A/N: Because in Lucybun's Johnlock fic on LiveJournal, "His Lap Full," there is this line:

'Would he bend Sherlock over the back of his chair, lick him out until he was sobbing, and slide in with one smooth push?'

And, well. How could I resist making a full fic of just that concept? It's too good to pass up. Also, I haven't written actual porn in a while, and I feel like it, so here I am. (Also-also, I want to try writing rimming, so here I am, being incredibly filthy and loving it.) X3

(Plus jbcubbs-ultimatefanboy was interested, and really, how could I let him down~? ;D )

Enjoy this porn-without-any-real-kind-of-plot, plus-possible-OOC-Sherlock! C:

Although, whilst writing, it became a bit… sentimental. I meant for it to be pure fucking, but it seems, with these boys who love each other in every version of the story, be it platonic or not, I can't ignore that love in favour of pure sex. And so there is some love involved. Love and body-worship and sexsexsex.

But it's all good, yes?

(And I tried my best to write everything with British spelling because it fits the mood better and looks nicer, but I can't be certain I caught everything. I am American, after all. I wasn't raised to spell things the British way.)

It began on a case, as a matter of fact.

Now, John has realised for quite some time what his feelings are for Sherlock; however, he's chosen to ignore the true nature of them in favour of their already complicated relationship. Why make it any more complex than it has to be? They're colleagues, flatmates, and best friends, and that's all they will ever need to be. They work together well, they're a bit domestic for friends, but they live together, so it all seems normal enough (for them, anyway; one cannot be very normal when one is around Sherlock Holmes). Why change things?

Besides, John has rationalised, Sherlock wouldn't be interested anyway. He seems disinterested in everyone both in the romantic and sexual terms of interest, so why would John even think for a second that such a change in their dynamic would be possible anyhow?

The only person Sherlock has shown any sort of interest in was Irene Adler, and that didn't necessarily end well for any party involved, and it wasn't even any sort of fling or solid relationship, so it hardly counts. And even though Sherlock has been a bit more… friendly? Amiable? Toward John during these past few weeks, it doesn't prove anything. Which only leaves John with the same conclusion: Sherlock doesn't want any part in anything having to do with love and carnal urges.

But, oh, how wrong he was.

Because it's on a certain case that requires a stakeout in the large square vent on the floor in the far corner of a hotel room in order to catch the fugitive of the case in which John is forced into the situation where he discovers just how wrong he was about Sherlock's supposed "disinterest."

They are crammed into the tiny space, everything a bit claustrophobic and stuffy and hot. The hotel management shut off all the air conditioning that kept the room at a pleasant temperature, and in such a confined metal space, body heat climbs up into sweaty levels, and even though they would nearly freeze if the air were on, John almost would prefer it to the uncomfortable warmth he's bathing in now.

Sherlock has his hands pressed to the side walls of the vent, one foot firmly on the base of it, knee bent close to his body, and the other leg tucked under him. John, on the other hand, is kneeling, hands pressed lightly to the front gate of the vent, the slots angled downward, hiding him from view, and everything is pitch dark, only the faintest light from the cracks in the blinds on the window peeking through.

Sherlock is pressed right up against John's back, his knee nearly touching John's arse, and his breath a whisper behind John's ear.

"Uhg, this is taking forever," Sherlock murmurs, dropping his forehead onto John's trapezius, right along the notch at the base of his neck. "Where is he? We've been waiting here for nearly an hour, now."

John struggles not to squirm and make the metal around them pop and thud from any shift in weight from him. "Will you lean away a bit and go back to peering over my shoulder? Your nose is tickling my spine and it's going to blow our cover if I'm snickering when he finally comes in."

"Apologies," Sherlock huffs without meaning it. He lifts his head and blows irritated air from his mouth. It ghosts over John's nape and breezes past one ear, making John jerk forward, a popping sound from the metal resounding.

"And for God's sake, don't do that!"

"Do what?" Sherlock replies, cocking his head and leaning in closer to speak into John's ear.

John shivers and resists twitching his head to his shoulder. "That," he answers tightly. "Jesus."

"Don't tell me you're ticklish here, too?" Sherlock scoffs, but even so, he's inching forward and breathing experimentally down John's neck, lips the faintest distance from the shell of John's ear.

John hisses and does his best not to completely writhe where he sits, hunched and too warm and compacted into the vent, waiting for a rather clever arsonist in some three star hotel.

"Honestly, John, you're going to ruin the whole operation all because you can't seem to disconnect your body from your mind," Sherlock breathes, and his breath is hot and moist, quickly turning chill as inhales, stealing it back again.

"Just. Move. Away," John barely gets out through clenched teeth, because, shitty bloody fucker, he already has a stockpile of wank fantasies regarding Sherlock and he knows he's always had a very sensitive pair of ears and just as sensitive neck, and he'll be damned if he allows this little moment to add to the list and soil the end of this case.

"You know I can't," Sherlock reminds, and his voice has dropped in pitch but risen in octave, and another involuntary shiver runs through John and collects in a tingling pool in his groin. "There is a drop-off in the vent directly behind me. If I move backward too far, I will tumble and slide to my doom below, most likely breaking my neck and bashing my head open. So I'll stay right here, thank you. You will simply have to endure."

And as he says this, his lips buzz against the hollow under John's earlobe, and damn it, that does it; now he's biting his lip and his heart is thudding in his chest and he can feel himself growing hard in his trousers. He internally curses Sherlock for all he's worth and tries not to shift too noticeably.

He forces himself to look out into the room through the tiny slots and feels a trickle of sweat creep down his temple. Where is that godforsaken arsonist, and why hasn't he come back to his hotel room yet? All they need is the final proof and to catch their man, and then they can call in Lestrade and get this over with!

"You seem uncomfortable, John," Sherlock remarks quietly, but there is a hitch in his voice that nearly renders John breathless. Hands suddenly slide up John's thigh, and it's all he can do not to make an obscene noise. "Is the proximity to me truly that distracting for you?"

"Yes, you complete asshole," John retorts sharply, hissing the word and sorely tempted to backhand his fist into Sherlock's pretty little nose. His fingers go white as he presses them to the gate of the vent, and he bumps his head on the top wall of it as he turns partially toward the detective. "So get your hand off of me and focus on the case!"

"My attention is entirely on it," Sherlock replies smoothly, "But even then, I have some extra focus to spare. My mind is a many-sided geometric figure, remember?"

And as if to prove his point, Sherlock's other hand snakes up along John's opposite side, feeling out his ribs with slender, probing fingertips, and the hand on his thigh slips inward, feeling the seam of John's jeans.

John twists back around and nearly falls into Sherlock (which, with enough force, would send them both careening down into the vent and kill them both, which is a frightening thought), but braces himself on the metal grate in time. Goosebumps rise on his flesh, dotting the skin below his clothes like some sort of disease only proving his guilty state of arousal.

Sherlock's voice is in John's hair – "Let me indulge for a moment, would you, John? The anticipation of wrapping up this case and this closeness to you excite me greatly. And, it seems, you as well." – and his nose skimming John's scalp, and one hand is working over a stiffening bud adjacent to John's heart and the other is worming its way into the crotch of John's pants, palming his erection. John bites back a whimper and shuts his eyes.

"Are your actions ever appropriate?" John bites out through clenched teeth. His accusation is terribly accurate; Sherlock rarely reacts the way he's meant to at any given time. For example: laughing at a crime scene or exclaiming how fun the chase of a murderer is to the family of a victim. Never appropriate, always thoughtless of other's feelings, and always, always dependent on Sherlock's swinging moods. Most of the time, John hates it. But at the moment, he can't say he doesn't love it a little bit, too.

"You would grow tired of me if they were," Sherlock points out huskily, and really, John wants to know what brought this on. Sherlock said he's going to indulge; does that mean he's wanted this, too? Or is he simply allowing John to have this because it doesn't matter to him and he knows (because he must have figured it out by now; John hasn't made any moves, but he hasn't been very subtle about his feelings, either) how much John has craved this, ached for this?

John's arousal twitches under the heat of Sherlock's hand, and John wishes desperately that he could unbutton his trousers and feel the full effect. The rubbing is nice, though; just painfully pleasurable enough to get John by, even if the friction is a bit too dry and almost a bit scratchy and tight. He starts to pant and he feels Sherlock's mouth on his neck, teeth grazing the skin and lips brushing in the most teasing way around those sharp bones. His nose is just as distracting the way it's bumping John's earlobe, and he wants nothing more than to twist himself around and pin Sherlock down and rut against him and kiss him until their lips bleed.

But instead, John has to settle for being trapped like a rat in a sewer, the dust in the vent tickling John's nose to the brink of sneezing, and his head swimming with the heady feeling of pleasure and sweat-inducing heat. He tries to measure his breathing and heart rate, but it's no use; Sherlock is insistent and apathetic to the situation, deciding to, it seems, torture John with meager touches and almost-kisses and tickling breaths.

John nearly wants to scream.

He moans quietly instead.

"God damn you," John grinds out, his hips moving on their own accord and one of his hands reaching back to rest against Sherlock's propped thigh, his hand cupping Sherlock's shin beside him. He angles his head to lean against the side of Sherlock's knee, and Sherlock switches sides to tease John's other ear, this time using the exposed angle to take John's earlobe into his mouth, tongue wet and suckling and John has to squeeze the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out due to the over-stimulation of one hand lightly pinching and swirling around one nipple, the other on his erection, and a mouth on his neck and ear.

It leaves John with literally no thoughts, and his legs are beginning to prickle with pins and needles as they fall asleep from the pinched position and all the blood rushing to the nook between them and not flowing down them.

And in the stifling air of the vent and coupled with the added heat of his body, John is two seconds from either coming or passing out, and he prays for the former, but he can't be certain this will be enough, because every thought in his mind is suddenly on the prospect of actually getting the opportunity to fuck Sherlock, and if he wants the chance, he doesn't want to reach his climax just yet. He wants to save it for after their fugitive is hauled away and they're back at their flat and there's nothing to stop him from returning the favour of having one's way with the other.

It's just as Sherlock is getting breathy moans out of John that he abruptly ceases motion and straightens up (or, at least, at much as he can while inside of a vent; the loss of perfectly aligned contact is all that registers). "Shh! Did you hear that? Key card swiped through the door. He's coming. Shh, John, compose yourself. Get ready to unlatch the grate and jump out."

It's as they resume their original positions and Sherlock leans forward in anticipation that John finds proof that Sherlock wasn't as unaffected by his actions as John initially supposed. Even as the footsteps pad into the room, slowing moving to turn on a lamp, John feels Sherlock's own arousal press against John's lower back, just above his arse, and he inhales slowly through his nose to resist gasping.

"Now!" Sherlock orders with the quickest of whispers in John's ear, and then the scene that follows is nothing but fluid movement, fast and sure, a few jabs from Sherlock's boxing talents, and a man lying unconscious on the floor.

Sherlock moves to the bed, reaches under it to retrieve where their coats were hidden, and slips his on, closing it up to hide the bulge in his pants. He hands John his jacket and John does the same, and they call Lestrade and don't wait for the police to arrive, because the arsonist is handcuffed to the toilet in the small loo in the room and isn't going anywhere any time soon.

The pair walk out into the street, hail a cab, and on the ride home, it's all John can do not to stare at Sherlock. He watches him through his peripherals, however, and studies the way the sweat is cooling on Sherlock's forehead beneath his mop of dark hair, and notes the faint pink lingering in his cheeks.

John can feel how his own face must be flushed, but what he's mainly thinking about is if this is all over now that the excitement of the chase is gone, or if Sherlock won't mind continuing what he technically started.

The doctor receives his answer once they reach 221B. Mrs. Hudson is out with Mrs. Turner – she left a note for them on their flat door about leaving cookies on their kitchen table for them to enjoy while she's away – and it's all the incentive John needs, because now he won't have to worry very much about being overheard. They're utterly alone.

"Well, come on, then," Sherlock says as the door closes behind John and their coats are hung up. "I can tell by the dilation of your pupils and the way you're licking your lips that you have plans for me. Do as you will; I doubt there is any stopping you. I have opened Pandora's Box and I fully intend on exploring what's inside, after all."

And there is an impish sort of smirk on one side of Sherlock's lips, and John licks his own again before stepping forward and gripping Sherlock hard enough to hurt, bringing him into a rough and needy kiss.

Sherlock's response is surprisingly enthusiastic, and John tries not to stop to puzzle out why this is. Instead, he delves his tongue into the cavern of Sherlock's mouth and tastes him, gets a good feel for Sherlock's tongue, and tickles Sherlock's soft palette. He tastes a bit stale, having not eaten or drank a thing in hours, but there is something so distinct in his flavour that John pays it no heed, simply maps out the inside of Sherlock's mouth with his tongue, suckling and gasping for air and nipping lightly at Sherlock's full bottom lip before retreating entirely to catch his breath, lest his heart stop in his chest.

"I don't know why you didn't do this sooner," Sherlock remarks around his own panting, his hands, John realises, firmly gripping John's hips. "I have been hinting for weeks that I wouldn't mind your advances. It took me a while to pick up on your sentiments, of course, but once I had, I thought you wouldn't be too thick to see how much I accept them. Aren't you the more hormonal between the two of us? Surely, with all your romance and sexual experience, I thought you would have noticed…"

John shakes his head and leans up to pop the buttons on Sherlock's shirt and press his mouth to those prominent collarbones. "No," he answers quietly, "Because you've always been 'married to your work' and seem not to have interest in anyone, really. I didn't think I was an exception."

"Oh, but you are, my dear doctor," Sherlock murmurs, turning his head rest against John's, his long fingers reaching up and curling around John's neck and shoulder. He presses a kiss to John's cheekbone and John pauses his mouth movements on Sherlock's skin to process this. "No one else has ever been as close to me as you are. No one is as precious. I would kill for you, would die to protect you. I intend to keep you around for as long as you will bother with me. And I want nothing more than to feel you as physically close to me as possible."

And that is all John needs to hear, all he has ever wanted to hear from someone, but as it's coming from Sherlock's lips in Sherlock's voice, it very nearly smothers John where he stands. He trembles and pulls back enough to cups Sherlock's face and bring him down for a purposely slow, tender kiss unlike all their others. And Sherlock hums into it, hands seeking purchase on the centre of John's back, clasping the fabric of his shirt into his fists.

When they part, John's eyelids are at half-mast and when he finds his voice, he says, "I feel the same way exactly."

"You're just saying that because it is the polite thing to do," Sherlock answers.

"No. You might do that; tell someone, like your mother, 'I love you, too,' without meaning it fully, but not me. I mean it, Sherlock," John says firmly, and he closes his eyes and presses a kiss to the hollow of Sherlock's throat, feels how Sherlock follows it up with a swallow. "And now you really need to move with me."

He backs Sherlock up until they are fully in the living room, and Sherlock's calves bump the seat of his black leather chair. John spins him around and gently brings Sherlock to his knees, and Sherlock braces his hands on the cushion of his chair as John comes up flush behind him, finishing the buttons on Sherlock's shirt and tearing it backward, off of him. Then he does about removing Sherlock's pants, and those, too, are kicked away and discarded onto the floor.

And then John is placing kisses between Sherlock's angular shoulder blades and when he can, hands are grappling to touch Sherlock's sleek, muscular back, all thin and lean and lovely. It's after a pause of this that Sherlock understands that John has been slowly removing his own clothes in between kisses and touches, because the next time he feels John, there is a bare, lightly fuzzy chest, firm and warm, being presses along Sherlock's back, fitting like a puzzle piece there, and Sherlock withholds a moan as he feels John's hands wrap around his torso.

"Does the offer still stand for me to do what I want with you?" John asks in a manner that is equal parts seductive and concerned, as if he doesn't want to be pushy but is still demanding, a perfectly wonderful paradox of tone and words.

"Of course," Sherlock replies in almost a growl, and he thrusts his hips to egg John on, and it works, because the movement causes John's length to touch Sherlock's rear, and it sends an unspeakable thrill through them both.

With that, John resumes his hunger and trails open-mouthed kisses along Sherlock's back, taking time to feel down Sherlock's chest and stomach, some of his touches light, others greedy, and finally, his hands are tracing the sharpness of Sherlock's hip bones and along his thighs and cupping his balls, sliding up along his erection, and John's mouth is on the opposite side, dipping his tongue into the divots at the base of Sherlock's spine before nosing the cleft of his ass.

Sherlock takes in a shaky inhale and angles his back upward to meet John's tongue. John's hands fall away from Sherlock's member, but it doesn't matter in the slightest because John's hands are moving to massage Sherlock's cheeks apart, thumbs stroking down the backs of Sherlock's thighs, tracing up the curve of skin and pressing into the muscles as his mouth kisses and licks his way down between Sherlock's cheeks, and Sherlock never thought something so vulgar could be so delightfully blissful.

John is incredibly talented with his tongue. Perhaps, being a doctor as he is, it's his knowledge of human anatomy, Sherlock thinks, that enables him to go to all the right places and lick or suck there, like along Sherlock's perineum, for example. Sherlock makes a high noise when John runs the flat of his tongue along there, upturning his lips to drag to the base of Sherlock's scrotum, suckling near the end. And when he uses his tongue to fondle Sherlock's testicles from behind, Sherlock has to press his forehead to the sticky leather of his chair's seat, hands squeezing the front ledge of it, all to keep from bucking his hips and crying out.

Sherlock finds himself keening and choking on moans as John buries his face where he shouldn't, like some filthy secret, mouthing non-words into Sherlock's sensitive and barely-touched skin. He keeps avoiding Sherlock's hole, and it annoys him a little, because he wonders if John's usual heterosexuality is hindering him from going after what Sherlock wants most. But the slick warmth followed by the chill of John's exhales is a contradiction like no other, a slippery addiction that is beginning to make Sherlock feel high, and it's enough, really, it is.

Already Sherlock can feel pre-ejaculate collecting in tiny droplets on the tip of his erection, and he reaches down to thumb it off, use it as lubricant to coat the head and help ease some of the tension, but John feels the shift in Sherlock and pulls his face away, one of his hands tacking Sherlock's back to the chair. Sherlock whimpers – a sound he surely will make for no one other than John, and this little idea triggers something possessive in the doctor – at the loss of John's mouth on him and the possibility of release.

"Not yet, Sherlock," John says into the skin of the small of Sherlock's back as he presses an almost chaste kiss there. "I'm not nearly finished. Not in the least. For once, try not to be so impatient." The slight smile in his voice is enough to somewhat relax Sherlock.

And this intrigues the detective to a new level, so he sinks back into the front of the chair and bends over it, spreading his slightly sore knees digging into the rug. "I will use my utmost self-control from now on," Sherlock promises.

"Good," John concedes and he returns to Sherlock's arse, this time circling his tongue around Sherlock's entrance, a spot he previously ignored on purpose. Now, when he touches it with his tongue, swirling and lightly prodding, it does make Sherlock cry out, his head lifting and his back arching, cheeks clenching, but John keeps him pried open, hands strong and lightly calloused and warm and possessive on Sherlock's arse.

John places his tongue into the ring of muscles and flicks the tip over it, and Sherlock feels himself begin to open without fingers or conscious relaxation. He collapses forward, hips angling himself perfectly for John to open his mouth wide and penetrate Sherlock's entrance with his tongue, rubbing the slick muscle around the ring and coating Sherlock in saliva that should feel uncomfortable but doesn't.

And Sherlock is moaning into the chair, not caring how pathetic and desperate he must sound, and he can feel his head dripping where it's pressed to his lower stomach. He subtly thrusts his hips and feels John's tongue working him, worming in and out of him, lapping obscenely at the hole until Sherlock can't take it anymore; his arousal is too strong and his body is on sensory overload without hardly being touched, and his penis aches from base to tip and it's throbbing as an echo to his heart.

"John, John, please…" Sherlock blubbers into the leather, and he has never been one for begging, he even told The Woman so, and he doesn't think he would have begged for her no matter what she did to him, but just John and his tongue alone are slowly pulling Sherlock apart, and he's damn near close to sobbing John's name and a string of pleas if John doesn't satisfy him soon, because this is a worse, much slower torture than what he put John through earlier, inside the hotel's ventilation system.

John pulls off enough to rubs his hands over Sherlock's cheeks, both thumbs slipping into Sherlock and thrusting far too easily, and just the tease of the glorious feeling of being filled isn't enough.

"John, John," Sherlock repeats, gasping as he lifts his head as much as he can, and his erection twitches and leaks more, and he desperately wants to touch himself or be touched, and anything would make him come at this point.

"I know, Sherlock, I know," John murmurs, breath chill against the soaked skin around his open and eager hole. He presses one last kiss-with-tongue into Sherlock's entrance before standing up and guiding his own aching arousal to the same place. "Ready?"

"Don't be obvious and ask! Just fucking do it," Sherlock shouts hoarsely, and then John makes one easy, clean hip movement forward, and he's buried to the hilt inside Sherlock, and it's so glourious that Sherlock moans low and deep and drops his head back onto the chair, hands stretching forward to push against the back support cushion. His own hips jerk to signal for John to move, al of John's built up saliva acting as a half-fast lubricant, and it should be wetter, it really should, but Sherlock doesn't seem to mind, so John tires not to worry about it.

John still has the tangy, salty, unusual taste of Sherlock in his mouth as he grasps Sherlock's hips and smoothes his hands down the fronts of Sherlock's thighs as he thrusts at an even pace into the tight, heated space, and God, John never knew it could feel so much better than a woman because of how it's clamping down on him from all angles, and yet moving with him accordingly.

Sherlock's own shallow pelvic movements only add to it, and John is already so close to his release, but he tries to bide his time by hitching himself upward and leaning over Sherlock's beautiful back to angle downward, thrusting harder, trying to go deeper, trying to strike just right so his head hits and rubs the inner walls of Sherlock's rectum in just the way that reaches his prostrate gland and sets Sherlock's innards on icy-fire.

It works. John is going at precisely the right pace, now, his half-thrusts at such an angle perfect enough to make Sherlock yell hoarsely and nails and scratch at the black leather, John's name a constant mantra, "JohnJohnJohnJohnJohn!" and with that last note, John feels Sherlock's orgasm building inside of him, and when it comes pouring out as a groan, John bends down and sloppily kisses Sherlock's shoulder.

John allows himself to close his eyes, now, hands falling to the top of Sherlock's rear as he leans back and gives a final few thrusts into his lover before pulling (or, rather, slipping messily) out and reaching orgasm.

It isn't until the flash of white light behind John's eyes and the sprinkling of silver stars around the corners of his vision when he opens them fades that he notices his ejaculate dribbling down the small of Sherlock's back, or notices the way Sherlock is panting, shoulders heaving, and is muttering something about never underestimating the wonders of sex again.

John huffs a laugh, stoops down, cleans away his own fluids (he ignores the odd taste and figures that it isn't that bad, really, because it came from himself, after all) and eases Sherlock onto the floor, facing John.

Sherlock lazily kisses John as the doctor crawls between Sherlock's legs and wraps his arms around him. Half of their clothes are strewn about round them, and they need to shampoo the rug and wipe down the chair, and their socks are still on which is a bit clammy and awkward, but just by looking into each other's eyes, it's a fact that that was the best sex of each of their lives and they have full intention of having something similar again in the near future.

John hums contentedly as he helps a wobbly Sherlock stand and lean against him, and they go into Sherlock's bedroom because it's closest, and when they fall into bed together, wrapped up in the other person and feeling comfortable in their nakedness, it's then that Sherlock whispers, "If people were 'talking' before, imagine what they would say now."

And John is exhausted, but he finds himself laughing – "giggling breathlessly" being a more accurate description – and placing a kiss onto Sherlock's hair. "Yes, well. I'm tired of correcting their assumptions anyway. It's for the best."

And, really, Sherlock can't argue with that. He can, however, argue this: "You're helping me shower later. It's your fault that my body is now as completely useless as Anderson's mind."

And John laughs again, harder, because that both ruined the mood and added to it, and somehow, John feels like this, all of it, is just what he had hoped for, and then some, when it came to finally having Sherlock for himself.