This was not why they'd chosen to rent a car for this case. At least, John hoped it wasn't.
All the air in John's lungs escaped in a frantic exhale and he scrabbled with blunt fingers against the upholstery, trying to find enough purchase to keep his head from smacking into the door every time the car rocked.
He was flat out on his back with his trousers around his ankles and Sherlock bloody Holmes between his thighs, fully dressed and with his coat falling like a blanket around both of them. Sherlock's fingers were buried deep, oh God, so deep inside him, twisting and stretching and turning John inside out with the intensity of the pleasure-pain they were sparking in his veins.
Dizzily, John tried to remember how he'd got here.
A not-boring case in Brighton. Sherlock skulking around like a Byronic hero and complaining about the holiday-makers. John actually enjoying the sunshine, thanks very much. A smuggling ring that hadn't taken very kindly to their interference. A dramatic reveal, a showdown, a near-death experience, a perfunctory trip to the A and E.
Sherlock shoving him into the backseat halfway back to the hotel for a frantic, life-affirming shag.
It was downright romantic, for them.
"Shit!" John hissed, as Sherlock's long, long fingers rubbed deliberately over his prostate. Pleasure zinged up his spine, making his fingers twitch and his teeth clench as he tried to ride it out. His hips twitched without his permission, and even John couldn't have said whether he was trying to get more or get away.
Sherlock's other hand brushed his face, callused fingertips dragging deliberately over eyelids that John hadn't even realized he'd closed. Obediently, John looked up, blinking away the reflexive tears. "Ngh, god, Sherlock…"
Above him, Sherlock's face was almost frightening in its blankness; if it had been anyone else, John would have been fighting to get loose, not gasping and writhing in an attempt to feel more, to get Sherlock's fingers impossibly deeper.
Sex between them was usually indulgent and methodical with a dash of playfulness thrown in. This was almost punishing in its intensity and John didn't need to be as clever as Sherlock to know why. The fingerprint-shaped bruises on his neck had already begun darkening while they'd been at the hospital; they were probably well on their way to lurid by now. Every time Sherlock's fingers grazed over them - deliberately, the bastard - John couldn't help but flinch, and every time Sherlock's face grew colder as his eyes went hotter.
God, that was… Sherlock's fingers twisted, scissored, four of them now, it felt like, and John was making noises that he'd be thoroughly embarrassed about later. It was too much, it wasn't enough, he needed more and Christ, why wasn't Sherlock inside him already?
"Sherlock," John groaned, in what was definitely not a whine. "Come on!"
A sly smirk flicked at the corner of Sherlock's mouth. The maddening rhythm of his fingers didn't stop.
"Buggering hell," John growled. He fisted a hand in Sherlock's collar and yanked him down so that he could hiss his next words into the curve of that gorgeous neck. "Fuck me before I knock you out and do it myself!"
Sherlock huffed out a silent laugh, and John couldn't bite back a needy moan when his fingers abruptly vanished.
The sound of a condom wrapper tearing open was loud over the mingled panting of their breaths. Not their normal way to play, but at least John wouldn't have to worry about explaining to the rental company how they'd got come stains on the seats.
The muscles under Sherlock's coat bunched as he hoisted John's legs up and towards his face, and John had never been so glad to be the… less tall one of the pair of them as Sherlock folded him practically in half and pressed in close. The heat of his prick seared John's leg.
"Fucking finally," John sighed, breathless with anticipation.
Sherlock slid into him, stretching him painfully wide despite the lengthy tease.
John hissed, fighting not to tense up. The sound did nothing to deter Sherlock, who pressed in with every stone of weight he had until he was fully sheathed in John's eager, twitching flesh.
"Ngh," John managed.
"John," Sherlock moaned, the first thing he'd said since pulling the car over and ordering John into the backseat. He craned down to catch John's mouth in a sharp, biting kiss that was as much warning as affection.
John, being John, bit him right back.
"Enough," Sherlock said finally, after several long moments of trading kisses with the inescapable heat of Sherlock's cock reshaping him from the inside out. His hands landed on the seat on either side of John's head, forcing John to look straight up into his dark face.
Sherlock's eyes were intent as he drew his hips slowly, God, so slowly back, watching every flicker of pained ecstasy that crossed John's face. He paused when only the head was still inside.
"John," he said. John could see his arms trembling.
"Now," John agreed, and Sherlock's first thrust made him swear and arch his back like an offering that Sherlock was only too happy to accept.
As far as John was concerned, Sherlock could have it.
Sherlock immediately set a relentless pace, leaving John gasping and twisting on the slippery faux-leather. He'd never had a lover who knew his body the way Sherlock did; he brought John to the edge in moments and then kept him there, wringing more out of John's oversensitive body than John had known he had to give.
The car's shocks creaked and groaned in time with the slap, slap, slap of Sherlock's hips driving into John's body.
Somehow, John gathered enough of his faculties to get a hand around himself; the touch alone was almost enough to set him off, Sherlock had him on such a knife edge. He groaned, a deep, hungry thing.
"No," Sherlock said, his deep voice rumbling through John's veins.
John shivered. "Why not?"
"Together," Sherlock said, because he was utterly impossible.
"Then h-hurry up," John threw back, and promptly swore when Sherlock took him at his word. Sherlock's jackhammer pace quickened even further, punching John's breath out of him with every hard, hungry thrust; it escaped in an airy little 'uh, uh, uh' sound that only seemed to spur Sherlock on.
John's orgasm loomed, the tension rising higher and higher inside him.
"Sherlock," he whined, desperate. "O-oh God, Sherlock, hurry-"
Finally, Sherlock's rhythm stuttered, turning jerky and selfish, and John let himself fall. Sherlock followed a moment after, so close that it almost seemed to John that he couldn't tell where his pleasure stopped and Sherlock's started.
The world shattered.
Sherlock collapsed on top of him, spent. They both lay there panting for several long moments.
John couldn't get enough air. He decided to blame it on the way that Sherlock was crushing his chest. He was heavy for such a lanky git.
"Oi," John said, when he thought he could trust his voice. It was scratchy and hoarse, although that was as much from all the moaning as from his earlier strangling incident. Oh, and there was the embarrassment. Right on schedule. "Budge up."
Sherlock, of course, did no such thing. Instead, he lifted a shaky hand and pressed it soberly against John's bruised neck. He said nothing. His eyes were far more eloquent.
"I'm sorry," John said sincerely. "I'll be more careful next time."
Sherlock snorted. "Don't make promises you won't keep, John," he said. He shifted off John then, and they both hissed as his cock dragged free. "It doesn't suit you."
"That's more your territory," John agreed. He eased himself slowly upright, grimacing at the burn in his thighs. "You might need to carry me into the hotel. I'm not sure I can walk."
Predictably, that only served to make Sherlock look pleased with himself. "I'm sure I can find something suitably motivating to encourage you."
John rolled his eyes. "No leering when you've already had your wicked way with me. That ship has sailed. Now help me back into the front seat and let's get back to the hotel. I could murder a cuppa."
"Yes, John," Sherlock said, still smirking.
John let him get away with it. It had, after all, been a perfectly lovely vacation thus far.