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A Suitable Stain

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Dr. John Watson wakes up at 4:23 in the morning with two things:  firstly, a rather uncomfortable erection, and secondly, a fully formed plan on how to deal with it in his mind. It’s more than an hour before his alarm is set to go off, but he’s spent the past six hours drowning in dreams of dark curls and pale skin, and he’s rather keen to make those dreams a reality. A few texts the previous day certainly weren’t enough to make up for the lack of physical contact over the past three days.

He rolls over onto his back, pressing his palm briefly to his half-hard cock, groaning quietly at the pressure, before he’s climbing out of bed and fixing the covers neatly just as he does every morning. He pads into the loo, going through his morning routine—shower, shave, brush teeth, floss, fix hair—as meticulously as always, all the while ignoring the urge to just say “fuck it” and get himself off.  That would be an incredibly disappointing start to his day what with the morning he’s got planned out; fucking his own fist just doesn’t compare to fucking a beautiful young man.  His cock twitches at the thought, and he grips the edges of the sink hard for a moment, thinking about their brief texting conversation the day before.

[10:16am]  No coffee this morning? SH

[10:20am]  Early meetings all this week, love.  Was running late.  JW

[10:20am]  Pity.  I had a treat for you.  SH

[10:23am]  Oh? Do tell.  JW

[10:25am]  Not sure you deserve to know, standing me up that way.  SH

[10:28am]  And if I promise to make it up to you?  JW

[10:29am]  How?  SH

[10:32am]  It’s a surprise.  JW

[10:34am]  Meaning you’ve got nothing. SH

[10:37am]  Actually, I’ve got a lovely new toy waiting for you at my flat.  JW

[10:38am]  What is it?  SH

[10:40am]  Mmm no no, darling, that’s a surprise.  Now, tell me what my treat is.  Or would’ve been.  JW

[10:44am]  I was going to take my ten when you got here and drag you into the loo, drop down on my knees, and suck your cock until you came down my throat.  SH

[10:46am]  Oh, baby.  JW

[10:47am]  Your loss.  SH

[10:50am]  Mm, I’ve learned my lesson.  I’ll never miss my morning coffee again.  ;) JW

[10:51am]  John.  We’ve talked about the winking.  SH

[10:53am]  ;) ;) ;)  JW

[10:55am]  And you’re supposed to be the mature one.  SH

[10:56am]  Older doesn’t necessarily mean more mature.  JW

[10:58am]  In this case, much older. SH

[11:01am]  Cheeky. Don’t you have homework to be doing, young man?  JW

[11:05am]  I’m working.  Besides, I finished my term paper last week. SH

[11:16am]  Ah, sorry, love gotta run, talk to you soon?  JW

[11:17am]  If I’ve forgiven you. SH

[11:18am]  My silly boy.  JW

He’d hoped Sherlock might show up at his flat later that night, but he’d found himself disappointed and had gone to bed with the image of Sherlock’s perfect, lovely lips wrapped tightly around his cock in the loo of the coffee shop.  Hence why he’d awoken in a state of such arousal.

Now, he takes a deep breath and walks back into his room, searching his closet for one of his nicer suits.  He smirks as he’s doing up the buttons of his shirt and tucking it neatly into his trousers.  He has a feeling this might become his very favorite suit after today.

He checks himself over in the mirror one last time before grabbing his wallet, keys, and his suit jacket and heading out of his flat. It only takes about ten minutes to get to Sherlock’s flat by cab at this time of day.

He uses the spare key Sherlock gave him a few visits back to slip quietly inside, listening hard for any sounds of movement, but he hears nothing, which means that Sherlock is most likely asleep.  He steps lightly up the stairs and into the tiny kitchen, settling his keys and his wallet on the table before walking down the hall to the bedroom where, to his absolute delight, Sherlock is sprawled out on the bed, tangled up in silk sheets but otherwise very much naked.  John leans against the door frame and stares at him fondly for a moment, eyes sweeping from the wild curls at the top of his head down the pale curve of his neck, across a smooth chest, all the way to the place where the sheet just barely comes up to his hips, a tantalizing trail of dark hair leading down beneath the white silky material.  He bites his lip and removes his suit jacket and shoes before climbing onto the bed, hovering over Sherlock's lean, lovely body.

He knows from experience that Sherlock, when he deigns to sleep, sleeps like the dead, and he plans to use that to his advantage.  He lowers his head, pressing parted lips to the underside of Sherlock's jaw, tongue swiping out to get a taste. Sherlock's head turns some, but he doesn't wake, unconsciously giving John better access.  John does the same thing again, and he smiles when he feels Sherlock's pulse jump beneath his tongue. He skims his nose down the side of that long neck, and Sherlock shifts slightly beneath him, a small sigh escaping him.

John lets his body relax, pressing down over Sherlock who's legs automatically part further, allowing John to settle nicely in between them.  Sherlock is half hard already beneath him, and John rocks his hips gently, watching hungrily as Sherlock's lips part around a soft, sudden intake of breath, a crease forming between his brows as his head turns once from side to side.  John adores him like this; soft, pliant, and oh so responsive.  He trails a path of kisses from Sherlock's shoulder to his chest, teeth nipping slightly at a collar bone on the way, until his mouth finds a pert nipple, and he encloses it in wet warmth, his tongue swirling around it.

Sherlock's back curves, pressing his chest up against John's mouth, and his hands curl into the bedding, a quite, "Oh" falling from his lips.  John glances up to find that his eyes are still closed, and he wonders what images Sherlock's still slumbering mind is conjuring in that brilliant brain of his.  He smears his lips across Sherlock's chest, giving his other nipple the same attention, and this time Sherlock's hips buck up against him, and John groans at the friction to his own steadily hardening erection.  

He shifts down some, and the sheet trapped between them gets dragged down as well, freeing Sherlock's cock to the chill of the room as John bends over him, his tongue dipping into Sherlock's navel.  Sherlock whines quietly, and his fingers twitch, his hands shifting restlessly, one curling up by his head, the other clenching and unclenching around the sheets.  John knows he'll wake soon.

"God, you lovely thing," he mumbles into Sherlock's belly.  He trails his tongue down that enticing path of dark hair, his chin bumping into the head of Sherlock's cock, making Sherlock's whole body jerk, and suddenly there's a hand in John's hair, and John looks up with a decidedly smug smirk on his face to find Sherlock watching him with half-open eyes that are heavy and dark with arousal.

"John," he says, and his name sounds rough and cracked in Sherlock's sleepy voice.

John hums, still smirking, and lowers his mouth to the very tip of Sherlock's cock, pressing his lips to it in a crude imitation of a kiss, his tongue just barely sliding out against that little opening.  Sherlock's fingers go tight in John's hair, and this time when he says John's name it's breathy and needy.  A bead of precome swells from the tip, and John sucks it into his mouth, but when Sherlock's hips begin to press up, silently begging for more, John pulls off and presses a kiss to Sherlock's hip bone instead.

A whine catches in Sherlock's throat.  "Why'd you stop?" he complains feebly as John slides back up his body, dropping kisses here and there along the way.

John nuzzles into the side of Sherlock's neck.  "Mmm, because," he says unhelpfully.

Sherlock's hands slip down the length of John's back, fingers curling into his shirt, his head falling back as John latches onto his neck with lips and teeth.  "That's--that's not an answer," he says breathlessly.

John doesn't reply.  He rocks his hips, and Sherlock's knees bend, his legs bracketing John's waist, and his hands grip John's arse over his trousers as John moves back and forth against him.  The small, desperate little sounds Sherlock makes in his ear with each gentle thrust travel through him like flames, licking at his insides and settling low in his belly.

"I want you," he murmurs against Sherlock's ear.  He sucks the lobe into his mouth, dragging his teeth along it.  "I've wanted you since the second I woke up this morning."

"Yes," Sherlock says, the word expelled on a breath.  He slides his hands back up John's back, dragging his fingernails hard enough over John's nice shirt that John can feel the slight scratch of them.

John drags his lips heatedly along Sherlock's jaw, speaking against the warm skin there.  "You should've come to me last night."

Sherlock tips his head back, his legs coming up to wrap all the way around John's waist.  John licks up the front of his throat just as Sherlock swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing against John's tongue.

"You--oh god—you said you had to get up early all week," he gasps.  "I didn't want to--ah--keep you up."

"And yet here I am," John says, his voice muffled because he can't seem to keep his mouth off of him, his neck, his shoulders, his chest, any part of him he can reach.  "A thirty-five-year old man sneaking into your bed at 5:30 in the morning like some lovesick teenager."

"John," Sherlock breathes, and his eyes are shut tightly, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip once the word escape him.

"I had to get up extra early to get here, you know," John murmurs against his cheek.  "So you cost me my sleep anyway."

Sherlock shakes his head, his lips brushing lightly against John's with the movement.  "Not my fault," he says weakly, his breath ghosting across John's cheek.

"Entirely your fault," John says gruffly, and he parts his lips around Sherlock's, his tongue licking into the young man's open mouth eagerly.  

Sherlock's moan is muffled between them, and John drinks it in like he needs it to live, deepening the kiss.  His hands slide up along Sherlock's sides, beneath his shoulders and along his arms to where his elbow curve.  He pulls at them until Sherlock unwinds his arms from around John's shoulders, and John slips his hands into Sherlock's, fingers intertwining as he presses them back against the bed by Sherlock's head.

Sherlock wrenches his head to the side, gasping for a breath, and John just smears his kisses down Sherlock's neck instead.

"John," Sherlock pants, writhing beneath John's body, his hips canting upwards against John's clothed erection.  "John, please."

"I've been thinking about this all night," John whispers in his ear, and Sherlock's hands spasm in John's tight grip, his back arching as he tries to gain some semblance of friction against John's body.  

"Thinking about you, lying here in this bed without me," John continues, ignoring Sherlock's efforts.  He scrapes his teeth along Sherlock's jaw. "Thinking about how I haven't made you come in days."

"Oh, god," Sherlock gasps, his fingers tightening around John's hands.

"Then I get here and find you naked, all spread out for me like a fucking feast." He grinds his hips down against Sherlock's, and Sherlock whimpers, his cock dripping, staining John's shirt with precome.  "But I bet you didn't go to bed that way, did you, baby?"

Sherlock's teeth sink into his bottom lip, and he shakes his head, his curls bouncing wildly with the movement.  John kisses him, hard, drawing that bottom lip into his own mouth, sucking on it and pulling at it with his teeth.

"Tell me," he says firmly.  "Tell me about last night."

Sherlock sucks in a shuddering breath, his words strained.  ”I went to bed in my pajamas,” he says all in a rush as John sucks another mark into his neck.  ”But I kept thinking about you.”  He pauses, his body quaking beneath John’s.  ”John, please, I want to touch you.”

John shakes his head, gentling his refusal with a soft kiss to Sherlock’s collar bone.  ”No, baby, not yet.  Keep talking.  Tell me about last night.”

Sherlock squirms, but he doesn’t argue.  ”I—I thought about the last time I saw you.  When you fucked me on the sofa at your flat.”

John groans, burying his face in Sherlock’s shoulder, his hips kicking forward automatically at the memory.  Sherlock had just gotten off work at the shop, and he’d still smelled of coffee beans and sweat, tasted of chocolate and espresso.  He’d hardly gotten through the door before John’d had him bent over the arm of the sofa, prepping him quickly and sliding into him in one smooth thrust.

"You liked that, didn’t you, love?" John asks.  "A quick and dirty fuck.  My naughty boy, tell me what you did last night."

Sherlock arches again, pressing up against John as much as he can.  ”I took off my shirt, and I played with my nipples.  I sucked on my fingers, got them all wet, and rubbed my nipples, imagining it was your mouth on me inst—oh, oh God.”

Sherlock breaks off with a shudder as John ducks his head down and sucks one of Sherlock’s nipples into his mouth again, just as he had before.  It’s an odd angle what with his hands still up above Sherlock’s head, but it’s worth the pull in his muscles to hear the sounds Sherlock makes in response.

"So sensitive," John murmurs around his mouthful.

"Uh huh" Sherlock agrees on a breathless moan, his fingers flexing around John’s.  "John—"

"What did you do after that?" John cuts him off, moving his mouth across that chest to the other nipple.

Sherlock shudders beneath him.  ”I—I slipped out of my pants, and I ran my hand down my chest, and I was already so hard, John, oh god, I wanted you so badly.”

John hums, nosing along the curve of Sherlock’s neck.  ”If only you’d come to me last night,” he murmurs.  ”I’d have taken such good care of you.”

"You always take care of me," Sherlock whispers.

"Of course I do, baby," John says.  "You’re my good boy, aren’t you?"

Yes,” Sherlock says breathlessly.  ”Yes, John, please, take care of me, I—I can’t—”

"Shh," John says soothingly, and he nudges his face against Sherlock’s, finding his lips and kissing him gently.  "Do you want…to know how…you’re going to come for me?" he asks in between kisses.

"Please," Sherlock says into his mouth.

John loosens his grip on Sherlock’s hands and finally lets go, and Sherlock moans, his hands immediately going into John’s hair, fingers threading through the short strands as he pulls John deeper into the kiss.  John rocks into Sherlock’s hips again, and then he’s rolling them over until they end up in a tangle of arms and legs on their sides, facing each other.  

Sherlock doesn’t even seem fazed; he just makes a small surprised sound, ad then he’s kissing frantically down John’s neck, his fingers fumbling at John’s chest for the buttons of his shirt, but John grips his hands, stilling them.

"No, I want you just like this," he says, and he shifts, moving closer, into the curve of Sherlock’s body, one hand sliding down the length of his spine, over his bare, smooth arse, and down to the back of his thigh.  He grips it and pulls, hitching Sherlock’s leg up over his hip.  "I want you to come just like this," he goes on, his lips so close to Sherlock’s they brush with every word.  He nudges his hips forward, and Sherlock’s eyelids flutter.  "I want you to rut against me, just like this, until you come all over my nice clothes."

Sherlock’s cheeks, red as they already are, flush even brighter, and he sucks in a sharp breath.  ”Are you going to touch me?”

"Not your cock," John says, half a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Sherlock swallows, and he rocks forward once, the breath leaving him as his cock slides against the fabric of John’s trousers.  ”Where will you touch me?” he gasps.

John’s smirk widens, and his hand smoothes back up the back of Sherlock’s thigh until he’s got one of those luscious arse cheeks under his palm.  He squeezes gently.  ”Here,” he says.

Sherlock’s eyes fall shut, and he tightens his leg around John’s waist, his hands fisting in the front of John’s shirt as he rubs himself against John.  John looks down between them, his forehead resting against Sherlock’s, watching Sherlock’s cock leak all over his shirt, all over his trousers as he presses himself against John’s body.

"Where else?" Sherlock asks, his voice barely a whisper.  "Where else will you touch me?"

John can’t help kissing him, needs to kiss him, needs to taste the ragged breaths coming from this lovely young man.  He slicks his tongue against Sherlock’s, his chest tightening with every little sound Sherlock makes into his mouth.

"Here," John says against his lips, pulling him closer with the grip he has on his arse, and Sherlock whimpers.  "And here," he presses a kiss to Sherlock’s jaw,  "and here," one to his pulse point, "and, god, right here,” he groans, sucking rather obscenely on Sherlock’s Adam’s apple.

Sherlock tilts his head back as John worships his neck, Sherlock's hips rocking back and forth, one of his hands sliding up into John's hair.  "John," he gasps. "John, where else?"

John presses his face into Sherlock's neck, breathing hard, and he slips his hand in between their bodies.  "Just...let me--" he breaks off as he wraps his hand around Sherlock's cock.

Sherlock cries out and bucks into the sensation automatically.  "I th-thought you said--"

"Just for a second," John says, and he strokes Sherlock's cock once, twice, three times--Sherlock absolutely writhing against him--until his hand is slick with the precome that's steadily leaking from the tip.

He lets go, and Sherlock goes practically boneless against him.  "Oh god, no, please, I'm s-so close, just--"

"Shh, I've got you," John soothes, and he returns his now come-slick hand to Sherlock's arse, but this time he works his fingers between those cheeks, feeling blindly for that tight little hole.  Sherlock's whole body goes taut like a bow when he finds it, John's wet fingers circling his entrance.

"John," Sherlock moans, and suddenly he's rutting again, frantically now. "John, please," he begs, pressing his face into John's shoulder.

John can feel the heat of his young lover against every inch of his body, and he's sweating in his clothes, his cock trapped in the tight confines of his trousers as he slips his finger into the place where his cock is longing to be. Sherlock practically sobs against him, pressing back against John's finger and then forward again to rub himself all over John's clothes.  John's quite sure he's never seen anything more fucking sexy in his life.

"After you come for me," he says against Sherlock's ear, his voice low and breathy.  "After you come for me, I'm going to fuck you."


"I want you to come all over me, baby, and then I want you to sink that lovely arse down onto my cock," he goes on, and he pulls his finger out, adding a second and slowly, achingly slowly pushing them inside that tight entrance, feeling it stretch around them.

Sherlock's hands scrabble for a hold on John's shirt, and he bites into John's shoulder to muffle his moan.  His hips are stuttering against John's body in short, weak little thrusts as if he can barely make himself move anymore.

"I'm so hard for you," John goes on, his lips against Sherlock's temple. "I've been hard since I walked in and saw you stretched out in this bed.  You want my cock, don't you?  You want me to come inside you, don't you, sweetheart?"

"John," Sherlock says, his voice barely audible, and John kisses his temple, taking that as an affirmation.

"Such a good boy for me," he says.  "So good, baby.  C'mon, come for me.  Show me how much you want my cock inside of you."

He crooks his fingers, searching for that spot that will make Sherlock come undone.  When he nudges against that little bundle of nerves Sherlock's whole body seems to seize up, a hoarse cry breaking free from him.

"John, John, John," he says, and he's pushing against him so urgently that John ends up on his back, Sherlock on top of him, his hands pressed into the bedding on either side of John's head and his hips sliding frantically against John's body.

John's fingers had slipped free of Sherlock's arse with the sudden change in position, and now he grips the younger man's arse with one hand while wrapping the other around the back of Sherlock's neck, pulling him down for a messy kiss.  Sherlock's lips are uncoordinated, slack with moans and panting breaths, so John just licks into his mouth, fucking it with his tongue while Sherlock ruts against him.  

John imagines what they must look like--the young, gorgeous university student, naked as the day he was born, draped over the well-dressed older doctor, the muscles rippling in Sherlock's back as his slim hips roll that beautiful arse up into the air and back down again, his spine curving beneath John's hand as he moves it to the small of Sherlock's back to feel the movement.  The hard outline of Sherlock's cock slides back and forth across John's body, dampening his clothes with precome, and John moves both hands down to Sherlock's arse, squeezing and pulling him in harder.

"Just like this," he groans.  "Come for me, darling, just like this."

Sherlock nods unevenly, and he gasps for breath against John's lips.  They aren't even kissing anymore, the coordination required for it lost, instead just letting their faces brush with every slide of Sherlock's body.

"J-John," Sherlock stutters, and his eyes squeeze shut, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip hard.

"Yeah, baby," John says urgently, rocking his hips up some.  "C'mon, love, that's it.  You're so ready to come for me, I know, just let go.  I've got you, my sweet, naughty boy, I'm here."

Sherlock's hips falter at these words, and he muffles his whimper against John's mouth, crushing their lips together in a hard, desperate kiss as his body goes taut, muscles pulling tight.  John kisses him back, swallowing his incoherent words as Sherlock's cock jerks between them, coming in streams that splatter all over John's shirt.  Sherlock moans John's name weakly, collapsing fully onto John, his face pressing against John's shoulder as his body continues to shudder out its pleasure.  

John's palms slide soothingly up and down Sherlock's sweaty back.  "Shh," he murmurs as Sherlock continues to make frail little sounds into his shoulder. "You were so good for me, Sherlock.  So very good."

Sherlock turns his head, parting his lips lazily against the side of John's neck; it's too slack to be a proper kiss, and his body is still trembling, vibrating like a live wire.  John stays quiet, simply letting his hands roam and focusing on Sherlock's breath at his neck even as he tries to ignore the swell of his own cock in his trousers.  Sherlock needs a minute, John knows that.

The sweat on Sherlock's skin begins to cool beneath John's hands, and finally the shaking slows to a gentle quiver.  Sherlock shifts some, lifting his head and kissing the underside of John's jaw.

"John," he says, and his voice is heavy, sated.

John's eyes drift closed, and he tilts his head back, his hands settling on Sherlock's hips, thumbs sweeping over the juts of bone there.  "Mmm?"

Sherlock kisses down John's throat.  "I came all over your nice clothes."

John groans, his hips lifting beneath the weight of Sherlock.  "You did, baby, you were such a naughty boy."

Sherlock licks a trail from John’s pulse point to his ear, whispering there, “I want to do it again.”

"Oh, you sweet, lovely thing," John sighs, and he cups Sherlock's jaw in both his hands, pulling him into a slow, languid kiss, coaxing Sherlock's tongue into his mouth.  He rolls his hips up against Sherlock, breaking the kiss to groan at the friction against his cock. "Feeling ambitious this morning, aren't you?"

Sherlock hums.  "Two orgasms is hardly ambitious," he says.  "Then again..." He trails off and pushes himself up into a sitting position far more far more gracefully than a naked man covered in his own come should be able to.  He settles his bum against John's thighs, straddling him, and lets his hands slide down John's chest.  "I'm not an old man like you," he finishes in what can only be called a purr.

John smirks. "Oh, is that what you think of me?" he asks, quirking an amused eyebrow.

"Mmhmm," Sherlock says, his hands curving around John's ribs.

John licks his lips, pressing up into a sitting position, his hands sliding up Sherlock's bare thighs and his eyes eyeing the drying come on Sherlock's stomach.  "Mmm, are you sure about that?" he asks, flicking his gaze up to Sherlock's face.

Sherlock's arms wind around John's shoulders, and he scoots closer.  John's eyelids flutter when Sherlock's arse settles right over his crotch.

"Positive," he says, rocking his hips slowly.  Fingers thread through John's hair, nails scratching lightly.  "These grey strands speak volumes."

John smiles, leaning in to press a kiss to Sherlock's neck.  "So if I'm an old man," he murmurs there, "what does that make you?"

One of Sherlock's hands slides slowly down John's chest, fingers catching on the buttons of his shirt, until he's curving his palm over John's cock through his trousers.  John moans, his teeth sinking into the base of Sherlock's neck.

"That makes me," Sherlock says, rubbing at him teasingly, "a talented, incredibly intelligent, way-out-of-your-league young man."

John makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and groan.  "Oh, there's my cocky boy," he says, pressing kisses along Sherlock's bare shoulder.  "Was afraid I'd lost you to that horny, needy little mess who came all over my shirt a few minutes ago."

Sherlock scoffs, but he doesn't stop teasing John's cock.  "It's not my fault you cheated."

John grins.  "Cheated, did I?" he asks, pulling back some to look up into Sherlock's face.

Sherlock tries to look annoyed, and he even removes his hand from John's crotch, but his eyes are still too dark with arousal, and his cheeks are flushed, wild dark curls sticking to his forehead.  "Making me that horny before I'm even awake is cheating."

John's grin widens.  "Now, now," he says, his hands slipping around to grip Sherlock's arse again.  He kneads at the soft, supple flesh, and Sherlock's lips part around a quiet gasp.  "That's not cheating, darling.  That's just using my extensive knowledge of your lovely, sensitive body to my advantage."

Sherlock rocks back some, pressing his arse into John's hands.  "Still cheating," he says, his voice breathless.

John pulls Sherlock against him, his hands spreading Sherlock's cheeks just slightly.  "Am I cheating now?"

Sherlock bites his lip, his eyes fluttering closed briefly.  

John trails one finger down, very lightly brushing over Sherlock's hole.  "How about now?"

Sherlock licks his lips, his eyes opening slowly, heavily, the lust in them sparking through John's nerves.  "Now you're just showing off," Sherlock says.

"Mmm, true," John agrees, and he trails both hands back up Sherlock's back, fingers skipping over the notches in his spine.  "But do you know what?"


"While you are, indeed, a talented," John drops a kiss between Sherock's eyebrows, "incredibly intelligent," and one to the tip of his nose, "way out of my league," one to the corner of his mouth, "young man," and finally one to those lovely lips, murmuring against them, "right're just my very dirty, very kinky young man who can't wait for me to come inside you."

Sherlock hums again, and his hand returns to John's cock.  "I thought about it last night," he says into the doctor's ear.

"About what?" John asks, tracing a wet path of kisses down Sherlock's neck.

"You.  Coming inside me."  He rubs harder.

"Oh," John breathes.  "My sweet, dirty boy.  How about you tell me about it while I'm readying that tight little hole up with my fingers?  Where's the lube?"

Sherlock's eyes flicker mischievously.  "Under my pillow."

John pulls back some, raising his eyebrows.  "Oh, you are a naughty thing, aren't you?"

Sherlock sucks his lower lip into his mouth, shrugging one shoulder innocently while John reaches blindly back, feeling beneath the pillow until his hand closes around a small bottle.

"I told you," Sherlock says while John takes off the cap, his eyes watching John's hands hungrily.  "I thought about you coming inside me last night."

John squeezes some of the lube out onto his fingers before dropping the bottle beside his leg and returning his hands to Sherlock's arse, spreading those cheeks and slipping his slick fingers down to rub, not so teasingly this time, at Sherlock's needy little hole.  Sherlock arches, both of his hands curling around John's shoulders tightly, leaving John's cock bereft of friction for the moment. But he knew it wouldn't be for long.

"That's it, love," John says, his eyes glued to Sherlock's expressive face.  "Talk to me about last night."

Sherlock's eyes close, his head tipping back as John sinks two fingers into him. "I fingered myself," he breathes, his nails digging into John's shoulders as he presses down against John's touch.  "Just like this, I fucked my fingers, imagining they were your cock inside me."

John leans in, tracing his nose up Sherlock's throat.  "Go on, baby.  I know you did more than that.  Fingers aren't enough for you, are they?"

Sherlock shakes his head, and his chest rises and falls more rapidly.  "No, not enough," he moans.  "John, I need more."

John sucks lightly at Sherlock's pulse point, feeling the rhythm of Sherlock's heart stutter as John slips a third finger in, curling them and stretching him. Sherlock lets out a breathy little "yes" and John can feel Sherlock already half-hard between them.  God, to be young again.

"Tell me more, baby," he says.  "Tell me how you fucked yourself."

"I--oh--I used the dildo. The one you b-bought me."

John groans, his head falling forward against Sherlock's shoulder, which gives him a lovely view of Sherlock's cock growing steadily harder as he thrusts his fingers in and out of Sherlock's hole.  He can imagine Sherlock pressing that toy into himself, crying out John's name as he comes.

"Where is it now?" John asks, remembering the last time he'd opened Sherlock up with a dildo before using his cock.  Sherlock had been a wanton, whining, beautiful mess.

"In the bathroom," Sherlock says.  He shakes his head.  "Too far.  And I don't want that, I want your cock."

John curls his fingers, rubbing hard against Sherlock's prostate, and Sherlock's back curves as he cries out.  

"Say that again," John says roughly.

Sherlock slumps forward against John, lips going to his ear.  "I want...your cock," he says in a low, heated voice.  "I want you inside me, fucking me."  He rocks back and forth on John's fingers, his voice catching on moans.  "I want to feel you come for me.  In me."

John's free hand slides up Sherlock's back, over the nape of his neck, and into a riot of dark curls, his fingers catching in the tangles as he turns his head to cover Sherlock's lips with his own.  Sherlock gives back as much as he gets, licking into John's mouth as he pushes forward, easing John back down onto his back.

John rocks up against him.  "Again," he rasps.

Sherlock trails sloppy kisses across John's jaw, down his neck.  "I'm ready," he says even as he presses back against John's fingers.  "Fuck me.  Take me. John...I need your cock in me.  Please."

"That's my boy," John says breathlessly, and he's pulling his fingers free of Sherlock's arse, feeling it tighten around them as he does.

Sherlock sits back up, his hands slipping down John's chest again, his fingers curling into the crumpled, come-stained material and working it completely out of the waistband of his trousers.  Then he's fumbling with the buttons at John's crotch, John pressing up into the feeling, his neglected cock so hard that every minor brush of Sherlock's fingers makes him jerk.

"C'mon, baby," he urges, practically humping the fucking air as Sherlock works the trousers open.  The clever young man wastes no time in working them just a little ways down John's hips, and then he's shifting down, bending over, and nuzzling his face against John's cock through his underpants.  John's hips kick forward, and he lets out a long, drawn out moan as Sherlock mouths at his still clothed cock.

"Oh god," John groans, first pushing the heels of his hands into his eyes until he sees stars, and then he's threading his fingers into Sherlock's hair, his eyes rolling into the back of his head when Sherlock glances up at him, pulls the waistband of his underwear down, and licks a long, wet stripe along the length of his exposed cock.  "You fucking perfect creature, oh christ, c'mere before you make me fucking come."

John uses his hold on Sherlock's hair to drag him up the bed, occupying his beautiful boy's mouth with his tongue before he can complain.  Of course, Sherlock, being Sherlock, complains anyway.

"I wanted to suck you," he protests, his voice muffled.

"No time," John whispers into his mouth, shaking his head.  Sherlock's erection brushes against John's with every tiny movement, and John feels like he's about to fucking combust.  "You can suck me off tonight, baby, but right now I need my cock in that gorgeous arse."

Sherlock seems satisfied by this compromise, and he pushes up, his hands against John's chest.  He presses up onto his knees, shuffling forward some. John wraps one hand around the base of his cock, his other hand going back to Sherlock's arse, feeling for that wet hole with his fingers.  Sherlock reaches behind himself, his hand joining John's on his cock, and he presses back and down, guiding himself onto John's cock, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip hard as the head of John's cock breaches his entrance.  John feels that hole stretching around him with his fingers, feels his cock sliding into Sherlock.

"Oh, baby," John moans, and his hands grip Sherlock's hips so hard he's sure to bruise him.  "That's it, baby, just like that, oh god, yeah."

"John," Sherlock breathes.  "Oh, fuck, John."  He sinks down slowly, taking John inside himself inch by inch.  His hands grip John's, fingernails digging into the backs of John's hands as he finally, finally settles, John fully seated inside of him.

John's chest is heaving, sweat dripping down his brow.  "You all right, sweetheart?"  He has to check, has to make sure.  Sometimes, when it's been slow like this, when John's been teasing him, Sherlock needs a minute, sometimes it's too much at first.

Sherlock doesn't answer immediately; his eyes are closed, and he rocks his hips in a tiny motion, experimentally.  John has to bite his tongue to distract himself from the sensation of that tightness enveloping him, to keep himself from thrusting up against Sherlock hard.

He sweeps his thumbs along Sherlock's hip bones.  "Talk to me, baby," he says, his voice strained.  He lifts a hand, reaching for Sherlock's face, his fingers trailing along the sharp line of his jaw.

Sherlock lets out a fast, shuddering breath and opens his eyes, immediately finding John's.  "I'm good, I'm fine," he says in a rush.  His eyes are bright, cheeks flushed.  John doesn't mention it; he knows Sherlock hates it when the pressure of John's cock filling him up makes involuntary tears spring to his eyes.  Sherlock is so beautifully sensitive, John absolutely adores it.

John lets his fingers skim from Sherlock's jaw, down the front of his throat, down his chest, just barely ghosting over his cock, which has flagged just a bit what with the intense rush of being so full.  

"You ready, love?" John asks, finally settling his hand around Sherlock's hip again.

Sherlock doesn't answer verbally, choosing instead to raise himself up, slowly, until only the head of John's cock is still inside him, and then sink back down, the breath being expelled from him as if John's cock is pushing the air from his lungs.  He does it again, up and back down, just a tiny bit faster this time, and John concentrates hard on his own breathing, sucking in air through his nose and letting it out through his mouth.  Sherlock's arse clings to his cock, sliding smoothly, slickly, up and down, over and over again, so tight and so fucking heavenly.  

He's waiting for a sign that he doesn't need to hold back anymore, and it comes soon enough in the form of Sherlock moaning his name, his head thrown back, his back arching as he sinks down.  John licks his lips, his hands tightening around those hips.

"Look at you, baby," he huffs.  "So gorgeous, so fucking beautiful, my good boy."  He rocks his hips upwards some, and Sherlock moans loudly.  "That's it, baby, gimme a show, hmm?"

Sherlock is, by nature, a filthy little show off, and when he's this far gone, he definitely doesn't need telling twice.  He slides his own hands up his sides, over his ribs, up his chest, fingers splaying out against his pale throat before he lowers them to his nipples.  John watches with hungry eyes as Sherlock teases himself, still fucking himself slowly on John's cock, and John wonders how he ever got so fucking lucky.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, his hands smoothing up and down Sherlock's thighs.  Heat is building low in his belly, and he rolls his hips up with every downward motion of Sherlock's, meeting him thrust for thrust.  "So gorgeous, baby, don't stop."

Sherlock's cock is almost fully hard again, jutting out obscenely, red and dripping precome down onto John's shirt.  John finds himself staring at it, his mouth watering, when suddenly one of Sherlock's hands is wrapping around it, pumping it slowly in his fist.  John looks up into his face to find Sherlock staring down at him, his eyes heavy and his lips parted as he strokes himself.

"Sherlock," John groans, and he thrusts up harder, making Sherlock's hand falter and his eyes flutter closed.

"John," he says, and his voice is hoarse and urgent, almost panicked.  "John, I'm close."

"Me too, baby, don't stop, god, never stop."  He doesn't care that it's hardly taken them about seven minutes to get to this point.  If he's honest with himself, he's amazed he's lasted this long as keyed up as he'd been.

He watches Sherlock's throat work around a hard swallow, and then that hand continues stroking, squeezing, and John watches the precome drip from it as Sherlock pumps his fist.  As much as he loves touching Sherlock, he's got to admit the sight of Sherlock touching himself is almost as satisfying.

John bends his knees as much as he can, planting his feet on the bed and thrusting up hard.  Sherlock cries out, falling forward and only just catching himself with a hand on John's chest, the other still wrapped tightly around his own cock.

"Again," he gasps, sweat dripping from his forehead onto John's chest.  "John, again, do that again, oh god."

Sherlock braces himself with a hand on the bed, and John fucks up into him, hard, again and again, Sherlock's cries ringing in his ears.  John grabs Sherlock's arse, pulling his cheeks apart as he slides his cock in and out of him, feeling where his cock disappears into that body with his fingers.  Sherlock's head hangs over John's chest, his eyes shut tightly as he works his cock.

"J-John, I--I..." he trails off into incoherent moans.

John, breathing hard, releases that arse and cups Sherlock's face in his hands, forcing him to look up into John's eyes, and he pulls him forward, leaning up as far as he can to kiss him, a gentle press of lips and tongue to counterbalance the rough thrust of John's hips.  This is what breaks Sherlock, and he sobs his release against John's lips, his voice cracking.  John stills his movements as Sherlock's cock spills over him for the second time that morning, his arse tightening around John's own cock.

"John.  John, I--"

"Shh, baby," John says as evenly as he can, wetting his chapped lips.  "You're so good for me, sweetheart.  So fucking perfect."

"Why'd you st-stop?" Sherlock whispers.  "You haven't come yet."  His arms are trembling as he tries to hold himself up, and John thinks maybe the poor boy needs a bit of a rest.

So he bites his lip and rolls them over, very inelegantly and very clumsily, hissing when his cock slips free from the confines of Sherlock's body. Sherlock ends up on his back, looking dazed and thoroughly fucked, and John maneuvers himself between his legs.

Sherlock blinks.  "What're you--oh."

John slides back into him in one, smooth motion, and Sherlock's legs come up automatically, wrapping around him loosely.  John's head falls forward, and he rocks in and out of him, feeling the tension in his muscles build with every thrust.

"Sherlock," he gasps.  "Oh, god, baby."

Sherlock's hands slide into his hair, long fingers threading through the short strands, fingernails scratching soothingly against his scalp.  "Come for me," he murmurs, a rare note of unguarded affection in his voice, and it's that, more than anything else, that really pushes John over the edge.

He thrusts hard, one last time, and his back arches, a low groan leaving him as his cock pulses in Sherlock's body, and the release is enough to make his vision go white.  Sherlock sighs beneath him, his hands tightening slightly in John's hair as John's come fills him up, and when John finally comes back to himself he finds that's he's collapsed onto his young lover, his face mashed very inelegantly into Sherlock's neck.

"Christ," he says, and his voice is raspy as if he'd spent the whole morning screaming at the top of his lungs.

Sherlock just hums beneath him, and John lifts his head.  Sherlock looks about as debauched as anyone is capable of looking--hair sticking out at all angles, eyes half-lidded, cheeks flushed with arousal, lips swollen from hard kisses, two purpling marks on his neck, and come smeared all over his chest and belly. John's chest aches at the sight.

"Stop staring," Sherlock says, but a small smile pulls at his mouth.

"I adore you," John says without really thinking about it.

Sherlock's eyes widen, the smile disappearing as his mouth opens in shock. John's never been quite so blunt about his honest, affectionate regard for Sherlock before, but John can't bring himself to care right now.  

He presses up onto his hands and knees, leaning over Sherlock and pressing a kiss to his forehead, letting his lips linger for just a moment before sighs and pulls back reluctantly.  "I have to get to work.  I'm late."

Sherlock is still wide-eyed, and he lets John roll out of the bed without protest. John stands up, tucks his shirt back in, unable to keep from grinning at the come splattered all over it, and stoops down to sweep his suit jacket up from off the floor.  Sherlock finally seems to come out of his daze as John is toeing into his shoes, and he sits up in the bed.

"Are you coming back over tonight?" he asks, and John can tell he's trying to sound completely nonchalant, but there's a tiny hopeful note in his voice that makes the doctor bite his lip to keep from smiling.

He gets both feet into his shoes, and then he's crawling briefly back onto the bed and catching Sherlock in a soft, sweet kiss.  "Mmm, no," he says against those petal soft lips, and he can almost feel Sherlock wilt against him.  He kisses him again, dragging his tongue slowly along Sherlock's bottom lip before pulling back.  He pushes the damp curls from Sherlock's forehead and says, "I'll pick you up after work.  Dinner first.  Somewhere nice.  Then back to my place.  Yes?"

Sherlock opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, so he closes it, swallows, and tries again.  "Yes."

John smiles, unable to resist pressing one last kiss to that sweaty forehead before he's pulling away, getting back to his feet and straightening his utterly stained suit.  He holds out his arms, tilting his head.  "How do I look?"

Sherlock, having somewhat come back to himself, raises an eyebrow.  "Like you've got come all over you."

John's still laughing five minutes later when he's in a cab on his way to work.