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Almost. Very close... just a little bit more.
Sherlock stared hard at John's hand, Sherlock’s own hand resting next to his leg. John's hand was just there, in the space between them as they sat in the back of a quiet taxi. There was soft jazz music filtering through the enclosed space, but Sherlock was so concentrated on the scant inch and a quarter between their hands that he didn't hear a thing.
John was looking absent-mindedly out the window of the cab. He wasn't paying attention to his hand at all. Sherlock's gaze fixed on John's pinky, willing it to move just a tiny bit left with all his cerebral powers. John's pinky moved half an inch and Sherlock’s breath caught.
Sherlock didn't dare to move.
Three quarters of an inch, and Sherlock was frozen. He wasn't even breathing, and only the increasing thrum of his heart rising like a drum in his ears reminded him he was alive. That, and John, who was almost touching him.
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock snatched his hand up to his chest and his head whipped up. He heaved in a deep breath and tried to make it look like he hadn't almost passed out because John hadn't touched him.
"You alright, Sherlock?" John asked in concern. "You're looking a bit peaky. You haven't moved the entire way here."
He was slipping.
"Fine, John," Sherlock said, voice flat, like he was in his Mind Palace, when in reality he had been anywhere but.
Unless memorizing the pattern of John's fingerprints counted.
Sometimes, when John was at work, Sherlock would dust the flat for prints. Obviously, they were mostly his and John's, although sometimes Lestrade's and Mycroft's would pop up occasionally. But Sherlock was only there for John's. He knew what every single one of John's fingerprints looked like by this point. Sometimes, he would read John's day in where fingerprints were placed.
If only Sherlock could find John's fingerprints on his skin.
Sherlock blinked rapidly at this thought. There would be a thumbprint on the back of this hand, from the very first day when John shook his hand and smiled. When he thought about it and catalogued it in his head, there were very few times when John had actually touched his skin.
And... and the last time John had touched him, right before Sherlock had jumped off the roof of St. Bart's, John had grabbed his wrist and pressed his fingers to his pulsepoint.
The memory of that last touch had kept him alive for those years in between.
Stay alive, those fingers had said. I want you to be alive.
"Sherlock?" John asked again.
Sherlock blinked again and came back to the backseat of the taxi, with a saxophone playing in the background, the back and forth slide of the wiper blades, the scent of cigarettes, leather, and John's laundry detergent.
"We're here," John said, looking at him.
They were, and it was a quarter to midnight and pouring down buckets. There was a river of dirty water running down the street and into the grate at the corner.
"We'd better run for it," John said, pulling his jacket up over his head.
"Yes, we'd better had," Sherlock said, not bothering to protect his head.
They ran, and John scrabbled with his keys, and Sherlock watched as John's fingers slid over them and then twisted the knob. The two of them dashed in and slammed the door on the storm, bringing in bits of it along behind them.
"I feel like a cuppa," John said, shaking his jacket out as he climbed the stairs to 221B. "How about you?"
Sherlock didn't answer, knowing very well John would make him one as well.
He waited impatiently for John to make the tea. Here was another chance. It could happen. Sometimes it did, if Sherlock was very lucky and John wasn't paying attention.
John reached out to hand Sherlock his mug, and Sherlock reached to take it.
Perfect positioning.
Sherlock concentrated hard and waited as John placed the mug in his hands, and his fingertips found Sherlock’s for a brief instant. Sherlock sighed. Victory.
John looked at him, and then smiled suddenly.
"You look like a drowned rat," John said, and then reached out and ruffled Sherlock’s damp hair.
Sherlock immediately went offline.
John's fingers in his hair. He shivered hard, suddenly as a tingle ran down his spine, and he closed his eyes to savour it. It was so... so... intimate. Sherlock leaned into it slightly, and John stroked his hair again, gently.
"There's a lad," John said cheerfully. "Let me dry your hair off? You'll catch cold otherwise."
Why was it that when John touched him, Sherlock always froze? It was like being a wild animal in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle.
Not that it mattered, because John was already bustling off into the bathroom for a towel. He returned, and carefully began towelling his hair off. Not how Sherlock would have done it, mind you, but Sherlock didn't care about his hair. What really mattered was that as it dried, John carded his fingers through his hair and finger-combed it, very gently getting any tangles out. It made his hair all feathery and fluffy, but that was alright.
Some sacrifices were necessary when it came to receiving John's touch.
This was perfect.
"There we go, all set," John said. "Don't forget to drink your tea."
Then John settled into his armchair with his newspaper. The fire was on in the grate, and Sherlock had no idea when John had started it. Sometimes he forgot that John did this type of thing, and it all seemed a bit magical, like that story with the elves and the shoes.
Sherlock really did go into his mind palace now, just to relive the experience and make sure it was stored somewhere extra special – and extra secret.
He tried not to think of it when Mycroft was around in case it showed on his face.
Nowadays, sometimes it did. In the past, it hadn't mattered as much, and keeping the reaction from his face wasn't difficult. He would just blank his face and pretend it didn't matter.
Strangely enough, it hadn't even been John that had started Sherlock off on this quest for John to touch him more. It had been Lestrade.
Before, all he'd had was the imprint of John's fingers on his wrist.
Molly had backed away, and Mrs. Hudson had screamed. Even John had left his new imprint on Sherlock in the form of his hands around Sherlock’s neck.
Lestrade had hugged him.
It had never occurred to Sherlock before that moment to want that. It had surprised him. If he'd known what had been coming, he'd have probably tried to avoid it, and if he had, he wouldn't have the knowledge he has now.
How to describe a hug?
Lestrade had engulfed Sherlock, which was startling enough. The strange sensation of being bracketed by someone's arms and pulled against a warm body was foreign to Sherlock, but it had been satisfying. With the initial hurdle of allowing another person to touch him over with, the hug had been nice. Lestrade had smelled faintly of cigarettes and cedar, and it had a calming effect on him.
Lestrade had held onto him for a good thirty seconds before letting go, and Sherlock hadn't protested or put up a struggle.
For a moment, Sherlock had felt warm, content and had a strange sense of serenity and security. And as Lestrade drew back, it came to Sherlock in a flash – this is what he wanted from John.
What would John smell like, if Sherlock buried his nose in the warm place behind his ear, right at the hairline? How would John hold him? It was a mystery, and ever since the thought occurred to him, it had become Sherlock’s number one obsession.
The problem was, the obvious solution was something Sherlock couldn't bring himself to do.
Sherlock never reached out, as much as he'd like to. He never stretched out a hand to touch, nor did he voice his desire aloud. He didn't know how to do this type of thing, and the fear of messing it up irreparably stayed his hand every time.
Passively waiting for John to touch him was getting just a bit frustrating, but the fear kept him in place. John had barely started talking to Sherlock again, never mind putting up with Sherlock’s strange requests. In fact, John hardly complimented Sherlock anymore either, which had only had the affect of making Sherlock crave that as well.
And then, Sherlock had started to do something ridiculous, and it was completely out of his willpower to control.
Whenever John touched him, he reacted.
He hadn't used to do that, had he? No, he was certain if he had such a strange reaction in the past, he would have documented it in his mind palace. This was a new development, among many, that had Sherlock confused and not a little dazed.
Maybe it wasn't accurate to say that he reacted.
Before, he'd always somehow managed to act as if John's touch had absolutely no affect on him. He'd carried on doing his experiment when John reached into his pocket for his phone or he'd continue talking to Lestrade at the crime scene when John stood so close to him. It's how he'd witnessed normal people acting when around someone they considered a friend.
Nowadays, Sherlock would just stop.
Everything would turn off, except whatever part of him was actively processing the touch... feeling it, letting the emotional response wash over him. He really hoped that John thought he was just distracted or going into his mind palace.
It was a mystery, and Sherlock was no closer to solving it.
The real question was this: what had changed?
What had changed between then and now that made John's touch so absolutely important to him? Sherlock had all the pieces of the puzzle, knew each one intimately, had examined each memory over and over to try and put it all together. It wouldn't go.
That's it. There was nothing else for it – he had to do an experiment.
Sherlock generally enjoyed doing experiments, but this one was making him anxious. If completed properly, he might finally be able to figure out what was wrong with him and fix it.
Sherlock frowned. There was something wrong with that thought. Did he want it to be fixed? This sort of humming feeling filling him up, it wasn't bad per se. Just confusing. If Sherlock figured it out, he could then decide whether or not he needed it deleted.
That being said, Sherlock needed to start right away.
He started with his brother, who, of course, knew exactly what he was doing immediately.
Sherlock poked him in the stomach. Frowning, he did it again, and Mycroft sighed.
"This is why you called me to Baker Street, Sherlock? A bit juvenile, don't you think?" Mycroft asked, enduring the poking.
"Experiment," Sherlock said tersely.
"I know that, I just don't see why you need an experiment," Mycroft said. "You have all the relevant data right in front of you, you know."
"I don't think I do," Sherlock answered.
"Really, Sherlock, all you have to do is grow up."
Mycroft left soon after that, rubbing at the spot Sherlock had repeatedly poked. Sherlock considered this for a while. He'd had absolutely no desire to touch Mycroft at all, was in fact repulsed by the idea. Causing him irritation was the only possible reason that Sherlock would bother to touch his brother.
Next.
Molly.
Molly squeaked the first time that Sherlock poked her side, and then blushed furiously. She glared when Sherlock moved to do it again. Finally, Sherlock gave up and put his hands on her shoulders. She looked at him with a mix of suspicion and confusion, which was exactly how Sherlock felt, so he really had to agree with her.
"Can I hug you?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head to the side, trying to calculate the best way to go about this.
"Why?" Molly asked. "I thought you didn't like it."
"I need data," Sherlock said, flexing his hands.
"Fine, I suppose," Molly said.
She seemed to know how one went about hugging someone much better than Sherlock. She was a lot smaller than Lestrade, and the top of her head fit under his chin. She was a lot softer and squishier than Lestrade, and she smelled like lemons.
"You're not very good at this," Molly pointed out, stepping away.
"Sorry," Sherlock apologized, getting a bit flustered. What if he tried to hug John and it turned out terribly?
"It's fine," Molly said, pulling on her ponytail. "Is that all?"
"Just wanted to see something," Sherlock said absently.
"Is this about John?" Molly asked, and Sherlock looked at her.
"Yes," he said slowly. "How did you know?"
"It's a bit obvious," Molly said with a small smile.
Sherlock blinked and looked at his shoes. He had no idea what she meant by that, but she's seemed to pluck this information from thin air. Was this how everyone else felt when he made his deductions?
Still, it hadn't been bad. A bit pleasant, not offensive. Quite a lot like the feeling of hugging Lestrade, at least on an emotional level. Not quite what he'd been after though.
He stopped by the Yard, and he looked at Donovan on his way over to Lestrade's office. He didn't want to touch her either. It was more of passive feeling than being actively repulsed. He just had no desire to touch her at all, and he was certain the feeling was mutual. Anyway, she might throw him up against a wall if he tried.
Sherlock felt the air suddenly leave his lungs, and a ball of heat hit him in his abdomen like a punch in the gut. In his mind, somehow, that thought and John had become linked and had produced a rather visceral reaction. Was that to suggest that he wouldn't mind if it were John who was throwing him against a wall?
The warmth throbbed, low in his gut.
Sherlock clenched his hands and tried to breathe slowly and deeply. He had an achy feeling between his legs, and a glance down confirmed his fears: he had an erection. In the middle of New Scotland Yard.
Right. Time to abandon ship. He already knew that he found getting hugged by Lestrade pleasant, no need to repeat the experiment. Anyway, he needed to mull over this new and alarming data before he proceeded.
He felt weird and squirmy trying to walk out of the Yard at an awkward, waddling pace. He hugged his coat around himself, feeling like everyone could tell what was going on. A glance in the metal surface of the elevator doors revealed he was rather flushed. Not good.
Sitting down in a cab was nearly as embarrassing, as his erection was far too obvious when he sat down. Sherlock crossed his legs uncomfortably and tried to remain calm.
His mind was a whirlwind all the way back to Baker Street: far too chaotic to accomplish anything.
Thank God John wasn't in the flat when he got back. Sherlock flung himself on the couch and stared, engaging in a battle of wills with his own body. He had to make it go away before John got back or Mrs. Hudson decided to pop round with tea and biscuits.
Oh, that thought had a quelling effect on his bloody libido.
It was also another data point. When he thought about it, Sherlock realized that he hugged Mrs. Hudson all the time without really thinking about it. He just did it. He would wrap one arm around her and squeeze her, sometimes kiss her cheek like he sometimes did with Mummy. She was in their flat often enough that he could tell when she'd been in, when the scent of her vanilla and lavender perfume hung in the air.
There. Sherlock exhaled in relief.
He still had a vaguely prickly feeling in his gut, but it was nowhere near what it had been like before. But Sherlock held out no hope that it wouldn't happen again now that it had happened once. Was this another facet of his need to touch John? That unfamiliar burning feeling that had the power to overwhelm his brain was not something he had much experience with.
When John came back home, Sherlock was on John's laptop, Google searching ways to disperse one's desire sufficiently to will away an erection. He had an entire mental list already. Normally, he would test it out to see if it worked, but that didn't seem feasible.
Just seeing John go through his post-work routine had that squirmy feeling back in his stomach. Sherlock checked for an erection, but that had thankfully not made a reappearance.
"Hello," John said, coming over.
Sherlock quickly closed the tab he'd been reading, and his website popped up instead.
"John," Sherlock said quietly.
"I've been receiving the strangest text messages from people. What have you been up to?" John asked with a smile.
"Oh, nothi –" Sherlock stopped mid-word when he saw John's hand coming towards him.
From the trajectory, John meant to touch his head. Sherlock froze and closed his eyes, waiting. A moment later, gentle, questing fingers slid into his curls. Sherlock felt a lump in his throat and gulped, then gulped again when it wouldn't go away.
John stopped.
"Is this okay?" he asked, sounding concerned.
Sherlock's heart was thrashing around so hard that he barely heard John's question. He took a deep breath and let it out again slowly.
John stroked his head again, and Sherlock suddenly went boneless, sagging forward into John's touch. He wanted to pretend that John's touch had no effect on him, but he couldn't help it.
"There's a lad," John murmured, taking the laptop out of Sherlock's lax hands and putting it on the coffee table. "It's alright."
John sat on the couch next to him and pulled Sherlock's head down to his shoulder. Sherlock went helplessly, and John curled his arm around, pulling him closer. Sherlock sighed and turned his nose into John's neck. It was just as heavenly as he imagined, and John's scent filled his nose, his lungs, his very bloodstream was carrying essence of John to all the cells in his body.
John chuckled, and the sound vibrated through Sherlock.
"People have been telling me you've been trying to touch them," John said against his hair. "Who'd have guessed all you were after was a good cuddle?"
Cuddle. Not all he was after, admittedly, but a good start.
Sherlock curled himself up around John, and John didn't seem to mind, pulling him closer until they were so entwined on the couch that Sherlock couldn't figure out whose limbs were whose. It was so close, and warm, and John was all around him.
John's fingers carded through his hair, rubbing the scalp underneath, running down the side of Sherlock's neck and back up again. It was soothing, and Sherlock made a soft sound against John's shoulder.
They stayed like that for a while, and everything was quiet and comfortable. Sherlock lost all sense of time, his brain going into a soft daze. His heartbeat had evened out, and Sherlock realized that it had matched itself to John's, level and steady.
Sherlock could have stayed there on the couch all day.
And then, John's hand, which had been touching the safe area around his head, moved down and stroked his flank down to his hip.
It was like suddenly being prodded with a jolt of electricity, as Sherlock's nerves all lit up at once. He breathed in sharply as John's fingers rubbed at the spot right next to his hipbone. Where everything had once been warm and comfortable, it was suddenly blazing with heat, and that prickling feeling was back, running all over.
He had the strangest signals coming from his brain that urged him to spread himself open, to let John touch him all over. Oh – and that hammering pulse between his legs demanded attention, his cock hardening so fast it left him breathless and dizzy.
Oh. Oh dear. Maybe John hadn't noticed yet.
He looked up and found John's eyes staring right into his own. Sherlock blinked rapidly, and John's eyes flicked down to his lap.
Oh no.
Sherlock felt his face practically explode with heat, and he jumped up off the couch so fast that he stumbled and almost fell.
"Sherlock – " John said.
Sherlock made a high noise in the back of his throat and fled to the bathroom, locking the door behind him and leaning against it. His legs were trembling, so he slid down the door until he was sitting on the ground. The tiled floor was a bit cold after being all wrapped up in John.
There was a knock on the door, and Sherlock could feel the vibrations in his shoulderblades.
"Sherlock?" John said through the door.
Sherlock huddled closer around himself, trying to ignore the throbbing of his groin.
"It's alright, Sherlock, I don't mind," John said through the door. "Come out, will you?"
Sherlock ignored him and thought frantically.
Cold shower. It was on his list, and he was in a room with a shower. Still shaking, Sherlock quickly threw off his clothes and turned the shower on full blast on cold. Stepping into the shower was a shock to the system and Sherlock gasped several times, breath heaving as the cold water rushed over him. It was very effective in making his erection recede, however, so Sherlock put up with it.
Sherlock was shivering with the chill by the time he decided he'd been in the shower long enough. He'd stayed in longer just to be safe.
He towelled off and waited by the door to the bathroom, listening. No sound. Safe to rush back to his room and get into some proper clothing.
He opened the door, intending to sneak to his room as quickly as possible, only to have John fall backward into his arms. He'd been leaning against the door waiting, and Sherlock's sudden exit had taken him by surprise.
Automatically, Sherlock grabbed John around the waist to keep him from falling. Just as suddenly, Sherlock realized he'd let go of his towel and scrabbled for it. John flailed, and they both toppled over onto the bathroom floor.
It took Sherlock's body less than a second to perk up with the realization that Sherlock was naked and had John Watson in his arms. The cold had certainly done its work, but it would only be so long before that wore off.
Sherlock squirmed frantically and cried, "John, John, get off me!"
John shifted, and Sherlock grabbed his wayward towel and quickly covered himself again, backing up until he was pressed up against the bathroom cupboard.
John sat on the floor of the bathroom and looked at Sherlock as he huddled against the cupboard.
"Sherlock," John said gently, and Sherlock shivered. "Is something wrong?"
Was something wrong? What wasn't wrong with this scenario?
"I only just got my erection to go away!" Sherlock said, then hid his face in the towel.
"Why did you want it to go away?" John asked.
"You could see it!" Sherlock said.
"Well, yes, that was rather the point," John said.
Wait, what?
"I didn't imagine that would happen so quickly, but it was certainly the reaction I wanted, at least at some point in the future," John said, and Sherlock lifted his face to look at John.
"You... you wanted... you were doing that on purpose?" Sherlock asked in confusion.
John's face went from mirroring to his own confusion to sudden understanding.
"I'm an idiot," John said, face falling into his palm.
"I don't understand," Sherlock said, looking away in sudden shame. This was somehow all his fault, and he'd ruined everything. Whatever 'everything' was, he still wasn't certain.
"Of course," John said. "I just stupidly assumed that you would understand. That's the thing."
Sherlock curled in on himself in embarrassment.
"Oh, no, Sherlock," John said hurriedly, scooting closer. "It's not your fault."
"Of course it's my fault, John!" Sherlock snarled. "I didn't react like a normal human being, and now it's made everything awkward."
"I thought you reacted beautifully," John said softly.
"Until I dashed into the bathroom," Sherlock said, blushing and hiding his face.
"I'm sorry," John said. "I just thought that you'd know that I was coming on to you, when I really should have considered that you wouldn't."
Suddenly, Sherlock got it.
He'd seen John acting this way before. He just hadn't thought that John would ever try actually flirting with him. Not like with the women John had had an eye on in the past, when it was obvious. Because Sherlock was always watching when John flirted. From the outside.
Flirting was a lot more confusing when one was actually part of the dynamic and not just a passive observer.
And John's hand, running down his side. Apparently there was a secret code for sex that Sherlock's body had understood, but Sherlock hadn't picked up on.
"Oh," Sherlock said.
Then another thought occurred to him.
"You don't do one night stands," Sherlock asserted. "You like having relationships."
"Yes, now you've got it," John said, smiling ruefully.
Oh. Oh – wait.
Now that John had explained it, John's feelings were obvious. What Sherlock suddenly understood was that he must reciprocate them. That's what had changed between then and now. He had feelings for John.
That explained the erection as well. His body had never had any interest in sex before because he hadn't felt anything for them in an emotional sense – at least in terms of romantic attraction. His emotional self and his sexual self were linked. That made much more sense now.
"We have romantic feelings for each other," Sherlock said, suddenly pleased at having figured out the latest mystery.
"Yes," John said, then stopped again. "Wait, you do as well?"
Sherlock tried to explain, about the feelings and the touching, and also about the sex. He had the feeling he was speaking too fast and also that he might possibly be speaking gibberish.
"Brilliant," John said, grinning.
Sherlock preened, and John kissed him.
Sherlock hadn't been expecting that, and he froze again.
John drew back and took one look at his face before chuckling and taking Sherlock's face in his hands.
"Haven't done this much before, have you?" he asked fondly.
"Never," Sherlock agreed.
"Let's try this again," John said, a little breathlessly, and leaned in.
Sherlock froze again, but John patiently waited until Sherlock tentatively pressed back before adding more pressure and movement. John's mouth against his was surprisingly soft. There was the slightest scrape of stubble against his skin. It was good.
Sherlock was just getting used to that when John tilted his head more, and suddenly there was hot, slick heat, and John was coaxing his mouth open. It was little, subtle shifts of his lips and flicks of his tongue, and Sherlock melted into them.
John gradually let Sherlock get acquainted with the wonders of kissing, and it wasn't until his head banged the wooden cupboard that he realized they were still on the bathroom floor.
John huffed out a laugh. "Should we move somewhere else?"
Sherlock nodded and then let out a surprised noise as John bundled him into his arms and simply lifted Sherlock, towel and all, into the air and away. John deposited Sherlock on his own bed and then quickly clambered on top of him.
"I'm going to kiss you all over," John said, with the edge of a growl in his voice.
Sherlock shivered and capitulated, letting his head fall back on the sheets as John straddled him and dove into his mouth. Sherlock whined as John's mouth devoured his. All he could do was let John tilt his head back and invade him, it was all so close, and warm, and slick. John certainly knew what he was doing.
John moved down to his neck, and Sherlock tilted his head to the side automatically. John made a pleased-sounding noise in his throat before kissing down the length of Sherlock's neck. Each little touch sparked a little reaction, making his skin prickle. He wanted more, wanted John to kiss every single square inch of skin on his body.
One of John's hands smoothed its way up his side, the calluses on his palm eliciting little thrills of sensation. Sherlock could feel that tug at his groin that meant he was getting aroused again.
And then John's thumb found his nipple.
He cried out in surprise and bucked upward. John chuckled and hummed as he quickly kissed his way over Sherlock's collarbone and down his chest. When he found Sherlock's nipple, he lapped at it, and Sherlock froze again. He couldn't move, not when John was touching him like that. It was so good, and Sherlock wanted him to touch him forever.
Sherlock whimpered as John played with his nipple, lapping at it and then blowing cool air over it, nibbling at it and pinching it, rubbing it softly with the pad of his thumb.
His nipple was edging into soreness by the time John moved to the other one, and he still couldn't stop the explosive gasp as John closed his mouth around it, even though he was expecting it.
John's hands felt their way down his stomach, moving the towel down. Sherlock held his breath as John kissed down Sherlock's stomach. It was sort of tickling, but also made his skin tingle and ache to be touched again. John grinned, and then latched onto a bit of skin, sucking it into his mouth. Sherlock gasped and threw his head back as John licked, sucked and nipped at that bit of skin until there was a little purple mark to show for it.
Sherlock panted hard and looked down the length of his own body. There was a tent in his towel, and both he and John drew back to look at it. Sherlock whimpered again and closed his eyes, covering his face in embarrassment. He wanted John to touch him and make him feel good, but he was shy about John actually looking at it and knowing how much this was affecting him.
"Shhh, don't be scared," John said softly, stroking Sherlock's sides and making him shiver.
"I'm – I'm not..." Sherlock said.
"Can I take this off?" John asked, tugging at the towel.
Sherlock nodded, face still covered with his hands.
"You sure?" John asked again.
"Just get on with it," Sherlock snapped, but then gasped as John pulled the towel down, exposing his erection both to the open air, and John's gaze.
"You're lovely," John said, voice quiet.
He ran his hands down the outsides of Sherlock's thighs and hooked under his knees, lifting them up and spreading them out. Sherlock's breathing grew ragged as he fought the urge to close his knees and cover himself again.
"Gorgeous," John whispered.
Sherlock finally worked up the courage to look, when he had to slam his eyes back closed again as John's hand closed over his erection. He cried out as John's hand squeezed gently and pumped his cock. John seemed to be working off of his breathing and noises. The louder and more high pitched they got, the slower John would go, and he would speed up again as Sherlock got quieter.
John kept him whining and writhing for ages, wanting more.
Sherlock thought this was the pinnacle of human pleasure, and then John's lips closed over the throbbing head of his cock and sucked. Oh God. Wet heat, tight mouth just pulling the pleasure from him. John's tongue knew just where to touch, lapping at his frenulum and wiggling the tip of his tongue at the slit. Sherlock felt himself throb.
"John!" he cried out.
John drew back, and Sherlock gasped for air. John moved down and sucked gently at his aching sack, rolling his balls with his tongue and gently holding them in his mouth. It wasn't as intense but still sent a low thrum of arousal through his already pleasure-wracked body.
"John," he whispered.
Without warning, and because Sherlock was certainly not expecting John's tongue to move in that direction, Sherlock found John's tongue on his perineum, and edging even further back. John lifted Sherlock's legs up and over his shoulders and buried his head between them.
"John?" he asked, voice high. "Joh–HN!"
His brain short-circuited as John lapped at his hole, tracing the rim with the tip of his tongue before trying to burrow into the crevices. It was – it was... oh, God. Sherlock spread his legs more and keened as John licked inside him, getting his tongue deeper.
"John, John, John," Sherlock gasped, not realizing that he was chanting John's name.
One of John's thumbs was rubbing right behind his balls, and every time he pressed down, Sherlock shuddered.
"I – I can't..." Sherlock gasped, because this was keeping him on the edge of coming, so close, but it just wasn't going to tip him over.
"Touch yourself," John gasped, before burying his tongue back in Sherlock.
Trembling, Sherlock reached down and closed his own hand around his erection, surprised to find it dripping with pre-ejaculate. He was already so hard, and it was so good, that just the pressure around his cock started a powerful, tugging feeling in his gut.
Sherlock yelled, and all his muscles tensed as that little bit of sensation sent his arousal up and over the peak and barreling towards completion. Warm, slick release coated his hand and his stomach as he finally came.
John held him as he shuddered, and when he'd spent himself, John stroked his shoulders and back, waiting patiently for Sherlock to recover. Sherlock's thighs were trembling, and breathing was hard. After a minute or so, Sherlock struggled upright to look down at John, who was still lying on his side on the bed.
"You're still hard," Sherlock observed.
"Yes," John said, looking embarrassed. "But this was about you –"
"No, it was about us. There's a difference," Sherlock said and then reached down to unbuckle John's belt and get his jeans open.
John watched as Sherlock tugged his jeans and pants down and then stare at John's erection for several seconds.
"It's rather large," Sherlock said after a moment.
"Um..." John said, blushing.
"I think I want it in my mouth," Sherlock decided.
Before John could say another word, Sherlock licked a stripe from the base of John's massive cock to the tip. He wrapped a hand around it, and it was thick and throbbing against his palm. John gasped, and Sherlock leaned forward to lap at the flushed head, experimenting with fitting it into his mouth.
Sherlock hadn't done this before, but he was trying to make it good for John. He found that his mouth could hardly fit all the way around John's erection, and his jaw began to ache when he tried to pump it further in. It was more difficult than he'd anticipated, and his chin had drool on it, and his nose kept rubbing over the crown of John's cock. His face kept rubbing up against it as well.
John didn't seem to mind, if his breath coming faster and faster was any indication. He was breathing harshly through his nose and it sounded like a steam engine.
Sherlock finally got the idea to move his hand at the same time as his mouth, and John seemed to like that even more.
"Sherlock–" John suddenly said in a tense voice.
Sherlock drew back just in time for the first pulse of John's release to hit him full in the mouth. Sherlock sputtered and jerked his head back, and the second spray went all over his chest.
John looked up and saw Sherlock looking surprised and covered in come and laughed. He leaned up and brought Sherlock's mouth to his, kissing him thoroughly.
"Definitely time for another shower, I think," John said. "Not a cold one this time though, eh?"
In the shower, John helped him clean off, murmuring compliments into Sherlock's ear the entire time. Sherlock felt like he was glowing, he was so pleased with himself. John kept telling him he was "beautiful" and "brilliant," as if those two words were interchangeable.
Maybe to John, they were.
The next time they were at a crime scene, and John called him "beautiful" instead of "brilliant," Sherlock still heard both compliments. Sherlock kissed him, right there, while they were standing over a dead body, and not caring that people could see.
On the way back home, John held his hand, and his thumb rubbed over the back, just like it had when they'd first shaken hands upon meeting at Baker Street.
One thing was for sure: Sherlock was so alive.
More than alive.
He was incandescent.