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i. at first
At first, sex with Sherlock was the perfect amalgamation of wet heat, slow touches, red faces, and heavy breaths [breaths too heavy, even, too fast--steady, panicked bursts of hot air against John's sweaty neck]. It was Sherlock's quivering abdomen, the gentle tremors beneath John's lips as he kissed around his navel, as he sucked down the faint trail of hair leading lower, lower, as he grasped Sherlock at the hips and rubbed his nose and mouth and cheeks across the warm skin dampened by feverish kisses.
It was little sighs from Sherlock's open mouth, low uuuhs that slipped out by accident, that were stifled by his lip-bites, by the press of his arm across his face, hiding pink cheeks, fluttering eyelashes, muffling those damned, hateful noises. It was John licking back up Sherlock's chest, nudging his arm away, and kissing his upper lip, his chin, sucking behind his ear, drawing those sounds out because they were absolutely fucking beautiful.
Sex with Sherlock was hands pressed against either side of John's head, fingers clenching in his hair, grasping at his ears, was uncontrollable panting as John's mouth slid up and down Sherlock's cock, was the whispered, "God" when Sherlock felt so terribly much.
It was the "All right?" when desperate hands pulled up on John's hair, pulling his mouth off Sherlock's cock, was the sweat trailing down Sherlock's face, his blown pupils, his tensing, tensing body. His "I don't…I can't…" and his arms flying up across his face and the gentle, uncontrollable thrust of his hips as he came and came, as milky fluid spurted onto his belly just from the look on John's face, just from that overwhelmed, intensely aroused look that spoke and felt and wanted.
It was the panting, all the panting, the panting drowning out the wet kisses to Sherlock's softening cock, the curious touches of tongue to the streaks on his shaking thighs, the happy sigh and the glide of John's sweaty body as he curled himself into him. As he kissed Sherlock's neck, his jaw, his mouth, as he rubbed his leaking hardness in the hot, sticky, delicious, wonderful mess on Sherlock's belly and breathed. Breathed. Breathed.
It was the mixed fluids on Sherlock's skin and the impossible heat of his cheeks and the way he almost looked embarrassed, if he ever felt such things. It was how he curled in on himself afterward and blew his own breath up into his face, disturbing the sweaty fringe stuck to his forehead.
It was John's quick kiss to his shoulder, the hand snaking around his waist, and the aaah, the relief, the rightness of that moment with that person in that bed. It was an illogical rightness, a frightening rightness, a heart-pounding rightness that made Sherlock feel so overwhelmed and so wrong and so horrible and so bloody perfect all at once.
ii. sometimes
Sometimes sex with Sherlock was a rush, a celebration, a purge of adrenaline, hard kisses and fingers digging into hips and bruised knees from the floor just inside 221 Baker Street. It was a back against the door and the fear, the excitement of being caught. It was bitten tongues and fingers tightened in a mop of curls and a near-choke and a gasp.
It was John's tongue wetting his lower lip and Sherlock's mouth skimming his bollocks and the noise of London, of buses and midnight strollers and solved cases and understanding that this…this…all of it, every moment, every chase, every laugh, every danger was theirs, was exciting and wonderful and maddeningly arousing.
It was a too-hard tug of warning, a whispered, "I'm…" It was a step back and a pull forward and fingers tightening around hips and a mouth holding it all, wanting it all, a swallow and a gag and a reflexive lean-back and cough. It was an uncaught spurt on Sherlock's cheek and a quiet, "Jeeeesus" from John, who still had Sherlock by the hair, who felt shattered and limp and satisfied and utterly wild.
It was a final cough and a grin, a wet kiss to John's mouth, and fingers reaching out to swipe away the streak on Sherlock's face.
It was a promise for more, a murmur, a "not here" and a "bed" and laughing and sighing and tripping up the stairs. It was two happy men, a detective and his blogger, with the rest of the night ahead of them.
iii. often
Often, sex was fun, was playful pinches to the arse and breathy laughs against sweaty skin. It was Sherlock shoved down on the bed and kissed and stroked, was John settling between his legs and biting at his chest and talking to him, teasing him, calling him a "right git," calling him "daft" and "melodramatic" and "absolutely fucking gorgeous."
It was aligned cocks and gentle thrusts and Sherlock's fingers petting and folding John's ears as their lower abdomens became slick with shared precome. As they got well and truly off on staring at each other, on whispering, on nuzzling noses and rolling eyes and on arguing about propriety at crime scenes, about how perhaps Sherlock shouldn't have insulted the poor widow in order to gauge her true feelings on her late husband.
It was Sherlock's legs around John's waist and his arms going around his neck, and it was, "Do shut up, John, my God," and a sudden, forceful kiss. It was rutting and groaning and fighting to hold out the longest. It was "right…there" and "faster" and "harder" and a hot, sticky flood between their bodies. It was Sherlock gasping, tilting his head back and exposing his throat for John to lick. It was one more torturous grind and a long, low moan.
It was Sherlock pushing John off him afterward and climbing on top, straddling his waist and leaning down to kiss him slowly, leisurely, affectionately. It was clasped hands and smiles and so much fucking fondness, so much warmth that Sherlock felt completely and utterly destroyed by it all.
iv. in the mornings
In the mornings, sex with Sherlock was achingly slow, a sleepy kiss followed by a sleepy sigh followed by a lazy hand on John's chest. It was not-so-fresh breath and slightly crusty eyes and unwashed hair. It was an open drawer and a tube of lubricant and two fingers pressing, rubbing, turning John's bones to jelly, tightening his nipples, giving him gooseflesh and shivers and a sweaty hairline.
It was a breach, a stretch, a touch there, God, right there. A calculating look on Sherlock's face, a satisfied grin. It was thrusting fingers and a kiss to the skin above John's rapidly beating heart. It was a carefully licked nipple and a delicious burn and a sudden shift of a lithe body, of miles of paleness and ribs and lean muscle.
It was a heavy exhale, eyes squeezed shut and fingers grasping at hips and sides and slick skin. It was John's rumbly "Fuck," Sherlock's lip-bite, and an agonizing, aching slide in, inside.
It was Sherlock's open mouth, his slow, steady breaths as he watched John's face, watched his expression go from that of pain to pleasure to frustration to want to more, now, yes, fucking yes. It was a lack of control, an unfurling in Sherlock's belly, a drive to move, to claim, to touch, to fill every millimetre of John Watson with every millimetre of him, to climb inside him and stroke him, to feel the pulsing of his heart from the inside, to surge through his veins and be his life force. It was a swell and a burst and thrusts and "please, please, please."
It was wet heat and John's head rolling side to side on the pillow and his palms pressing against his eyes. It was his legs around Sherlock's waist and his hips thrusting upwards and his cock bouncing against his stomach.
It was the overwhelming sense of mine Sherlock felt, the unbearable, insufferable weight of it all, settling in the pit of his stomach before exploding, rolling out in waves of pleasure and tensing and muscle contractions and come that would leak from John's arse when he pulled out.
It was five minutes later devouring and sucking and John hooking his legs over Sherlock's shoulders and riding out the orgasm drawn from the lips around his cock and hands grasping his forearms.
It was the inability to let go afterward, Sherlock's mouth on John's belly and John's hands in his hair. Sweat on their foreheads and unspoken words on their lips. It was sun streaming in through the curtains and John's aching back, was Sherlock's huffs and nuzzles and closed eyes. It was warmth and slowing breaths, destroyed sheets and sticky skin, and it was a new day, and it was theirs, and it was tea and toast and thumbs in the freezer and hits on John's blog, and there was potential, so much potential.
v. once
Once, sex with Sherlock was wet, was two men squeezed in a small bathtub, was Sherlock straddling John's waist and biting at his neck. It was John's hands scrabbling at Sherlock's back, was his low moans as his cock was stroked by Sherlock's internal muscles, was frustration from the difficulty of thrusting up, from the slip and slide of the floor of the bath under his arse. It was soap on his face when Sherlock scooped up bath foam and rubbed it against his cheek, was a nose-scrunch and a smirk, a smile and a kiss and suddenly two soapy faces.
It was John's hand on Sherlock's cock and his teeth tugging at his bottom lip and his other hand reaching down and around, feeling Sherlock's arsehole stretched around him, feeling himself sliding in and out of the other man's body. It was groaning loudly against Sherlock's mouth and foreheads pressing together and noses smushed. It was "yes" and "God, yes," and the sound of water sloshing about, the sound of Sherlock breathing faster, harder, panting against John's lips and squeezing his muscles around him.
It was John's voice as he neared completion, the shaking, uncontrollable, "That's it," "Love you," and "Fuck, you're gorgeous." It was Sherlock's shocked face at John's exclamations, the undoing of him, the inhale, inhale, inhale, lack of exhale, the near-hyperventilation, the sob, and the too-hard kiss. The sweeping tongue. It was bruised lips and Sherlock's come floating about in the water between them, was his single, hushed, "Yes" against the skin of John's cheek, was his pounding heart and the overwhelming confusion he experienced as he pulled back and watched John come, as he saw adoration and happiness and love on his face.
It was John's slow, torturous kiss, his fingers stroking through Sherlock's hair, his cock softening in his arse, and the warm water blanketing them in a wet cocoon of fond sighs and lazy touches. It was a beginning, somehow, a first just for them.
And later it was soft towels and damp hair and kisses on Sherlock's bed, and it was unstoppable and undeniable and it was a bloom, a burst of fireworks. It was brilliance.
vi. and suddenly
And suddenly, sex was assigning a name to that clench in Sherlock's chest, in his belly, when he crowded John against the wall and sucked a red spot onto his neck.
It was hands on slim hips, was thrusts from behind and Sherlock's white-knuckled hands gripping the headboard, was opened-mouth kisses to his back and encouraging taps to his thigh.
It was a mouth on Sherlock's cock, an agreement, when he wouldn't shut up about John's choice of television programme. It was a sudden gasp, a delicious groan, noises far better than petty complaints, far better than any John could imagine.
It was hands down trousers and teeth closed around bottom lips, was panting, so much panting. Was breathy laughs and smiles, trembling limbs and sweaty hair, the loo at the Yard and strange looks from Lestrade when they resurfaced later on, red-faced and winded.
It was new positions and also the same tried and true tangle, legs around waists and hands on shoulders and hot, messy kisses.
It was making love, was the sudden realization that it always had been, even the first time, the very first time when Sherlock had felt so strongly, had been unable to distinguish between too much and not enough for the first time in his life, had been embarrassed and frustrated and painfully overwhelmed with it all. It was sex with John, was wanting another person, was enjoying having his hair stroked, his temple kissed, his hand squeezed. It was feeling sometimes, allowing that feeling, was riding John slowly in the middle of the night and not being able to speak for the warm sensation in his chest, the bursting, the spark and spread of all that he'd denied for so long. It was long kisses afterwards, tumbles in stained sheets, holding and stroking and breathing, just breathing.
It was the look on Sherlock's face each and every time John told him that he loved him, was his wide-eyed expression, his red cheeks and quickening breath and the fireworks shooting off low in his belly. It was the clutches at forearms and bruises the next morning and, one winter evening, it was ecstasy, was sticky skin growing stickier and, "God, John. I love you. I love you."
It was stretching out later on and watching each other sigh, was meeting eyes and feeling consumed and deciding that making love had actually begun with a gunshot, with an orange blanket and the request for dinner, with giggling at a crime scene and being so fond, suddenly, as if the bullet had pierced not the cabbie but them. As if it hadn't hurt and it hadn't damaged and it hadn't broken them but had mended, had united, had made them whole.
Sex with Sherlock was smiling in the dark even though they couldn't see one another, was snuggling into a warm cocoon of blankets and bare skin, was dishevelled hair in John's face and a flat stomach under his palm and quiet murmurings, little whispers, confessions of love, of desire, of complete and utter devotion. It was a promise, a vow, a beginning that wasn't a beginning at all but a shift, a growth and a change and a new dimension.
It was understanding, it was the past and it was the present and yes, oh God, yes, it was the future.