingled with the memory of those girls under his palms, of Sasha, a girl from his time at Bart’s, with whom he’d practiced anatomy, reciting names of muscles and bones while massaging each other’s bodies, their hands slick with the only thing John could find in the flat—the coconut oil his roommate kept for cooking. Their bodies shone in the glow from the sodium light outside John’s bedroom window, hands gliding over the pectoralis major, John’s voice quiet against her neck as he murmured, “Clavicular head, sternocostal, abdominal,” smoothing the oil over her skin before pressing his lips to hers.
The bass rumble of Sherlock’s voice drew John back to the present.
“This is decidedly better than shooting at the wall,” he said in a voice as sweet and smooth as the oil on his skin. “Had I known my choice of moisturizers would have such a delicious effect on you, John, I would have taken advantage of it sooner.” He pressed the oil-slick curve of his arse back against John’s cock.
John’s eyes didn’t quite roll back in his head, but it was a near thing. Sherlock was warm in his arms, his skin so very slick under John’s hands. John thumbed at one of Sherlock’s nipples, the oil coating his skin making him that much more sensitive, before huffing out a laugh against the taller man’s neck.
“Honestly, I’d—god—I’d forgotten about it,” John said, his cock nestled between the globes of Sherlock’s arse, warm and slippery. “Is that what brought this on, you wanting to test my reactions to different moisturizers? Not that I’m complaining, mind, but you don’t usually use coconut oil.”
Sherlock shook his head, hands reaching back to rub oiled palms over John’s thighs. “Wanted to test absorption rates of different oils on skin…felt nice,” he panted, eyes drifting shut at the feel of John rocking against him. “Hoped you’d be home soon.”
John laughed at that, a warm puff of air against Sherlock’s shoulder. Nipping at the base of Sherlock’s neck, John’s teeth dragged over the knob of a vertebra before his tongue darted out. The noise that the barely-there taste of the oil over Sherlock’s skin wrenched from him was guttural and needy, and it had John pulling at Sherlock’s shoulder, urging him to turn over as John swung a leg over his slim hips.
“Oh, oh f-fuck, Sherlock,” John gasped as his cock brushed against Sherlock’s, hot and wet with the oil. John ran his hands over his lover’s ribs, his stomach, reveling in the smooth glide of the oil against his skin. Leaning down, he mouthed at Sherlock’s throat, his collarbones, his chest, tasting every inch of skin he could and letting Sherlock’s body muffle his moans.
For his part, Sherlock held on for the ride, drawing one hand through John’s hair as he lapped at Sherlock’s nipple. His body bowed, arching into John as they ground together, his other hands skittering over John’s back, his shoulders. It slid lower, until long, oleaginous fingers were digging into John’s arse, pulling him closer.
John bucked, his cock sliding sinfully over Sherlock’s hip as Sherlock used the hand in John’s hair to tug his head up from where he was sucking a bruise over the younger man’s clavicle. John’s eyes were dark with want when they met Sherlock’s, his lips shining and parted as Sherlock kissed him, and John moaned, breathless, melting into Sherlock as the oil had melted into his skin.
Under John, Sherlock writhed, his body an oil-slick undulation. One hand twined in John’s hair as he moaned, keeping him where Sherlock wanted him, the other reached for something on his nightstand. It came back dripping and snaked between their bodies as a fresh wave of coconut oil assaulted John’s nose. Slowly, Sherlock wrapped that slicked-up hand around their cocks and began to stroke.
John keened, gasping out Sherlock’s name as he fucked into the man’s fist, unable to still his hips. Eyes shut tight, he felt Sherlock stroke a thumb over his cheek and down to his lip, and John drew it into his mouth, lapping at it, cleaning the oil from Sherlock’s skin with his tongue. He felt the hand around him tighten, gain speed. His senses were filled with nothing but Sherlock and the oil.
Gently, Sherlock pulled his thumb from between John’s lips, and replaced it with his tongue, while that hand caressed down his neck and over a shoulder to slide down his back, one slick, slender digit slipping into the crease of John’s body to glide, warm and wet, over his hole.
“Sherlock,” John gasped, torn between pushing back onto that finger or forward into Sherlock’s hand. He clung to Sherlock, unable to move, unable to choose between one heavenly sensation and the other.
Sherlock chose for him, the hand slicking over their cocks continuing its motion even as the very tip of his finger dipped inside John’s body. Feeling John’s thighs trembling around his hips, Sherlock worked just the tip of that finger in and out of John’s tight hole before pushing it as deep as he could, pressing his mouth to John’s once more to swallow his lover’s moan.
“You’re close, aren’t you, John,” Sherlock purred into his ear, his hands never stopping their ministrations.
Burying his head in Sherlock’s shoulder, John nodded, one hand digging into Sherlock’s side, the other twisted in the bedding. He felt his lover’s finger working deeper inside him with each inward thrust, its rhythm a perfect counterpoint to Sherlock’s hand on their cocks, and John bit his lip, whimpering into Sherlock’s skin. Every breath brought with it the scent of coconut, subtle and rich, and every breath drew him closer to the edge.
Sherlock felt John’s hands scrabbling for purchase on his skin, the bedding, anything the doctor could reach as he tightened his hand and crooked his finger over John’s prostate. Another stroke, three more, half a dozen, and John was sobbing out his orgasm, his come painting Sherlock’s stomach and slicking his hand as he continued to stroke them both, working John through the aftershocks even as Sherlock came, adding to the mess pooling between them.
Panting, his breath warm against Sherlock’s skin, John rolled to the side, still softly kissing Sherlock, making his way over the man’s jaw, seeking his lips and gently slanting their mouths together. Their kiss was slow, languid, flavored with coconut oil and colored the shade of the late afternoon sun glinting off of Sherlock’s skin. John’s fingers continued to glide over Sherlock’s skin, unable to get enough of the feel of him, but where his touches were passion-hurried before, now they were slow and soft, delicate brushes of hands in the lazy afterglow of their encounter. Sherlock very nearly purred at those touches, the pleased moan he let out rumbling through his chest as he dug his towel out from where it had wedged under the bedding and used it to clean himself up. When he had, John pulled him close, ran a hand through those still-damp curls. Sherlock hummed his contentment, nuzzling against John’s chest.
“For what it’s worth,” Sherlock said, stretching against him, warm and languid, “I feel similarly about strawberries.”