John can easily admit that he had thought—when he let himself even think about matters related to Sherlock that were then best left alone—that Sherlock’s libido would be lower than average. He wouldn’t have got to his 30s still a virgin otherwise, John had reasoned (another misconception that he was corrected on very thoroughly after everything… began). The fact that Sherlock managed to keep John in bed for almost an entire week after the first time he grabbed John’s face and kissed him senseless could easily be chalked up to the energy of a new relationship. It had certainly happened to John before—maybe not to the same degree, but then there hadn’t been years of tension and unacknowledged longing behind those relationships either. John expected it to taper off after a few weeks or possibly months together, especially once Sherlock remembered that crime was a thing that existed in the world.
Three years in and John can’t believe just how wrong he’d been.
It wasn’t that he thought it would become boring or that he’d expected to always want Sherlock more than Sherlock wanted him, it was just—
Well he couldn’t have expected it to be like this.
“God,” Sherlock says in that way of his that’s somehow both a deep rumble and a whine. “I want your cock, but—” his teeth sink into his bottom lip as he rolls his hips, nudging John’s fingers deeper inside him. Even when John’s knuckles are pressed flush against Sherlock’s arse and John thinks he’s got those two fingers in as deeply as they’ll go, Sherlock manages to claim even more ground.
“But?” John prompts.
Sherlock makes that face John loves, the one with screwed up eyes and pursed lips that outside of sex means you’re all being unbearably stupid but here and now means I’m being unbearably stupid because I’m too overwhelmed to think, and balls his hands into fists against his thighs. John could watch him like this all day, sweat- sheened and lying on his back with legs spread and hips hitching, always needy.
“I want more,” Sherlock says, like it’s not written all over him.
“Hmm.” Even though John knows it’s not exactly what Sherlock means, he withdraws his fingers til just the tips still rest inside, then slips a third alongside as he presses back in.
“Oh—” Sherlock breathes out. “Fuck, you… ah.”
John smiles, self-satisfied. “Like that?”
“Something like that,” Sherlock agrees. His hands are flexing now, abdominal muscles shuddering. “You never make this easy for me, do you?”
“Why would I, when I can get you in a state like this?”
“Sadist,” Sherlock says. It sounds like I love you.
“Hedonist,” John says fondly.
“Enabler,” Sherlock shoots back.
“Always have been, probably always will be.” John follows it with a kiss. He has to lean over Sherlock awkwardly to reach, but knows better than to take his fingers out until Sherlock’s done with them. He wouldn’t want to miss the way that Sherlock works himself, anyway, flexing his body while John holds his hand still and concentrates on kissing Sherlock, letting him ride out as much sensation as he can.
John never gives Sherlock exactly what he wants. It’s infuriating. Perfect. Sherlock can’t imagine loving anyone else half as much for doing the same. Sherlock can’t imagine loving anyone else at all.
John makes him work for it, makes him push past his own barriers and ask for what he thinks he wants before John gives him what he needs. Sherlock couldn’t have expected that when he first plunged in and kissed John without thinking and their halted life of dancing around their feelings actually became something real together. All observable evidence had indicated that John was a perfectly ordinary romantic partner who had brought out nothing particularly remarkable in his girlfriends or his wife. That hadn’t stopped Sherlock from wanting him, of course—it was irrational, he hates to be irrational. The entire idea of letting sentiment rule over what was rational had been disgusting. Or so he’d thought at the time.
Of course, there was always that knowledge that John did have a profound effect on Sherlock in a way that no one else did, but that was no reason to hope that their relationship would be some sort of transformative experience.
Sherlock had been lacking the necessary data. Luckily he did believe in taking risks. Especially personal ones.
It’s good enough to almost make him regret lost time. Sherlock had never known how much he could crave someone else. He still marvels over it—if he can spare the capacity for thought—even while he’s covered, surrounded by, full of John. Sherlock’s there now, mind tumbling over the force of his own desire while he’s got John all over him. Fingers inside Sherlock, kissing him until he’s panting. Sherlock could drown in it.
John pulls away when Sherlock is just short of breathless. “What do you want, then?”
John has been fingering him for ages now, leisurely, while Sherlock lies back in bed and digs his heels into the mattress every time John takes a moment to stroke his prostate. It’s glorious but it’s also not enough, and it’s so difficult to put into words, to just say what he means, to know what he means. He wants more, to be overwhelmed, for John to know exactly what he needs
“Your hand,” Sherlock settles on. It sounds like too much. Just enough for the mood he’s in.
“That’s not very specific.” John, enjoying the process of illustrating his point far more than is decent going by the look on his face, slides his little finger into Sherlock’s arse along with the others then grasps Sherlock’s cock with his free hand.
Under normal circumstances Sherlock would be able to fire back a smart-arse comment to rival John’s own. As it is, his nerves are all alight and his brain is slow as treacle and Sherlock really doesn’t mind. He can feel his body curling in on itself, feeling too much and not enough all at once.
“I meant in my arse,” Sherlock says after an indeterminable moments’ silence, punctuated by his own shuddering breaths.
“I know you did. I just wanted to hear you say it.” John is still smiling his crooked, confident grin; Sherlock adores him.
They’ve done this a few times before. It was Sherlock’s idea of course—wanting to test his limits the first time, longing for the fullness and the way John coached him through it (“That’s it, gorgeous, open up for me,” said with such reverence, John’s hands strong and gentle on the small of his back or his thigh) every time since.
With four fingers in, Sherlock is already stretched nearly to the width of John’s hand; John presses in to his knuckles and Sherlock’s arsehole gives way easily. It’s delicious and Sherlock knows he can take the rest, is eager for the challenge.
John leans forward again and Sherlock thinks he’s going to kiss him. Instead he takes Sherlock’s left hand in his right and twines their fingers together, begins brushing his thumb over the place where their knuckles are joined together. They stay like that quietly for a moment, John’s left hand still moving steadily. Sherlock knows the sensation of John’s hand in him is playing across his face, and John is taking it in hungrily.
John tilts his head, kisses the side of Sherlock’s knee in a way that only slightly tickles when John’s breath blows over the hair on Sherlock’s thigh. “You know, my hands actually are a bit small,” he says.
“They don’t exactly feel small.”
John laughs. “Yes, but comparatively…” he squeezes Sherlock’s hand, and the insinuation blooms with perfect clarity.
John never thought he’d see Sherlock Holmes on his knees, reaching back with those long arms to bury four fingers in his own arse. He never thought he’d see a lot of things, and he’s incredibly grateful to have ended up here like this.
“John,” Sherlock moans. “This is—”
The hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life, John would like to say, but he knows that Sherlock’s having trouble. It is a difficult thing to do, attempting to put an entire fist in your own self. Sherlock’s likely the only person who could manage.
“It’s okay,” John tells him. “Take your time.”
“It’s so much,” Sherlock says, and his back bows just a little deeper so that he can press in farther.
Sherlock had looked beautifully disheveled earlier, when John’s hand was in the same position. It’s nothing compared to now, face and neck beautifully flushed and entire body damp with sweat, legs trembling, mouth hanging open in awe and letting some of the most desperate noises John has ever heard in his life escape. Sherlock’s erection has come and gone throughout the night’s activities but his cock is hard now; from his view between Sherlock’s spread knees John can see the leaking head dip down below his bollocks every time Sherlock arches his back up and it’s making his mouth water. He wouldn’t dare try to suck Sherlock right now, of course, or even touch him really. Not until Sherlock’s managed to fit his whole hand inside.
“Ready for the thumb, do you think?” John’s voice is soft and steady. Sherlock needs that from him now.
“Y-yes,” Sherlock pants, then shakes his head. “No. I don’t…” his voice trails off. His arms are shaking, one of them straining behind him.
“I know you can fit it,” John tells him. He strokes a hand over Sherlock’s thigh, feels him shake through the touch as John presses his thumb in alongside Sherlock’s fingers. “See? Yours is only a bit longer, but you can manage.”
“Fuck,” Sherlock hisses through his teeth.
John slips his index finger in as well, slides his finger and thumb along the rim of Sherlock’s stretched-tight arse from the inside. “It won’t be much wider than that, love. I know you can manage.”
“Fuck,” Sherlock repeats more forcefully. But when John’s removed his fingers, Sherlock’s thumb is there to replace them, pressing in until only the widest part of his hand stands between him and having the entire thing inside.
“That’s it,” John murmurs. Sherlock’s body already seems so wobbly that John’s not entirely sure he’ll be able to hold himself up in a moment, so John braces him with a steady arm around his waist, hand planted against his chest—covering the faded scar of Sherlock’s old gunshot wound, John thinks as his hand reaches for that familiar spot, and isn’t that somehow appropriate.
Sherlock is entirely nonverbal now, just lets out a slow, deep whine as the considerable width of his hand breaches his arsehole and he curls his fingers inside.
“Fucking hell,” John says, because really—there’s no other way to express the sentiment.
Sherlock nods slowly and lets out a short bark of laughter. He’s moving his wrist so, so slowly.
“How does it feel,” John asks. Now that it’s done he’d like nothing more than to pull Sherlock’s hand right out and fuck him.
“Fuller,” Sherlock huffs. “More intense but not as good.”
“That would be the angle. I could—” John trails his fingers over Sherlock’s wrist just above where it’s sunk into himself.
Sherlock nods, and John grasps his wrist gently, pushes slowly and watches it sink in incrementally. When John lets go, Sherlock’s wrist slides back out just a bit. The noise it makes is wet and filthy. John presses it down again and the sound that escapes Sherlock’s mouth is something that John is going to remember until he’s so old he can barely recall his own name.
“Can you come from this?” Sherlock does, usually, when it’s John’s hand inside him, pressing insistently against his prostate.
Sherlock considers, shakes his head.
“Want me to fuck you after all?” John hasn’t thought about his own arousal in some time, content to luxuriate in Sherlock’s. It suddenly feels much more insistent.
“Now?” Sherlock has a point. John has a thick cock, but it’s nothing so girthy as Sherlock’s entire fist. Not to mention the quantity of lube necessary to fit said fist into Sherlock’s arse in the first place. It will be loose and slick. John will have to work to make him feel it, while being mindful of the fact that Sherlock is likely very close to being overstimulated.
“Yeah,” John says breathlessly.
Sherlock is well aware by now that John has a dirty mouth. He’s been told how gorgeous he looks taking cock more times than he can count (and appreciates it each time), and John has an endearing habit of pointing out how filthy Sherlock is with John’s come leaking from him (often whilst pressing it back in with his fingers). Still, Sherlock wasn’t quite prepared for John’s verbal reaction to Sherlock’s just having had his hand buried in his own arse.
“Jesus Christ, you’re sloppy.” John is on his knees behind Sherlock, who’s given up on the arduous task of holding himself up on wrung-out limbs and let his chest and head rest against the bed. It’s left his arse feeling somehow even more exposed, helped by John dipping three fingers from both hands inside his hole to hold it open.
Sherlock can feel the flush on his body intensifying and drops his head.
“Is that too much?” John asks. He doesn’t sound particularly concerned.
“Ha—no. Keep going.” Sherlock knows his voice must be shaky. John knows what he’s doing to him. Sherlock doesn’t have to look at John to know he’s all smug smiles from reducing Sherlock to a trembling, blushing mess.
“You’re going to have to clench down for me when I put my cock in you.” Sherlock does just then, around John’s fingers, and John’s chuckle is honestly obscene.
“Such romantic things you say,” Sherlock mutters. John laughs again and gives Sherlock a light slap on the arse cheek after pulling out his fingers. God, even that felt wet. Sherlock is going to be a mess everywhere.
“On your back?”
Sherlock nods, because lying down seems glorious just now when all his limbs have gone as boneless as jelly.
He likes it like this the best sometimes anyway, seeing John’s ever expressive face whilst he’s fucking him, pulling him into desperate open-mouthed kisses even though Sherlock has to bend himself nearly in half to reach. John’s manoeuvred him onto his back and hooked Sherlock’s legs over his shoulders before settling Sherlock’s bum against the tops of his thighs, and his cock is right there—the first time Sherlock’s paid attention to it since this all started and isn’t that criminal—nestled in the slick cleft and teasing against Sherlock’s hole, as much as it’s possible to tease something that’s never felt quite this open and wet in his entire life.
And fuck, for all that he’s been stretched already Sherlock can feel every inch of John pressing into him with exquisite sensitivity that makes him gasp out and clasp his hands on John’s arms.
“Slow?” John asks, knowing very well by now how to read Sherlock’s reactions.
Sherlock nods, which quickly segues into his head rolling on the damp pillow as he attempts to process the sensation of John’s cock dragging back and forth against the tender rim of his arse in a way that is every bit the too much he’s been seeking from the start. John is the tides, a metronome, every possible metaphor Sherlock may have deleted in his life for steady and constant, an inexorable push and pull that has Sherlock panting in time with each slow thrust inside him.
“Don’t let me come yet,” Sherlock breathes, teeth clenched. The whole process—fingers, fist, cock—has been bringing him to the edge and back all evening. His orgasm is going to be explosive; he can feel that each time he comes close and he wants it to happen after John’s. Wants to be thoroughly debauched by the time everything is done.
John has gone quiet—he usually does after he’s inside Sherlock; his face speaks for him—but laughs briefly, softly, in a way that Sherlock knows to mean that John thinks that’s entirely out of his hands and in Sherlock’s own. He may have a point. Sherlock squeezes around him to make one of his own.
“Fucking hell,” John groans. Sherlock’s left knee slips off John’s shoulder as John leans forward to kiss him; Sherlock wraps it around John to pull him in. They’re breathing into each other’s mouths more than kissing really, though Sherlock does have John’s bottom lip sucked between his teeth, and John’s breaths come in short staccato bursts as his thrusts speed up in a way that is very, very close to being overwhelming for Sherlock until John stills and comes inside him.
Sherlock loves this, each and every time. The way John’s body shakes softly and how he can feel each twitch and pulse of John’s cock, hot inside him. John’s long exhale through it, pulling out just before he’s done so that the last two shots of semen stripe Sherlock’s arse cheeks and make him feel deliciously dirty. John kisses him after, slow and deep and Sherlock can feel him smiling into it.
“Something in your arse as well?” John asks once he’s got his hand on Sherlock’s cock and Sherlock makes a noncommittal noise because he’s honestly not sure at this point because his nerves are firing everywhere and John thumbing slickly over the head of his cock steals his ability to think even in the best of circumstances but he does come best with something inside especially after being fucked and—
It washes over him in the middle of his jumbled thoughts—John did have two fingers in, he notices as his body clamps down around them—and his entire body is thrumming with it, strong pulse after pulse for what feels like far too long until Sherlock is laughing breathlessly because orgasms are absurd and amazing and he can’t believe how much of his life he spent without knowing that John Watson (only John Watson) could wring this sort of sensation from his body.
John is laughing too, then. “Jesus Christ, it’s on the ceiling.”
Sherlock doesn’t look up to confirm, just pulls John’s sticky, sweaty body in towards his own and “hmms” contentedly.