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Sherlock loved to watch John have a wank. But not any sort of wank. Oh, Sherlock would absolutely barge into the shower to catch John with his hand around his dick and stand there in rapt attention until he’d streaked the shower wall white with his come, and he made no secret of how erotic he found it when John would have his quick and perfunctory wanks during cases when Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to do more than shove John’s laptop in his general direction and direct him to “have at it”. John wasn’t concerned with putting on a show at those times. His face would strain and turn red as he stripped himself furiously, pace a minor consideration to the necessity of coming and quickly. He’d hold his breath and let out small grunts of effort until he sighed, and his release would coat his hand, thick and sticky. Sherlock appeared to take no notice, but later he’d recount the moment in exacting detail and, then, John would repeat the act for him, this time much slower, more vocal in his appreciation of his audience and when he came, Sherlock would moan as he licked John’s hand clean.
But that wasn’t what Sherlock was particularly into. If John had to guess his flatmate’s proclivities upon embarking on a sexual relationship with him, he doesn’t reckon Sherlock watching John edge himself all day in his trousers until he was soaked through and fairly desperate to come would have been on his radar at all. Nor would have seeing him shoot massively in his trousers, then start the process over again in same trousers while Sherlock sat across from him in his chair tenting his pyjama pants. And really, the sight of Sherlock sitting there, hard as anything and refusing to touch himself, hips lifting slightly as if humping at the air above his seat while John sat there in spunky trousers and wanked about it, well it wasn’t anything he’d encountered on the internet but damned if he wasn’t about to shoot off in his pants again like a thirteen year old.
“Fuck, Sherlock, going to come,” he panted out, hand working over the damp fabric at his crotch. The air in the room was thick with the bleachy smell of his semen. Sherlock made a small, desperate sound and dropped from his seat to kneel on the floor between John’s knees, face pressed as close to John’s hand as he could get without interrupting the movement of John’s fingers over his fabric covered member. Inside his pants he was still slick and hard and it felt amazingly filthy wanking like this. Sherlock audibly smelled him and John groaned. “Fuck, Sherlock, ungh,” and that was it. Sherlock’s hand batted his away and his warm palm settled over John’s crotch as he bucked and shot rope after rope of come into his pants, soaking the front of his trousers. Sherlock pressed the wetness into him, rubbed it into his skin and when that ceased to entice, leaned forward and began to suck the come straight from his trousers. If John hadn’t just orgasmed massively, the sight and sound of Sherlock doing that would have had him hard enough to cut glass.
And then Sherlock opens John’s trousers, stands, and begins to wank himself over the spunky mess within, one hand flying over his own beautiful prick and the other trailing through John’s come, spreading it around, rubbing it into his skin, occasionally bringing his fingers to his mouth to taste and smell. John groans at the sight. “Christ you filthy, beautiful, mad bastard. That’s it. Give it to me now, come on.”
And as if on command, Sherlock comes. He comes on Johns spunky pants, on his flaccid cock, on his stomach glistening with the semen Sherlock spread there. He comes on John’s chest, on his neck, on his face. And though he couldn’t get hard again to save his life, John revels in it. Loves being marked, being covered in Sherlock’s scent, in his come, and especially loves how it drives Sherlock wild to see him drag a finger through the puddle on his chest and suck on it, to rub his spend into his nipples, to mix their semen together on his body and fucking bask in it.
No, if John had to guess Sherlock’s kinks, he’d have probably gone with bondage or something medical or military maybe. Never this, never something so animal, so primal as this.
But then John was just the blogger in spunky trousers with the armful of passionate and sated genius, so what the fuck did he know?
“We need a shower,” said Sherlock.
John did know that much, at least.