John feels as though his brain is split in two; he’s still capable of normal conversations and function but the largest portion of his mind is consumed with Sherlock, his tattoos and his pleasure. His fingers twitch with the lack of contact, fantasies spinning themselves out, merging with the memory of Sherlock spread out for him, letting John see everything. The music is healing nicely. Sherlock is methodical with the application of his lotions and doesn’t complain, for once, although it must be affecting his mobility.
Sherlock crosses the sitting room in front of John, long lines of glowing pale skin. John had hoped that extensive exposure would breed familiarity and that familiarity would lead to serenity. Instead John’s obsession has grown, a constant supply of fuel giving his desire a level of intensity he has never experienced before. His fingers are caught in Sherlock’s hair before he registers the movement of his hand, the movement of his feet that brought him up behind Sherlock where he stands by the table. He pulls; the distance between them is too small to cross, but Sherlock flows onto the floor at John’s feet.
Sherlock is fumbling at John’s fly, fingers still clumsy from the tattoo. John swallows, watches as the tips of his fingers dig into Sherlock’s hair. He wants to take, feels an irrational pang of jealousy, that Sherlock would let him. Knowing that he could use Sherlock, that Sherlock would let him, and that he almost has without thinking about it. Sherlock would give everything to John, and ask for nothing in return. He would go away after and touch himself, use his toys and his hand to give himself pleasure. John tries to wrap his brain around the fact that he might be jealous of an absurdly pink sex toy.
“No.” It is cool and dark and accompanied by a sharp jerk on Sherlock’s hair.
The look in Sherlock’s eyes puts a crack in John’s heart. “Please, John. I want to... Please.” He doesn’t pull back against John’s fingers, doesn’t try to free himself, but doesn’t meet John’s eyes either.
John thinks about killing Sebastian Wilkes, in a brief clear flash, for his part in whatever had convinced Sherlock that he wasn’t worthy of reciprocation.
“Bring me the toy.” He twists his fingers to bring Sherlock’s gaze to his. He knows that he shouldn’t take this out on Sherlock, that his desires are his own and the way that Sherlock responds are his. If he can’t control himself they are both lost, Sherlock won’t ask. John will fight against this, will prove to himself that he is worthy of what Sherlock gives. He lets his fingers fall from Sherlock’s hair, trailing his fingers over his jaw to maintain the eye contact.
Sherlock stands, leaves the room in the least sexual way possible. His movements are utilitarian, and John begins to panic. He’s miscalculated, sending Sherlock away, broken some covenant he’s never heard spoken aloud. “John.” Sherlock returns, hands awkwardly holding lube and the toy.
John swallows, inhales through his nose. “Show me.”
“I don’t... where?”
John considers, “The couch... Would you have let me at the shop?”
Sherlock’s cock twitches against his stomach, his nipples tighten. “Yes. She wasn’t looking... I could have been quiet.”
“Sit on the couch, and show me.”
“You wanted my mouth. I don’t know...”
“I want your mouth, I want everything. I want you to show me.” He’s already hard, a pavlovian response to bright pink; he wants Sherlock, wants to fuck him, to push up into his mouth and feel his tongue and teeth slide over him. “I want you to show me what you want.”
“John... I don’t know... John please.” He’s trapped, and John knows he is going about this all wrong.
“I’m sorry... You don’t... you don’t do this, I just need to know that you are getting something out of it.” John flinches, this is dangerous, more so than anything else they have done. If he is reading this wrong Sherlock could call a halt to everything. He bites his lip and looks away, preparing for the worst.
“John.” Pained, exasperated but not angry, not pulling away. “John, you are an idiot.”
John smiles but doesn’t open his eyes. “You have to explain it to me then.”
A sigh, dredging air from the base of his lungs, John rocks on the balls of his feet from the force of it. “You are not this tedious John, stop pretending you are... dull.” It sounds like a curse, falls from Sherlock’s lips with half a groan. John licks his lips and turns back towards Sherlock, eyes still closed. “God... John, I wanted you to see me.... even before this. I’ve never wanted... but then you touched me.” Sherlock’s breath hitches and John’s eyes open, taking in the sprawl of Sherlock on the couch, contorted with one foot up on the coffee table, fingers tracing lazy circles around his arse with one hand, long slow pulls on his cock with the other.
“Jesus.” John shifts his feet, forcing himself steady. “I’m sorry, there... I should have done this differently.”
Sherlock’s hands still, his head drops back against the sofa and his eyes close. “John... don’t be sentimental. It doesn’t suit you.” Sherlock opens his eyes and pins John with his gaze, he’s trying for aloof and cold, but there is something desperate in the look.
John chokes on the words in his throat; Sherlock knows, he’s asking John to accept what they both know. He should be angry, should defend himself. Instead he feels a rush of relief, they can both have this. They can do this and nothing more, Sherlock doesn’t need John to change, doesn’t want anything other than what John is already giving.
“John... it is fine... John. If you wanted to... with Mary.” His hands are moving again and John has trouble focusing on the words.
Sherlock’s finger slips inside his arse and his head rocks back. “As long as it doesn’t interfere with the work, or the tattoo. I understand...” His second finger slides in and his eyes droop closed. “I’d rather you get it out of your system... I’ve seen what can happen... resentment.” The last syllable is clipped, bitten off as Sherlock’s fingers move deeper and his hips rock up.
“Hang on... did you just give me permission to sleep with Mary as long as I keep up with cases and the tattoo?”
“If you like...” His thumb rolls over the head of his cock, and John’s cock twitches hard in his pants. “She seems like she wouldn’t raise a fuss about you fucking me as well. It makes no difference to me, her... someone else, a marching band... as you like.”
“You can’t just give me permission to cheat on you Sherlock.”
“I can. I just did. You don’t even have to tell me about it, I’ll know just looking at you.” His strokes on his cock speed, twisting around the head. “I’d know what they did to you, but you come back to me.” His fingers curl and he groans, pulling a matching sound from John’s throat.
“God, Sherlock... that’s insane.” John is closer, the coffee table is between them, but he’s closed the rest of the distance. He shoves aside the papers and books and climbs over the table, sketches fluttering to the floor. His fly is open, pants and trousers shoved out of the way before he settles between Sherlock’s legs. He runs his hands over Sherlock’s thighs, tracing over pale skin.
Sherlock shifts under him, pressing closer and wrapping long legs around John. His knuckles brush against John’s cock as his fingers move inside him. “God help me, I want you, please let me.”
Sherlock’s fingers don’t move immediately, he shifts closer again, running the backs of his knuckles over the underside of John’s cock. The contact pitches John forward, hips rocking until Sherlock wraps his fingers around both their cocks and pulls them together. John is distracted, watching the play of Sherlock’s fingers, doesn’t feel Sherlock moving until the lube comes into view. Sherlock coats them both, until they slide against each other and John thinks that the low growl might be coming from either of them.
He pulls back and away, sliding out of Sherlock’s grip. Sherlock cups his balls and holds himself still as John slides his cock down. Sherlock catches himself, snapping his eyes open to meet John’s gaze as he pushes in. John’s hands pull at Sherlock’s hips, Sherlock arches his back pushes his chest towards John. John lets his hands travel over the curve of Sherlock’s spine and gathers him close. Sherlock’s head rolls to the side, boneless and exposing the long line of his neck. John groans and snaps his hips deeper, giving in to his urge to take. Sherlock is dense and heavy in John’s arms, real and solid but John has no problems gathering him up, wrangling limbs until Sherlock’s knees are hooked over John’s shoulders. The couch is creaking under the force of John’s thrusts, Sherlock’s hand is moving in time with John.
John bends and flicks his tongue over Sherlock’s nipple, it is small and hard and decidedly unfeminine. John doesn’t have time to be concerned with the difference, because Sherlock’s reaction is gorgeous, his hips rolling back against John’s thrusts.
“Yeah, c’mon then.” John growls against Sherlock’s skin, pulling the nipple between his teeth and flicking his tongue against it. He pumps his hips deep into Sherlock, long sweet draws of flesh against flesh that brings his balls in tight and sends tendrils of pleasure chasing along his veins. Every muscle in Sherlock’s body pulls tight, the hand on his cock loses rhythm and he shudders and jerks in John’s arms as he comes, groaning John’s name.
John leans up, catches the last of Sherlock’s moans on his lips, breathing in Sherlock’s pleasure. Their lips brush, not a proper kiss, just the touch of skin against skin.
“Don’t stop John... please...” Sinful, breathless and desperate.
John inhales the words, pulling them deep into his lungs and breaking them down. Fucks Sherlock deep and hard, letting the fading pulses of Sherlock’s orgasm bring him over the edge. His fingers dig into Sherlock’s shoulders, pulling him close and tight. “Sher... fuck... Sherlock!”
Too soon they are wincing. The warmth of afterglow giving way to pained knees and strained muscles. John rolls his shoulder as he unhooks Sherlock’s knees, gently settling his feet on the floor. They both hiss as John pulls out, groan as he uses the corner of the sheet to clean them both up.
“Shower?” John offers as he tucks himself back into his pants. Forcing himself to look at Sherlock’s face, to concentrate on the aftercare he thinks Sherlock will accept. To not give in to his desire to taste the sweat and come on Sherlock’s skin.
Sherlock stretches, satiated as a cat that has been in the cream. “Hmmm, yes... Join me?”
“You do know shower sex is practically impossible, especially considering...” John gestures between them, the evidence fairly conclusive even to his layman’s eyes.
“Oh ye of little faith... come along John.” Playful, flirtatious.
John laughs and levers himself up, extending his hand to pull Sherlock to him. “Alright, madman. Show me what you can do.”