The sun had already set when John walked towards the hotel to take a shower. He left Sherlock in the club at the afterparty to rid himself of the beer stain currently adorning his trousers. The darkness created an opportunity for his mind to quiet and go through the good events of the day.
It was always the little things that stayed with him; the smell of the grass in the morning, the feel of the sun on his face, and the sight of Sherlock’s fingers as they slid on the fretboard. John already knew how wonderful those fingers felt on his skin. Sherlock's fingers caressing his face, neck, squeezing his buttocks. One day, he hoped to feel Sherlock’s touch on his naked chest, his abdomen, his thighs... on his cock.
He had gotten as far as imagining Sherlock’s fingers massaging his entrance, pushing slowly, then sliding in. He would feel the calluses on the fingertips of Sherlock’s left hand that he had from playing his guitar. They would scratch and tease and John would need more. John released a moan into the night at the thought, feeling heat rise in his abdomen as well as his cheeks. When or if it ever came to Sherlock’s fingers sliding in and out of him like he had imagined, he might just burn.