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Sherlock paces back and forth in the sitting room, fuming, as John tries in vain to calm him down for what feels like the hundredth time. If anything, though, it’s making it worse.
Sherlock’s hands are clenched so hard in his hair that John is afraid he’ll tear most of it out. John has never seen him look quite so tense; the frustration is radiating off him in waves. From his seat on the sofa, John stretches out a hand towards him, desperate to calm him, but Sherlock merely bats it away.
“John, you don’t understand! I had him! I had him within my reach, I am going to get Anderson fired for this! He can’t be allowed to—Will you stop trying to calm me down!?” he shouts, eyeing John’s hand suspiciously. “I am perfectly calm!”
It has been hours of this, and John has had enough.
“Come here,” he barks, putting just enough Captain Watson into the order that Sherlock is sitting on the sofa before he’s even realized he’s moved. He blinks down at John, surprised.
John takes him by the shoulders and gently lays his head in his lap. Sherlock’s eyes widen and his arms flail wildly as his center of gravity is shifted.
“John?”
“Hush. This always worked for me as a child, so it’ll work for you.”
Sherlock’s brow furrows in confusion. “What makes you say that?”
“You’re a giant child, Sherlock,” John tells him. He starts running his fingers through Sherlock’s curls just as Sherlock’s mouth opens up to argue; all that comes out is a happy sigh.
Sherlock jams his mouth shut, reddening. “What are you—mmmmmmmm,” he moans quietly when John’s fingers scrape with just the right amount of pressure. His arms turn to jelly at his sides, and his head lolls in John’s hands.
“See?” John says, intent on rubbing it in. Sherlock seems too far gone to care, his eyes fluttering shut as John rubs his scalp. John was wrong; he isn’t a giant child, he’s a giant cat.
John clicks on the telly and switches to the news, watching absent-mindedly as he untangles Sherlock’s hair with his fingertips. Sherlock moans quietly again, and John realizes why this might become a problem exactly at the same time as it does become a problem.
Sherlock’s eyes fly open. “John? There’s—.”
“Nothing!” John cries. He grabs the pillow near his elbow and hastily shoves it under Sherlock’s head, hoping he forgets about it.
Which is wishful thinking of course, because this is Sherlock we’re talking about.
Sherlock is beet red. “Was that—.”
“It happens sometimes, alright? It isn’t anything you did, if you want me to stop I absolutely will, no questions asked—.”
Sherlock blushes harder. “John, I—.”
With a trembling hand, he takes hold of John’s wrist and slowly places John’s hand over the front of his trousers.
John’s eyes widen.
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispers. “I didn’t mean to.”
John’s heart melts. “Sherlock, no, it’s—it’s fine. More than fine. Do you—Do you want this?”
The blush doesn’t fade from Sherlock’s cheeks as he whispers, “Yes.”
“Do you want… me?”
Sherlock nods.
John gives the front of Sherlock’s trousers a last squeeze before dragging it back up into Sherlock’s hair, and something resembling a needy whimper flies from Sherlock’s lips.
He claps a hand over his mouth, which absolutely will not do.
“Sherlock,” John says quietly. He leans forward to kiss Sherlock’s forehead, and Sherlock practically melts into the sofa. “Your sounds are beautiful. Please don’t cover them up.”
He keeps kissing down Sherlock’s face, stopping at his cheekbones and nose before sealing his lips over Sherlock’s. He delicately licks across the seam of Sherlock’s lips until Sherlock’s own tongue comes out to meet his. They intertwine, and John swallows Sherlock’s long, gorgeous moan.
He pulls away, but keeps one hand in Sherlock’s hair, gently scratching at his scalp and tugging at his hair. Tiny noises escape from Sherlock as he does, his head rolling in John’s lap, his eyes slowly closing as John slides his other hand down Sherlock’s neck and onto his chest, where the buttons of his shirt are straining against his pectorals.
His fingertips brush across Sherlock’s right nipple through the shirt, and Sherlock gasps.
“Is this okay?” John murmurs, kissing his forehead again. Sherlock blushes again, but nods.
John starts to gently pluck at Sherlock’s nipple, waiting for it to peak through the shirt. Sherlock’s gasps slowly turn into whimpers, and when John rolls the little nub between his fingers, Sherlock arches his back and moans.
“Jesus, Sherlock, you’re gorgeous,” John tells him. He moves to the other nipple, watching in awe and arousal as Sherlock writhes in his lap, his hands clenched tightly in the upholstery of the sofa.
“Really?” Sherlock gasps out. He looks more uncertain than John has ever seen him, and John never wants to see that look again.
“Sherlock,” he starts, leaning in until he can lick Sherlock’s nipple through his shirt. He swirls his tongue in the damp material until Sherlock is nearly sobbing.
“You,” he continues, pinching at the wet nipple and savouring Sherlock’s moan.
“Are.” Another pinch, another beautiful writhe.
“Gorgeous,” he finishes, sealing his mouth over Sherlock’s again to swallow the groan that emerges from the deepest part of his chest when John twists both of his nipples at once. His body practically levitates off the couch, his head tossing back, his chest heaving desperately to draw in enough air.
John wonders if he could come just from watching him. Sherlock’s hands come up and grip his head, angling his mouth and deepening the kiss, and John watches in awe as Sherlock’s hips thrust involuntarily upwards, seeking a friction they aren’t likely to find.
John kisses him harder, twining his fingers in his hair and tugging, and oh—Sherlock’s hips start thrusting again, just as Sherlock lets out what could almost pass as a wail.
John lets his hand inch downwards until it reaches the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers. He hesitates for a moment, releasing Sherlock’s mouth to ask, “Is this okay, Sherlock? Because we don’t have to—This is your choice, here. Do you want to stop?”
Sherlock tries for his best You’re an idiot face, but with his pupils blown wide, his hair in disarray, and his cheeks and chest flushed, the effect is nearly lost. John gently runs his fingers up and down the hardness he can feel through the thin material.
He smiles teasingly as he asks again, “Is this okay?”
“John, touch me, please,” Sherlock whispers pleadingly. In the next instant, John is undoing the button on his trousers and pulling him out through his flies. He looks down at Sherlock and realizes Sherlock is watching himself disappear into John’s fist time and time again, his eyes wide. The thought goes straight to John’s cock. He gives one more slow, torturous stroke before returning to Sherlock’s nipples, pinching and pulling until Sherlock is sobbing in his lap.
His cock is dribbling precome onto his expensive trousers, and with every pluck, every lick at Sherlock’s nipples, it twitches. Sherlock’s hips push up and down fruitlessly, his cock receiving none of the friction it so desperately craves. Sherlock’s gasps become nearly constant moans. John continues his merciless teasing until Sherlock, with a cracked voice and tears in his eyes, cries helplessly, “Please?”
John’s hand flies to Sherlock’s cock and gives it a few hard strokes, Sherlock’s jaw soundlessly dropping at the sudden onslaught of sensation. His hands scrabble at the cushions and his hips stutter beneath John’s fingers. He’s perfect.
John sucks Sherlock’s earlobe between his lips as he strokes him before very quietly whispering, “You are the hottest thing I have ever seen,” directly into Sherlock’s ear.
Sherlock’s eyes fly open.
His back arches almost impossibly.
All of his muscles contract as he starts to come, finally tipped over the edge, John murmuring soothingly into his ear through it all until Sherlock is left gently shivering with aftershocks. He kisses him on the forehead.
“John,” Sherlock whispers, awed. John smiles down at him. Sherlock seems to doze for a moment, his head becoming heavy in John’s hands.
Moments, later, however, his eyes fly open again and he turns to look at John’s groin. “John—You haven’t—.”
“No, but it’s fine, Sherlock, really—.”
But Sherlock shakes his head. “Do you want to—to take this into the bedroom?” he tries.
John’s cock gives a hopeful twitch. “You sure? It’s not too much?”
Sherlock smiles softly.
“It can never be too much, John. You’re you. I can never have enough of you.”