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When Sherlock ripped the bomb-laden jacket off of him, all John could think of was that he hoped to god that the other man wouldn't see, or god forbid feel, his incredibly prominent erection. He felt he would have a hard time trying to explain its presence to Sherlock, who might think that he had some kind of bizarre attraction to Moriarty or something, and this was as far from the truth as was possible.
No, John was hard because of who he was. For as long as he remembered, John Watson had become sexually aroused in the presence of danger. It was one of the reasons he went to war, actually. There was no other legal way of getting that kind of excitement on a regular basis, and to be paid for it, John had felt himself incredibly lucky. But when he'd been injured in action, he'd lost his access to easily-attained life-threatening danger, and this had nearly killed him in and of itself. He had felt as though he was dying a slow and boring death, until Sherlock came on the scene.
Suddenly John's life made sense and had reason again. He has found a new lease on life, and was thankful for it. He didn't for an instant think that Sherlock was ignorant of his physical reaction to danger; there was little that happened around Sherlock Holmes of which he was unaware. Nothing had ever been said about it between them though, and John assumed that was because the subject just didn't interest the detective. It was likely that Sherlock just thought it was simply one of the weird traits that some members of the human population possessed, and gave it no thought beyond that.
So when that jacket was whipped off, John crouched down for two reasons: firstly, he felt absolutely faint, which was a natural reaction to having come so close to such a messy demise, and secondly, because he needed a chance to adjust himself physically so that his state of excitement would not be so evident to his flatmate. As he reached the floor, he subtly shifted his erection so that it was pinned up flat against his belly instead of trapped along one leg as it had been before. Gah, what a relief - and it was much less noticeable this way, or so it seemed to him.
He heard Sherlock talking, and missed the first few words, but he clued in just in time to catch the fact that the detective was thanking John for trying to get Sherlock out of the pool at the expense of his own life. John could only think of one thing, however.
"I'm glad no one saw that," he murmured. Sherlock looked up at him, askance. "Hmm?"
"You," replied John, "ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk."
"People do little else," Sherlock replied immediately, and they shared a quiet laugh.
Seconds ticked by, and the silence between them began to feel somehow strained. They had caught each others eyes and both were loathe to let the other one go. John slowly rose to his feet, and as he did so he watched Sherlock put the safety back on his gun and then reach behind himself and stow it into the waistband of his trousers. Noticing this, John suddenly felt his eyes drawn to the detective's crotch - and saw with great surprise that Sherlock himself seemed to get off on danger nearly as much as John did - and in the same way. The obvious erection that displayed itself in Sherlock's trousers was testament to this. Seeing the direction and final location of John's eye-line seemed to give the detective a bit of a shock, but then Sherlock took a great, deep breath, and a split-second before he moved, John knew what was going to happen.
Knowing what was coming did not quite allow enough time for John to steady himself before the sudden onslaught of teeth and tongue and Sherlock's pushing, thrusting body. The larger man had the force of motion behind him as well as the greater size and weight, so it was John that was barreled backwards into the tiled wall. Sherlock's lips were melded to his own, and he tried to keep up as the detective's tongue entered his mouth and laid claim to all it found.
One of Sherlock's hands was pushing John's jumper up to his chest, bearing the skin of his belly, and the other had reached around to John's waistline just above his arse to insinuate itself between the cloth and John's heated skin. Knowing it was now beyond pointless to try to maintain the lie that he did not have an erection, John flexed his hips, digging his own cock into Sherlock's upper thigh. The thigh in question quickly took the hint and suddenly John had Sherlock's leg between both of his own, and before John could stop himself, he was riding that thigh towards completion.
Sherlock groaned against John's lips in response to the doctor's energetic movements, and he kissed his way down the side of John's face and down to his neck, where he nipped at the tender skin several times. As he did this he let the hand in John's pants dip down so that his middle finger fell into the cleft of John's buttocks, quickly finding the man's tightly furled entrance and stroking the pad of his finger over it.
John was a mess. He was moaning steadily under his breath, and his hips were making little rotating movements as he ground his cock and balls into Sherlock's thigh and back against the finger threatening to penetrate his body. He wanted Sherlock to go further, but didn't know how to ask. He had never anticipated that this would ever happen; after all, he'd pretty much come to accept that the man had no sexual interest in anyone, male or female, least of all John himself. He felt like he was coming close to losing his mind. He reached for Sherlock's arms, clasping hold of his biceps to keep himself upright.
Sherlock stopped for a moment, and the one hand that had been on John's chest, circling his nipples and playing with his chest hair, now stopped what it was doing and dipped into one of Sherlock's pockets. John, all his thought processes currently busy, refused to allow himself to be amazed or distracted in any way by the fact that Sherlock appeared to carry water-based lubricant around with him, even to meetings with a professed arch-nemesis. He heard rather than saw the sachet tear and the lube being forced out, and was aware when the finger rubbing his hole disappeared for a moment, only to reappear a second later, wonderfully wet and slick. He moaned long, low and deep when the finger breached his entrance and buried itself to the hilt. And Sherlock didn't let it just lie there inside him; no, the finger danced and flicked and played around in his hole, thrusting in and out and making increasingly large circular motions, being sure to graze against John's prostate on ever round.
John felt pinned in every way possible. He was pinned to the wall by Sherlock's body, and he was pinned between the pleasure of rutting his cock against Sherlock's leg and the glorious sensation of the detective's finger stretching him wide and prodding his prostate. His hand flexed open and closed on the man's biceps, and he was nearing release. Sherlock himself was finding his own relief against John's belly, and after slicking his free hand, he reached down and took his own cock in hand and began to tug at it.
John spared a momentary thought for the fact that they didn't know if Moriarty was still in the vicinity. They didn't know if the snipers were still there, they didn't know if backup of some kind was on the way. Somehow, in a way that was totally unheard-of in John's life, their mutual libidos had declared themselves to be the most important thing on the whole list of important things. John was huffing laughter into Sherlock's shoulder, even as they both worked for completion.
"...what?" Sherlock panted, pulling the finger inside John out for a moment so that he could add another and plunge them back into the smaller man's gaping, grasping hole.
"Unh! Fuck, Sherlock," John groaned.
"...I said, what?"
John rested his forehead on Sherlock's shoulder, watching himself riding the detective's leg and Sherlock's hand jacking fervently on his own cock.
"Nothing, it's nothing," he panted. "It's just... this. This is mad, yeah?"
Sherlock grunted in what one could have been forgiven for guessing as agreement.
"I mean, he could still be here, Sherlock," John whispered into the detective's ear. Sherlock moaned. His hand picked up the pace, wanking feverishly, adding slick fapping sounds to the already obscene soundtrack.
Sherlock seemed to fight for words for a few moments, then finally gained control of his vocal cords. "Yes, he...he could be waiting... outside the door.."
With this last he jammed a third finger into John's arse, and that was enough for John. With a muffled cry, he spilled his semen inside his trousers, riding out his orgasm on Sherlock's leg, thrusting repeatedly until he finally became too sensitive to go on. Sherlock had stopped pumping his fingers in and out of John, but he kept them buried inside the doctor, using his fingers and palm to grip John's body as close as he could get it. John kind of felt like a bowling ball - and this struck him as incredibly sexy.
John could tell that Sherlock was very close to orgasm, so he decided to do what he could to help the man over the edge. To start, he clamped the muscles inside himself down so that they squeezed Sherlock's fingers. Then he reached up for the man's black curls, pulling Sherlock's mouth down to meet his. As their tongues touched, Sherlock exhaled very long and softly, and suddenly John felt jets of liquid slashing down onto his stomach. The detective squeezed his cock a few more times, milking himself for everything he had and finally the two of them rested back against the wall behind John.
Sherlock mouthed kisses against John's neck. and slowly pulled his fingers from John's arse.
"You don't have a tissue, do you?" asked Sherlock, staring at his hand blankly.
John shook his head ruefully. If only he did! John's fingers felt numb as he did up his trousers and belt, putting his jumper right. His lip curled slightly at the sticky, wet feel of the cloth getting covered in Sherlock's semen.
They had just cleaned themselves up to the point where they might be able to leave when quite suddenly Sherlock noticed a red dot on John's chest again. He stared, and John watched as an identical dot illuminated Sherlock's forehead.
"Sorry boys, I'm soooooooooo changeable!"
Sherlock and John stared at each other. Did he...?
"...and thanks for the free show, by the way!"
Bugger.