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Sherlock walked into the kitchen where John was busy filling up the kettle and leaned against his back, burrowing her face in John’s neck.
“Bored,” she complained. John didn’t even turn as he put the kettle on.
“You’re the genius,” he replied. “Can’t you find a way to entertain yourself for a couple of hours?”
Sherlock slid a hand down John’s front, cupping his crotch.
“I can think of a few things,” she said, and nibbled on John’s ear. Even barefoot she was a few inches taller than John, which meant her mouth was just at the perfect height. “Though a couple of hours might be a bit ambitious, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, ah ah,” John said.
“I’ll be in the sitting room, when you’re quite finished with your tea,” Sherlock announced, and walked out of the kitchen, shedding all her clothes along the way.
She wrapped herself in the dressing gown that was draped over John’s chair and plopped into her own, waiting for John to follow. She half-expected him to make her wait a bit just to be contrary, and to finish making his tea while she sulked in the living room, but he walked out of the kitchen after barely a minute, looking only mildly put-upon.
“Well then,” he said, eyeing the trail of strewn clothes leading to Sherlock’s chair, and Sherlock smiled.
“Can’t do much of anything if you’re just going to stand there, John,” she said when John didn’t move, and he rolled his eyes before walking in front of her chair. She looked at him with a pointedly raised eyebrow and he dropped to his knees, as he had done so many other times before.
“When did you last come?” Sherlock asked. She knew, obviously, and John knew that she knew – she just liked to make him say it, to have him acknowledge that he’d been restraining himself because she wanted him to.
“Two weeks ago,” John replied. “Give or take.”
“Oh. It’s been a while then.”
John didn’t say anything, though he looked a bit flushed. Sherlock raised her foot and placed her sole right between John’s legs, on the bulge in his trousers. She wiggled her toes and John fidgeted for a moment, arching slightly against her foot before relaxing again.
“I do so enjoy making you wait. I like how desperate you get. You’d do anything I asked, wouldn’t you?”
“Not quite anything,” John said, voice tight. His breath sounded a bit labored already.
Sherlock smirked. “Don’t lie to me. We both know there’s no point.”
She rubbed the sole of her foot on John’s crotch, making him gasp.
“Unzip your trousers. In fact, take everything off. ”
John stumbled to his feet. He took his jumper off, seemed to consider where to put it and then just dropped it on the floor with a shrug. His shirt followed. As John unzipped his trousers, Sherlock hooked one leg over the arm of the chair, reclining against the back. Her dressing gown fell open, exposing her breasts and her nipples, made hard and pointy by the cold air. John paused for a second, eyes darting down between her spread legs and then up again to her face.
“I had a very satisfying orgasm last night,” Sherlock said conversationally, idly circling her clit with a finger.
John huffed a laugh. “I know. I was there.”
He pushed his trousers and his boxers down, letting them fall to his ankles and then kicking them to the side. The removal of his socks wasn’t quite as graceful, but he was admittedly distracted and Sherlock did not mind. She kept her eyes on John as she pushed one finger inside of her with a small sigh.
“And did you enjoy the show?”
“I always do,” John said, not even trying to look away now that she was slowly fingering herself.
“Hmm. Come back here.”
John promptly obeyed, falling back to his knees with a thud. The scent of Sherlock arousal lingered in the air, and she knew they could both smell it. She took her wet fingers out and wiped them clean on John’s face, living a smudge on his cheekbone. John licked his lips. An unconscious gesture, perhaps. Always prime and proper but not now, not with her. Such a beautiful sight.
“Now,” Sherlock said, business-like, and fisted a hand in John’s hair. “If you’re good I might even let you come.”
It wasn’t quite an empty threat – she had denied John release before, but only because she knew that John found it a huge turn-on, too. Sure, he would get frustrated, and sometimes he would snap at her (especially the first few times she’s done it) but so far he had never come without Sherlock’s permission, once needing Sherlock’s permission had become an established rule between them. And well, Sherlock didn’t even try to frame it as an order anymore, by now it was quite clear the arrangement was a mutually beneficial one – once, when John hadn’t come in three weeks and had been in a strop, he’d threatened to take care of the matter himself, and Sherlock had just shrugged, affecting an indifferent look. “If you like, John,” she had said, and John had huffed and stomped out, grumbling. He hadn’t touched himself though – Sherlock could still read the frustration in his gait and his tense shoulder, as clear as if he had screamed it at her. That night, she had slipped in John’s bed and sneaked a hand in his briefs, whispering in John’s ear how good he had been. It’d taken barely three strokes to bring him to orgasm.
She startled a bit when John put his hands on her knees. He smiled slyly up at her, and Sherlock rolled her eyes and tugged on his hair.
“Get on with it, then,” she commanded, spreading her legs a bit wider. John leaned closer, and huffed against Sherlock’s inner thigh what sounded suspiciously like a breathy laugh.
“Are you laughing at me while you’ve got your head between my legs?” Sherlock asked in a prickly tone.
John grinned. “Of course not. I do have manners. Unlike you.”
Just as Sherlock opened her mouth to reply John leaned in, licking a wet stripe up to her clit. Whatever Sherlock had intended to say was lost in a startled gasp.
“Though I do enjoy shutting you up, if you must know,” quipped John.
Sherlock rolled her eyes again and tugged on his hair a bit harder, and John chuckled again, doing nothing to hide it.
“Always so impatient,” he murmured, stroking Sherlock’s thighs.
Sherlock relaxed as John started kissing his way up at a leisurely pace, his lips warms on her skin. She shivered at the first touch of his tongue, and her body went slack, her hand falling from John’s head. Usually she liked to dictate the pace, to give instructions and pull John’s head to this or that spot, and John liked being ordered around just as much. But today she was feeling self-indulgent and lazy and pliant, and she let John take the initiative. He was quite good at it, after all.
She closed her eyes and let her head loll back while John’s tongue worked at her, tracing sloppy circles, parting her folds, applying a gentle pressure.
“Can I…?” John asked, looking up with his face flushed and his mouth wet, and Sherlock urgently said, “Yes, yes,” and John pushed two fingers inside. Sherlock clenched around his fingers, and her moan was echoed by John. He started a thrusting motion with his wrist, fucking Sherlock with his fingers, brushing his thumb over her clit. Sherlock’s heavy breathing overlapped with the wet sounds of John’s mouth.
“You’re so good,” Sherlock said unsteadily, and cried out when John twisted his fingers inside her.
“So… so good,” she repeated over and over as John brought her closer to the tipping point, and when she came it was with a shocking intensity and a loud cry, and she almost smothered John between her thighs.
“God,” Sherlock gasped. Her face felt as if it was aflame, and John’s was no better. She could feel his skin burning against her thighs, and she had to make an effort to unclench her legs and let John go. He let his fingers slide out and looked up at her, lips parted and pupils blown wide, but still with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
“I trust that was enjoyable,” he said, looking a bit smug.
Sherlock put down the leg she had thrown over the arm of the chair. She slid forward a bit, took the hand John had used to finger her by the wrist, and brought it to her mouth.
“Quite,” she said.
She sucked two of John’s wet fingers into her mouth, swirling her tongue, and released them with and almost obscene plop.
“Jesus,” John said breathily.
“You’ve been quite good,” Sherlock said, pushing John’s legs open with her feet.
“So very good,” she repeated, as her foot slid up John’s thigh, getting very close to his erection without actually touching it. “Touch yourself.”
John unclenched the hand he had tightened into a fist and wrapped it around his erection, stroking himself slowly. Sherlock put her hand on his head.
“If I asked you to stop now you would, wouldn’t you?” she asked almost absentmindedly, petting John’s hair. John’s full-body shiver looked like a knee-jerk reaction to her words.
“Stop,” Sherlock said softly, as it testing it out, and John groaned and his hand stopped and unfolded, and he placed it shakily on his leg.
“Please…” he pleaded, squeezing his eyes shut, and Sherlock cupped his jaw, brushing her thumb over his mouth.
“Shhh…” she whispered, and kissed John affectionately on the lips. “Oh, but you’re beautiful. If you could see yourself now. Don’t worry, I said you’ve been very good, yes? Just a little bit longer now.”
She rested her forehead against John’s, stroking his face, waiting for him to get his breathing under control.
“Touch yourself,” she ordered again after a minute or so, and leaned back as John stroked himself with his eyes closed. She watched John’s face closely, taking in the way his breath quickened and his mouth twitched, and as she saw him get closer and closer to his climax she said, “Stop.”
John dropped his hand hurriedly, almost as if he had been burnt. He let his head fall against Sherlock’s knee with a sigh, nuzzling his face against her leg like a cat.
“So very good,” Sherlock repeated, petting John’s head, and he pressed a tender kiss on her thigh. She kept caressing him as John stroked himself and stopped before he could come, again, and again, and again, whispering praise and encouraging words, until John was panting and red-faced and looked almost on the verge of crying.
“Please,” he begged again, words bubbling out of him, “please, I can’t–” and Sherlock said “come for me, John,” before he could even finish the sentence, and he came right away, almost sobbing and pressing his face against her thigh.
“Shhh,” Sherlock soothed as John shuddered. “That’s it. You’ve done so well, John.”
They stayed like that for a while until John raised his head, looking a bit more composed. Sherlock put her hand on the arm of the chair, smiling at John when he glanced up at her.
“Well,” John said, and cleared his throat. Sherlock’s smile grew wider. She stood up.
“I can already feel the tedium threatening to overwhelm me again, John,” Sherlock announced. John looked puzzled, and watched Sherlock as she shrugged out of her gown, letting it fall to the floor along with the rest of their clothes before walking out of the room.
“Well?” Sherlock said, peeping from the doorframe a few seconds later. “Do you require a written invitation?” and John got to his feet and followed her to their bedroom.