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A pair of shoulders slams into the wall hard, the back of his head a fraction of a second later, the ‘thunk’ of bone and skin against wood somehow startlingly, devastatingly arousing ringing off of eardrums. Sherlock nearly growls as he leans in a roughly nips at an ear, settles a thigh between the vee of jean-clad thighs. Sherlock straightens his spine and bucks directly into John, pelvis pressing against pelvis.
Teeth grit in anger, head tilted towards the ceiling, eyes focused and steely. Sherlock wills his hips to stop, but at that moment John drops one hand to Sherlock’s waist, right below the coat and gives him just enough. The sound torn from the detective’s throat is one that is singed, consumed by arousal and barely-kept frustration. Sherlock can’t think when he’s like this, but when he’s not like this he can hardly think of anything else at all.
He can’t get John Watson out of his head and it’s a complete mystery as to why.
Sherlock splays his hands against the rough wallpaper right by John’s head and manages to turn his eyes to a shade that is as close to dangerous as he can manage; he cannot stop himself but perhaps John will stop him, save him from himself. But when Sherlock meets the doctor’s eyes there he finds only amusement and an indifference that Sherlock is quite sure is simple acquiescence. There’s the glint in his eye, it’s always there and Sherlock is positively helpless against it; he hates everything about that light in John’s eyes. It means that John knows the power he has over him, it means that he’s at Sherlock’s mercy.
Anything. Everything. All of him.
His voice is thick and breathtakingly restrained when he speaks. “Why do you do this to me?” Sherlock asks, shamefully and leans in to press his forehead over John’s left shoulder, against his hand on the wall.
John eases off, the pressure in his fingers retreating. “I don’t do anything to you.”
The shake his head gives knocks against the side of John’s skull and fingers press back against the wool of his trousers. A give and take that’s barely there, really, but one that Sherlock feels viscerally, deep inside. “You do. Everything. Why?”
“Sherlock, just because I’m not stopping you doesn’t mean you can’t stop yourself.” John’s voice is gentle but there’s a tease there, sneaking around the vowels and consonants and it occurs to Sherlock in the hazy recesses of his aroused mind that John is positively basking in this. What does it say about him that he can’t truly be bothered to care at the moment?
When he brings his head back, Sherlock’s eyes blaze with anger and he manages to hold his body rigid and enraged for as long as possible before dipping his head and taking John’s lips hard. A bruising kiss, one that John meets simply, allowing his mouth to fall open and be used. Sherlock’s tongue slips in and the man issues a filthy moan, bucking up into his partner once more before tearing himself away.
Conflicted and confused but wanting it badly. As always.
There’s no amount of explanation, no words that John has spoken regarding chemistry and attraction that have sunk into Sherlock’s brain. The man steadfastly ignores any and all explanation by John on the matter and as such, John has stopped bothering attempting to get it through Sherlock’s sometimes brilliantly thick skull that it all comes down to want. Pleasure.
Purely physical, purely sexual want. More than that too, of course. There’s the mutual attraction and respect, the feelings that are cropping up in John’s mind, along the lining of his stomach, inching their way through his veins. But he’d thought it better to begin with the simple, the basics of arousal, scientifically, the chemically true: lust. More complex subjects would be tackled once Sherlock was made to understand why his body was reacting at the most basic level. Later would come affection and the more complex emotional dealings of needing someone.
John blinks and waits under Sherlock’s intense gaze; the man can’t tear his eyes away from his lips and rather than being unnerving and exciting, John has come to expect this behavior. It all culminates in a bizarre sort of fight-or-flight. Either Sherlock will try once more to take him apart with his mouth or he will run away.
It’s another moment before he ducks in fast but holds himself back just before his mouth touches John’s. A low cry rises in his chest and with it he spins away, coat whacking John’s knees in his haste.
Sherlock dashes up the steps, coat flying behind him a dramatic cape; when he tosses the door closed John can hear the jostling of the pictures on the wall and the rattle of Mrs. Hudson’s crystal vase on the hallway table. The smile that slides onto his mouth just as the door to 221A flies open is indulgent.
“Oh dear, is he in one of his moods?” Mrs. Hudson’s head pops up, more worried than upset.
It turns John’s smile into a grin. “Something like that. Goodnight Mrs. Hudson.”
---
John knows when Sherlock needs it, when he’s wanting. His movements become less precise, but in a manic way that isn’t common to his other moods. After particularly exhilarating cases have concluded Sherlock has been known to get down on his knees in the loo at Scotland Yard and suck John off without preamble. He holds John’s wrists above his head after a call from Mycroft, presses him as hard into the wall as physics will allow and pulls himself off all over John’s thigh. He is rough and insistent and never, ever wants to speak about it before, during or afterward.
John’s taken to wearing his oldest button ups when he knows Sherlock is on the fringe of taking him. The man has no regard for buttons or fastenings. Belts enrage him and undershirts are seemingly the worst inventions ever known to man. Sherlock claws and pulls and rips and takes because he can’t help himself.
John thinks it’s rather brilliant. He knows, as Sherlock’s closest friend and confidant, as the person that Sherlock trusts and cares for the most, that the detective will eventually work out why he feels the particular way he does about John. Better to come to that conclusion on his own, John decides one evening as Sherlock tugs at him, insisting on being filled.
It’s so much better this way.
His teeth rake down the skin of John’s neck hard, ending with a sharp bite to his collarbone. “Christ, why do you do this to me?” He asks it like this is punishment, like this is hell for him.
“The notion that I could make you do anything at all, Sherlock,” John breathes out as the taller man pushes him down onto the sofa and settles himself between his legs. “Is distinctly absurd and maybe the stupidest thing you’ve ever thought.”
“But you can,” Sherlock grits, frustrated as he presses his cock slowly into John. John takes it all without complaint, simply allowing his eyes to fall shut, a small moan crawling its way up his throat.
Sherlock moves quickly, retreating and pressing insistently back in, his hands holding hard at John’s hips, digging and clawing. There will be angry, red marks marring the doctor’s skin in the morning but he won’t mind or complain; he won’t speak about them.
That’s not how this works.
Sherlock wants and John let’s him take. John wants, too, but that’s secondary, really. It works this way because it’s the only way that John knows that he can let Sherlock have anything at all.
“This is the last time,” Sherlock promises, keens as he comes in John’s body, hot and pulsing and perfect and when he slumps against the warm skin beneath him, pulling him off sloppily, John nods.
“Okay,” he agrees easily, but only because he knows full well that Sherlock’s words are a complete lie.
---
“That’s all this is, nothing more, nothing more,” Sherlock says shakily (he doesn’t even think he believes it himself) as he comes up behind John and curls a hand tightly around his neck, cutting off air to his windpipe for just a moment. John allows himself to be pushed hard into the wall, his right cheek mashing into the plaster before he gives a little laugh and shifts his weight.
He’s turned the table on Sherlock easily.
“Oh no, we’re not just fucking,” John says breathily as he gets to his knees and swiftly frees Sherlock’s cock from his trousers.
Sherlock’s head shivers on his shoulders and though he fights the urge to allow his eyes to close against the brilliance of John’s tongue against his slit, he can’t manage. “No?”
“You’ll figure that out soon enough,” John mentions casually when he pulls back to smear his mouth into the place where Sherlock’s torso meets his thigh, John’s favorite place in the world. “Soon enough.”
---
“Just shut up,” Sherlock says though John hasn’t spoken word one since he’d made him to strip and sit upon the kitchen table. “Shut up, shut up,” Sherlock says again and presses a palm over his mouth hard. John deliberately puffs out a breath of air over the back of his hand.
Sherlock’s nostrils flare.
“I cannot think for all of your distractions,” Sherlock shouts and yanks John up onto his feet before turning him around and pressing on his back until the heels of his palms hit the table. “You just... you just...” And Sherlock suddenly dips his head to run his tongue along the curve of John’s ass.
John remains still but for one, quick shiver. He sucks in a breath and holds it as Sherlock settles down onto his knees properly and brackets John’s buttocks with both hands before circling his tongue around the tight ring of muscle beneath.
His stomach hits the edge of the table and he lays himself out on it, crosses his arms and settles his cheek against his wrist. Sherlock doesn’t take his time, he moves haphazardly, retreats to bite at John’s right cheek before sealing his mouth over John and licking in. Boneless, John bites into his own arm as the man behind him crooks in two fingers and strokes.
“I shouldn’t have to do this,” Sherlock hisses and reaches in, in, brushes John’s prostate. It’s a real task to process what Sherlock has said. Giving a little harumph, he gives over a little, bucks back into Sherlock’s hand. “I shouldn’t,” he says as John hears the give of a zip and a rustle of clothing.
He only needs to wait a moment before he feels Sherlock pressing in, scrabbling for John’s arms. John goes loose, presses his cheek back against the table as Sherlock holds his hands tight behind his back as he fucks him. “No,” Sherlock coughs out, as he bottoms out against John’s ass.
One hand curled around John’s wrist, the other fisted in John’s hair, Sherlock’s hips move quickly, slam into John hard. With each rut he slides a fraction of a bit further across the table; the friction does nothing to abate the ache in his cock but this isn’t about him, not really.
Sherlock shouts John’s name when his hips stutter and shake and he comes, his grip on John’s wrists loosening, not letting go. “This has to stop,” come the words and then a sniffle and then Sherlock is pulling out and tidying up, fluttering about the kitchen briefly.
“Damn it, damn this.” He stills, picks up an Erlenmeyer flask from where it lays tipped on the table and throws it hard against the front of the refrigerator before picking up his trousers, tucking himself in and stomping away. Another slammed door.
John, unfulfilled, amused, troubled and just about a million other things, stands and heads for the shower.
---
“Why?” Sherlock asks him after he’s settled into his armchair by the fire, evening paper spread out over his knees, knees that had an hour ago been digging into the porcelain of the bathtub as he serviced Sherlock beneath the spray.
“You know why,” John says, licks a finger and flips to the business section. He doesn’t look at Sherlock.
Sherlock moves from one window to the other and back, finally sitting on the sofa, uncomfortably after a few minutes. “You should want to stop,” he says seriously.
At this, John glances up. “Why?”
Their gazes meet and hold until Sherlock stands and heads to his room.
---
Sherlock snogs him in the back of a cab on the way both to and from Scotland Yard.
Sherlock bites into his neck while they’re waiting for Mycroft to arrive at 10 Downing Street.
Sherlock gropes through John’s trousers behind a gurney in the morgue at St. Barts while Molly details the time of death of a body on a slab.
Sherlock makes John come in his pants while they’re waiting for a flight to Hamburg.
---
Sherlock has no problem batting John’s hands away when John forgets exactly what’s going on here. On the rare occasion when John wants to hold and take and have, Sherlock’s eyes will fall into shade and he’ll just leave, go away. On the rare occasion when John forgets exactly what this is about it stings, a little.
A lot.
---
John enters the flat with bags full of shopping. “I’m going to make steak for dinner, are you up to eat?”
“I’m going to fuck you through the mattress,” Sherlock says from the sofa and is lightning fast in pushing him back into the cabinetry.
John wants to comment on the fact that the bed will make for a nice change of pace.
He doesn’t.
Dinner can wait.
---
It all begins to crumble a bit one evening when Sherlock is straddling John’s thighs as they sit in the front of the fire. It’s not exactly gentle but Sherlock is being more thorough than usual; he doesn’t give up after a few moments to pry John’s trousers open.
There’s nothing in his body language that suggests that Sherlock wants to shag him senseless. The man seems nearly content to sit and kiss and breathe. The detective keeps his eyes closed to all of it and when John makes the mistake of moving his hands to cup Sherlock’s cheeks he only sighs and leans in further.
It’s all a bit odd but John takes it, Sherlock’s hum and quiet keens. He allows the man to slide down his legs, open his trousers and lick him, root to tip. It’s not gentle, really, but it’s paced and it’s intense and John’s never felt this with Sherlock before.
He finds he’s allowed to tangle his fingers in Sherlocks curls and takes a moment to assess their silkiness against his skin. It’s so foreign, the time that his tongue takes lapping at his length, meandering down to lick beneath, at his perineum and then up, up, along the underside of his cock.
He finds it too easy to fall into the sensation of it, being eaten alive. That’s what it feels like, truly. John loves him in this instant, barely, from his soul to his eyes to the way his fingers press into Sherlock’s scalp. He’s loved him for just about forever but the point is that he’s letting himself love Sherlock now, with everything laid bare.
It feels blindingly wonderful and freeing.
John jerks, comes in Sherlock’s mouth without a word and Sherlock stills and hold there, waiting for John to ride it out. When John slumps back into the chair Sherlock climbs back up his body and kisses him, sharing John’s desire with him, tongue against tongue, sloppy and slick.
He can’t help it, the doctor clutches at the back of Sherlock’s head and finally demands more and it’s quick pecks against the sides of mouths and deep, soulful swipes of tongue for what feels like eons before Sherlock pulls back. Eyes cast down, his hands slide into his pockets; John notices the prominence of the man’s erection but says nothing.
Sherlock’s gaze flicks up and he gives a tiny smile, a bit of heat in his cheeks. “Goodnight, John.”
---
They go slow.
Compared to every single time before this, it’s as though they’re moving through honey. John’s hands are careful and his movements measured and Sherlock somehow manages to restrain himself, keep his body still and perfect on the bed as John’s hands trace from the hollow of his throat to his ankles, back, and everywhere in between.
John feels as though bound by a spell; if he changes his pace or jerks or does something as monumentally stupid as sneeze or smile he will fracture this delicate moment. Even as he presses into Sherlock, breaches his body, he holds his breath for fear a stray exhalation with crumble it all. When he’s finally nestled inside him, John lays his body upon Sherlock’s and remains there for as long as he can stand.
It’s not nearly enough, but when he moves-balancing himself on his left elbow and forearm in order to stroke Sherlock a bit-everything is very starkly different. Sherlock grips and writhes but doesn’t get greedy, he moves as John moves. Lips seek John’s and manage to find a cheek, briefly brush against lips before John removes his hand and his face falls back into Sherlock’s neck.
With a small grunt, Sherlock shifts and twists and John sinks somehow deeper.
John removes his head from the crook of Sherlock’s neck, settles his nose right up against Sherlock’s and breathes as he moves without hurry.
“Oh,” Sherlock breathes as his eyes open and his pupils blow wide. “Oh,” he repeats and something light settles in the center of John’s chest.
He smiles against Sherlock’s neck, kisses him there against his pulse, gently. “Yeah?” John asks, asks if he finally understands.
“John,” Sherlock whispers and grips him around the middle very, very tightly.
John moves inside of him, presses down and in and says, “Good.”