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John was sitting on Sherlock’s lap, bandages strewn around them as he patched up his head like so many nights before. Sherlock seldom came home without some semi-fatal injuries these days; John had warned him not to take the Fermacelli case, but he couldn’t turn down the opportunity to undercover one of the biggest foreign crime rings operating out of London. He also didn’t regret the intimate moments he got to spend with John when he came home, beaten and bloody from his efforts.
John would furrow his brow and sigh and scold him for taking on more than he was capable of. Sherlock was, however, willing to overlook the subtle insult of his intelligence for what was to come next. He would sit on the couch and John would bring over a cup of tea and his first aid kit. His flatmate would straddle his thighs and brush his dark curls out of the way to run his fingers along the dried blood at his hairline. The cloth John dabbed against his face was cool to the touch, and he always cleaned the cuts without causing them to sting.
This entire routine was as predictable as it was terrifying to him.
Sherlock was fully capable of dressing his own wounds, but he was selfish. He could lock up his emotions as tightly as he did around the general public, but he could not resist John. He used to get so furious with himself for experiencing these feelings, but would nevertheless cave to his desire at the end of the evening. The casual intimacy combined with the domesticity of the entire scene crept its way into his heart and mind and screamed at him to stay. It was intoxicating, the way John’s hand would tilt his chin up to get a better angle to wipe the blood from his cheek, his thumb running along his bottom lip as he did so because John was selfish too. Sherlock did not have to hide from John anymore, as he had made it quite clear to him that he was just as obsessed with Sherlock as Sherlock was with him.
They were more than flatmates, but Sherlock despised the word boyfriends. No, this was deeper, more raw and real than any relationship he’d ever known. “Partner” was the closest word to describe it, but nothing really explained the sense of urgency that drew Sherlock to be as close to John as he possibly could at all hours of the day.
This time, however, the men were closer than they had ever been to each other. John had made sure of that tonight. Sherlock had come home with a particularly nasty second-degree burn on his chest.
(“Someone really did try to burn the heart out of you this time, love.”)
(“Another unsuccessful attempt; everyone knows I leave it here with you when I go to work.”)
John knew that it wasn’t going to be easy to mend; Sherlock loathed taking his shirt off for anyone, and as soon as John slid the first sleeve off of his partner’s button-down he noticed the sharp, overwhelming expression of discomfort darken his features. It would take more than his usual tactics to get him to stay this time.
John fortunately remembered, due to evidence gathered during past midnight rendezvous in their flat, that Sherlock had no issue with being stripped of his trousers. He only refused to expose his torso.
This realization led John to compose the brilliant idea that he was currently putting into motion. As he shifted on Sherlock’s lap to clean a different section of the burn, the other would suck in a breath through his teeth, and John would smile to himself and bite his lip instinctively to prevent any unwanted noises from entering the conversation. He would be kidding himself if he wasn’t chasing his own pleasure simultaneously.
Sherlock noticed all of these movements that he knew John thought he was hiding; it used to be one of his favorite things about John, the way he would try to catch him off-guard and gain the upper hand. The problem only recently arose when he realized that John was starting to succeed in these endevours; this stunt he pulled tonight was, much to his chagrin, completely unpredictable.
He was literally and figuratively exposed beneath his . . . partner, and underneath the layers of disbelief, embarrassment, and even anger, some mass of energy that dwelled deep within his core was nonetheless craving everything John had to offer him. His fingers trailed further along his wound, leaving hot and painful sparks in their wake, but then his thumb would graze his nipple on its path and oh, then he knew he belonged to this man. And, of course, because John now noticed these things, would smile and shift his hips again, and the energy would concentrate in between his legs and he wanted to sink into the floor and just let John own his entire body.
Actually, scratch that. Sherlock was currently incapacitated, yes, but he was never one to give up in any situation without a fight.
In a singular motion, despite his injury, he planted one foot and rolled his hips once, wanting desperately to find something just as deep and raw inside John as he had. He hit a spot that John had only found on his own late at night, disarming him momentarily as the guttural sound that he had tried so hard to contain spilled from his lips. It was a sound that Sherlock hadn’t heard in a while, and he wasn’t content with just one.
He was on a mission, listening to John’s verbal cues to discover which movements created the most pleasure. He learned that if he angled himself just so, John’s free hand would grip his shoulder and the hand bandaging his newly cleaned burn would shake. His breath was coming shallower and faster, but the best signal of all was when John would tell him himself.
(“Sherlock . . . do that again.”)
Yes, yes, talk to me tell me everything you want from me I have to feel you I NEED to feel you
(“You want more?”)
(“God, yes.”)
Where had Sherlock learned this? It seemed highly improbable that he had shagged anyone else, but he learned new things about the man every day. He obviously took pleasure in breaking down all of John’s walls he had constructed for self-preservation; activities such as these at their core, he supposed, were really just the physical manifestation of the mind games the two of them constantly engaged in.
Why shouldn’t John have a little fun of his own? The thought occurred to him suddenly, and he began to move faster, in small waves against the shore of his partner’s lap. The harder he clenched around him as he continued his growing rhythm, Sherlock began to break too. Sweat was collecting in his brow, and his eyes fluttered shut as John ran his fingers through his soft brown curls. His breaths turned into mutters turned into pleas as he grew closer to the magical moment that had been on John’s the minute they had arrived back to the flat. He was coming soon, and all he wanted to do was hold him for as long as he possibly could, feel every nerve and muscle and blood vessel that moved beneath his skin.
(“I’ve got you. It’s okay, I’ve got you.”)
Sherlock had never been reduced to a lower state. Every breath was a chant, whispering John’s name like a prayer in an attempt to make that energy spread, because it wasn’t merely desire anymore, it was a need it was already growing horrible, electrical tendrils and wrapping around his vital organs, drawing itself further south until his whispers turned to shouts.
(“John . . . John, I can’t-”)
(“Yes, Sherlock, please . . . for me, inside me-!”)
The electric mass suddenly detonated as Sherlock’s eyes squeezed shut, but John was determined to enjoy this fleeting moment of freedom (and stop his own needless babbling) and captured his lover’s mouth with own, and at last they were one; hurtling untethered through a void that neither of them were very well acquainted with, which made it all the more exhilarating. Their lips were chapped, their teeth were clashing, and John’s nose was bent in an improper direction by Sherlock’s cheekbone, but neither man could care about the physicality until their time in the void was up and they landed, less than gracefully, into each other’s arms and onto the hardwood floor.
(“Mrs. Hudson’s going to kill us.”)
(“You know she does her shopping until six, I didn’t shag you that hard.”)