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Dear Heart (I beat for you)

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Between 7 am, when John had woken up that morning, and 8 pm, when he had walked into the flat, he hadn’t seen his partner and flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. This was not in anyway, unusual. Sherlock was like a cat. He’d vanish and reappear as and when he felt like it, ignore John and demand affection in equal measure, and seemed to be operating under the assumption that John existed to serve him. John probably indulged his demands far to often, but he liked doing things for Sherlock. What Sherlock did for him in big gestures, he repaid by small gestures. It was all fine.

He’d walked into the flat at 8:29 pm, sharp, he knew, because Sherlock sent a text the moment he closed the door.


John complied. He received another text.


He honestly had no desire to do anything of the sort, actually. He was dying for a hot shower and a cuppa, but he knew that if he ignored the bastard, he’d just keep texting. He considered for a second, and his craving for tea overcame his desire to find out what Sherlock was on about this time. He’d go up, just. After tea.

Surprisingly enough, as the kettle boiled, Sherlock didn’t text him again. It was unnatural. He began to wonder if Sherlock was in trouble, or needed help or something. He was about to turn off the kettle and fly upstairs to make sure Sherlock was okay, when he heard the sharp tapping of someone descending the stairs. Which was odd, actually, because Sherlock barely made any sound on his way anywhere unless he wanted to, and even then his expensive loafers made more of a thud than a tap.

He turned around, and promptly lost all higher brain functions. No, he actually lost all brain functions.

Sherlock was standing behind him, wearing a black leather corset. The air left John’s lungs in one great whoosh, and he could feel himself getting light headed because he wasn’t breathing right; this was straight out of his fantasies. There was no way Sherlock… Well. If anyone, Sherlock would be the first one to know things John had never articulated out loud.

It was clearly made for women, curved delicately where a woman would have breasts and hips, where Sherlock had lean, straight planes. It forced his waist to taper, and the line of it took all the words straight from John’s mind. He licked his lips, mouth suddenly desperately dry. The ribbon that laced up the front of it tied into a bow, and set delicately under the swoop of Sherlock’s dramatic, beautiful collarbones. John could only imagine making marks on Sherlock’s skin, blooming purple to match the dark theme. He licked his lips again.

Sherlock looked amused. His lovely lips were quirked in a smile that told John his reactions could be read plainly on his face, but he didn’t care overmuch. His lips… He was wearing lipstick, good lord, this was going to be the end of him. Sherlock had one hand perched delicately on his waist, and the other holding a riding crop like one would hold a… a… fuck. “Like one would hold a riding crop” was the best his mind could do.

The hand holding the crop was limp, straight down, with the slightest tension in his wrist so he could snap the thing gently against his own calf. His own, bare, calf, on his own bare legs. Holy hell. He was wearing dark lacy underwear, which didn’t hide anything. Nothing. The line of his erection through the lace made John’s mouth water.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck he chanted internally. Mainly because he couldn’t think of another expletive to describe Sherlock’s posture, for fuck’s sake. Shoulders up straight and spine slightly arched back, one hip jutting out more than the other as he rested his body weight more on one leg than on the other, the muscles in his thighs and calves taut, all the more emphasized by the…

Up till that point, John had been incoherent, and if he’d opened his mouth and tried to speak, he’d have babbled more than he’d have made sense. Now, if he tried, he was sure he wouldn’t make a sound. His tongue felt thick in his mouth and his throat was contracting and his vision was blurring as all the blood left his head to go south for the winter, because Sherlock was wearing a pair of six inch, fuck-me stiletto heels, and there was nothing John wanted to more in the world at that point than lay him flat and fuck him senseless with his heels dragging across John’s back. Not one thing.

“Sh’lock,” he croaked, defying his own expectations of his coherence.

Sherlock smirked and lazily extended his riding crop to stroke it across John’s face, and lips, leaving a tingling trail behind it. “Yes, John?”

“I thought I told you to come—”

John probably shattered Sherlock’s plans for the rest of the evening by stepping forward and taking his mouth in a kiss, cutting his sentence short, and making him moan when he sucked on Sherlock’s lush lower lip. John honestly wouldn’t have minded playing this game sometime, but now was not a good time for him. Not when he was so ridiculously worked up. He hoped Sherlock would agree to doing this again. But all that was secondary.

Sherlock was humming into the kiss which John was controlling. John’s hands were resting firmly on the small of Sherlock’s back, over leather corset and lace panties, his ring finger sliding past both and touching damp, heated skin, and stroking absently over what skin he could access. Sherlock was hunched slightly, the heels accentuating the already ridiculous height difference, so John bullied him backwards into a kitchen chair.

Sherlock went quietly, and that was slightly unnerving. John had been expecting. Well, expecting some sort of resistance, just to be contrary. Sherlock did that, even in bed. There was nothing John liked more than Sherlock swearing in his gorgeous, low voice, and pushing back where John pushed forward. He loved it, actually. He loved having to work for it, and knowing that Sherlock would make sure John knew if he liked, or didn’t like something. He loved that Sherlock was as loud in bed as he was out of it. He-It-Sherlock was Perfect for him.

He had his hands cupped around Sherlock’s face, now, still kissing, with the tips of his fingers grazing over the top of those ridiculous cheekbones and his thumb dragging slow circles over Sherlock’s smooth jaw-line. Beyond the humming, Sherlock was being quiet, and letting John take what he wanted without taking anything back. Definitely something wrong. He pulled away slowly, with one last lick across Sherlock’s rose-red lips for good measure.

Sherlock’s face was soft, slightly stunned, and John knew Sherlock sometimes, very rarely got like this, so it wasn’t new, and John loved driving him to distraction like that. But he knew this wasn’t true because Sherlock’s eyes were as razor sharp as ever, like this wasn’t doing anything for him, like he was focusing on something very hard, and didn’t want to be distracted. He looked like that because he knew what it did to John. “What’s wrong?”

Sherlock blinked. “Nothing, John.” His voice was hoarse; physical reaction to this kiss, didn’t mean anything beyond that. He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock, who was studying him now.

“Sherlock.” John knew more than a handful of people who’d have snapped to attention and saluted if he’d used that reproving tone of voice on them.

“Yes?” Sherlock was completely unaffected, the sod. He didn’t seem to notice the reproach at all.

“Tell me what’s wrong.” John wanted to cross his arms but instead he reached forward and ran his hands over Sherlock’s disaster curls, fingers slightly crooked so they’d get close to the roots of his hair and scalp. Sherlock was ridiculously sensitive there, to the point that he hated hairbrushes, and he didn’t let anyone near his hair, except John. True to form he purred like a great big cat and his eyes fluttered shut. “Tell me,” John used the most unique interrogation technique known to man; affection.

“Nothing’s wrong, John.” Sherlock honestly sounded confused, his eyes still closed, head tilted into the stroking, breath catching every time John’s little finger caught in a curl and snagged.

“Then why are you being so quiet?”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “You obviously like sleeping with women because they’re normally less dominant in bed, and if I’m wearing women’s clothing surely you’d appreciate it if I were more submissive. Why else would this arouse you?” Sherlock’s eyes had opened half-way through his explanation, and he gestured at his body.

Honestly speaking, John had completely forgotten what Sherlock was wearing, despite it having walked straight out of his deepest fantasies. He looked at it in surprise, as if he was seeing it for the first time, and it was Sherlock’s turn to look surprised. “My deduction is wrong?”

John scoffed, but Sherlock knew it wasn’t meant in cruelty, because his hands were still stroking Sherlock’s hair gently. “You’re an idiot. I can’t speak for most men but I’m comfortable—I like it because—I like you, you giant dick. I like everything about you, when you’re being noisy and pushy and loud and complaining and deducing things in bed. I love it, Sherlock, because it’s you, you idiot.”

“Then why does this outfit affect you so strongly if not for it making me look feminine?” Sherlock’s thinking voice; John could hear the super-computer whirring in his head.

“Sherlock. You do not look feminine at all. A blind man could look at you and know you’re as male as it gets. It affects me because you look gorgeous. Take my breath away, you. Have you seen yourself, look at you!”

“Yes, of course, I had to check my appearance before you got home.”

John laughed. Leave it to Sherlock to take him literally. “No, you’ve looked. But you haven’t seen. You look absolutely stunning. I want to unwrap you from this corset. I want to mark you. I want to get down on my knees and steal your coherence. I want to make you beg. I want to—”

Sherlock surged forward and attacked his mouth, sucking and biting at John’s lips, and a laugh burbled through John’s chest because this was more like it. “I hope you still want to fuck me, though,” Sherlock said, low and rumbling, with his intense eyes staring holes through John.

A shudder ran down his spine. “Fuck yes.”

“Good.” Sherlock replied, and begun unlacing the corset.

“Not a chance!” John laughed, batting his hands away.

“But John, I can’t bend in the manner necessary for the optimum angle while wearing this!” Sherlock looked confused, and then upset at being confused. His pupils were dilated and he was flushed beautifully.

“The corset is definitely coming off, but not like that. Up. Let’s go upstairs.” John herded Sherlock out of the kitchen with his hand on the small of Sherlock’s back, occasionally letting it slide lower, and when it snagged in Sherlock’s panties, he set a sultry come-hither look at John from under his ridiculous lashes. He knew Sherlock liked it quick and dirty sometimes, but he was going to take his time, now.

He pushed gently, nothing more than a hint that Sherlock should go ahead. Sherlock studied him quickly, as if making sure that he wasn’t going to run away. As if he could. As if he would. Sherlock was entirely captivating, whether he was in his suit or in a corset and heels. He wanted Sherlock to go ahead because of the heels, actually.

Sherlock walked in them like he had been born to. Confident and smooth, with no hint of anything being different at all. Perhaps there was a slight sway to his hips that wasn’t there normally, but that’s what heels did. And John, who had dated a great many women and understood heels both as a man and as a doctor, knew that the effect would be most pronounced on stares. Sherlock had made it very clear that he was allowed to both touch, and look. John intended to take full advantage of this.

Three steps up, Sherlock hesitated, and turned again to see John watching his arse, tongue peeking out from between pink lips, eyes glazed in lust. Understanding flashed through his brain and he grinned. This was a much better thought than the idea that this was too much for John, and that he was leaving off hand.

John quirked an eyebrow at him, and Sherlock turned and decided he might as well as make a show of it. He wriggled his hips, and stepped forward, thinking all the time of how John would be reacting. His every step was exaggerated, slow but steady, and he stopped suppressing the artificial sway these shoes created. It didn’t feel too bad, actually. He imagined the effect wearing a dress would have, because the sway of his hips would cause his skirts to sway, and John would love it. He made a mental note to go out and get some new clothing.

He didn’t understand the attraction to his own body, in an intellectual sense. He was too pale, too tall, too  bony, not muscled or heavy enough, and he had been told his eyes were unnerving. But John seemed to like it. And that, he presumed, was all that mattered. He would indulge whatever kinks John had, because John indulged him, completely, both in bed and out of it. No sexual partner Sherlock had ever had, had allowed him to be so completely himself. And John was an attentive and considerate lover, and he loved Sherlock. He couldn’t have asked for anything more. He loved John too. This was just a way to show that they understood each other. It was the least he could do, for something that brought them both pleasure.

He’d gone up six additional steps when he felt warm hands on his hips. He paused, and smiled when he felt lips on the small of his back, on the skin between the corset and the delicate underwear. It ticked, and warmed him more than it had any right to.

He continued, letting John feel his entire body adapt to walking in high heels, letting him feel the mechanics of the joints under his skin, and how he compensated for the abnormal tilt of his feet by tensing his thighs and calves, and how he had to throw his shoulders back and arch his back in an unpractised way to keep upright. He’d have to practice.

Sherlock got the feeling that practice within 221B Baker street would result in lots of unplanned sex. That was an entirely acceptable situation.

John was close behind him, walking in a surprisingly unobtrusive manner, despite how close they were. John was planting kisses on Sherlock’s neck and collar and exposed vertebrae, without once getting in the way of his movement. It sent a shiver down his spine to think that John had done this before, and not in a good way. John distracted him from the ugly thought by whispering his name in his ear, before suckling his earlobe and making him stop moving and bare his throat in instinctive demand.

John complied and sucked a bruise into the base of the column of his neck, standing behind him on tiptoes because of the almost obscene height difference, in the dark, halfway up the stairs. Sherlock wanted more. So much more. He wanted John to bruise him everywhere, on every inch of skin, and inside him, so he could feel it tomorrow. So he could feel it for weeks. He wanted John to mark him. Christ.

John nuzzled lower, past his shoulder blade, down to the line of the leather, placing tender kisses which he could only half feel, dry and affectionate and sweet, licking only once or twice to taste the sweat in the crease under his arm. He wobbled precariously when John gasped and his exhale hit the damp, sensitive skin there.

“You shaved?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but didn’t mean anything by it. “Of course I did. I was under the impression was supposed to be role-playing a woman. Women shave.”

John huffed another laugh and sank his teeth into the tendons joining Sherlock’s neck to his shoulders. “Don’t ever say that out loud, you twit. Not all women shave. It’s not a rule.”

Interesting. Another fact Sherlock had gotten wrong in the past hour. He’d have to further his research into this area, he was sure, but all plans of conducting surveys of women on the street were shattered when John patted his hip and stepped close so he could feel the hard line of his lovers’ erection through their clothes. It was an effort to not run upstairs and lie John down and fuck himself on John’s cock. He managed a relatively sedate pace upwards, despite the obvious quickening of his heart.

John laughed when they rushed through the bedroom door rather quickly compared to how slowly they’d been taking it so far, but didn’t protest. It was a laugh of joy, not mockery, Sherlock had to remind himself. John was generous, not cruel. Especially not in bed.

John turned him around and pivoted him onto the bed, using his own hand on the small of Sherlock’s back as a lever. Sherlock went gracefully, already aching for John inside him. John seemed to have other plans though. When Sherlock made to kick off the heels which were beginning to hurt slowly, John shook his head and crawled upwards from the foot of their bed, smiling. He had a plan. Sherlock trusted him enough to just go along with it.

He slid Sherlock’s thighs apart as far as they could get without aching and settled himself in the space they’d just made. He lifted one leg and turned towards it. Sherlock wondered if this was a new sexual position he had never seen before (unlikely, but John had been known to surprise him on a fairly regular basis) but John was just kissing the insides of his thigh.

The skin there was sweat damp and soft and silky against his skin. On an impulse, John sucked another bruise into it, and Sherlock whimpered. John checked and made sure his erection hadn’t waned. The last thing he wanted was to  turn Sherlock off. His lips trailed down along the line of Sherlock’s muscles, lean and not bulky all the way down his endless legs.

He reached the crease behind Sherlock’s knee, where the taste and scent of Sherlock were automatically more intense, and licked delicately. Sherlock jerked reflexively, and when John turned to check on him, his eyes were wide and luminous in the room lit only by a table-lamp in the corner. He was breathing hard and his fingers were tangled in the bed-sheets, and he looked a little desperate. Good.

John sucked and nibbled and kissed, but not hard enough to bruise because that could hurt behind the knee, and then moved down, his lips ruffling the fine hair on Sherlock’s calves. When his mouth reached Sherlock’s ankles, where the shoes began, he didn’t stop.

They were like boots with the top cut off, made of red patent leather, with a dramatic cut where over the inside of Sherlock’s ankles where the leather folded outwards like a collar on a shirt. The shoes still smelled like dust and storage. New, then. John didn’t hesitate when he licked past the exposed skin of Sherlock’s ankle and wedged his tongue into the tiny crack created between the bottom of the shoe and Sherlock’s own heel.

Sherlock gasped and froze in an obvious effort to not kick, because the warm wetness was unexpected and lovely in a way he didn’t understand, and what the hell was John even doing and he was he doing it what was he doing? His thoughts ran together when John didn’t stop, and rested his teeth around his Achilles tendon, with only the slightest hint of pressure. “John.” Even his words were breathy and wavering, all self-assurance and control lost. Exactly what John wanted. Sherlock babbled when he stopped thinking what he was doing, and John loved it so much that he wanted to ask permission to record it. “John!”

John smiled and Sherlock could feel the teeth against his muscles. John kissed him once, and then again as if he couldn’t control himself, and lowered his leg to the bed, gently. He crawled back upwards and dropped a perfunctory kiss on Sherlock’s straining cock, over the lace, and Sherlock swore under his breath. Bastard. John beamed.

He stripped his own clothes so quickly Sherlock could only blink, and he wondered whether his reaction times had been broken permanently, because he could have sworn he’d only blinked twice before John was completely naked, straddling his waist so that Sherlock’s cock could only feel the slightest pressure of John’s back and nothing more.

Sherlock glared again, but John bent down and kissed him, and all was forgiven. One of John’s hands was on his hip, and the other tangling through the hair on the nape of his neck. The one on his hip dragged a nail, and Sherlock hissed at the sensation, so close to where he wanted it, but not yet close enough.

John pushed himself up and began undoing the lace down the front of the corset with confident, steady hands, and deft fingertips. It was a sturdy thing, and John wasn’t quite able to peel the corset off, inch by inch, like he’d wanted to. But that was okay. No big loss. He’d shifted backwards to make room for his hands, so he was pretty much trapping Sherlock’s erection between his body and the underwear, and it was a simple matter of rocking slightly, to drive Sherlock wild. His own cock was ridiculously ready, but he wasn’t sure if Sherlock would do this again, and he wanted to make the most of it while he was here.

Sherlock was moaning and gasping and swearing in turn by the time John finished unlacing the damn thing, bucking his hips upwards futilely, because he was strong but not strong enough to life John’s entire body-weight. He was babbling and it was sending prickles of heat down John’s spine.

“Fuck fuck John please it’s not enough please please please let me Oh! I have to it’s too much but please John you’re lovely you’re beautiful pleaseplease let me touch you touch me do something! I want you so bad I wantchou to fuck me,” and that was another thing John loved, when Sherlock slurred his words and lost his perfect enunciation. “I’m so wet for you and loose and open please fuck me please!”

And that hit him hard. If Sherlock had said he was wet, John would have understood. He could feel Sherlock’s pre-come on the small of his back where it had seeped through the lace panties. But he was loose and open, and that meant he’d lubricated and stretched himself before John got home, and John was a military man, and very disciplined, but he could only take so much.

With the thought of Sherlock lying on his side, patiently working a wet toy into himself, or wet fingers, overlapping with the vision of Sherlock on his back, arching to let John pull the rigid corset out of the way, John licked twice then sucked at his nipple hard enough to make him yelp, pleasurable but shocking enough to kick Sherlock back from the edge of orgasm, just enough to pull it out a little longer.

Sherlock was trembling, literally shaking as he tried to get to his knees, but John pulled him back and firmly arranged him on the bed, flat on his back, with two pillows under his bum. Sherlock was quickly losing awareness and he wasn’t sure but at some point John had slid his panties off and sniffed them once before tossing them into a corner of the room. He didn’t know anything for sure, anymore. He was just going to lie here and let John do the work because he might just fall apart if he tried to move himself.

John seemed to have no problem with this, and let Sherlock pull him down for a messy, gasping wet kiss, before hiking his legs over his own shoulders, so that the thin, sharp point of the heels were dragging slightly on his back, making him shiver.

He rubbed two fingers around the base of Sherlock’s cock, and then down past his heavy, trembling balls, and his fingers slipped into Sherlock so easily that he jerked in surprise, despite having expected it, and pulled his fingers out, dragging against the heated skin of his perineum. Sherlock jerked in response to the sudden movement, thrusting his hips forward for more contact, hissing in shock as his heart skipped several beats.

“John.” His voice was unexpectedly low and steady and John listened. “If you don’t move and fuck me right now, I’m going to die. Do you understand what I’m saying?” He sounded dead serious and his eyes were squeezed shut, fingers clenching and unclenching furiously onto the corners of the pillows underneath him.

John laughed and ignored him. He was desperate to come as well, but this was a level he had never before seen on Sherlock. Beyond-Babbling. Dramatic in a very sexual sort of way. He slid two fingers into Sherlock again, and his body easily accepted the intrusion. John would have gone as far as to say Sherlock was looser than that, even. He was truly dripping wet, silky and hot as sin inside, and his breath hitched as John made sure that this would hurt, anyway. John wondered briefly what the hell kind of toy Sherlock had used to get himself this loose, and how long he had used it for, and if he’d let John do it for him, next time.

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered, even though John was pretty sure he hadn’t been speaking out loud. “Yes to whatever you’re thinking, right now. Whatever you want. Anything.”

John took the gift for what it was, lifted Sherlock’s hips with both hands, and sank in. It should have been anti-climactic, for all the rushed furious heat until now, but it wasn’t. John’s heart was pounding, and Sherlock was trembling around him, eyes closed again and lashes fluttering. His lipstick was smudged and he’d bitten his lower lip to muffle the moan which was attempting to escape, still, as John went in as deep as he could go, and held Sherlock in place.

Sherlock was blood hot and wet, and lubricant was dripping down along the crease between his groin and his thighs, and his pulse was fluttering furiously in his neck, under the bruise John had left, what felt like hours ago. His cock was hard and leaking, dark and long and curved upwards, and John was torn between making him come just like that and sucking him off. Maybe both, before the sun came up later.

John widened his knees on his bed, making sure he was steady and readjusted Sherlock’s long legs over his shoulders, because he really did enjoy those heels. Some instinct propelled Sherlock to reach backwards with lean, strong arms, and awkwardly hold on to the iron headboard, holding himself in place, and when he’d fumbled a little and found a comfortable grip, John pulled out and thrust in, hard, deep and unhesitant, and they both gasped.

And he did it again, and again, and found that instinctive rhythm that had him pushing forward the moment Sherlock gasped at the pleasure of contact and then the loss of it. Sherlock’s gasps were getting faster and faster, quickening John’s thrusts, which made Sherlock gasp even more, louder, quicker. John was holding his hips in place, with every thrust perfectly hitting his prostate and it was all he could do to not wail as shocks of sensation crackled up his spine.

His lips and tongue were dry, and Sherlock realised it was because his mouth was open in what felt like panting, and he couldn’t seem to close it because every push forward made him gasp and a series of gasps was nothing more than panting, and John was going so fast that Sherlock couldn’t think straight, and he was definitely pulling John closer with whatever pathetic leverage he had over his shoulders, pressing his heels into John’s back.

John was grunting under his breath, face screwed up in concentration, his eyebrows furrowed, and in that moment there was nothing Sherlock loved more than he loved this one man. Nothing.

Sherlock let go of the damned railings behind him and yanked John down into what was more like a mutual lick than a proper kiss, wet and filthy and John had slowed slightly because the angle was wrong but he was still rocking in and out of Sherlock, the head of his cock stretching the skin obscenely, making Sherlock whine and beg.

John pulled back and thrust forward again, and it was different because Sherlock had no support this time to keep him from inching backwards and something changed, the angle his posture, whatever, and suddenly it was like there was nothing to him except his prostate, and John wasn’t even withdrawing fully anymore, just moving inside him, like he couldn’t bear to leave Sherlock for a single second.

With the last remaining bit of consciousness Sherlock arched to meet John half way, and the prolonged pressure and force combined with the feel of John’s calloused hands on his hips, holding him, with the sheer wantonness of his position, back concave, offering himself to John, who was on top of him, his thighs pushed bending him almost in double, still hiked over John’s shoulders, and the sheer amount of time he’d been waiting for this. It was enough.

Sherlock came, his breath leaving his lungs in a wail, light headed and vision sparking from the pleasure, clenching hard around John, maintaining his position the most difficult thing he had ever done, when all he wanted to do was fall apart because he didn’t have any bones left in his body.

John was fucking Sherlock through it, relentless and on the verge of shattering himself, but loving the way Sherlock quaked and shuddered and gasped at the drag of his cock over hyper-sensitive skin, face frozen in an expression of ecstasy. Sherlock was clenching around John, probably not even aware of it, and his eyes were rolling and he was whispering some thing under his breath, chanting, the same thing, over and over again. John thought it might be a curse word, but it wasn’t.

Sherlock was saying “love love love love,” under head breath, a mantra in time to John’s stuttering rhythm, and that, of all things, pushed John over the edge. He came, shrieking a little, trembling, and could only just barely pay attention to the fact that Sherlock was shaking more than he had been, still clenching, cock twitching helplessly, and limp. Sweat was dripping everywhere, stinging John’s eyes, but he couldn’t muster the brain-cells to move his arm to wipe it away.

He had absently collapsed half on-top of Sherlock, whose body was warm, whose lungs were still heaving. That must have been a really good orgasm, John thought, and felt vaguely proud of the fact that Sherlock was silent. This silence was not unnatural. This silence indicated that words had failed Sherlock. Which was good. Very good. Words were failing John too. Even his thoughts were simple, and drowsy.

He tucked his face into the crook of Sherlock’s neck and kissed, and Sherlock wriggled his hand under John’s body and around him, coming to rest on his waist, fingers drawing absent patterns on his belly. “I think I came again.” John had to blink twice before he understood.


Sherlock hummed, eyes closed. “When you came, I think I came again. Or at least, I had an orgasm, even if I did not ejaculate.” The language was clinical and sterile, but John could hear the underlying awe, and exhaustion, and despite himself he felt a thrill run down his spine. “No,” Sherlock said, and John grinned.

“No,” Sherlock repeated, but the corner of his mouth was twitching in amusement, even if his eyes weren’t open.

“You were thinking it too, Sherlock,” John quipped, because Sherlock was not a mind reader and he couldn’t have seen where John was looking, so he had to have been thinking it too. “Let me bring you off one more time? In a little bit?”

“You’ll be the death of me, John,” Sherlock said, but it wasn’t a no, and his other hand had crossed his body to pull John even closer. They were a disaster zone, covered in bodily fluids and lubricant, but they were both smiling, and sated, and aching in the best possible way. Sherlock was wearing one heel, and the other one had fallen off the foot of the bed. There were a pair of dripping wet lace panties in the corner of the room, busily staining the carpet irreparably. John was worrying another kiss into Sherlock’s neck, below the first one, and the skin was blooming in gentle heat.

“I love you too,” John replied, and smiled.