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“I hate you,” Sherlock says, and John immediately resolves to make him say it again before the night is up.
So he takes things slow, as promised. Brushes up the damp curls at the base of Sherlock’s neck and presses lips there, then teeth. Trails lube-slicked fingers down Sherlock’s spine, teasing at the indent between his buttocks and then pulling away again—and again, and again. And for all his initial show of impatience, Sherlock—stretched out pale and cat-sleek underneath him—is still limp from the orgasm John wrung out of him earlier, and it doesn’t take much to edge him back into blissed-out territory. He just lies there, letting John do to him, making occasional low, needy sounds. Stretched out along the edges of his own desperation, too far gone to even find words and demand everything.
It’s beautiful. Makes John’s breath catch in wonder. There are plenty of things that make him want Sherlock—want to dig down into the centre of him and make him feel—but he never expected Sherlock’s impatience to be one of them. Never expected to encourage it; look at it in amazement and stroke it like something precious.
He fears it, sometimes. Wonders whether Sherlock might yet get tired of him, just up and leave one day to look for new distractions. But right now, with all that desperation—all that need—stretched out beneath him, it feels like holding a promise in his hands.
Slowly, slowly, he trails his fingers over the jut of Sherlock’s hip. Sherlock lifts his hips off the bed, a quick involuntary movement, to let John’s hand curl around his cock. Slowly, slowly. John hears Sherlock’s breath hitch, and when he looks around, over his shoulder at John, his eyes are wide and unfocused.
“John,” he breathes, and nothing more, and it’s as much of a plea as John’s ever likely to hear from him—and Christ, if that thought doesn’t make all the remaining blood in his body rush to his groin. Takes his breath away, makes his fingers tremble in anticipation against Sherlock’s skin.
“Okay,” he murmurs into the back of Sherlock’s neck, once he’s steadied himself. “Okay.”
John reaches for the lube, slicks himself up, and the noise Sherlock makes when he finally slides his cock home—growl fading to helpless whimper—is enough to having him closing his eyes and counting to five, holding as still as he can to keep from coming right then.
When he regains his senses, he realises Sherlock’s shaking, pushing back against him and arching and moaning. He gasps when John starts to move his hips, fuck him slow and deep, and when John reaches around and takes hold of his cock again he makes another of those broken, need-filled little sounds.
He finally finds words right before he comes. “John,” he gets out, “John, I—I—”
The rest of it gets lost, devolves into ragged, desperate breaths, and then John’s coming too, his orgasm jolting through him and leaving him collapsed against Sherlock’s back, weak-limbed and damp with sweat.
***
“‘I’ what?” John asks, later, when they’re cleaned up and curled against each other in bed. He keeps his voice soft; aims to sound mildly curious, not as needy or as hopeful as he feels.
“Hmm?” Sherlock says, and then blinks and looks at him disdainfully, his usual hauteur firmly back in place. “Really, John, how should I remember? It was probably nonsense. That seems to be the default in these situations—certainly judging by some of the things you came out with earlier.”
“Right,” John says, and lets his head sink back against Sherlock’s shoulder. “Of course.”
Sherlock sniffs, then closes his eyes and rolls over. John hides his smile in the pillow.