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the way you use your body, baby (come on and work it for me)

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John pulls up short when he enters the living room.

Sherlock, frowning in concentration, is lying stomach-down in the middle of the room, left leg stretched out behind him and his right leg folded under him somehow so that his right heel is poking out from under his stomach, just above his left hip and how is that even possible-

"What-" it's possible his voice cracks, "are you doing?"

Sherlock pushes up from his forearms, straightening his arms and balancing on his palms, to frown at John.

"I have," he says, driving his lower body harder into the carpet, "tight hips."

"Yeah you do," John murmurs.

Sherlock collapses back down onto the floor, with something that sounds like an, "Ugh."

John glances away. Back at Sherlock.

Sherlock pushes himself up again, straightening his arms. "You're aroused," he says, with a slight frown.

"Often am, around this," John says, mildly, with a nod at Sherlock's pyjama-clad form. No point denying it.

Sherlock's eyes widen momentarily, one of his elbows bending slightly in surprise. He processes that. John lets him.

"It's not ... me in pain, no," he works through.

"No," John agrees, firmly, as Sherlock arches up into something that looks like a push up (this much, John can recognise) before swapping to stretch his other leg and how does he make it look so easy -

"Then what?" Sherlock says, lowering himself over his left leg, now.

John presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek for a moment

- the first time doing what John still calls the Oxford rub, but Sherlock intercrural; face-to-face, his breath shaky against Sherlock's cheek, his fingers slippery against his inner thighs, and Sherlock twisting so both of his legs were on John's left, John catching a forearm under the back of Sherlock's knees and pressing him to stay like that as he pushes into the slick space between his thighs from the back -

- Sherlock arching his back and spreading his legs impossibly wider when John gets the angle just right -

- Sherlock, on his side - John, straddling his lower leg, holding the upper one up against his chest as he rocks into him, urgently -

- hooking one of Sherlock's legs up over the crook of his elbow, Sherlock lifting it to rest on John's shoulder, and John's movements faltering in surprise -

"You're just," John swallows, "very flexible." Sherlock pushes up onto his hands again, and, Christ, something about his straining biceps and the pointed toes on his right foot are really doing it for John. "Do you want a bit of a rub?"

Sherlock smirks.

"Your hips, Sherlock," John says, mock disappointed. He jerks his head towards the hallway. "I've got some Deep Heat."

Sherlock's lips twitch again.

"Oh, shut up," John says, but he's grinning as he ducks into the bathroom for the first aid kit.

"Alright," he says, re-entering the living room. He kneels, with a groan, beside Sherlock, tossing the Deep Heat to the side for a moment, "Let's see what you've got."

Sherlock rolls onto his back and looks up at him, expectantly.

John reaches down and grips Sherlock under the knee.

"Up," he says, pressing Sherlock's right knee up towards his shoulder (and Sherlock does it so easily, his leg passing where John would've stopped with little resistance). Sherlock links his fingers together and grips his leg just below his kneecap, holding his leg in place for a long moment.

"Other leg," John says, roughly, and Sherlock switches, with a tiny smile. "Now," he says, reaching for Sherlock's left leg, the far leg, "towards me." Leg still bent, he pulls Sherlock's leg across his body. "Try and keep your back flat on the ground," he suggests, with a light push from his free hand, and Sherlock groans. "Stop if it hurts," John tells him, and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

John holds his leg in place for a long moment, and Sherlock takes a deep breath.

"Feeling that?" John asks, quietly, and Sherlock gives a tiny nod. "Other side?" John asks, and Sherlock takes another big breath.

"In a moment," he says, and John grins down at him, relaxing his hold for a moment before pulling Sherlock's leg up again.

"When you're ready," John says, fondly, and Sherlock blinks up at him, lazily.

Sherlock reverses his position so John can grab his other leg, pulling it across him again, and Sherlock sighs, closing his eyes.

"Should feel that in your hip," John says.

"Iliopsoas," Sherlock corrects, and John's grip falters.

"Sherlock, I'm a doctor."

"Mmnn," Sherlock hums, a little dubiously, and John laughs, incredulous and delighted.

"Cock," he says, affectionately, relaxing his grip again for a moment. "You got one more in you?" and Sherlock's watching him, fascinated. He gives John another tiny nod. "Right," John says, getting to his feet, "I need you up on the kitchen table for this one."

The lines around Sherlock's eyes deepen in amusement. "John, this wasn't quite what I had in mind-" and John reaches down to help him up.

"Shut up," he says, "And get on the table."

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow at him, but follows him into the kitchen, hopping up onto the clear(-ish) tabletop. John steps into him, grabbing his hips and tugging him towards the very edge of the table.

"Lie back," he says, and Sherlock does.

"Are you sure you know what you're doing down there?" Sherlock asks.

"I'm a doctor," John reminds him, again, "Who's played a lot of rugby."

"Recently?" Sherlock asks, warily, and John tugs at his pyjama bottoms in reproach.

"You utter wanker," he says "Heel up on my shoulder," he adds, patting his chest for emphasis. Sherlock slowly lifts his leg, adjusting his foot a few times until he's comfortable. His other leg hangs off the edge of the table. John grips that knee and slowly pushes down.

Sherlock groans, surprised.

"Where did you learn that?" he asks, rapidly, then, slower, "You certainly didn't do that with your rugby mates." John can hear his lip curling over the word.

"No," John agrees, with a bit of a smirk, "Had it done to me a couple of times, though."

"Harder," Sherlock insists, wiggling his toes against John's chest, and John presses down a little more.

Sherlock lets out a choked-off gasp, and John pulls back immediately, and Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment.

"No, that was ... good," he says, cheeks pink (possibly the strain of holding the position, but, oh, possibly not).

"Good?" John teases, as he presses down again, and Sherlock groans, throaty and low. John holds it for a moment before relaxing his grip. He presses down again, carefully, and watches the way Sherlock's chest rises and falls with his breaths.

Reluctantly, he wraps his hands around Sherlock's top leg, presses a quick kiss to his ankle, before moving it back down, so both of Sherlock's legs are hanging off the side of the table again. Sherlock pulls himself up and drapes an arm around John's shoulders as he tugs him into a sweet, light kiss.

John rests his hands on Sherlock's thighs. "Deep Heat?" he suggests, and Sherlock makes a delighted noise in the back of his throat. John kisses him again, quickly, before ducking back into the living room for the tube.

He tries not to laugh when he returns, but bloody hell, Sherlock's keen, shucking his pyjama bottoms and sitting back up on the table again already. John squeezes a generous amount of the cream onto his palm. He rubs his hands together before sliding them down the outside of Sherlock's thighs.

"You know this isn't doing much?" John doesn't really ask.

John digs the heel of his hand into the meat of Sherlock's thigh as he drags his hand back up. "I find the sensation - satisfactory," Sherlock says.

"You like the way it feels," John teases, and Sherlock frowns.

"That's what I said." John drags his hands down Sherlock's legs again. He clenches his fists, digs in his knuckles and pushes back up towards Sherlock's hips again. "Oh," Sherlock says, voice surprisingly wobbly, and it's that, that and the arch to his back -

"You really like this," John says, a bit stunned, gaze on the way Sherlock's thickening a bit in his pants. He digs in his knuckles again and drags and Sherlock sucks in a breath through his teeth.


John squeezes out a little bit more of the Deep Heat for one more pass down Sherlock's legs, and one of Sherlock's hands grips the back of his neck as he leans in for a kiss.

"John," he says, again, this time against his lips.

And it's Sherlock, Sherlock and his flexible legs, in nothing but his pants, making those noises, mouth against John's and, "If this is happening," John says, deadpan, "I'm not touching anything," holding up his hands like he's being mugged, Christ, but he does get a bit stupid, sometimes, around Sherlock like this.

"That," Sherlock says, sliding off the edge of the table and dropping gracefully to his knees, "Will not be a problem."

He nuzzles John's groin through his trousers, and John leans forward to grab the edge of the table. Sherlock rubs his cheek against John's cock, likes, John assumes, from the tiny smile, the way it twitches against his face.

Sherlock reaches up and unbuttons John's trousers for him, making sure to brush the back of his hand along John's cock as he does. He slowly pulls down the zipper - pausing to trace his nose along the length of John's thickening cock through his pants - before tugging the trousers down. He delicately peels John's pants down, and wraps a hand around the base of his cock.

Sherlock pauses, studies it for a moment, before leaning in and placing a series of kisses from base to tip, open mouthed and wet, just a little sloppy. His tongue darts out and he licks delicately at the head of John's cock, and John's hips jerk forward, helpless and shivery.

Sherlock glances up at him, briefly, before opening his mouth and swallowing John down - not particularly deep, not with his hand still wrapped around the base of John's cock, but fuck, he loves Sherlock's mouth. He slides his mouth up and down John's cock, wetting his way, not even trying to get John off, particularly, not yet, but John rocks into the touch.

Sherlock bobs his head faster - faster than he'd be able to if he took John deeper (and he has; carefully inching down until his nose pressed against John's pubic hair, slow and deliberate, John smoothing the hair back from his forehead almost frantically, feet shifting in the sheets), and he uses some of the spit escaping from his mouth to slick the way for his hand.

He moves up and down John's cock, his mouth tight and wet and John reaches for him.

Sherlock grabs one of his wrists with his free hand, pulling back long enough to murmur, "Not my hair," and John barks out a laugh.

"You're ridiculous," he tells Sherlock, as he mouths at John's cock again.

"And you love me," Sherlock says, with a certainty that makes John's chest ache.

"Christ, I do," he says, "You know I do."

Sherlock glances up at him, lets the moment stretch out between them for a beat, before nudging John back towards a kitchen chair. John collapses backwards into it, trousers and pants still around his knees, and Sherlock drapes himself over John's lap.

He wraps his slick lips back around John's cock, and John groans. "Your mouth, Sherlock."

Sherlock hums a little around his cock, pleased, and John digs his heels into the floor to push up, lazily, into his mouth.

"What," he asks, "What do you want?"

Sherlock pulls back, wipes the corner of his mouth with his thumb-pad. He pauses, thinking (and John, John knows better than to ask what about. Bowel movements, probably).

"Just this," Sherlock says, leaning down again, "for a little longer."

He works his tongue along the underside of John's cock, spreading his thighs to get a bit lower.

"Watch your hip," John murmurs, and Sherlock yanks his head back.

"A stunning indictment of my fellatio technique," he snaps, but John's known him, loved him, for long enough to know he's not actually irritated. He bends down to kiss Sherlock's pouting mouth.

"There is nothing wrong with your technique," he says, emphatically.

Sherlock ducks his head and takes John in his mouth again, slowly inching down, hands resting lightly on John's thighs.

John works a foot between Sherlock's spread thighs and presses his shin against the pants-covered bulge there.

Sherlock's eyelids flutter closed as he arches against the pressure, huffing little breaths through his nose as he sucks John with long, slow pulls, worming a hand between them to press his knuckles gently against John's balls.

John rocks into the touch, making a funny little "ha" noise on his exhales, as his pelvis tightens.

"Sherlock," he huffs, and it's building, he can feel it, Christ, he's close. "Sherlock."

Sherlock pulls off a bit, opening his mouth and making room for his other hand to wrap around John's length; he wanks him, quickly, the head of John's cock resting on Sherlock's tongue (and fuck, it's filthy).

John groans as he starts to come, hips pushing up as the pleasure crests, and Sherlock strokes him through it, his come landing on Sherlock's tongue, his bottom lip, Christ, his chin, and John slumps forward as he rides out the feeling.

He closes his eyes for a moment. "Get up here," he says, roughly, and Sherlock shakily gets to his feet, pushing down his pants and straddling John's lap. Sherlock wraps his hand, slick with pre-ejaculate and spit, around his own cock, tugging quickly. He's already breathing hard.

"That's it," John murmurs, reaching out to rub his hands up and down Sherlock's thighs, and Sherlock jerks, twisting in John's lap. "Just like that," he adds, and Sherlock makes a hoarse noise as his chin falls forward. John slides his hands down a bit further, towards Sherlock's knees, and presses them apart.

"Oh!" Sherlock looks stunned, overwhelmed, and John relaxes his grip for a beat before pushing at his legs again. Sherlock's back arches, hand flying over his cock, as John holds his thighs open (can only imagine the burn, the good hurt).

Sherlock twists again, writhing on top of John where John all but has him pinned, as he comes over his bare stomach, legs straining against John's hold.

His hand slows, pulling himself through the aftershocks, and John leans forward to kiss what he can reach (spends a bit of time at the little dip between Sherlock's collar bones).

He kisses a path across Sherlock's chest as Sherlock comes back down, hands stroking Sherlock's thighs gently until Sherlock takes a steadying breath (and when John reaches up to run fingers still smelling like Deep Heat through Sherlock's hair, he wrinkles his nose for only a moment).