Finally, finally, finally! John's mind sang. Yes, finally, he and Sherlock were about to have sex. Tangled on the couch, kissing, groping. Frantic and hot, eager. John had been ready for ages. So much frustration, but here they finally were. He hated he was behaving like a horny teenage boy, but that's what he felt like; what Sherlock made him feel like.
Sherlock responded enthusiastically to John's roaming hands and hungry mouth. At first. John couldn't help but notice, however, as he tried to work Sherlock's trousers off, he'd become less responsive. Lazy, distracted. John swore to Christ if Sherlock suddenly announced he was bored, or had to go look at something through a microscope, John would kill him. No. He'd tie him to the couch and have him anyway.
"John," Sherlock finally said. Here it fucking comes.
"What?" John kissed his throat; his pale, slender, gorgeous throat.
"You want to have sex with me, yes?"
John lifted his head. "What a brilliant deduction, master detective."
Sherlock frowned at him. "So you want to penetrate me?"
"That would be wonderful, yes."
"You want to put your penis in me."
"Well if we're using those sweeping, romantic terms, yes. I want to put my penis in your anus and thrust until I ejaculate."
Sherlock made a pained face. "No, not a good idea."
"What?" John thought he might throttle him. "Why? Are you a virgin? I have plenty of lube, and I swear I'll be as gentle as—"
"No, I'm not a virgin." He waved his hand, and then gestured outward, across the room. "It's just, I have to—"
John looked around the room, saw nothing amiss. "Have to what?"
"I have to—" He gestured again.
"Have to what?"
"I need to have a shit!" He'd been gesturing toward the bathroom.
John stared down at him a moment, then rolled off. "And, there's the mood killer."
"What!" Sherlock said, aghast. "It would be much more unpleasant if I let you find it out for yourself!"
"Oh God, just. Go to the bathroom."
"I'll come back and we can still have sex."
"No. No we will not."
"You do know it's used for things other than sex John. You're a doctor."
John got up. "Yes. And I'd really rather not have that knowledge at the forefront of my mind the entire time."
The second time was less spontaneous and more planned. Everyone was empty and prepared. They got farther, tangled naked on the bed, and John had two fingers up Sherlock's arse. He felt so hot and tight and John simply couldn't wait to get his cock up there. He didn't want to hurt him though, so he was using a lot of lube and giving him plenty of preparation.
John knew the angle was a bit odd. Too much of a gap between his fingers and Sherlock's body and he was pushing air into him as a result. He knew this, but was too lust-addled to really process the consequences.
When he drew his fingers out, the sound that followed was loud, very wet because of the lube, and would have been hilarious under any other circumstances. A huge, wet, make-schoolboys-piss-their-pants-in-laughter fart. They both froze, John propped on his elbow, Sherlock staring at the ceiling with his hands curled against his chest, looking mildly stricken.
Then Sherlock shifted his gaze to him, and gave him a wide, fake smile and said, "Tah-dah!"
John rolled away.
"Are you serious?" Sherlock asked in disgust. "You're a doctor John! Are you telling me that put you off?"
"Would you stop using 'you're a doctor' as a get out of an awkward situation free card? Just because I understand human physiology doesn't mean it turns me on."
"If you push too much air into an orifice without it being able to absorb internally, it has no choice but to escape!"
"You don't want sex now?"
"I want some tea."
John was tired of Sherlock's arse issues, so the next time they tried a blowjob, on the couch before going to bed. Sherlock had such a gorgeous mouth, and John sometimes found himself losing his train of thought thinking what it would be like to have his cock inside. It turned out to be just as warm and wet and pleasant as he imagined.
Sherlock didn't seem unskilled, but he didn't get his mouth more than a couple inches past the head. He worked admirably on what he did take, and used his hand on the rest, but it wasn't enough. John itched for more, and pushed on the back of his head now and then, trying to encourage him to take it deeper.
After the third time Sherlock snapped his head up, eyes glittering with irritation. "I am not a bloody porn star John Watson! I can't deep throat you!"
"You can take a bit more than that, can't you?"
"No, I cannot. Surely you know the human mouth is only a few inches deep, you're—" he gritted his teeth, obviously biting back the words a doctor. "I can only get so much in! You can't defy the laws of physical limitations!"
Sherlock went back to work, but now it felt like a really angry blowjob, and that wasn't entirely pleasant. John took forever to get off. Sherlock was making impatient noises around him and kept stopping to work his jaw. When he finally did have an orgasm, it wasn't wholly satisfying, and Sherlock choked on his come and it got all over both of them.
"Well that was enlightening," Sherlock said, and wiped his hand over his mouth, grimacing.
"That's one word for it."
John thought maybe if they went the opposite way, things would go better. He didn’t mind taking it, as long as the one topping him was careful, and he couldn't imagine Sherlock being anything less than meticulous. He didn't prove John wrong, either. He prepared him fully, and it felt very good. Sherlock seemed quite aroused by being on top too, and John got more turned on by Sherlock's eagerness.
By the time John rolled over on his belly, he was so very ready for it. Sherlock was over his back, putting the condom on. When he rubbed his slick, hard, rubber-sheathed cock between his cheeks John groaned and arched his hips.
"Yes," he breathed against the pillow. "So nice and stiff. Put it in me. I want to feel you."
"John." Sherlock was trembling against his thighs.
"Come on," John encouraged. "Shove it up in, I'm ready."
"John, shut up."
John chuckled. "Embarrassed by the dirty talk, are we? Well you're about to get a surprise, because when that big cock of yours is pounding my arse I'm going to be telling you how good it feels to have you up in me, fucking me open."
Sherlock made a desperate, gurgling sound. John opened his eyes. He could feel Sherlock's cock pulsing in the crack of his arse, then a moment later his body relaxed against John's and he panted.
"Sherlock, did you just—"
Sherlock rolled off him with a groan. "I told you to shut up."
John lifted his head. "Why didn't you tell me you were that close? We could have stopped and calmed down a bit."
Sherlock made a sound of disgust and peeled the condom off. "John, you should know premature ejaculation is more apt to happen in new situations because of the excitement. You're—"
"Do not say it."
"Would you like me to finish you off?"
"No. I'm going to the bathroom. And I'm taking the lotion with me."
Passion overtook them one evening after being out for dinner, despite their run of bad encounters. They'd had a bottle of wine, and finished it off, caught up in conversation. The problem was, Sherlock didn't drink much. He said drinking sometimes led to him thinking about doing harder mind-altering substances, ones he'd left far behind. Therefore, his tolerance had gotten quite low.
In the alleyway outside the restaurant, Sherlock pressed John up against the brick wall and attacked his mouth with sloppy, uncoordinated kisses. John liked him inebriated, as it seemed to make him more congenial and frisky. The kisses got heated. John got hard. Despite all their issues, John really, really wanted to have it off with him quite badly.
There wasn't anyone passing by, so John didn't even mind when Sherlock stuffed a hand down his trousers and started stroking him. John got into it, biting back moans and quite ready to let Sherlock bring him to completion, but then he stopped. He took his hand out of John's trousers.
"Sherlock, wha—please. Keep going."
Sherlock drew back with an alarmed expression, held a finger up, and turned away. He bent over and vomited red wine and pasta all over the pavement.
John groaned and rubbed his face, then did up his trousers.
When Sherlock was done retching, still bent over, he said miserably, "I'm sorry John."
John sighed and rubbed his back. "It's all right. I'm a doctor."
John couldn't believe it. They were finally having sex. Finally. And it was amazing. Sherlock was so hot and snug inside, so perfectly exquisite, and moaning so lovely beneath him. John pumped away, filled with nothing but joy and pleasure.
No awkward bodily functions. No aching body parts. No cramps. The bed wasn't collapsing. They were in perfect harmony, moaning together, and everything was wonderful and bliss. John never wanted to stop. He had the stamina of a man half his age and Sherlock wanted more, more. It seemed like the best fantasy John had ever imagined come to brilliant life.
John had a mind-blowing orgasm, filled the condom, and it didn't rip, or slide off when he pulled out. He finished Sherlock off with his mouth without his jaw aching at all and he tasted so good, he swallowed his release all down.
Afterward, John cleaned up, flushed the condom, and went out to the kitchen to snuggle with and kiss Sherlock in the afterglow while they waited for the water to boil for the tea.
"That," John said, nuzzling noses with him, "was fucking amazing."
"Well worth the wait," Sherlock said, smiling contentedly. "Incredible."
They kissed, sucking lazily at each other's lips, John caressing Sherlock's back under his dressing gown. Then he heard a sound, like rushing water, coming from down the hallway. He drew back, frowning.
"What's that?" Sherlock asked, and looked around. They broke apart and walked down the hallway.
Standing in the bathroom doorway, John stared in dismay at the flood on the bathroom floor. He and Sherlock backpedaled as it flowed out into the hallway.
"You flushed the condom, didn't you?" Sherlock asked.
"I'll call a plumber."
"Better yell down to Mrs. Hudson too. Before it starts coming through the ceiling."