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It was a peaceful Saturday morning. The sun was shining from behind the sheer drapes, filling the bedroom with warm, softened light. The clock on the bedside table read 10:04 AM. They didn't have a case going yet, and John didn't have to go into the surgery until Monday. It was all of these pleasant things that John gradually awoke to, effortlessly, and with a long, indulgent yawn.
Blinking away the fog of sleep from his eyes, he rolled over in bed and grinned. Sherlock was still fast asleep next to him; a rarity, as the detective didn't often sleep in this late. His hair was a bird's nest of dark curls, and he was sleeping in a rather comical position, with his limbs tangled in the mass of sheets and his face mashed against the pillow that he was snoring softly into.
John then realized that he, himself, was hard, having awoken from some sensual dream that he couldn't quite recall, and left with the resulting erection. Until recently, he'd have just had a wank and been done with it, but now that he and Sherlock were having sex on a fairly regular basis—and literally sleeping together, most nights—he couldn't help but want that, instead. Especially with Sherlock lying right next to him, the sheets having fallen off of one shoulder in the night, exposing a good part of his smoothly muscled back. Just enough skin to make John yearn to see the rest of him, as well.
Sliding up behind him, John curled up flush against his back, spooning the sleeping man and allowing his cock to press against a long, white leg through the fabric of his boxers and the thin sheet separating them. Just that light contact alone felt delightful, and John sighed appreciatively into the crook of Sherlock's neck. His breath made the fine hair around Sherlock's ear flutter, tickling him awake. John had begun to grind his hips in slow, lazy circles against Sherlock's side by the time the detective turned to look over his shoulder and blinked blearily at him.
"John," He said simply, not quite a question, nor a statement.
"Morning," John mumbled back, his words muffled against Sherlock's shoulder. "Fancy a shag?"
Sherlock blinked again, and then grinned. It was far from John's most romantic proposition, but he didn't care. If anything, he liked it when John spared the sentimental babble and just got straight to touching him, to taking what he wanted like a man who knew exactly what he was doing. And he did know, after all; as much as Sherlock detested the crude nickname "Three Continents Watson", he had to admit that John was fantastic enough a lover to have rightly earned it.
Before he'd met John, he had been completely prepared to live a life of celibacy, devoting himself to his work alone and shunning pursuits of the flesh. He had considered sexual impulses to be no more than vulgar distractions, and was certain that he wanted nothing to do with any of it. But then this kind, blond army doctor with the psychosomatic limp and an insatiable lust for adventure had come along, and everything had changed.
Without even needing a verbal response, John grinned back mischievously and reached an arm around Sherlock's narrow waist, letting his fingers brush ever so lightly over his naked stomach, eliciting a shiver, and down to the waistband of his fitted black underwear, letting his fingernails rake gently through the sparse, soft hairs below his navel while his thumb toyed with the edge of the soft fabric at his hip. Sherlock's cock twitched, as if waking up, itself, and soon heat started to pool between his legs as he stiffened. John had a way of making his skin feel electrified with hypersensitivity, using only his hands and mouth. He loved to tease Sherlock with featherlight strokes and brushes across the surface of his skin, just barely touching, his hands and lips forever threatening to settle onto different tender places, only to then pull away and leave him trembling with anticipation. By the time John finally got to fingering him or lapping at his cock or any other actual sex act, Sherlock's entire body would be ablaze with heady arousal, and his breath would be coming in feverish gasps.
But that morning, John was impatient, already nursing an aching hard-on that was desperate for attention, and seemed to be reveling in the pleasant ease of sex first thing in the morning. He mouthed at the tender skin on Sherlock's neck, just below his earlobe, with a perfectly judged hint of teeth as he slipped his hand down the front of Sherlock's pants, quickly finding his half-hard prick and squeezing it in a warm palm. It only took a few firm strokes and a sucking kiss on his neck to get Sherlock fully hard, and as soon as he was John stopped just long enough to tug the brunette's underwear down and off from around his ankles, then immediately resumed his pumping with increased intensity. Sherlock let him work him, bathing in the waves of sensation, until eventually John let go and sat up to shed his own boxers, then reached into the nightstand drawer and effortlessly found the tube of lubricant now always kept there, along with a condom packet.
Sherlock rolled over so that he was flat on his stomach, with his erection pressed between his belly and the mattress, and spread his legs out. He knew what came next, and shot John a hungry look over his shoulder. John merely gave him a sly half-smile which absolutely oozed confidence as he uncapped the lube and squirted a good amount into his hand. They didn't need to talk, really; they were both operating on the same exact wavelength, moving in tandem and predicting each other's movements without even having to think about it. They'd done this enough times by then that very little communication was necessary. It depended entirely on their collective mood at the time, but, as Sherlock had once bragged, "If people think we work well together when we're out chasing criminals, they ought to see us in the bedroom."
The detective arched his back, pressing back against John's hand as wet fingers circled his puckered hole, John's other hand squeezing his plump arse cheek and spreading him open to give it's probing twin better access. Sherlock let out a heavy gasp as one finger, then two slipped inside of him, twisting as they pushed in and then curling as John found the firm lump of his prostate, giving it a slow, broad stroke that make the edges of Sherlock's vision go dim from the surge of pleasure that shot up his spine. He couldn't help but moan wantonly as John began massaging him, rubbing circular shapes against that glorious sweet spot that make his legs go weak and his ever-busy mind all fuzzy. The doctor was a master at this, and apparently very much enjoyed preparing Sherlock, always savoring his task and watching, fascinated, as he slowly took the taller of the two apart every single time.
He began alternating between swipes across the prostate while pumping in and out, and then scissoring his fingers, stretching him until the tight ring of muscle relaxed into his touch and his digits glided in with slick ease. Sherlock was panting by the time John easily pushed a third finger in, nearly on the verge of pleading with John to hurry up and finish the foreplay, he was ready!—but John sensed his desperation before he needed to say it out loud, and withdrew his hands to rip open the condom packet and roll it hurriedly onto his own neglected cock, applying a bit more lube as he did so.
Sighing with excited relief, Sherlock lifted himself onto his hands and knees, legs spread wide to let John scoot forward until he felt the fronts of the doctor's thighs pressed against the backs of his own, the doctor's heavy erection resting on his lower back and twitching eagerly. The first time they'd had sex in this position, Sherlock had been hesitant, thinking it would be humiliating to put himself on display like that so submissively. But John had coaxed him into trying it, and to his enthusiastic surprise, he'd found it to be wonderfully intense, allowing John to fuck him harder and deeper than he could with Sherlock on his back, facing him. It hadn't even been all that embarrassing, after the start. John never made him feel ashamed of himself. If anything, he encouraged him—telling him how well he was doing, that he wanted to hear Sherlock cry out in the heat of the moment, wanted to hear how good he was making him feel.
John loved seeing him that way, when he finally let his impenetrable guard down just long enough to become lost in an experience. Just for him, only ever for John.
Prick in hand, John rubbed the head wetly back and forth across Sherlock's awaiting hole, relishing how he pushed back against him, trying to impale himself and at last get the precious friction he needed, so John finally took pity on him. He was achingly hard himself as he leaned forward and carefully pushed in, slipping past the tight, hot ring of muscle at his entrance and slid in deep, all the way to the base of his cock in one long, slow push. Sherlock groaned at the sensation of John's hips pressed flush against his arse, his cock fully seated inside him, filling him so completely. It was the most bizarre sensation, initially being almost alarmingly invasive and sometimes even painful, but after a brief adjustment period, Sherlock adored it. To think taking a man's cock up your ass could feel so good was baffling, but it did feel good. It felt bloody brilliant.
"God, that's gorgeous," John gasped, looking down in wonder at the sight of his cock disappearing into Sherlock's tight, round arse.
"You take it so well, Sherlock. So well. Just look at you."
Sherlock didn't speak, utterly overwhelmed by the thick fog of pleasurable sensations enveloping him. It was all he could do just to keep breathing.
Then John started to move, and suddenly his voice returned in the form of single-syllable noises that began tumbling from his mouth uncontrollably. John gradually established a rhythm, a steady pattern of thrusting in and nearly out and then back in again, and again, and again. He kept the pace relatively slow to draw it out as long as possible, building up the speed and intensity little by little, but never too fast. He wanted to enjoy this, and he fully intended to give Sherlock a good and thorough fucking. Not that that was a hardship; hell, in his mind, it was a treasured privilege.
"Nnh, nnh, nnh, unngh! Ahh, ahhh...."
Sherlock's deep grunts and short, breathless moans echoed the beat of John's hips smacking against his backside over and over, the head of his cock hitting his sweet spot every time. The lewd sound of skin on skin grew louder as they sped up, filling the room with the wet, telltale noises of sex. The gaps between Sherlock's wordless vocalizations narrowed, to the point where he was reduced to one long, nearly continuous groan that stuttered to the beat of their shared movements. The pressure, the friction of John's cock fucking him, pounding into him like a piston, the solid weight of John himself behind every thrust, jolting him back and forth so that he was forced to brace himself against the mattress with his arms while John held his hips firmly in place from behind.
It was absolute ecstasy, as good as any drug.
Better, even, than most. But still, somehow, entirely natural. It sent his mind reeling at the idea that his body had been capable of producing such incredible pleasure all this time, that all he'd ever needed was someone like John to help it happen. Someone he could trust enough to let his mask fall and let the physical feelings overcome all of his senses.
"John!" He shouted, completely out of reflex, as John slammed home and stayed there, grinding his hips against Sherlock's arse with a low, appreciative groan.
"You like that?" He growled, seizing both cheeks of Sherlock's arse in his hands, spreading them apart and kneading them roughly, like two firm mounds of dough.
"Yes! Yes," Sherlock practically sobbed, pushing back against him despite being filled to the very base with John's cock, its entire length buried inside him. He would be sitting in his lap if John tipped them both backwards.
He let out a startled sound as he felt John's thumb tracing the rim of his hole, the sensitive skin stretched tight around the doctor's thick member. John was toying with him now, keeping him suspended in pleasure until the very last second, delaying the orgasm that was already swelling low in his stomach, his balls already tightening in hopeful preparation. John could draw this part out for hours. In fact he had, more than once in the recent past, having kept Sherlock in a heavenly limbo of extreme arousal for what felt like ages, a pattern of bringing him to the very brink of climax, then suddenly slowing down to a teasing, sluggish pace until Sherlock had calmed down enough not to come—then back to pounding into him at full speed, and repeating the process. By the time Sherlock finally came, his orgasms had been so intense he'd seen sparks behind his eyes. It was maddening, in the very best way imaginable. Blissful torture.
"John...," Sherlock whined, shoving himself back urgently, pleadingly.
He heard John chuckle deviously before, mercifully, going back to fucking him almost spitefully, immediately adopting a brutal pace so forceful that the entire bed frame began to shake with each trust, perfectly true to form. Sherlock's long, thankful moan stuttered like bursts of gunfire as he struggled to keep himself held upright, feeling as though he were caught in a John Watson earthquake, with no choice but to hold on and ride it out to the finish. Not that he minded—he wouldn't stop this for anything. He didn't care if the Queen herself stepped through the bedroom doorway right then and there, he still wouldn't let John stop slamming into him. It was too good.
But soon his body began to protest from the strain of the position, and he let his arms buckle under him. Bowed as if in prayer, he leaned his weight onto his shoulders and reached out to grasp the headboard tightly with both hands. John quickly adjusted, scooting forward without missing a beat and plunging back in, this time at a downward angle with his back hunched. Within the first three thrusts, Sherlock was hollering into the pillows, each push hitting his prostate perfectly and causing muffled obscenities to burble out of him between wordless shouts.
"Ohh! Oh, fuck, John! Yes, yes, yesss, unngh. Oh...oh god...."
"You ready?"
Sherlock blinked dazedly, his frazzled mind slow to catch up.
"Wha-what?"
"Are. You. Ready?" John repeated, punctuating the words with deep jabs of his hips.
"John...what...?"
Before Sherlock could process that statement, John had reached beneath him and grabbed hold of his cock, immediately starting to pump it in a tightened fist.
Sherlock moaned in what sounded like agony, and with a sharp cry, came violently onto the mattress. He just kept coming, each of John's pounding thrusts causing another spurt of hot, white fluid to jet out again and again, until finally it slowed to a stop, leaving Sherlock feeling delirious and utterly depleted.
"Jesus," John growled above him, just before he let go of Sherlock's spent cock and grabbed hold of his hips in a vice grip.
"You are so fucking sexy."
With that, John suddenly picked up the pace and began slamming furiously into Sherlock, who could only gasp as he was fucked hard into hyperstimulated oblivion. Soon, John let out a primal-sounding rumble and buried himself in so deeply that they both were pushed forward across the sheets. Eyes screwed shut, he groaned deeply under his breath, hips stuttering as he came, and then came some more.
Sherlock just sat there limply, panting through the feeling of John finishing inside him, still stunned from the intensity of his own orgasm. John gave one last slow thrust and slumped, bonelessly, over Sherlock. They both laid there, breathing heavily and covered in sweat, for what seemed like ages. Not that either of them minded, totally blissed out on endorphins as they were.
When their breathing eventually eased, John smiled hugely and kissed Sherlock on the back of his shoulder.
"That was fantastic," He muttered contentedly against his skin.
"Yes...I'd have to agree. As far as morning sex goes," said Sherlock, raggedly.
John sat up and carefully pulled out, chuckling to himself as he gingerly removed the practically overflowing condom and tossed it into the bin next to the bed. He grabbed a handful of tissues from the bedside table and wiped himself off, then grabbed some more and went to work on cleaning off the lube and other sticky fluids that were coating Sherlock's arse and legs. Turning the unresponsive detective over, he mopped up the mess on his stomach as well, and laid his discarded t-shirt over the wet spot on the bed.
He knew it would be pointless to try and change the sheets until Sherlock came down from his post-coitus high, but he figured it was better than nothing.
Flopping back down onto the bed, the two of them lay there some more for a while, just letting themselves catch their breath and soak in the warm afterglow quietly. It really was a very nice day out. The cool breeze wafting in from the sitting room was refreshing, and Sherlock felt like doing some thinking. His hands drifted up to rest beneath his chin, seemingly of their own accord, with his long fingers steepled pensively and his eyes already glazed over, staring into space.
The easy silence dragged on until eventually John sat up and stretched like a bear, groaning as his neck muscles cracked. Turning to Sherlock, he sighed contentedly with a smile.
"Want to take a shower with me?" He asked.
Sherlock heard him say something, but just heard words, rather than a meaningful sentence. He was deep within the caverns and palace halls of his inner sanctum now, the gears of his brain turning too loudly for outside noise to reach him. When Sherlock didn't react to his question, John just huffed good-humouredly and got up to shower on his own.
Feeling clean and invigorated after, he poked his head back into the room to find Sherlock in the exact same place, having not moved an inch, save for closing his eyes.
"Sherlock."
No response whatsoever. He tried again, louder.
"Sherlock. Hey!"
Sherlock let out an annoyed grunt, his lazy way of asking, "What?"
"I'm putting tea on. Want any?"
"Oh, yes," Sherlock mumbled, with what nearly could have passed as gratitude in his tone.
John grinned from the doorway, wanting to test his luck.
"...And some eggs? Toast?"
Sherlock grunted in agreement.
"Alright, I'll yell when it's ready," John said, turning to go back into the kitchen.
"Oh, and also..," Sherlock called after him, his eyes snapping open.
John turned back around.
"...Fetch me my nicotine patches while you're up."
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