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John Watson was not a soft man. Sherlock was well aware of this.

John was a doctor and a soldier. He'd seen horrible things—unimaginable suffering—and yet managed to compartmentalize his grief, his fear and his horror in order to get the job done. Lives wanted saving. And Sherlock knew that John felt deeply for each and every life lost. John had reminded him of the dangers of not caring at all.

Somehow, John maintained the balance of a compassionate heart and a stoic demeanour. Physically, too, John was a marvel of contrasts.

The night was cold and they had retired to bed early. Neither of them had felt the urge for any serious lovemaking. Rather they had nuzzled and stroked and kissed until sleep claimed them. Sherlock woke only a few hours later, feeling fully rested, but not quite willing to relinquish the warm bed and his warmer lover for the experiment in the kitchen. No, tonight the only observations he intended to make were about the man with whom he'd decided to share his life and work. The one who now—after years of hopeless dancing about—finally shared his bed as well.

He was lying on his side, one hand propping up his head, watching John sleep. John was lying, as usual, flat on his back with one hand beneath the duvet and one over top. He always ended up in that position, regardless of how tangled up they were when they fell asleep. Sherlock didn't mind—his own most comfortable position involved mostly sprawling over John's supine form, with one leg draped over John's thighs and his head on John's shoulder.

John Watson was lovely in sleep. The hard lines of his face softened. The sandy grey hair, which was normally neatly combed to within an inch of its life—was mussed from Sherlock's fingers. The straight spine and formal bearing of his military muscle memory eased, and his body bent to the shape of their soft mattress.

A man of contradiction. The unexpected.

Sherlock let his gaze follow the breadth of John's shoulders. Not excessively broad, but reflecting the years of physical training he had endured. Hard.

He lifted his hand and traced with a gossamer-light touch over the line of John's upper arm. Not overly muscular, but toned and firm. Hard.

He observed John's fingers, splayed over the covers where they draped over his abdomen. Small, but sturdy and nimble. Steady. Hard.

And then there was...

Sherlock wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. Even thinking about them made his mouth water. It was strange to think that in the few short months they had been engaged in a sexual relationship, he had become so enamoured of this one particular feature. Fondness, he called it. Preference.

John had another name for it: Kink.

Sherlock didn't care. It was delightful and gave him every bit as much pleasure as it gave John (or perhaps more). Oh, the sounds John made—Sherlock was hard just thinking about it.

He watched his lover sleep and considered. They'd had discussions about consent (given Sherlock's propensity for doing things to John without asking) and Sherlock knew sleep could sometimes be tricky. John loved to wake to kisses; he was less than pleased about waking to fingers already in his arse. Sherlock was learning to respect these boundaries. But tonight he desperately wanted to touch. Touch John there, where the hardness of the captain-doctor gave way to a luxurious softness that made Sherlock ache.

He grazed the backs of his fingers over John's bared collarbone. How fortunate that John had come to bed without his pyjamas. So much simpler this way. 

He held his breath, waiting to see if John would wake, but John slept on. Sherlock bit his bottom lip to hold in the breathy moan that threatened to escape. He moved his hand to gently push the covers away from the part of John he most wanted to see.

Oh.

Here was the contrast. The ever-so-slightly plump evidence that John was—in every way—the ideal man. Here, on a chest that was otherwise hardened by years of activity, were two tiny pillows of perfection.

Sherlock knew, of course, that it was not uncommon for some men to have some softness in the pectoral region. Not every chest could be as scrawny and devoid of flesh as his own. And given John's age, it was hardly surprising to find softness here.

But he'd never really considered how wonderful—how delicious—said softness could be.

He stared down at the rosy-tipped evidence of John's supremacy. John had very little chest hair to obscure the view. What he did have was fair and surprisingly soft. It did nothing to distract Sherlock from his object.

Lazily, he dragged one fingernail over the tip of John's nipple. He watched his lover's face carefully, but there was no response.

The nipple itself however...

Wetting his lips once more with the surfeit of saliva he now had, Sherlock leaned in. He dragged greedy fingertips in a small circle on John's chest, completely surrounding one of the delights he craved. He pressed in with his palm, cupping the flesh and plumping it up. He was very nearly dizzy with the need to taste. To lick. To suck...

"If you're going to put that in your mouth, get on with it," John mumbled groggily.

Sherlock's eyes snapped to John's face. His guilty expression melted immediately when he saw John's sleepy amusement. He should feel sheepish, he knew but...

John's other hand, which had been tucked in under the duvet at his side near Sherlock, came up and tangled in Sherlock's hair. John stroked Sherlock's curls, his sleepy expression giving way to something more expectant and heated.

"Well, then?" he asked. "Going to take a little taste?"

Sherlock's mouth watered again and his cock throbbed.

"Go on," John whispered, stretching up to press a kiss to Sherlock's brow. "I know you want to. I know you need to. Go on love. Suck me there."

Sherlock whimpered and instantly bowed his head to John's chest. First he placed a reverent kiss to the tip of the nipple he had begun to prepare. Then, with the flat of his tongue, he painted the first stripe over the pink-hued object of his desire.

John hummed happily, deep in his throat, and tightened his fist in Sherlock's curls. Sherlock whimpered again and shifted closer, pressing his aching cock into the side of John's thigh.

"That's it, sweetheart. Suck my tits. Come on."

Sherlock moaned now, helpless as he drew John's pebbling nipple into his mouth. He laved and suckled, teasing with teeth and tongue. He lost track of any sense of time as gave himself over to worshipping John's body.

John offered breathy little words of encouragement and tantalizing groans. He tilted his chest ever so subtly in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock took advantage and moved his ministrations to the other side of John's chest. 

John gasped out loud as Sherlock plumped up the other side and fell on it like a thirsty man man offered water. He sucked hard first and then made several passes with the rougher surface of his tongue. He swirled around the centre and then made a wider pass, taking in the whole of the areola. John shivered as Sherlock applied teeth, gently catching the hard nub of the nipple between them and tugging.

Sherlock's hips canted of their own volition, dragging his leaking prick up and back against the coarser hair of John's thigh. He was making obscene, sloppy noises—moaning into the movement of his lips and tongue against John's flesh—and he knew it. He wouldn't last long like this. He never did.

He felt the movement as John's other hand slipped beneath the covers to stroke his own fully erect cock.

"That's it love," John begged, tugging firmly on his prick as he held Sherlock's mouth to his chest. "Yeah, fuck, yeah. Oh, sweetheart. God, your mouth..."

Sherlock groaned helplessly, sucking nearly the whole of John's breast tissue into his mouth. His orgasm was rapidly approaching and this was how he wanted to come.

He rubbed his cock hard against John's leg and moaned, long and hard, as he came—John's flesh still in his mouth. He panted heavily through his nose as he collapsed weakly into John's body, continuing to suckle as he rode out the aftershocks.

John's body rocked and his hips arched off the bed as he followed. "Oh, jesus. Oh, fuck, Sherlock. Oh, god, oh, god..."

Sherlock was loathe to release John's nipple, but he knew it would be somewhat oversensitive now. He let it pop from his mouth with a delicious slurp and dropped his head to John's shoulder. John's hand freed itself from Sherlock's curls and one lovely strong arm curled around him to draw him close.

"Mmmmm," John hummed, pressing a kiss into the top of Sherlock's head. "Never would have believed how much I enjoy that."

"I'm glad," Sherlock said a little breathlessly. "I'm glad there's something only I share with you."

"My love," John started gently. "Whatever else I may have done and whoever else I may have done it with, there is one thing that I will only ever share with you...and it has nothing to do with my surprisingly sensitive nipples."

"Oh?"

"You are the love of my life, Sherlock," John whispered.

"Oh," Sherlock said, grinning to himself as he pressed his face into John's chest. "That's good. So this—"

"Well, no, this is really good, too," John admitted, chuckling softly. "Feel free to do this whenever you like."

"Really?" Sherlock's head came up. They stared at each other in the dim light coming through the window. 

John brushed his knuckles over Sherlock's cheek with a smile. "Of course, love. They're all yours."