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Twisted and Turned

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John snorted as he jerked from slumber, his right arm numb and his legs caught up in the covers in an odd and slightly painful tangle. He was confused and relatively slow as he regained lucid consciousness, and it wasn't until he tried to move his right arm that he found out why it was numb in the first place. Sherlock was lying on it.

John blinked at the back of his friend's head, frowning in bemusement, and only became annoyed when he realised that they weren't on a case, and weren't even out of the flat. Sherlock had seemingly just decided to join John in his bed without permission. Not that John would give him that permission. John reached for his plain bedside lamp and switched it on, bathing them in a soft, weak light that was thankfully soothing, rather than eye-watering. He scrubbed his eyes roughly and then glanced around at his clock, which blandly displayed 11pm on the dot.

"Sherlock. Sherlock! Wake up and get off my arm--What are you doing in my bed?" John griped.

Sherlock sniffed sharply in reply and jolted up, tensed and alert, but barely, "It was the mother in the blue hat," he mumbled in a rush, blinking in brief confusion. He turned his head dazedly, still not completely awake, and gazed at John for a long, awkward moment before he spoke again. "Good evening John."

"Is that all you're going to say to me?" John sighed, squinting up at the mussy-haired detective and scowling when Sherlock merely stared at him in reply. "What the hell are you doing in my bed, Sherlock?"

"Sleeping," Sherlock drawled in curt retort. "Or I was--"

John clenched his jaw, rubbing the feeling back into his arm and hissing through the pins and needles that followed, "Yeah, why? - You have your own bed! Why are you here?"

"You're wasting valuable minutes that could be used for sleeping. I know you cherish your...nocturnal time," Sherlock mumbled.

"…If that was a wank joke, it was in poor taste."

“My jokes are always in poor taste according to you,” Sherlock countered easily as he slumped back down to the bed with a sigh, stretching out his long legs only to curl them back up and turn aside to face John. He pillowed his face on his hands and gazed at him, having the nerve to look annoyed at being woken.

"Why are we talking about this," John grumbled, more to himself than to the detective. "Does it not occur to you that I don't want a bedmate? Especially a surprise one?"

“Yes. It occurred to me,” Sherlock replied with a loose shrug of one shoulder, nonplussed. “Many things occur to me.”

"I'm not comfortable with this. How does that sound? Does that compute? And stop with the cryptic rubbish, I'm not in the mood."

“What’s cryptic about wanting to sleep?” Sherlock asked with a quirk of one eyebrow, expression unchanging from its annoyed state as he continued to stare at John, eyes lidded drowsily. He sighed irritably after several seconds more and shifted his position with a bounce of the mattress, jostling John. “Go back to sleep, John.”

The smaller man gave his new sleeping partner a shove, too rough to be playful, but not hard enough to hurt him. "One condition. Tell me what possessed you to come sneak into my bed. Which, I'd like to add, is barely big enough for the two of us."

“I’d hardly say I ‘sneaked,’” Sherlock snorted and then removed one of his hands from beneath his head to motion with idly, flicking his wrist in a dismissive gesticulation as he continued, “Must I have a reason? What does it matter? – And though your bed is quite… minute, I prefer it most nights.”

"You what?! Wait......fine. 'Joking.' Got it. You're an awful bastard," John said, not without fondness, as he purposely wriggled and groaned and sighed in discomfort. "I'm going to snore all night and knee you in the dick," he informed him calmly, before flicking off the lamp and briefly seeing silver-blue stars dancing in front of him in the dark.

“No you won’t,” Sherlock said in a somewhat arrogant tone, sliding closer with a huff of soft amusement. “You’re a cuddler, John Watson.”

"Lucky guess. And what does that say about you? That you like it?" John wanted to plump his pillow, but didn't want to create any superfluous noise for fear of missing Sherlock's response.

“Not really a guess, considering the moment I got into the bed you gathered me up and wouldn’t let me go,” Sherlock said instead of answering the questions John had asked. “Why do you think I was lying on your arm? You put it there. More or less.”

"Well, that's understandable considering I haven't had a shag in ten months. Mostly due to you. What can I say, I'm craving intimacy," John snorted, eyes closed and feeling less sleepy, but still relaxed. "And if you insist on staying here, don't complain if you get molested."

“It’s been seven months. Not ten. You’re exaggerating. As usual,” Sherlock said with a rumbling voice, still sounding somewhat entertained by their conversation. “Interesting to know that your heterosexuality goes out the window after seven months though. Very interesting.”

"Cuddling you when I'm unconscious really doesn't count as a sexual act of any kind. No wonder you're...well...whatever you are," John said quietly. "...Sorry," he added, in case he had crossed one of the intangible lines that usually meant Sherlock clammed up and refused to speak for a few days, instead cursing and yelling vicariously through extensive abuse of his violin.

“I was referring to the ‘molesting’ you mentioned but…” Sherlock trailed off into silence for a long bout of several awkwardly tense seconds and then shifted, his warm bare feet nudging into John’s shin under the covers as he moved. He hummed, breaking the stillness between them, but he didn’t speak, and the awkwardness only increased.

"I was exaggerating. You're likely to get molested by head rubs and dribbling. Nothing more. But I can't promise anything," John said, sounding more carefree than he felt. "You chose to take this risk," he huffed gently, pulling back his leg from Sherlock as subtly as he could, feeling hot blushes tenderise his face.

“I know all about the dribbling,” Sherlock scoffed good-humouredly, and suddenly there was an explosion of hot, mint-scented breath against John’s face as Sherlock shuffled closer. “I don’t mind the risk. I like to live dangerously.”

"...You've borrowed my toothpaste. Knob," John murmured affectionately, whilst trying to remember exactly how much leeway he had to shuffle backwards without actually tumbling out of his rather humble bed. "This must be a dream, because you shun all my cheap stuff."

“That’s not entirely true,” Sherlock told him with a low, small chuckle. “Granted, I shun your cheap foodstuffs. Your cheap biscuits and chocolates and teabags. But that’s because they’re revolting. Truly disgusting. I hate them.”

"You don't ask for anything you want, do you? You just take," John said, without power or malice in his voice as he began to feel himself sinking slowly towards slumber.
“Untrue,” Sherlock replied, his feet touching John’s leg again as he shifted and yawned noisily. “I ask for things. Occasionally.”

John decided not to bother trying to avoid the taller man's physical imposition any more, and just nudged him, attempting to make him aware of where all his lanky limbs were. "It'd be funny seeing you do the Walk of Shame," he pondered aloud, before finding his words mangled by a gusty yawn.

He didn’t have to see Sherlock’s face to know he was frowning, he could literally feel the look the detective was giving him, “The walk of what?” He asked.

"It's a sex thing. It's when you wake up next to someone in the morning, usually someone you were drunk when you shagged, and skulk out before they wake up, wearing the same clothes as the night before. It's not particularly pleasant."

“Oh.” Sherlock muttered at the explanation, tilting his head on the pillow. “Had a lot of experience in that then?”

"On occasion," the doctor answered. He also adjusted his head, swearing quietly as his neck cricked, and startled when he went to massage it, his own hand bumping sharply into one of Sherlock's own. "Sorry," he offered reactively.

“Problem?” Sherlock asked even as he reached across to brush the side of John’s face, trailing the tips of his fingers along his jaw, and down his throat, digging almost instantly into the knotted, throbbing muscles with expert precision. The instant he touched John, something changed, something shifted, and it felt like the very air around them throbbed with it.

"Oh, God," John hissed, his hand reaching up to Sherlock's warm, slim wrist in an unconscious act of defence, before he halted himself. "I..." He trailed off rather feebly in the blind darkness, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by damp minty air and strong fingers.

“You’ve had this issue for about a week now. Stiff muscles in your neck and shoulder. You should really do something about it, John,” Sherlock told him and shifted closer to get a better grip, kneading down from John’s neck to his shoulder and back again.

"Look, that's...great but, I have this...I get a bit...funny...with massage," John admitted, convinced that the heat stoked by his embarrassment was warming Sherlock's invisible face like a candle flame. He vaguely pulled at the detective's hand.

“Funny?” Sherlock repeated and his nose brushed against John’s for one, small, fleeting moment. The detective continued his kneading of John’s taut muscles regardless of John’s words or their close proximity. He was oddly skilled and though some of his digging, working digits made John’s arm and shoulder twinge, it left pleasantly tingly warmth behind. “Funny how?”

"Look, you should stop. I'm really...sensitive," John confessed, wincing in the dark, and swallowing down the little noises he needed to express at the firm and knowledgeable fingers rummaging in his muscles.

Sherlock paused for a moment, though it was short-lived and barely enough time for John to get full composure, “Painful?” Sherlock asked, though the way he said it implied he already knew the answer, and he moved his fingers down John’s shoulder blade.

"Goodness sake, don't make me say it," John whispered hoarsely, before forcibly biting down on his bottom lip to try and distract himself. "I get...excited. You know...please tell me you understand what I mean."

“…Sexually? From a massage?” Sherlock sounded far too interested, amused and satirical at the concept. “Hm – Didn’t you go through physio? How on earth did you manage?” Sherlock’s fingers abruptly spread out, quite possessively, promiscuously, and then were dragged up John’s spine to his nape, before he stopped.

"Look...I'm in bed...getting a massage from..." The doctor abruptly shut his mouth with a click before trying again. "I'm sensitive anyway, and it was bad enough in the clinic, but this is really going to cause problems. The 'molesting' won't be a joke anymore."

“Really?” Sherlock asked in a low murmur, hand still at the back of John’s neck. “From a little massage?”

"...Is that why you're here? You knew, and you wanted to take the piss out of me?" John asked, his voice sounding more hurt than angered. "I should've known that you'd worked it out."

Sherlock huffed another minty breath against John’s face in exasperation, “You caught me. That was my plan all along,” He sarcastically drawled as he pulled his hand away. “Why would I do that, John? – You’re being absurd.”

"Fine. I know you wouldn't humiliate me. But you'd want to see it for yourself. You're insatiably curious. Let me just...ask you something, Sherlock. Be honest. Do you realise the effect you have on people?" John's words were barely more measurable than the minty exhales settling on his face.

Sherlock shifted on the bed, rustling the covers, though he didn’t move back or away, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied with a small, unnaturally confused snort.

John sighed, and illustrated by fumbling once more for Sherlock's surprisingly weighty hand, and pulled it to rest on his own pulse, thundering in his throat. "You do."

“…I’m unsure on what you’re trying to prove here,” Sherlock told him, keeping his hand where John had placed it, his fingertips shifting to automatically press to the fluttering patch of skin. “We’ve established that you get… affected by massages and this is the result of that. If another person did the same thing as I did, would you not have the same response?”

"No-one can do what you do," John muttered. "Never mind, Sherlock, let's just...sleep. I've told you what you need to know...if it makes you uncomfortable, you know what to do." With a weary groan, he rolled over smoothly, his back to the detective, with Sherlock's hand still resting on his vulnerable throat.

Sherlock remained unmoving and silent for a long few moments, almost long enough for sleep to begin to claw at the edges of John’s mind, and then he stroked down John’s neck, along his shoulder, and down his arm with a hot-palmed swipe, “I’m not uncomfortable,” he said in a husky whisper, his chin nudging John as he leaned over him. “Fine. I might know what you’re talking about. – I want you to say it. Sometimes you…surprise me. I don’t read minds. There’s always something I overlook…”

“If I roll back over, you’re definitely not going to overlook this,” John replied with a strangled laugh in the darkness, attempting humour and sounding as mortified as he felt.

“Mm.” Was Sherlock’s response as he leaned over him a little more, pressing into John’s back with a hush of fabric and a blossom of warmth. “You’re disconcerted by this? Why?”

"By an inappropriate hard-on? You're right. Not at all disconcerting," John mumbled with as much sarcasm as he could muster. "...It won't go away on its own, not with you hovering over me, so you'll have to let me up soon."

“Well, it can go away on its own,” Sherlock said, voice layered with light-hearted provocative tones, as one of his long arms moved and he cradled John’s bicep with gentle fingers. “You could just ignore it. Ignore me. Go to sleep. If you wanted.”

"No more massage, okay? You can just...just hold me, if you want...God," John whispered forcefully as he realised how laughable his words had sounded, clear in the otherwise noiseless gloom. "You're impossible to ignore though, you know that full well."

Sherlock’s smugness was almost palpable as it radiated from him, “Do you want me to just…hold you?” He asked lowly.

The doctor sighed in resignation. "Listen...Sherlock, I can tell you're enjoying this. And I'm going to let you, God help me. Just...please never tell anyone about this, alright?"

“Why would I tell anyone? Who would I tell?” Sherlock said with a small scoff that blew over John’s hairline just before Sherlock’s lips brushed the sensitive skin of his ear. “Your secret is safe with me, John.” John could literally hear the smirk that grew after the uttered words.

John didn't know if he or Sherlock was more surprised by his failure to reprimand him for the undeniable intimacy that Sherlock had created, and was sustaining rather gleefully.

"What are you like in bed then?" John murmured conversationally, resisting the urge to paw at the tickle of his ear.

“I never understand why people ask questions such as that. Any answer to them would be extremely subjective,” Sherlock rumbled as a reply, tone still extremely playful. He pulled back and adjusted his position behind John, talking against the back of John’s neck when he continued. “I’ve not shared the bed with many people, John.”

"And yet here you are," John replied softly, allowing himself to finally give in and get comfortable. He wriggled his hips back slightly, before freezing. "...You're not naked are you?"

“No. How can you ask me that? You saw me moments ago when you put the light on. Did I look naked to you?” Sherlock huffed between a short, quick series of chuckles. “I only sleep naked in the summer—Well, actually, I should say that I typically sleep naked in the summer. I don’t always.”

"Thanks for the heads-up. Do you really sleep in my bed with me sometimes? Without my knowledge?" John asked casually over his shoulder, affecting indifference.

“…If I said yes, would you be annoyed with me or amused?” Sherlock replied, his nose nudging at the collar of John’s t-shirt.

"You're a menace. And nose massages still count, you berk," John answered, allowing himself a small chuckle. "I don't know. I guess I'd feel pissed that you only wanted to spend time with me when I'm unconscious."

Sherlock sighed, his breath ruffling through the small, short hairs at John’s nape, “You can’t see, but I’m rolling my eyes at you,” he mumbled.

"Who knows what you do to me under the covers. Having your wicked way with me. And you won't even cuddle me in daylight. I feel so used," John teased, snuggling back into Sherlock's torso and sighing at the exuberant warmth of his body.

“I’m quite positive we established that you are the cuddler, not me,” Sherlock told him humorously as he moved the hand on John’s bicep to slip down over his chest so the whole of his arm was draped over John’s torso heavily, locking them together.

"You know, I could get used to this," John admitted quietly, grasping Sherlock's warm arm to himself and groaning faintly at the comfort of it.

Sherlock hummed, the sound throaty and deep and resonating, “Good,” he all but purred. “I’ll take that as an open invitation and happy permission to climb into bed with you more than ever.”

"I don't think you'll take it up. I reckon you'll get bored now that you've been found out. Or maybe you'll have the balls to do it while I'm awake," John needled fondly.

“It wasn’t a game, you know. It was obvious you’d find out eventually. I wasn’t exactly keeping it from you,” Sherlock said, patting and then stroking at John’s sternum through his t-shirt. “Very doubtful I’ll get bored of sleeping next to you. It’s quite pleasant. Hence the reason I’ve continued to do it.”

"So, you are here because you like being cuddled. You're just full of surprises. Assuming, of course, you're not still teasing me. I'll pretend you're not. When I've been asleep...I've never...done anything, you know...'untoward' to you, have I?" John rubbed his fingertips along the strong bumps of Sherlock's knuckles, gently plucked the soft web of skin between his fingers and thumb.

“Not that I’ve been aware of, no – You merely turn over and embrace me. Perhaps murmur a little but it’s incoherent and muffled by my hair most of the time,” Sherlock told him, blatantly enjoying the touches by the way he inched closer and pressed his forehead to John’s neck, tickling him with silky, warm ringlets.

“I think it’s time I gave you what you wanted,” John informed him quietly, before rolling over once more. Facing him in the blind darkness, he carefully scooted one arm across Sherlock’s warm hip, up his side, and around to cradle his prominent shoulder blade through the thin T-shirt. He bumped the detective’s nose tenderly with his own, and then laughed softly to himself.

Sherlock huffed with his own laugh in response and readjusted his arm over John, tickling the pads of his fingers up John’s spine, bringing an entire cascading rush of tingles with the touch while he brought one leg up, slipping it a little between John’s knees, “How very kind of you,” he murmured good-humouredly.

"What can I say. I'm a martyr for you," John shrugged as best he could whilst being delightfully weighted by a variety of masculine limbs. "Seriously, Sherlock...what are we doing here," he chuckled, nuzzling away one of the detective's errant curls that was tickling his forehead.

“I don’t answer inane questions,” Sherlock replied as he snuggled in, getting more comfortable by pushing his leg further between both of John’s, tucking it and entwining it with a whisper of fabric and a flex of his toes.

"Or questions you don't know the answer to?" John offered, before stiffening self-consciously at the firm leg that hooked decisively between his own, confused by the thrill of having something so solid wedging him open.

“Why ask what we are doing, when you know what we are doing?” Sherlock said with a low, gravelly tenor to his voice, his nose nudging into John’s again for a moment.

"You're being obtuse again," John replied, eyes closed peacefully. "We are literally cuddling in bed. This is the most intimate I've ever known you to be. I just mean..." He went quiet suddenly, and spent a few fearful seconds listening to his own hammering heartbeat in the dark. "...You can kiss me if you like. But please don't do it if you don't mean it."

Sherlock seemed to pause and almost seemed to stop breathing at John’s words, remaining still and silent for what felt like hours, before he shifted forward and soft, warm, lips edged in the faint rough scratch of stubble, brushed up to press a chaste kiss to the bridge of his nose, and then to his cheek and jaw. Sherlock didn’t speak, and when he had given John a last, lingering, peck to his throat, he pulled back and stroked his hand from John’s lower back to his shoulders.

"...Thought so," John laughed awkwardly, shifting in the embrace and trying to swallow quietly. The sound was painfully audible nonetheless.

“…What?” Sherlock asked in a soft mutter and sneakily curled his fingers around the t-shirt collar to touch the bare skin of John’s spine, following the dips and curves with his fingernails.

"I just should have known, that's all. It's fine. It's sweet. It's fine," John soothed him, shivering a little at the delicate scratch of nails upon his sleepy skin.

Sherlock’s fingers went slightly rigid in place and John could feel the displeasure swiftly searing off him in an instant, “And you speak of me being obtuse?” He scoffed.

"I thought I might get lucky, that's all. A proper kiss. But this is fine. And lovely. I know you don't go in for all that stuff."

“Oh.” Sherlock uttered, and all of a sudden his hand disappeared, slipping away from John and leaving every place John had been touched to leak warmth with a quiver. The hand, however, came back to smoothly cup John’s face, and Sherlock slid close again, his nose at John’s cheek as he touched their mouths together with a feather-light, teasing caress.

John almost sobbed with relief, laughing giddily against his bedmate's supple mouth before he arched into the kiss, one of his hands already having surged deep into Sherlock's crisp curls, kneading happily.

Sherlock reacted nearly instantaneously and let out a silent gasp against John’s lips with an almost violent shudder of pleasure, which arced his spine and made his hips tremble on an uncontrollable rut forward. He went taut afterward, his entire frame warming with an impressive flush of heat, and he moved his abruptly-unsteady hand from John’s face to his shoulder with a clumsy grapple.

John froze, more in naive surprise than discomfort, at the sensation of male hips rutting against him, solid and needy and hot. His own abated erection surged back to wakefulness, having become soft and quiescent after some minutes in the previously-platonic snuggle.

“…Sorry?” Sherlock said with a considerably, deep and throaty voice, sounding unsure on what to do as he continued to be caught up in the echoing ripples of what he had experienced.

"...Sorry?" John parroted woozily, both his hands anchoring him to Sherlock in the pitch blackness, thumbing repeatedly at the corners of his plump mouth, across his eyebrows, and into his warm hairline. "Why?"

Sherlock made an aroused, hitching noise in the back of his throat whenever John skimmed near his scalp, “I…didn’t mean to…do that...” he replied, seeming to motion with his hand, though John was unable to see what he was gesturing at or about.

"It was good. Surprised me a bit," John laughed nervously, a gust of warm air against Sherlock's mouth, which was swiftly followed up with a series of rapid pecks. "Is this alright?"

“Mm. Yes,” Sherlock whispered, drifting his shaking hand down John’s side to slip up under his t-shirt. It skimmed along his ribs and across his shoulders, and then pressed at the centre of his back, urging him closer.

John placed a hand briefly against Sherlock's T-shirt-clad chest, carefully sitting up, feeling shaky and groundless, and pulling off his own top with a crackle of body-heated static. He hurriedly lay back down, hands seeking the detective immediately. The first thing he touched was Sherlock’s tensed and juddering stomach, and the younger man jolted at the sensation, following John’s arms up to knead and rub at his neck and shoulders, manhandling John half on top of his shaking frame. Sherlock was breathing heavily but quietly, his chest expanding with each breath at an increasing rate, practically on the verge of hyperventilating. The next kiss Sherlock gave him was inelegant, and caught his chin first, and he huffed another apology, feeling out John’s face to kiss him properly.

"I'm-" John swallowed thickly and tried to form words again, his warm, damp mouth smearing Sherlock's cheekbone as he whispered harshly. "I'm going to make this the last thing I say for now - do you want to see this through? I can stop if you want. I promise."

Sherlock nodded jerkily, “I want you,” he said, though quickly corrected himself with a clearing of his throat. “This. I…want this. Yes. Please.” He was quivering, virtually overwhelmed with it all, and the quivering only subsided, only stopped, when he took a particularly deep, calming breath in through his nose, and held it for a few moments before letting it out again.

John petted his thick curls supportively, before giving fond little tugs, startling when Sherlock's exhales changed immediately in accordance.

"...Now this is interesting," John laughed, relenting and drumming his fingerprints over a high, firm cheekbone.

Squirming, Sherlock huffed, “What is?” He muttered, though it was clear that he knew exactly what it was, because he turned his head aside slowly, as if embarrassed and coy.

"Need more data," John replied simply, carding his spread fingers deep into Sherlock's luscious curls, and then pulling the digits together, trapping and gently tweaking a myriad of wild dark twists.

The detective’s entire body twitched and after a hitching inhalation, Sherlock failed to stop and muffle a vibrating moan, his hips tipping forward with a trembling of his thighs. In retaliation, long fingers flexed and clenched around John’s shoulders, moving to press flirtatiously and expertly into the muscles they found there, shooting sparks of pleasure with each touch.

"Oh God, you're a...bloody...amazing..." John mumbled deliriously, reacting by roughly twiddling Sherlock's ebony tendrils around his index finger, and then pulling hard. He nosed towards the detective's mouth, following the tingly mint-breaths that were huffing against his face, and kissed him hard, moaning encouragingly.

With a lewd, and extremely loud, groan in reply, Sherlock deepened the kiss with gripping hands, and lurched up in excitement. The movement was so strong and so sudden, that they ended up tumbling across the bed and half hanging off it. By the sounds of it, Sherlock had knocked his temple into the bedside table, yet it didn’t seem to discourage him, as he scrambled to keep them from falling out completely and dived clumsily for John’s throat, lavishing the skin with wet butterfly kisses and a slight nip of his teeth. John urged the detective's body directly on top of him, yanking impatiently at Sherlock's T-shirt whilst simultaneously trying to get him to bite harder, mostly by scratching through his hair and vaguely thumbing at his injured forehead.

Violently shaking with a series of wanton thrusts, Sherlock shifted with a low, fervent grunt, and the next push of his mouth to John’s neck was followed by a sucking bite. Abruptly possessive and eager, he bruised and marked John as they slipped dangerously on the edge of the creaking bed, and John became instantly aware of the hard, hot, twitching shape of Sherlock’s erection as it was dragged up his hip.

His head dropping back in helpless disbelief, John sighed, shallow and noisy, muttering aloud. "You're hard...God, you're so hard."

His next words were squeezed from him along with his breath as the taller man's considerable weight pressed heavily upon him, thrusting without rhythm and grunting vaguely. Sherlock moaned and then fumbled and pulled his mouth away with a gasp as they toppled over onto the floor together, landing in a heap beside the bed, colliding with the bedside table, which rocked unsteadily for a few seconds. In the dark, breathing raggedly, Sherlock shifted awkwardly, fidgeting and twisting, and it was only when he pressed back down to John, that he realised the man had just taken off his top. After taking a few more excited breaths, Sherlock huffed out a small, burst of laughter and nuzzled John’s naked shoulder as he tried to untangle them from the sheets in the space between the bed and the bedside that they’d fallen within.

"Ah...shit...hang on," John laughed, his voice sweet and breathy. "Two seconds. Up," he instructed, getting onto his knees in the dark and cursing again as he knocked into the bedside table, hearing something small roll off of it and clatter to the hardwood floor.

With a snort, Sherlock moved to sit away and to the side of John, emitting heat and the heady scent of musk, “This could have gone better,” he mumbled with an amused undertone.

"Yeah, but it could also have gone a lot worse," John noted, finding Sherlock's warm palm in the dark, slotting his fingers around it, and pulling him carefully up and back onto the bed, now bereft of sheets, a cool expanse of usable space. "Come here, lay on top of me," he asked, whilst still sounding commanding.

Sherlock crawled over him immediately, his nose and mouth pushing to rest under the hinge of John’s jaw while he got comfortable, aligning their bodies so that when he lowered down, their stomachs, hips, pelvises and finally their crotches, touched. He exhaled a shaking breath of pleasure and bracketed John with his arms and legs, stroking the fingers of his right hand up John’s arm to lustfully trace the ridges and bumps of his scar. John flinched, not being used to such (or indeed, any) attention to his scar, even in the dark. He was well aware of the raised, keloid mass, the damaged topography of his shoulder and chest, and the unpleasant texture of it. He tried to direct Sherlock down, towards his nipple, which equally sensitive, but more pleasurably so.

Sensing John’s discomfort, Sherlock obeyed John’s silent order, yet did so with his mouth rather than his fingers. The eruption of wet heat, as Sherlock ducked down to take John’s nipple into his mouth, was almost overwhelmingly powerful, but then Sherlock rolled his hips and the hot, grinding friction between them overrode everything for several blinding moments.

John coughed out a surprised, keening noise, frowning in the dark at the effort of the pleasure. “Dy – do you want to get undressed?” he asked throatily, running clawed fingers down Sherlock’s long, bare back, to bump against the waistband of his silken pyjama bottoms.

Smearing his mouth up to John’s throat, nosing gently at his Adam’s apple, Sherlock hummed. “Do you want to?” He replied, shifting his hips again and then moving his entire body in an eagerly wanton undulation, which pressed and rubbed them together from chest to pelvis.

"You feel amazing," John gasped wheezily, giving a few sharp upward bumps with his own excited hips. "We can stay like this if you like? Save the full monty for daylight," he grinned into the dark.

Sherlock leaned up with a small chuckle and there was a moment of stillness before the room was bathed in the light from his lamp again, highlighting and illuminating Sherlock’s flushed face and wet mouth. He arched his eyebrow at John questioningly and ran his eager gaze down John’s body, lifting from him to get a full view of everything. With Sherlock pulled away, John was able to see the blotchy blush of arousal that painted Sherlock’s face, neck and chest, as well as the bunching and flexing of his abdominal muscles, shaking arms, and the obvious, protruding bulge of his confined erection.

"Jesus Christ, I want to have you," John whispered harshly, blinking briefly in the sallow light, and then staring at his detective openly. "Look at you," he muttered, sitting up, running a reverent hand up Sherlock's flushed chest, shakily traversing up his throat, jaw, and once again into his rumpled dark hair.

Closing his eyes in delight, Sherlock hissed in pleasure and tilted his head into John’s grasp eagerly, rubbing his hair into and along John’s palm and fingers, “You have me,” he told John in a thick, smooth voice, trembling in heightening enthusiasm.

Laughing breathlessly, John took the opportunity of illumination and a bare bed to flip Sherlock's weight with ease, cradling his torso and skull as he bundled him onto his back, proceeding to snog him with grin-stretched lips. Sherlock moaned in reaction and arched up to keep them as connected as physically possible, even going so far as to part and bend his legs. His skin was scorching and the beat of his heart was suddenly, tremendously, very noticeable from both his throat and his chest, as it seemed to vibrate his entire heaving ribcage.

"Absolutely...stunning," John muttered, ravenously nipping and suckling at Sherlock's pert cupid's-bow, playfully avoiding the detective's searching kisses, instead pumping his crotch slowly, inexorably, between Sherlock's legs, hissing at the blood-hot friction of their groins.

With every press, Sherlock shakily returned it with a rolling, taut rutting of his own, and made a low sound of avid approval each time. He seemed both boneless and tensed with desire, and began to knead, stroke, caress and grope at John’s arms, shoulders, back and sides, seeking out every inch of his torso with friskily scratching fingertips. John had never seen Sherlock look so wild, so zealous, desperate and lost to sensation before, and he only seemed to get more overwhelmed and ravenous for more.

"Mm...why don't you...take over," John grinned clownishly, bright-eyed and red-faced as he rolled them once more, spreading his own legs, hauling the taller man down upon him roughly, and chuckling at the dizzy expression it garnered from Sherlock.

“…Give me… a moment,” Sherlock mumbled between his quivering breaths, dropping his face to the crook of John’s neck and regaining control, trying to compose himself.

"Here we are. Finally," John whispered, smooching into Sherlock's scalp, playfully nibbling at his hair and pulling it with his teeth, still giggling deeply. "I would let you fuck me, you know."

Sherlock froze and made a garbled sort of hitching groan, unable to fully control his hips as they bucked against John, hard and willing, “Don’t say that,” he said with a husky laugh, turning to draw his nose up John’s cheek to breathe against his jawline.

"...No?" John replied, fiendishly digging his fingers into Sherlock's thoroughly-dishevelled hair and scrunching lovingly. "Sounds good to me. Having you inside me."

Squirming with another snap of his hips, one that seemed to move the bed into the wall, Sherlock gasped, virtually feverish with want. “Yes,” he uttered, overcome with the promise.

Quite enamoured with the unfocussed glaze in Sherlock's aqua eyes, John bit his bottom lip in glorious awareness of the detective's perfect predicament. He wrapped his legs tightly, bruisingly, around Sherlock's waist and rolled his head back, sighing greedily. "Finish inside me."

“Oh God…” Sherlock breathed with another flush of blotchy pink up his face and down his throat, his thigh muscles beginning to quiver uncontrollably. “You’re the devil…just…give me…a moment…” He clenched his eyes shut, grimacing and swallowing thickly in embarrassment, and stroked one incredibly unsteady hand up and over John’s bicep and shoulder.

John relented somewhat, taking Sherlock's face in both hands, cupping his hard, red-stained cheekbones, hypnotised by his plump lips and inebriated pale eyes. "Beautiful."

Suddenly coy, Sherlock glanced aside with a timid smile and basked in his touch, “Charmer,” he murmured in reply with a small snort and a happy squint that wrinkled his nose attractively.

Thrilled at the sight of the honest crinkles that creased Sherlock's face when he smiled genuinely, John stroked his hair, before slipping one hand down between them, fondling them both gently through their bottoms whilst maintaining intense eye contact.

The crotch of Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms was saturated with his clear enjoyment, clinging to the rigid length of his penis and leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. Sherlock exhaled and shivered in delight, shifting to grind down against both John’s hand and his crotch in eagerness. By the look and feel of him, John was sure he was already on the edge of orgasm, and the increasing tremors in his thighs and hips only verified his presumption. Sherlock leaned down for a soft, lingering, teasing sort of kiss, keeping the contact light and provocative, and gave in to his need to rut against John for several, erratic, lustful moments, before he forced himself to stop and pulled back, pushing up onto his knees above John.

John panted with vicarious denial, shivering faintly and reaching up for Sherlock's shoulders, rubbing them comfortingly. "I'm close too," he confessed. Nibbling his lip helplessly at the sight of the detective's needy crotch, wet with pleasure, he pressed a few fingers to the slimy fabric tentatively, before sucking curiously on them.

The flavour was both tangy and musky, and with Sherlock being over him, and so close, the scent of him was thick and glorious in the air. Sherlock watched him with dark eyes, his pupils hugely dilated, and then he took his wavering hands to the hem of his pyjamas and began to pull the waistband down, exposing his flushed pelvis and the squashed sight of his penis, inch by teasing inch. Once it was freed completely, it slapped the flat plane of Sherlock’s lower stomach wetly, kissing the skin beneath his navel and leaving a smear of pre-ejaculate. Blinking, and seeming abruptly shy, Sherlock cupped it with his right hand and left his pyjamas crumpled round his thighs, awkwardly kneeling between John’s legs.

John clasped Sherlock's chin in his fingers, marking him with his own bittersweet scent, and proceeded to use his other hand to shuck down his own waistband, whispering all the while. "It's okay. Look. It's fine. you want to finish together?" At his husky query, his own sticky penis bobbed free, pulsing with every frantic heartbeat.

“Yes,” Sherlock told him honestly, glancing down at John and then releasing himself. Sherlock’s penis was thick and rosy-tipped, and was curved elegantly, and he angled his hips down, pressing back to John eagerly, instantly wetting the skin of John’s stomach as he tried to align them.

"Can I try something," John murmured, beckoning the brunette to lay beside him, which he did with a relieved grunt. "Turn away from me."

Sherlock frowned but did as John said, rolling onto his side, “All right…” he murmured, displaying his back and bare, plump, backside gradually. After a moment he pushed on his pyjama trousers and kicked them off completely, letting them drop to the floor without a care.

"Okay, here we go...let me know if...if you don't like this," John cooed, scooting up very close behind him, allowing himself a firm grope of one of Sherlock's luscious buttocks, before easing up his own hard-on, slotting it up into the crease of the taller man's backside, and frotting gently. With an automatic clench in response, Sherlock shifted his hips, angling them back a bit, and glanced over his shoulder at John with a quirking smile. He didn’t speak, but it was obvious that he enjoyed what John had offered by the way his thighs quaked softly.

"I think we should come together," John suggested, chuckling dryly. He began kissing the back of Sherlock's neck repeatedly, sliding his hand over one goose-pimpled, pale hip to take the detective in hand, moaning blissfully at the warm liquid that eased from the shaft in response to his touch.

Gasping in ecstasy, Sherlock turned his head, noticeably desperate for a kiss, though unwilling to ask for it, “We should…but we might not,” he whispered, sounding breathless and bewildered as he pushed up into John’s hand, and then back against his erection.

"Quiet, you," the doctor mumbled fondly. "I can at least try." Starting to hump against Sherlock in short, sharp, but very determined movements, he also teased the younger man's cock, thumbing around his slippery, retracted foreskin, tapping gently across his weeping slit.

Gripping at the edge of the mattress, Sherlock moaned and tried to match the rhythm set by John, his movements jerky and erratic, and the twitching of his thighs only increasing somewhat violently. Sherlock seemed excessively sensitive to everything, his body like a strained string being wound tight and tighter, seconds away from snapping and fraying at the edges. Moaning again, Sherlock reached back with one of his hands to grip John’s naked side, digging his fingers in wildly as he encouraged John to go harder and faster.

"Patience," John growled into Sherlock’s occiput, nosing into his crisp curls. He deliberately slowed his own hips even as he held the detective's blood-hot, wet shaft tighter, and started a furious, blinding rhythm with his fist.

Stiffening in reaction, Sherlock wheezed and then squirmed enthusiastically, screwing his eyes shut with a grunt and a hitching gasp. By the way the veins in his throat bulged, it was obvious he was holding back on noises, either unwilling or too embarrassed to fully let them out, and so John deftly twisted his wrist, changing the pattern but keeping the rhythm. Sherlock flailed seconds later, clawing down John’s hip as he let out a distorted, and broken, hoarse cry of pleasure, his brow furrowing with his sudden grimace of delight, and he uttered something through his teeth, something that had a foreign inflection.

"Come on sweetheart, I want you to come," John demanded, biting at the back of Sherlock's neck like a rutting lion, speeding up as forcefully as he could, wet fingers a blur and forearm aching with effort.

It was unclear whether it was the bite, John’s words, his hand, or all three, but Sherlock choked on a whimpering groan and became suddenly, exceedingly vocal, cursing and whining as his pleasure built intensely, “Yes! Yes…fuh-fuck! Mm…mm, oui!” He trailed off into a garbling bundle of curses, pushing into John’s moving hand as his penis got harder with his oncoming orgasm. “Oui…plus forte! Plus vite! C’est bon! Oui! – Merde…oui!”

"God, yes, yes!" John exclaimed victoriously, gasping with thrilled laughter as he worked Sherlock over the edge skilfully. The doctor eased out shocked, delighted groans as he felt the tell-tale throb and clench of Sherlock’s overworked muscles, and smelt and tasted his bitter ejaculate in the air.

Sherlock grunted through each strong spurt with his mouth open and his eyes closed, his thighs, stomach and hips overtaken with hard convulsions as he painted some of his chest and stomach, and then the mattress, soaking the fabric. Once the last of his orgasm had rippled through him, Sherlock slumped and panted, twitching and juddering in aftershock, still thrumming with pleasure.

"Oh, yes, yes," John keened, barely allowing Sherlock a second to recover as he snuggled in close, spreading the detective's weak and trembling arms and settling in for a fierce kiss.

Limp and lethargic, Sherlock returned the kiss slowly at first, but then seemed to regain more vigour and interest seconds later to open his mouth for more and reach for John, pulling him close, “You now,” he husked, reaching down to timidly brush his knuckles against John’s crotch.

"Could you...uh...put your fingers just..." John went quiet, flushed through embarrassment as well as exertion, and took Sherlock's languid hand, guiding it down and encouraging him to grip his backside as he began rapidly stroking himself with delicious liquid noises. He prodded the wet tip of his cock hopefully against the smooth, sticky skin of the detective's belly.

Sherlock palmed and grasped John’s buttock, inclining his head in permission and shuffling onto his back to bring John over him, arching for more kisses as he kneaded and tugged John in against him, “You can rub against me, if you like,” he murmured against John’s mouth.

"Yeah...God feel...incredible," John rambled, starting to slide his engorged shaft across Sherlock's slippery abdomen, dragging across the soft dent of his navel with tiny grunts of pleasure. "Can you put them between," he asked, avoiding eye contact by gnawing tenderly at the detective's clavicle.

Humming throatily in agreement, Sherlock slipped his long, quivering fingers down the crease of John’s buttocks, stroking down further and then tickling the clenched, rumpled ring of skin he found there with an arrogant tone to his voice once he spoke, “Like that?”

"'s...very good," John managed, before whining in panic, finding himself suddenly on the brink of a monumental climax. "Sherlock...I'm gonna come...ah, fuck," he whispered, trying to force himself over the edge, panting exhaustedly.

“Yes…yes, come on me, John,” Sherlock purred, kissing across the features of his face affectionately and then moving down his throat to leave another, sucking mark on his skin. Gripping John’s right buttock with one hand, Sherlock spread him teasingly and used his other hand to caress and circle the warm, scrunched up, fluttering skin with his fingertip, pressing against it twice with provocative, avid pushes.

“Fuck, fuck put it in,” John heaved, every exhale a ragged, noisy gasp, his face twisted in beautiful pain. A couple of full-body shudders tormented him, as the doctor attempted to stave off his imminent climax for a few precious seconds by roughly pulling at his own balls, groaning.

Sherlock huffed in both arousal and eagerness, and took his hand away for a moment, looking up at John as he slicked his index and middle finger with his tongue, his eyes pitch black pools surrounded by a hint of glinting bluish green and grey. When his hand returned, Sherlock kissed at John’s cheek with an enticing drag of his teeth and rocked his fingers against the intimate swirl of skin again, increasing the pressure until his middle finger eased through with a moist squeeze.

That was more than enough. With a high-pitched, anguished growl, John bucked hard, squeezing crushingly-tight around Sherlock's finger as he came, squirting the taller man's already-wet stomach with pearls of hot ejaculate. With a gruff, pleased-sounding grunt deep in his chest, Sherlock moved his mouth to John’s and breathed against him, as if sharing in the moment with John, before he kissed him affectionately, stroking him through his orgasm with a flex of his trapped finger and a swipe of his other hand, drawing it up John’s back.

"Oh...God..." John swallowed through a dry, raw throat, laughing as he swatted Sherlock's hand away from between his buttocks. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have...I just..." He shook his head, mortified, but still grinning.

“Shut up,” Sherlock rumbled with a curled smile, pushing his mouth to John’s chin and then helping him to slump onto his side, peering through his mussed curly fringe.

"That felt really good, though, you should try it sometime," John joked, sighing gustily and closing his eyes. He fumbled for the lamp switch again, and after a few slips of his damp fingers, managed to turn it off and coddle them in cool darkness.

Sherlock’s palm hushed up and over his face in the seconds that followed, “Perhaps I will,” he said, breath against John again as he shuffled and adjusted his position.
John stretched as best he could with Sherlock bundled up against him, joints popping, before shucking off his bedraggled pyjama bottoms, wiping himself off and then passing them to Sherlock.

“Thank you,” Sherlock mumbled and took some time ruffling the fabric against his body with a soft rustling. Once he was done, John heard him throw the trousers to the ground and then he turned, gathering John up against him with a satisfied exhale through his nose, fitting and slotting himself against John with winding arms and legs. He was still trembling and scorching hot, like a shaking human-shaped water bottle, and John smoothed one hand across Sherlock's forehead, displacing his damp curls, and blew cool, gentle breaths over the burning skin.

Sherlock kissed him in return, tucking his face against between John’s neck and shoulder, and gripped him close, drowsily caressing the skin under his fingers after a minute as he slipped into slumber. He tickled the skin of John’s collarbone with a light peck of lips and then was a slumping, pleasant weight against him.

John turned to cuddle him tight, fondly rubbing his toes against the sleeping detective's calves. "Goodnight Sherlock."