“Hmm?” The ex-soldier acknowledged his partner without looking up from the papers on his desk. (That certainly wouldn’t be enough flu shots? What on earth was Margret thinking? He’d have to send in a second order…)
“Does it pain you when we have anal sex?” Sherlock asked. John froze, his pen poised over the paper, ready to write up a request for two batches.
“Whut?” He asked dumbly, looking up at Sherlock in confusion, suddenly very, very glad his office door was closed.
“Does it hurt?” Sherlock's face was carefully blank, though his fingers where twitching the way the did when he was trying to dislodge his nicotine cravings.
“Not particularly, no.”
“But it still pains you, yes?” Sherlock pressed. John set down his pen, sighing internally.
“Sherl, love, you’re stretching muscles that aren’t biologically designed to stretch that much. It’s a bit uncomfortable at first, but it doesn’t hurt.”
“What’s it feel like?” Johns’ mouth twisted down, trying to find an accurate description.
“It’s… Well honestly it’s a bit like using the loo for a few moments, only in reverse.”
“That sounds very unpleasurable.” John smiled at the man softly, his face had twisted down into confusion as if he couldn’t fathom why someone would do such a thing willingly.
“At first, yea, and if you’re not relaxed enough, or don’t go slow enough it can bloody well hurt like a bitch.”
“Do I hurt you?”
“No, Sherl, never.” Sherlock's face turned down, a look of disbelief on his face. “It’s not exactly pain,” John quickly continued, “it’s just a bit uncomfortable for a few moments. But the prostate is bloody brilliant.”
Sherlock hummed and nodded thoughtfully, John could tell from the way his eyes glazed out that Sherlock had returned to his mind palace. John watched him for a few more seconds before shrugging and picking up his pen again, trying to ignore his half-erection. Sherlock bloody Holmes had him trained like Pavlov’s dog. One mention of their sex life, even if it was to describe anal sex in a rather clinical matter, had John rearing to go. And the surgery was certainly not the time or place.
An hour later John finally sighed, cracking his neck and rolling his bad shoulder as he organized the papers on his desk. It was only when John cleared his throat and stood to turn out lights and hang up his white coat that Sherlock blinked awake.
“Ready?” he asked, running a hand through Sherlock's hair as he reached down and grabbed his flat keys from the small bowl on his desk. The bowl made of the shined and polished top of a skull. A bizarre gift from Sherlock to commemorate their six-month anniversary. Most people assumed it was a handmade bowl, John didn’t correct them. Sherlock leaned into his hand like a cat and hummed in contentment before unfolding his long legs and standing.
As John turned to head out the door Sherlock caught him around the waist and pulled him close. John smiled at him, tipping his head back, rising onto the balls of his feet. Sherlock gave him a fond smile, the soft gentle one he never showed anyone else. In public Sherlock was too self-conscious to give John anything but a half twist of his lips, but behind closed doors his face relaxed. The concern and lack of self esteem melted away. In these quiet, private moments Sherlock's face would soften, his smile curling up, eyes full of emotion. He stilled. His heart slowed.
Sherlock bent (just a bit! Barely at all!) and pecked John on the lips.
“I love you.” He murmured against the older man’s lips. John grinned, he probably looked a fool, like a love-sick teenager.
“I love you too,” he pulled back, arms still gently holding Sherlock's biceps through his belstaff. Sherlock always looked slightly dazed, disbelieving, when John returned his verbal affections.
“Ready to go?” John finally asked, squeezing Sherlock gently. Sherlock smiled again and kissed his forehead before releasing him.
Angelo’s was quiet, the booth by the window still had the reserve card on it. After a while John had finally asked why this spot in particular and if Angelo ever let anyone else sit here. Sherlock told him that, the rare times he found himself with an appetite, this was his favorite spot. He didn’t particularly care to sit anywhere else in the restaurant. He also often used this restaurant as a look out. Turns out his summoning of killers to this location was not, in fact, limited to the incident with the cabbie.
John no longer objected when Angelo brought out a candle and gave him a sly wink. He just smiled and shook his head slightly.
Tonight was date night, barring any emergencies from either New Scotland Yard, or Queen and Country. (More like Mycroft and Country, Sherlock would retort, making John choke on his laughter.) This was another routine they had somehow fallen into without prompting or complaint on either end. Dinner at Angelo’s, and a visit to the local planetarium, Sherlock had taken a liking to the observation dome. False stars danced across the wide ceiling, a soothing voice prattling on about different galaxies. John loved to watch Sherlock, his face so serious absorbing everything now.
“I’d like to skip the planetarium tonight, if you don’t mind.” Sherlock asked lightly. John tipped his head.
Sherlock, despite his desire and love of adventure and mystery, also needed structure. His mind palace was, formally, the only concrete structure in his day to day life. (Even then he went on rampages, his temper getting the best of him, and tore parts of it to pieces sometimes. After the last of his grandparents died, he had wreaked havoc on their wing in his mind palace in a fit of grief, it took him ages to finally restore it. Memories had been scattered all over the place, he found the exact shade of his Grandfathers eyes while consulting his references for bee sting allergies some five years after the man’s death. He was relieved to have found that. He desperately missed the old man. He would sit with Sherlock on his knees when Sherlock was just a wee thing, reading books about local flora and fauna to the child. His hands where large, almost the size of Sherlock's head at the time. He had gray at his temples and his hair line receded little by little each year. His eyes stayed bright though, vibrant and alive until the end. He had smiled at Sherlock on that last day, squeezing his hand softly. Sherlock had whispered all this to John one night while they where laying in bed. Clara, Harry’s wife, they where back together, trying to work things out, had lost her gran the week before. It spurred a conversation about family history. Johns family was quite normal, his mum and dad married, his dad had died some years earlier, just before John graduated med school. Mum died a few months after John moved in with Sherlock. Sherlock had made him tea and hesitantly laid a hand on his shoulder.
Sherlock didn’t even have to open his eyes to deduce that Johns father was an alcoholic. John didn’t tell him he was wrong. Harry had picked it up somewhere, and that somewhere was not outside the home. John cared for his family, but he had never been particularly close to them. Sherlock told John he felt the same, the only outlier he remembered being his grandparents, but more so his grandfather.)
“Skip- skip the planetarium?” John finally asked, realizing he had been quite a bit too long.
“Why? You always get annoyed when Greg interrupts us before the planetarium, even if he’s got an eight on hand.” Sherlock shifted uncomfortably.
“I… I’d like to-“ he cut himself off and looked around, and, was he blushing? Sherlock Holmes, unflappable Sherlock Holmes, blushing? John had never seen him blush, not even in private. He’d seen him flushed, yes, but never blushing.
“I’d like to try…Switching, as it where, tonight.”
Johns mouth went dry, he blinked repeatedly, too shocked to speak. Sherlock looked at him, his head moving this way and that, as if looking at John from another angle would reveal why the man had gone dead still. John on the other hand, was internally screaming. Partially from joy, partially from anxiety. Sherlock… wanted to bottom. That was why he- oh, oh yes, of course.
The questions made sense now. But John hadn’t been on that end of anal sex in a long time. Despite his overwhelming desire to have Sherlock in that fashion, he wasn’t used to preparing someone else. What if he couldn’t keep Sherlock relaxed? What if he made Sherlock uncomfortable? What if Sherlock didn’t like it? What if John lost his head like a bloody teenager and blew his load before he’d even entered the younger man?
When was the last time he’d done this? That lass at uni? No…James? It had to have been James. Even then it had only been the once. James was uncomfortable, pushing John away after only a minute, saying he didn’t like it. John had been a bit hurt, embarrassed that he had hurt his friend, he had felt inadequate. What if Sherlock did the same? He didn’t know why, but the idea of Sherlock doing the same… He could see it already. John starting to push in, Sherlock's face suddenly turning down in revulsion or discomfort, then shoving John away. His eyes would be cold, like ice. Looking down at John, cataloging his inability to make sex pleasurable for his partner.
“John?” Sherlock asked softly, his long fingers grasping Johns wrist. John shook himself and cleared his throat.
“S- sorry. Are you sure? You don’t, I mean, not if you don’t want. I’m perfectly happy. Now, I mean. With how things are, that is.” He finally stuttered out. Sherlock licked his lips, before nodding his head once.
The flat was warm when they got home, they kissed languidly as they made their way up the stairs. In the bedroom they undressed each other slowly. Sherlock's hands shook, but then again, so did Johns. It was unbearably sweet and tender, hands moving against chests and resting on waists in rehearsed fashion, yet it all felt too new. Both men felt exposed, vulnerable, though really, who better was there to be so vulnerable with?
John was so hard he felt as if his prick was overheating by the time Sherlock had finally stripped him completely. He could feel Sherlock pressed against his upper hip (too damned tall for his own good, honestly), wet, slick, hot. Finally, Sherlock pulled away, because this night was going to be over far too fast if he didn’t.
(That had happened once before, for each of them. The first time Sherlock had eaten John out the older man had gasped in shock. He turned over quickly, his legs going over Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock had just hummed and laid a large hand on Johns waist. Not even three minutes later, without a touch to his cock, the sight of Sherlock, the feel of his silken locks, the sound of his sighs of pleasure, had wrung an orgasm out of John. Christ, he hadn’t cum without a touch since he was a damn teenager, but something about this man… Sherlock had been sloppy, uncoordinated, but the fingers of his left hand had dug into Johns thighs, and his eyes had fluttered open and closed, he had been so lost in pleasure. The sight had torn John apart far more than the physical sensations.
Sherlock had done the same, the first time John went down on him. Sherlock had been twitching, pacing about the living room muttering to himself and John couldn’t get any bloody work done. Finally, the younger man had flopped down in his chair, legs spread wide, blue dressing gown making him look even more ethereal. He had tilted his head back to eye John at the desk, moaning about how bored he was. John had sighed after a moment, before asking Sherlock if he wanted to experiment. Sherlock's eyes had lit up and he watched curiously as John sank to his knees between Sherlock's spread thighs. The build up had been slow, John sliding his partners shirt up just an inch, kissing Sherlock's lower stomach, hands creeping under his shirt to play with his nipples. Sherlock had gasped, delightfully sensitive, his head tipping back, whole body relaxing into the chair. John spent nearly ten minutes just kissing around Sherlock's hips and thighs, not even touching his prick. His hand had slowly stroked Sherlock, just once, and the younger man keened. His back arched like he’d been electrified.
“Look at me” John had murmured, when Sherlock's eyes had focused on him, John leaned forward. Sherlock gave a surprised cry and curled into John, fingers scrabbling at short golden locks. John had hummed in pleasure at the sensation, he wasn’t even fully down on Sherlock, when the younger man yelped, cumming without warning. Not that John had minded. He couldn’t be the only bloody one who came so fast, honestly.)
They parted unwillingly, Sherlock kissing his cheek once before jerking his head towards the bathroom.
“Shall we shower?” he asked.
God, he looked nervous, but his face was flushed, his lips swollen and red. John just nodded dumbly. Blindly water was turned on, soapy hands across skin. Sherlock shivered and hissed when Johns soaped palms slid over his pecs, and his nipples. John kissed Sherlock to distract him while he cleaned Sherlock's back and arse. The younger man shifted, the pink on his cheeks having nothing to do with the warm water. John didn’t push in his fingers, just gently rubbing over Sherlock's hole while he bit and sucked on Sherlock's long neck. Sherlock, for his part, just gripped Johns shoulders, head tilted back. This was delightful, wonderful.
After a few moments Sherlock finally shivered and pushed gently at Johns shoulders.
“Take me to bed?” he rumbled.
John hummed and gently guided Sherlock back into the warm water. They both rinsed off any remaining suds before stepping out of the shower. Reverently John dried Sherlock, gently squeezing water out of his dark curls. For his part, Sherlock just sighed in contentment and dipped his head slightly, allowing John to take care of him. He still felt little butterflies in his stomach, nerves and anxiety, but it hadn’t diminished his arousal. He was still hard and leaking between them.
When they entered the room, Sherlock realized that John was shaking. It was slight, and he could have dismissed it as still being cold from the water, but it wasn’t. John was nervous, even so he touched Sherlock gently, almost hesitantly. Sherlock wasn’t having any of that, of course. He loved John, the soldier who was wild and a little rough in bed, John, the man who stayed up for days on end following him about London chasing down criminals and murderers, John, the healer who patched him up after and laughed when he complained.
“John?” Sherlock said, reaching out to lay his hand on the older man’s bicep. John flashed him a small smile, nervous but warm.
“John, what’s wrong? Do you not want to…” Sherlock trailed off. He should have asked earlier, what if John didn’t want this? What if he preferred things as they were? Sherlock could live with that, if it was the case of course.
“No, no god no, nothing like that love.” John assured him vehemently.
Sherlock cocked his head and sat up then. John had been kneeling over his thighs and so was practically sat in his lap. Sherlock leaned back on his palms and watched him for just a moment. His eyes bounced about the room, he rolled the bottle of lube between his hands. Something was off, obviously, and John seemed… Self-conscious almost. Sherlock found himself baffled, an emotion he was unfamiliar with. He looked John over trying to find the cause of the older mans sudden esteem issues. Nothing had changed. Johns body was still solid, a little soft around the core but lean, his forearms still well-muscled, he was still mostly hairless, his prick just the perfect side of average. There was nothing different about him, he was still John. He was still, in Sherlock's eyes, practically perfect from head to toe. His sudden discomfort was confusing.
John finally sighed, seeming to catch on to Sherlock's confusion.
“It’s just… You know how I told you about the bloke in the army?”
“James Sholto?” Sherlock asked, confused as to where on earth Johns single previous male lover could have possibly played into this.
“Yea… James, he uh, he usually topped.” Sherlock was quiet, letting John go at his own pace. The older man finally sighed, gripping the lube bottle in his left hand and running his right through his hair.
“We… we only tried switching once.” Oh, ohhh a light clicked on in Sherlock's head.
“He asked you to stop?” John shrugged and looked to the side, nodding slightly. “And you’re afraid I’ll do the same.” He finally concluded. He wasn’t asking, his tone matter of fact, as it always was.
“It… We didn’t have everything on hand, of course, we where in the middle of a bloody war zone. We had to improvise with the lube. It was fine for me. But he wasn’t… he was uncomfortable, didn’t like it at all. I don’t know what I did, I thought everything was fine, but he just stopped and turned me over and got on top. I felt bloody awful, didn’t even ask what I’d done wrong after.” John cringed at the memory.
“You where embarrassed?” John nodded. “But why? He didn’t like it, so you stopped. There’s no reason to be upset.”
John sighed in slight annoyance, “Well, logically I bloody well know that. But I haven’t done it since and I’ve no idea what I did wrong the first time. So how do I know I won’t do it wrong again?” Sherlock finally rolled his eyes.
“John, for a man who lights the way for others, you really are incredibly dim.” That seemed to ease Johns nerves and he gave a small chuckle, a small smile of annoyance on his lips.
“I’m going to talk to you.” Sherlock said, simply.
And well, if John thought about it… that probably would have cleared the air all those years ago. It was a simple solution, but at the time he’d been intimidated and naive. He was barely twenty-five, he’d never been with a man, and the one woman he’d had anal sex with in university had prepared herself. And James was nearly ten years older than him, a mentor and a friend, probably not the best person to enter into a physical relationship with. John had been so afraid of disappointing him, their physical relationship had still been rather fresh. Not to mention the rampant emotions he held in a tight reign during that time. A war zone was a breeding ground of anxiety, fear, and existential crises, all of which had to be controlled if a soldier wanted to live long enough to work through them. No, it was fair to say that John and James relationship was, perhaps, ill thought out.
“You promise?” John said, he grabbed Sherlock's hand, kissing the back of it. Sherlock gently pulled his hand away and instead cupped the back of Johns neck, pulling him down so they were forehead to forehead.
“I’ll tell you what feels good. You won’t hurt me. I know you won’t.”
“But what if-“ Sherlock squeezed Johns neck gently.
“No. We’re doing this together. I’ve never done this, you’ve not really done it. We’ll learn together.”
Learn, that was the magic word. It was a learning curve. Sherlock hadn’t been perfect the first time he tried to jack John off, his rhythm had been faulty, and the pressure too light. The first time he went down on John he gagged and choked, unsure of how to move his hand and mouth in tandem, the first time he made love to John had been graceless and primal. But still those where experiences John wouldn’t trade for the world.
The fact that it was Sherlock meant that, though the younger man had been clumsy and nearly clueless, John had still found immense pleasure. Sherlock couldn’t swallow him down to the root and do the thing with his tongue that the girl he graduated with could, but Sherlock could look at him with those beautiful eyes. Sherlock could love him. That made it so much better, and it had only gotten more mind-blowing since then. Sherlock could swallow John almost all the way down, and constantly encouraged him to fuck his throat, gently, of course. Sherlock would now roll over in the morning and shove his hand down Johns pants, resting his head on Johns chest and watching closely as he brought John off expertly with his hand. Honestly, John had been touching his prick for damn near 25 years, and Sherlock still managed to give a better hand job and finish him faster than he could himself.
Sherlock was always curious, endlessly inquisitive. He was more than willing to run experiments again and again in the name of knowledge, and naturally those experiments included pleasure. Sherlock always watched him, always learned what felt best for him, and John did the same for him.
Sherlock's cock was a fair bit longer than Johns, it had hard going at first to keep his teeth away and swallow Sherlock all the way down, but Sherlock had talked John through it breathlessly. When John did something he liked, he’d let John know, keening and gasping in pleasure, telling John how to move, how fast to go, to let up on pressure or focus less on the head.
They talked, they communicated, it was essential to Sherlock's experiments. Over and over he’d demanded, in the middle of sex, that John describe what he was feeling. What felt best, what crossed the line into too much, what toed the line the longest, what John needed to cum, what made John curl his toes and tense, but still kept him on the tightrope, never tipping one way or the other. If Sherlock had been that communicative in every other aspect of their physical relations, it made sense that he’d follow the same pattern here. If John did something Sherlock didn’t like, or, encouragingly, if he did something Sherlock did like, the younger man would tell him.
John had no reason to be nervous of that, he realized. He was older and more mature than he’d been then, and he was madly in love. He knew that if he did something that made Sherlock uncomfortable and the younger man told him to stop or change what he was doing, it wasn’t an effort to embarrass of emasculate John, it was simply a recorded observation.
It was logical, and somehow Sherlock made it seem so simple. After all, John hadn’t known how to stitch a wound cleanly his first day of med school or been able to name every section of the brain and their function. He hadn’t been able to stop blood flow and known exactly how to treat shock and trauma with bullets whizzing overhead his first day in Afghanistan, but he’d learned. It was just another set of learned skills, and frankly, this was far less dangerous. If John messed up in the battle field, a man died and it weighed him down, nearly drowning him, if he misdiagnosed an illness at the surgery, some little kid had to spend a day in hospital, and he felt like shit for the kid and kicked himself for missing something simple. If Sherlock said to move differently, he would oblige, simple. It wasn’t complex, it wasn’t a hard task and had little consequence.
John smiled at Sherlock under his lashes, a bit bashful, still horny, full of love.
“Ok.” He finally said, pushing on the younger man’s chest gently.
Sherlock smiled at him, smugly. His face said “stupid John, just listen to me. I’m always right” but his hands softly ran down Johns arms before coming to rest at his side on their bed. John leaned forward and laid a chaste kiss on his lovers’ lips and snagged one of the pillows from the frankly alarming pile on their bed. He tapped gently on Sherlock's hip, the younger man obediently lifted lithe hips from the bed, allowing John to situate the pillow under his hips. John smiled down at him. He felt himself breath perhaps for the first time since the start of all this. John was always scared of the day Sherlock would grow bored with him. The day Sherlock would slow enough to see John for what he was, a broken toy soldier with nothing but love and loyalty to offer. But perhaps, he thought, that would be enough. Perhaps that was all Sherlock really needed or wanted.
“John.” Sherlock huffed, exasperated but fond and warm. “Stop thinking please?” he was so bloody polite with John. Even with his prick bobbed against his thigh, leaving slow sticky trails in the soft downy hair there. John breathed a laugh and leaned, placing a gentle kiss on Sherlock's lower stomach.
“I’m sorry love.” Sherlock just smiled and squeezed John between his thighs gently in response.
With steady hands John popped the cap off the lube and shifted back a little, allowing himself better access. He didn’t just dive in, instead he took his time spreading the lube about first. He tapped fingers against Sherlock's hole, rubbed gently along his perineum, his free hand running up and down Sherlock's flank, giving his prick a gentle tug every once in a while.
John almost sank into a trance. His own pleasure seemed second best, it was a gentle buzz in the back of his mind. Every time Sherlock shifted, impatiently, and gently rubbed against his prick John felt himself flinch, like he was surprised to remember he was a sexual being, shocked to remember that his body was hungry for pleasure. It all seemed so pointless in comparison to Sherlock's stormy eyes following his every move, his eyes getting cloudier with every passing moment.
Sherlock, like his lover, felt himself floating. Though it was different. His body was strung tight, his body clenching and releasing every time John stroked him teasingly, his hole fluttering against his will. It seemed his body was fully on board with the whole procedure, every time Johns fingertip caught at his rim Sherlock felt his breath hitch and his hips shift impatiently. His prick was nearly purple, his foreskin was pulled back and his head looked almost bloody it was so red. Finally, he felt himself whine lowly, he opened his mouth to beg John to do something, anything, different. The sensations where becoming overwhelming. Too much, not enough. Too gentle, too persistent. It was just so much.
“John-“ he gasped, his toes curling tightly. John paused and Sherlock groaned, shifting his hips restlessly.
“Too much?” John asked gently, pushing a little more firmly at Sherlock's hole.
Sherlock, unable to answer just growled and jerked his hips. He groaned, dropping back to the bed as Johns finger finally (finally!) entered him. The sensations changed, his mind was no longer stuck in a limbo of repetition and monotony. John for his part, let out a little “oh” as if shocked at his lover.
John finally moved his finger inside Sherlock. Back and forth, crooking his finger, stretching out the outer rim with warm, gun callused fingers. Sherlock's body relaxed and he took a deep breath happily. John became more thoughtful then, stretching Sherlock, one finger became two, two became three. John scissored him, holding his fingers as wide as Sherlock's body would allow for a moment until his lover’s body seemed to dissolve into liquid heat.
“Ready?” John breathed quietly after what may have been five minutes or five decades. Sherlock wasn’t sure.
“Oh god, yes, yes.” Sherlock gasped out, he was loose and languid, but his hands where twisted tightly in the sheets. John smiled at him before sitting a little higher, arranging Sherlock just so.
Oh fuck, oh fuck, fuck-
Sherlock's brain whited out. There was a slick heat. John, John! tapping at his entrance. The ex-soldier eased himself in, Sherlock was more than adequately stretched. The first thing he noticed was the heat, the raging heat. It made him gasp, his legs tightening around John, trying to pull him in faster, make him go deeper. Because, god, Sherlock felt that the heat of John in and around him could melt the ice in his heart, as though the warmth of their love making would burn every bad memory from his mind palace.
Then John moved, and Christ that was so much better. Sherlock whined lowly, twisting the sheets tighter. God, he was on fire. If John would just move a little faster, just a little more…
After a moment he stopped, much to Sherlock's endless dismay and frustration. A second later a warm hand pushed his sweaty bangs out of his face.
“You alright?” John sounded breathless, his whole body held taunt. Sherlock felt annoyance bubbling in him. Stupid John, of course he was alright! Did he not see how hard Sherlock was? Did he not feel how his whole body pulsed around him tightly?
John felt himself taken by surprise when Sherlock flashed him a dark, dangerous look, until the younger man's hand came up and wrapped in his short locks. John was quiet suddenly yanked forward, pulling a groan from both men as John was buried in his lover.
“I am not a damn tea cup John, enough with the kid gloves and for god’s sake, fuck me!” Sherlock hissed, his eyes ablaze, body trembling.
“Fuck” John breathed out before rearing back.
He took Sherlock's narrow, (though no longer worryingly so) hips in hand, something hard and vicious settling in him. He nearly snarled, snapping his hips forward and burying himself in Sherlock. The younger man whimpered, honest to god whimpered!, his back arching. It took a few more thrusts before John leaned over Sherlock, bracing on his good arm heavily. Then Sherlock cried out. His eyes blew wide, pupils dilated not from the seven percent, but from pure pleasure, his whole body jerked like a live wire. Johns smile looked more like a snarl.
“Found your prostate, eh?” he huffed, hips moving savagely, though still mindful, watching Sherlock carefully for any discomfort.
Sherlock just let out a gurgling sound, mouth open. God he looked ravaged. John had never seen him like this, it wasn’t the delicate decomposition that overcame the genius after John had sucked his brains out through his prick, or the overwhelmed satisfaction after Sherlock took John. This was something else, something beautiful. Sherlock's body was limp, like a rag doll, except for his prick which was an angry red.
“Jooohhnnn” Sherlock moaned out, eyes rolling back in his head.
John felt his orgasm from the inside out, his left hand was suddenly on his lovers’ cock. He jerked Sherlock off hard and fast and a moment later, probably not even thirty seconds, Sherlock let out a sob. His back arched, as though someone had tied a rope around him and was yanking him towards the ceiling. His hips locked, he stopped breathing, then there was a full body quiver. John vaguely felt himself come inside his lover. It was like a torch beam next to the sun, like a meteor crashing into their bedroom, like Sherlock was a supernova, and god wasn’t he always so other worldly? and John was just a firefly in comparison.
John groaned as he was pulled down, Sherlock wrapped one long around his shoulders and the other around his waist.
“Stay in me?” Sherlock whispered breathlessly, his body shuddering again. He gripped Johns cock tightly and John groaned, nodding against his lovers’ neck.
When they both floated back to themselves Sherlock was rubbing and scratching Johns scalp tenderly and John was laving and kissing the crook of Sherlock's neck. It was another few seconds before John softened enough to slip out. They both made an annoyed sound, before giggling almost as one. John lifted on his elbows, pushing Sherlock's hair out of his eyes.
“Good?” he asked, his voice felt raw.
Sherlock was still loose limbed, smiling at John. His long fingers danced across Johns bullet wound, tracing where the skin was hastily and roughly pulled back together, harsh. It looked like a sun, a deep pit that was still a dark color, from the emergency cauterizing gun used to burn the blood vessels into submission while John lay on the sand, screaming in agony with a roll of gauze between his teeth. Veins puckered out, like the sun’s rays, remnants from where the skin was too tightly pulled back together in a darkened tent, screams and gun fire sounding outside. It was, in all, an ugly wound. It spoke of pain and blood and loss. So much loss.
There was no doubt in Sherlock's mind that had John never gotten shot, had he never run into the fray trying to save the boy bleeding out in the sand, a new recruit, John had told him. (The kid wasn’t even old enough to shave it seemed, he’d said.) John would have stayed in the army. Every time his tour was up, he’d have reapplied. John would have stayed in the desert, burning and sweating, gear that weighed nearly as much as him strapped across his body. If John had a choice, he’d have stayed in that hell hole and his own personal oasis until he got so old he couldn’t hold a needle and thread or steady a gun.
“It’s like the sun.” Sherlock finally whispered after a moment, looking up at his lover adoringly. John smiled at him softly.
“And the moon can’t shine without the sun.” Sherlock continued, smiling contentedly. Johns smile became tight and his lip wobbled before his eyes went misty and he let out a wet laugh.
“You need a better metaphor love.” He finally croaked. Sherlock tilted his head, brow furrowing before John kissed the lines away.
“The sun doesn’t need the moon like I need you.” He whispered against Sherlock's hairline. Sherlock smiled, wrapping himself around his own personal star, his own personal point of light and warmth. His only point of reference for happiness.