Pressing Matters

Sherlock hadn't spoken in a few days. Nothing really to say, even though they were on a case. If he needed to tell John something he simply sent him a text. John didn't press, didn't ask why he wasn't speaking, simply carried on as usual.

At this particular point, Sherlock was actually thinking about John. He thought of his soft hands that always gave the gentlest touches, lips that always seemed to be begging to be kissed even when he was just sitting and doing nothing for attention. No, especially when he was just sitting and doing nothing for attention. He thought of the wonderful embraces John gave, always so warm and satisfying. His eyes were so kind, even when they were blown with lust and primal desire. His laugh could only be described as musical, in the most cliché of phrases, smile contagious. And the way he smelled. The intoxicating mixture of his skin, his shampoo, his body soap, deodorant, aftershave and cologne always put him in a tizzy. Some days it was nearly impossible to keep his hands off of him.

Much like right now, when John had just gotten out of the shower half an hour ago and decided to sit at his laptop rather than get dressed, unwittingly attracting Sherlock to the extent of salivating. He stood, slinking toward him like a large cat, John as the perfect prey not paying attention to him.

He stepped behind his chair, bending down to lean his cheek against his. John smiled a little, jumping in surprise.

"Hello," he said, still working. The detective turned his head, pressing his lips to the soft, tender flesh that resided there. He peppered it with gentle, dry kisses, smiling when John practically giggled. He slowed, deepening the kisses, taking the time to taste him, to hold that flavor on his tongue. John sighed, a shiver running through him.

"A-aren't you trying to solve-"

"Told Lestrade this morning," he mumbled, his voice sending vibrations into his skin. He closed his eyes, succumbing to his touch. The laptop fell to the side with a clatter; he barely heard it.

Sherlock's thin fingers worked into his hair, tracing his ear and grazing his skin. "Sherlock…" He moaned.

"You shouldn't present yourself like this," he growled, nipping his ear. "Soft and…" John turned to look at him, meeting his eyes. Those same soft, tender fingers curled around his chin, cupping it and drawing him closer. He parted his lips with his tongue immediately, tantalizing him, tasting him. John whimpered, already praying the detective was naked and ravaging him.

"The things you do to me," he whispered. Sherlock nodded, sliding his hands down the back of his robe, feeling every warm, taught muscle beneath his hot, scarred skin, sinking his lips back into the flesh of his neck.

"And you…" he whispered, "cloud my mind the point of insanity." His deft hands slid over his shoulders, thumb absently encircling the scar on the left before trailing down his chest. He grinned when he keened, writhing in the chair, forging their lips together again. Sherlock felt heat rise to his cheeks, the rest sinking much lower.

"Sherlock, please."

"What?" He teased, forcing it out of him.

"Please touch me. I need more, please." Sherlock came around the chair, leaning down to kiss him, palms splayed on his chest. He hummed happily into his kiss, feeling the doctor fall apart beneath him. "Oh, Sherlock," he choked.

He slid his hands deeper inside the robe, going down further to graze his sides and squeeze his hips, straddling him.

"Sherlock," he breathed tugging at the detective's shirt, pleading silently for it to be removed. He tore through the buttons, still kissing John feverishly.

He tossed it behind him, sighing when he touched his skin, bringing a flurry of goosebumps over him. "Mmph, John…" he cooed. Sherlock held his face, forcing him to stay close. The doctor raked his nails down his back, sucking firm, soft marble skin of Sherlock's chest.

"I love you," he breathed. Sherlock kissed him gently.

"I love you too," he whispered. More kissing. Sherlock's hands worked the robe open, looking down at his naked body. He moaned in his throat, shivering lightly.

John shuddered under his gaze, so exposed.

He kissed down his neck and his chest, slipping to his knees.

John whimpered, watching Sherlock look at him through his mess of curls and dark lashes, eyes shining in the dim light, anticipation tightening his stomach. He threw his head back, groaning softly when his plump, soft lips engulfed him.

"Uhn! Oh! Sherlock! Mnn!" He shuddered, shaking. He wrenched his arms out of the sleeves to grab his hair, stopping himself from thrusting into the incredible heat of Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock smiled, humming to make John whimper and gasp.

How he got so skilled at this so quickly was completely beyond John, since he'd known absolutely nothing about the subject until recent-

"GOHOD!" He couldn't keep this up, not with this heat building so much as Sherlock's cheeks continued to hollow, bringing out his already prominent cheekbones. "W-wait, Sherlock, I'll-"

It'd been far too long since they'd done this. Sherlock felt it in his pulse, saw it in John's eyes and tasted it on his skin. "Shh," he soothed, leaning up to kiss him. "Relax." They breathed slowly, kissing gently to calm things down a bit.

"I should pay more attention to you." Sherlock mumbled. John nodded.

"You really do," he gasped, laughing softly.

Sherlock smiled, kissing behind his ear before whispering darkly, "Then maybe you should sit naked in this chair more often," he grinned. John shivered, groaning low in his throat. "Do you enjoy it when I speak to you like that?" He nodded frantically. Sherlock's smile stayed. "Scandalous for someone so prestigious, isn't it? Engaging in such…" A mewling lick to his earlobe, "naughty behavior."


"Beg for me, John," he growled.

"Please, Sherlock."

His mouth quirked into the faintest smirk. "'Please, Sherlock' what?" Another quiet whimper.

"Let me touch you, please!" He grabbed at his waist. Sherlock's smile grew, kissing him roughly.

"Good boy," he said, stroking his cheek and enjoying this much more than he probably should. He unclasped his trousers, keeping eye contact with his lover. "Go on," he urged, "take them off." John hooked his thumbs into his trousers and his pants, looking at him for permission to remove both. Sherlock smiled again, running his fingers through his hair.

"Good boy," he repeated, allowing it. He closed his eyes, John's lips at his neck, his hands working quickly to remove the rest of his clothes. Sherlock grunted, shutting his eyes when John started kneading the soft, tender, firm flesh of his backside, rocking into his hands. "Such a naughty doctor aren't you?"

"Yes." A breathless gasp. They kissed frantically, pressing their arousals together to elicit a loud moan from the both of them. Such fire and passion as their lips touched, as if their lives depended on the breath of the other, leaving a cyclone of lips, teeth and tongues.

John's breath hitched when Sherlock latched onto his neck again, sucking hard marks on what was his, and his alone. His fingers toyed with the sensitive areas of his chest before working lower to tease him, just barely brushing his fingers against his aching member.

"Oh gohod, Sherlock please. I need more!" He cried. Sherlock smiled, nails scraping his back again.

"You want me John?" He asked, just a breath away from him, eyes half-lidded and clouded with lust.

"Yes, yes please," he pleaded.

"What do you want to do to me?" He asked, lips brushing against his but not allowing purchase.

"I-I- whatever you say I can do," he stammered. Sherlock smirked, wrapping his hand around him to make him gasp, giving one slow, complete stroke.

"Good boy," he whispered, not letting go. "You want me?"

"Yes, very much," he gulped.

"You want me to let you fuck me?"

"Yes, oh please, yes. Sherlock, I-I can't keep doing this…"

Another broader smirk. Ever-still keeping eye contact, Sherlock took John's wrist in his hand, slowly bringing his fingers to his lips.

John groaned again, the sound fading to a whimper when Sherlock slipped his fingers in his mouth, finally closing his eyes. His jaw dropped just watching him…watching him suck on his fingers.

"Christ…" He muttered.

"Mm, not here," Sherlock teased, keeping his eyes closed and resuming his original actions immediately after speaking.

"Sher-Sherlock, god…"

"Not here either," he whispered, releasing his hand and his fingers. "Now what do you think you should do about that?" He said dangerously. John swallowed.

Sherlock groaned when he felt his trembling fingers teasing him where it mattered.

"Yes, John, yes," he encouraged. His breath hitched once they were inside, twisting and turning and trying to find the right place which was- "THERE!" He cried, throwing his head back. "Yes, John, there, there…OH!" More kissing, wet, hot, messy, dirty, needy and oh so good. "Stop, stop," he breathed, knowing it would be so much better with the real thing and not just the work of his hand. "You want me, John?"

"Yes, I want you," John panted, so lost in his desire. Sherlock's lips were beside his ear again.

"Surrender to me," he growled, touching his chest and his neck. John looked at him, mouth agape, trying to breathe, nodding quickly. "Say it," Sherlock breathed almost inaudibly.

"I surrender," he said immediately.

"Surrender to…?"

"Y-you, I surrender t-to you," he stammered, desperate. Sherlock snaked his tongue into his mouth, nearly sucking the life out of him in one kiss in the process.

"Such a good boy," he hissed. John shuddered when Sherlock settled over him, breathing rapidly almost to the point of hyperventilation. He moaned, watching Sherlock adjust to the girth, the discomfort slowly melting into pleasure.

Sherlock whimpered, a new tenderness spreading through him. He wrapped his arms around John's neck as he started to rock, forehead against his. John cried out, the heat and pressure overwhelming, not to mention the simple sight of Sherlock writhing and bucking above him, body humming with wave after wave of pleasure.

"John!" His hands were splayed over his thighs to support himself as he positively rode the doctor. John's hands went to his hips to steady him, losing his mind and melting under this treatment. He touched his chest and his stomach before curling fingers in his hair, guiding him back to his lips, swollen, bruised and wet and still just as delectable as the first time they met.

"Sherlock, uhn…" John shuddered, holding his face to keep him close. He was so beautiful, all flushed and sweating like this. Gorgeous. "Sh-Sherlock!" He started thrusting up into him, causing the detective to practically scream, falling into him again, gripping his shoulders to steady himself.

"John, oh John, more. Now." An order.

His hand clumsily found its way to where he needed it most, pumping quickly. Sherlock cried out again, much louder than before, nails digging so hard into his back he was afraid he'd break the skin.

"Close," John muttered into his neck, so desperate, his own sweat mixing with Sherlock's as the seconds passed.

"Not yet," Sherlock said through gritted teeth, surrounding himself in John's skin, totally immersed. "Not yet, please."

More heat, more friction, trying to prolong the inevitable, so lost and captured in each other. Their foreheads pressed together, John's hips still moving, Sherlock still rocking against him with John's hand moving so surely over an arousal fit to burst.

"Yes," Sherlock moaned. "Yes, yes, God, John, YEHES!"

"Sherlock, please, I-I need-"

"I know what you need," Sherlock growled, kissing him hard. He rocked into him, twisting his hips just-so, kissing him deeply and whimpering all at once before John spasmed beneath him, choking on his name, a white wave crashing over him.

He kept his hand moving, opening his eyes when he could breathe again, his pupils so blown. Sherlock tried not to scream, biting down on his neck, releasing over his stomach, riding out the rest of their orgasms before they collapsed against each other.

Panting, sweating, drenched in sweat. Sherlock wrapped his arms around him, hugging him. John smiled a little.

"So is that going to happen every time I shower?" He asked. The detective shifted, gingerly wiping himself and John off with the tissues on the table beside them, tossing them in the bin across the room before settling back in his lap, leaning his head against his neck.

"Possibly," he whispered, tired.

"Let's go to bed," John said quietly.

Once there, Sherlock held him close, combing his fingers through his hair.

"I'll try not to neglect you so much," he whispered. "I'm selfish sometimes."

"I know," John sighed, kissing his shoulder. "It's alright. I love you, though." Sherlock sighed, shaking his head.

"You really shouldn't," he muttered. He turned his chin, kissing him softly.

"You don't have a choice, do you?" Sherlock smiled back, just looking at him. "Go to sleep. You haven't in days." He closed his eyes, breathing slowly and deeply.

"I love you too, John," he murmured, succumbing to sleep finally. John smiled to himself, stroking one of those sharp cheekbones.

"You can't make me not love you," he whispered. "If anything, you only make me love you more. Everyday. Even when you say horrible things, even when you don't speak to me for days on end, even when you insult me or when you don't get the bloody milk. I still love you."

Another kiss before he drifted to sleep, missing the smirk on Sherlock's face.