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The front door of 221 Baker Street slams shut, the two residents of the upstairs flat tumbling inside in a breathy, desperate heap.
“Sherlock, that was” — John grips one of Sherlock’s hips, pinning him against the wall of the landing and nipping at his throat — “brilliant.”
Sherlock groans softly, fisting his hands in John’s jumper. John presses a thigh between Sherlock’s legs, rubbing against the burgeoning erection he finds there. He brushes his lips along the soft skin under Sherlock’s ear.
“Amazing. Fantastic.”
There's a low rumble from the back of Sherlock's throat as he arches under John's touch, and John can't help but think of a self-satisfied cat.
"I nearly bent you over Lestrade's car, right there at the crime scene. You're a thing of beauty to watch at work, Sherlock." John's tongue traces one of the raised tendons in Sherlock's neck, following the soft curve to his collarbone as he murmurs endearments into the skin.
With skilled surgeon's fingers, he pops the buttons of Sherlock's shirt and pulls it open, rich black cotton against an unearthly pale and chiselled chest. He strokes his fingers against the hard, exposed nubs of Sherlock's nipples, causing him to moan. The sound goes straight to John's cock, twitching uncomfortably in the confines of his jeans.
"Bedroom. Now."
Sherlock merely gasps and nods, and John feels smug at having rendered him speechless. Sherlock loosens his grip on John's jumper with a forlorn-sounding sigh, and the two of them tumble into the kitchen. One look at Sherlock's wide eyes, nearly consumed by pupil, and his flushed cheeks and swollen lips, and John loses whatever composure he had, pushing Sherlock back up against the wall.
John bends slightly, bringing himself level with the dark circle of Sherlock’s nipple, pulling it into his mouth. He drags his teeth over it, lightly, but with enough force to draw a full-body shudder and a strangled moan from Sherlock. The noise is impossibly arousing, and John finds himself stroking the heavy fullness in Sherlock's trousers. He squeezes gently before undoing Sherlock’s flies with one hand. His other hand is cupping his own erection, desperate for contact.
He drags his tongue back up along Sherlock's neck, teeth scraping the edge of his jaw until their lips find each other. Kissing him fiercely, John reaches into Sherlock's trousers, finding the gap in his pants and freeing his erection.
"Christ," John gasps into Sherlock's mouth. "Want you so badly."
In response, Sherlock nips eagerly at John's lower lip and grasps the hem of his jumper. Startled, John lets his hands fall away, and Sherlock seizes his opportunity to deftly yank the jumper up and over John's head, leaving him in his jeans and a thin cotton vest. John groans and leans into Sherlock's body, grinding against him. Sherlock gasps at the friction of John's jean-clad erection rubbing against his exposed one, and he arches his body upwards. The motion causes Sherlock's undone shirt to slip off one shoulder, and John yanks at it impatiently. It slides down his arms, buttoned cuffs getting fouled around his hands.
Frustrated, Sherlock fumbles with it for a moment, freeing himself with a look of triumph that far exceeds what the simple task deserves. The flush across his cheeks has spread down his throat and across his sternum, echoing the deep red of his cock, protruding obscenely through his flies. He notices John eyeing him hungrily and smirks. With a groan, John grabs him by the waist and pulls him down the hall towards the bedroom, tripping over his jumper as they go.
Once in the bedroom, John pulls Sherlock in for a kiss that they manage to maintain until he feels the edge of the mattress hitting the back of his legs. He grabs Sherlock's shoulders and leans back, falling onto the bed in an ungraceful tumble. Sherlock lands on top of him, and John can feel the slick of precome on Sherlock's cock rubbing against his belly.
Feverish, hungry now, John undoes the top button on Sherlock's trousers and yanks them down. He manages to get the engorged cock back through the gap in Sherlock's pants so he can tug them down too. He realises Sherlock's still got his shoes on, but he's too impatient, too clumsy with furious lust, to bother dealing with them so he just leaves the trousers around Sherlock's knees, effectively hobbling him.
There's a bit of a mad fumble as John works himself out of his own jeans and pulls his cotton vest off over his head. In his desperation, he's also neglected to take off his shoes, but works his jeans far enough down that he can spread his legs somewhat. His own cock is blood-hot, rubbing against his stomach, and he can feel the warm slickness of his own precome, now mingling with Sherlock's.
John gasps, feeling Sherlock's lips tugging at his earlobe. With a whimper, he arches up against Sherlock's long, lean body, not caring one bit how desperate he sounds. The motion causes their hips to bump together, cocks not quite aligned but close enough to rub against each other. Sherlock hisses, sucking harder on John's ear. It's going to be red tomorrow, but John can't find it in himself to care right now. He flails, trying to wrap one leg around Sherlock's for more leverage, and curses the confines of his jeans. He manages to kick one shoe off with the toe of the other and squirms, freeing one leg. The motion causes their pricks to rub together again, and Sherlock's arms tremble, threatening to give out as he's looming over John.
Finally freed, John wraps his one exposed leg around Sherlock's knees, pulling him down. There's no space left between them, nothing but tight heat and sweat and desperation. Sherlock makes a noise that might be a moan or it might be a cut-off curse, John can't tell. In response, he shifts his hips, grunting as their erections finally align, pressing firmly against each other. The contact is maddening. They're both so painfully aroused that they're leaking copiously, pre-come slicking the heads of their cocks as they grind against each other.
Sherlock is hard, so bloody hard, that John is convinced he can feel every protruding vein, every fold in the velvety-soft skin of his shaft, as they press together like this. Wrapping his leg tighter around Sherlock, John's hands slide down the long, damp length of his back, settling on his arse. He grabs firmly, fingers digging into the lush flesh. As he rocks his hips, increasing the pressure and friction on their trapped cocks, John feels Sherlock's sweaty curls falling against his shoulder. There's a rush of hot, damp breath as Sherlock attempts to muffle the moans and whimpers he's letting out, still refusing to entirely relinquish control. John groans, tilting his hips upwards, changing the angle just enough to feel the soft tickle of Sherlock's pubic hair against his bollocks.
They've fallen into a proper rhythm now, Sherlock's body rising and falling with the motion like waves cresting on a sandbar. John finds himself mesmerised by the undulation. He feels a sharp sting, Sherlock's teeth digging into the taut flesh of his shoulder. Close to the scar. Sherlock has always been fixated on the scar. It doesn't hurt, though. If anything, it brings the moment into sharp focus, crystalline and fragile behind John's eyes.
The sudden clarity brings John's impending orgasm to the forefront — a hot, heavy sensation pooling in his belly, coiling around his spine. He knows he's not going to last, but judging by the way Sherlock is writhing on top of him, neither of them are. This was never about slow, luxuriant lovemaking, though. This is a quick, hard fuck brought on by overwhelming desperation, brought on by the miracle that is Sherlock, just being Sherlock. There will be time for soft and gentle later.
With renewed vigor, John digs his fingers into Sherlock's hips and feels Sherlock tugging gently on his hair in return. They pick up the pace, bodies grinding together from throat to thigh.
Suddenly and violently, John's vision goes grey. He grits his teeth, the force of the orgasm harsh and overwhelming, just like the sex has been. He's vaguely aware of Sherlock's cock twitching vigorously against his own, the fluid of their combined climaxes pooling between their bodies.
They lie quiet for a moment, Sherlock's weight heavy and limp on top of John. Gently, he wraps his arms back around Sherlock's waist — at some point during his orgasm, John had released his grip and taken hold of the sheets.
Panting, John raises his head off the bed and looks up, taking in the tangle of trousers at the foot of the bed, his lone shoe halfway across the floor, and the livid bruises across Sherlock's buttocks, clearly the size of John's fingers. With a chuckle, he lets his head fall back.
"Sorry about that, Sherlock. You're going to be sore later."
Sherlock huffs out a laugh, soft and ticklish against John's neck. "At least I'm not bleeding. I'll clean that for you later."
Cringing, John brings a finger tentatively up to his collarbone, and sure enough, the fingers come away faintly tinged with blood. Oh, well. Nobody ever said sharing anything with Sherlock Holmes would be safe, let alone a bed. Smiling, he ruffles Sherlock's hair, now matted and damp with sweat.
"I'll clean it myself, if you just get off, you great clingy nuisance."
Sherlock snorts again, burrowing in closer, effectively pinning John in place. "I'm pretty sure I already did that."
John furrows his brow, confused. "Eh?"
"You asked me to get off." Sherlock snickers, and John swats him feebly with one tired hand. Capitulating, Sherlock tumbles onto his back, landing next to John with a dramatic sigh.
Rolling his eyes, John stretches and gets up, wincing as his jeans tangle further around his ankle. He sits up and removes his other shoe, giving up getting dressed as a lost cause, and pulls his jeans and pants all the way off.
He glances over at Sherlock, still pinned at the knees by a pair of incredibly wrinkled trousers. Taking pity, he removes Sherlock's shoes with a nearly reverential gentleness, and slides his trousers and pants down, dumping them unceremoniously on the floor with his own jeans. Sherlock makes a strangely contented little noise and closes his eyes. John smiles, pats the top of Sherlock's exposed foot gently, and shuffles into the bathroom for a damp flannel.
He crawls back into bed and cleans them both off thoroughly and efficiently before curling up on his side. Sherlock’s eyes are still closed, but he raises one eyebrow questioningly, making it clear he can sense John's gaze on him.
"You're a miracle, you know that?"
"I could say the same for you, John Hamish Watson."
"Hm? How do you figure?" John asks, perplexed.
"Well, you put up with me, for one thing." At this, Sherlock opens his eyes and turns his head slightly, so he's studying John's face. It's disarming, like being inspected under a microscope, like being cut open on an autopsy table, like Sherlock's cataloguing everything inside John's mind and body. At the same time though, John can read the fragility and doubt on Sherlock's face. Tentatively, he reaches out and runs his fingers lightly along Sherlock's zygomatic arch.
"I wouldn't call it putting up with, Sherlock. I enjoy it." John feels Sherlock relaxing again under his fingers.
"That's even more miraculous, then." They both giggle slightly, and the heaviness and seriousness of the moment dissipate. Smiling, John wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist and pulls them close together again, but this time there's no hunger or desperation to it. They're both sleepy and sated and content, and that's all that matters.