Chapter Text
At the close of a case, Sherlock frequently fell into bed and slept more than twelve hours, making up for his abstention during his period of furious work. When he did wake, whether it was morning by then or afternoon, he ate voraciously, anything that John would put in front of him. John wondered what he'd done before they started sharing space: Sherlock, faced with an empty larder, must have been a force to be reckoned with in the aisles of the nearest Tesco. Then, rested and fed and starting to return to a normal, healthy colour, he would hook John around the waist with both arms, regardless of John happened to be doing at the time— trying to shower, scrambling to turn off the stove, pretending to read a book and anticipating this course of events— and wrestle him into bed again, biting at his neck and tickling him into submission.
John howled and laughed and protested, found Sherlock's weak spots with his fingertips, and let himself be flung upon the blankets. He squirmed out of his clothes and opened his arms, and Sherlock, equally naked, climbed on top of him, kissing his face and neck, stroking his skin, carding fingers through his hair.
"You're mental," John told him, yanking him up to kiss his mouth.
"Yes," Sherlock said, cupping John's face in both hands.
"Brilliant," John said.
"Go on."
"Stunning. Magnificent. I can't get enough of watching you work, you bloody genius."
Sherlock nuzzled their noses together, grinning like a loon. "I am twice as effective with you by my side," he said. "The criminals of London tremble before you."
"Bollocks," John said, cradling Sherlock between his knees, digging his bare heels into the base of Sherlock's spine. Sherlock pressed himself against John's hips, belly to belly, and John sucked his lower lip into his mouth and moaned, his eyes fluttering shut. They rocked together, Sherlock's knees digging into the sheets, John's shoulder protesting under the weight of them both. But they held on, kissing with mouths open, hands wandering, trying to get closer, as close as they could, intertwined.
"Can I fuck you?" Sherlock asked. He pressed his nose against the curve of John's neck where it met his shoulder, left little nibbling kisses along the muscle there. John huffed a breath, nodding, and let Sherlock's shoulders and hips go so that he could sprawl back on the bed.
Sherlock kept close to him, curling one arm under his back and passing the other hand down the middle of John's chest. He kissed John's collarbone, his sternum, each of his tight, pink nipples, and took John's cock in his hand. John hissed, pushing his hips up, trying to get more contact. He sank his fingers into Sherlock's hair and stroked the tops of his ears. Sherlock shuddered, his mouth smearing soft against John's ribcage.
"Come back," John said, pulling, and Sherlock rose up to meet him for another slow kiss. John found the slick near at hand and covered his own fingers. Sherlock's joined him between his legs, both of them pressing wetly into John's body. John always wanted to do it quickly: open himself up to move onto the next thing, but Sherlock liked it slow, teasing, making this as much part of the act as the moment he slid inside.
John groaned into his mouth, clutching at Sherlock's back, as they fit a combined total of three fingers into John's arse. Sherlock moved languidly, his longer middle digit reaching deeper into John, find the spot inside him that made him jolt, smiling when it did. John stretched the limits of his own resistance, hungry for more.
"All right," John said, pulling his fingers out, "all right, Sherlock, please!"
Sherlock kissed him, chastely, on the cheek, and righted himself on hands and knees. John planted his heels and lifted his arse, and Sherlock teased him for a moment, rubbing the head of his prick against the slippery rim of John's hole. John panted and cursed, pushing back, and then they were joined, Sherlock's mouth open on a noise of surprise.
Sherlock pressed in slowly, sinking the long rod of his cock as deep as he could go, and the ripple of it went right up John's spine. John's hands were clenched in the sheets, his knuckles white and his wrists straining. Being taken inside John's body was reaching another state of consciousness bound up in the man's compact, impossible body.
"Unh," John said, when Sherlock's pelvis met his arse, and his body relaxed. Sherlock breathed shallowly against the centre of John's chest, tongue flicking out as if he could taste the interclavicular ligament. All he did taste was the sweat on the surface of John's skin, and that was nearly as good. He could feel the tremors in John's body, running up his thighs and down his abdomen. John's prick was between them, leaking against Sherlock's belly, twitching with every little unconscious movement of Sherlock's hips.
John's heel dug into the swell of his arse, and John said, "Move, damn you."
Sherlock did, pulling out almost all the way to watch John's face crinkle with the sensation, and then shoving back in. John threw his head back, the tendons in his neck standing out, and shouted. Sherlock had never seen anything so splendid as John in the throes of passion. He'd always wondered at the difference— past partners had seemed overdone, false, or downright ridiculous, but John was always genuine, always gorgeous, and always having a bloody good time.
The scar on his shoulder caught Sherlock's attention, the skin stretched over the old wound shiny in the bedside light. Sherlock reached for it, pressed his mouth to its upper edge. John squirmed, stretching his arm out to the side to give Sherlock room to explore. Not that Sherlock hadn't tasted this particular patch of John's body a hundred times over. The difference in texture, the uneven delineation, John's varying reaction to pressure— it was all familiar. It didn't stop Sherlock from taking data again and again.
John was breathing hard, rocking his hips, trying to fuck himself on Sherlock's cock. Sherlock gave him one last kiss on the bicep and said, "Hold onto me."
John obeyed, stretching his legs out and wrapping his arms around Sherlock's shoulders, and Sherlock pressed close to him and rolled. John ended up on top, clinging like an octopus, with Sherlock's prick still seated inside him.
"Jesus fuck," John said, straightening up and bracing himself on Sherlock's chest.
"I want to watch you ride me."
John laughed, breathless. "Christ, the mouth on you."
Sherlock grinned at him. His heart was hammering in his chest from more than just the physical exertion, and when John put his palm over the centre of it, it felt like it would leap out of his body. He covered John's hand with his own, keeping him there, and wrapped the other hand around John's cock.
John hissed and started to move again, rolling his hips, rocking back onto Sherlock's cock and forwards to push his own through the grip of Sherlock's fist. The blush that had started in his cheeks now coloured him down to his navel. He gleamed with perspiration; it dripped off the end of his nose and ran down the sides of his face.
"God, that's nice," he said, opening his eyes to meet Sherlock's gaze. Sherlock squeezed him tighter, stroked him faster, urged him on with little punctuating thrusts of his hips. He felt John beginning to tighten, the trembling in his muscles that signalled his impending climax. John's prick swelled in his hand, the shaft hardening and lengthening, the fat head ruddy and slick with desire. John's mouth was half-open, his breathing harsh and shallow.
"Come on," Sherlock said, jerking him roughly, so fast that the muscles in his forearm were beginning to ache. "I like watching you come."
"Fucking hell," John said, his body going rigid. He jerked his hips forwards, thighs flexing, and arched his back as he started to spurt, blowing his load all over Sherlock's belly. He moaned, blaspheming, cursing Sherlock, and shuddered from the cradle of his hips to the span of his shoulders.
The smell was what set Sherlock off: the thick, sharp scent of John's semen mixing with the earthy sweat of his skin. Sherlock surged up, driving into John as hard as he could, shouting aloud, and emptied himself into the sweet, tight depths of John's body.
"Ah fuck," John was saying, still shaking, "ah, fuck, fuck," and rocking on Sherlock's prick as they came down. Sherlock was oversensitive, trembling, and he couldn't stop running his hands up and down John's torso. John sagged, head-first, and collapsed in a heap on Sherlock's chest. Perfect. Now Sherlock had the length of John's back to explore, the bumps of his spine to follow with his fingers, the erector spinae and latissimus dorsi to caress.
John lifted his head. His eyes were hazy and heavy-lidded, and his smile was soft. He rubbed his nose against Sherlock's cheek, kissed the corner of his mouth.
"I love you, you mad wanker," he mumbled.
Sherlock nibbled John's lower lip and brushed the sweat off John's temple. "I love you, you magnificent shot."