A/N – Thanks to Scopes.

Warning – Smut, pure and simple, between two men.

Disclaimer – Not mine.


"John?" Sherlock called, knowing the doctor was home (coat hanging by the door, keys and wallet on the small table).

The sun shining through the windows highlighted the dust particles floating in the air and Sherlock made a mental note to monitor them more closely to determine if Mrs. Hudson's weekly cleanings increased or decreased the density.

But not right now – now he wanted to see John.

The doctor had already been at work for thirty-six hours when Sherlock left for the Yard, and they'd done little more than exchange text messages for almost two weeks. One of the other doctor's at the surgery had gone into premature labor and John had been forced to cover several of her shifts. The other doctors had spouses and children and John would hate for anybody to be inconvenienced.

Well, anybody but Sherlock. The doctor certainly had no problem disrupting the detective's life. The last case had taken almost twelve hours to solve. It shouldn't have taken more than three – and it wouldn't have, had John been there.

Sherlock was angry.

He was angry because he missed John - working with him and sleeping with him. It was inconsiderate for the doctor to have seduced him all those months ago and now just abandon the relationship because some idiot woman decided to procreate. Sherlock had become accustomed to their regular sexual encounters and being denied them was causing a continuously unsettling feeling in his body. Just the previous evening he'd suffered an uncontrollable erection simply because he'd chosen to wear one of John's shirts that smelled particularly like him.

It was intolerable. It would no longer be accepted – especially if John was simply going to sleep upon arriving home.

Sherlock climbed the stairs, not bothering to muffle his steps. When he reached the door, he made shuffling noises and turned the knob with some force so the clicking was very audible, before he shoved the door open so that the hinges would creak loudly. Then he stomped into the room before stopping dead.

"Oh," he said, feeling the air escape his lungs. John was there and asleep, just as Sherlock had suspected. But the sight that greeted him was quite a surprise.

The heat was on, as was usual on a cold winter night. The room was warm – both of them preferred it that way so they didn't have to sleep clothed or with heavy blankets. And John even wasn't making use of the light blankets. He'd closed the blackout curtains, the sun just able to peak in around the edges and cast odd shadows around the room. It was enticing.

The dark grey duvet was pushed to the foot of the bed, lying half on the floor, having obviously been kicked. The doctor was on his back, head resting comfortably on the corner of his own pillow, his face turned towards Sherlock's side, left arm was thrown over his head, his short blond hairs brushing over the underside of his forearm. He looked beautiful and peaceful, but that wasn't what interested Sherlock as his eyes roamed downward tracing over the short compact lines of his body.

John was obviously nude, his chest and stomach visible above the light grey sheet bunched low on his body. The sheet wasn't covering much; the dark blond trail leading down from John's navel became lost in the light brown mop between his thighs. His cock was covered, but Sherlock could see the outline of the shaft and the slight swell of his balls where they rested against his thigh.

He traced the line of the thigh with his eyes, the lean muscle taut above the knee where it emerged from the sheet before bending and getting lost under the soft grey cotton just above John's ankle. John's other hand was resting comfortably on his hip, fingers all but brushing the covered cock.

"Oh," Sherlock said again, immediately starting to shuck his coat from his shoulders. His fingers were working on the buttons of his shirt as the heavy material hit the floor with a soft 'umph'. John murmured as one of Sherlock's shoes hit the dresser. The detective paused instantly – waking John with anything other than kisses and touches would be catastrophic.

John's head shifted slightly, his bright pink tongue darting across his bottom lip before he settled into sleep again. Sherlock managed to hold back a groan, thinking about that tongue and all the amazing things it could do. He waited a moment before pulling his shirt from his trousers and tossing it aside. His belt rattled but the noise didn't disturb the doctor, and Sherlock was careful as he settled the metal on the pile of material that was his coat just before he pushed his pants and trousers down.

He glanced down his body, already half erect. Each beat of his heart was diverting blood flow south, and as he watched his erection angled up slightly, the dark red head emerging from the foreskin. Sherlock smiled, reaching down to pull gently on himself a few times, enjoying the slight tingle in his lower back at the action.

He stopped, letting his hand drop to aside, knowing that it wouldn't take too much to send him over the edge. John had all but made him an addict to sex and it had been entirely too long since he had a fix.

He planted his knee on the edge of the bed and slowly eased his weight onto it before bringing the other one up. He braced himself on either side of John and the doctor shifted again, moving closer to Sherlock's warmth but still not waking.

The detective's heart was pounding against his ribs, and he smiled at the realization that John wasn't even awake. Sherlock stayed still, closing his eyes to take in all of the sensations. He often did this with John, wanting to make sure that everything about him was memorized.

He noted the exact pattern of John's breathing, the perfect balance of the inhalation and exhalations. There was the slight sound – not quite a snore – as he breathed out.

Sherlock took a deep breath of his own, savoring the aromas that filled his nostrils: the smell of their room combined with their scents. Sherlock singled out John's scent easily, a combination of shampoo, soap, and a hint of sweat from the warm room. Sherlock categorized them, memorizing each so that he could find them again when he tasted John.

He eyed the spot below John's ear; John loved to bed kissed there and he'd groan, melting into the mattress when Sherlock used his teeth. Or perhaps he'd start with John's nipples. They were incredibly sensitive. Sherlock loved the feeling of John's hands winding through his hair when he spent a lot of time there, arching up into Sherlock's mouth as his tongue flicked the soft tissue into a hard nub, the sharp intakes of breath as Sherlock sucked hard on one while flicking the other one with his finger. He sighed, feeling the first drops easing out of him.

But as his eyes trailed over the visible thigh again, he knew he'd focus there. He leaned down, opening his mouth and touching the soft skin with his tongue just before letting his lips press down into the kiss. John mumbled, straightening his leg and Sherlock felt the sheet brush his cheek. He ignored it, focusing on the salty flavor of John and the coarse hairs brushing against his lips.

"Hmm," John hummed, and Sherlock felt him shift as wakefulness crept into his brain. A moment later, a strong doctor's hand settled on the back of his neck and Sherlock moved on, trailing his lips upward along the soft skin of John's inner thigh.

"Sherlock?" John mumbled, his voice heavy with sleep and the slight hint of confusion. He was probably still trying to reconcile whatever he had been dreaming about with this. For someone who was a soldier and a doctor, John was alarmingly slow at waking up. Sherlock had spent many long hours studying pliable early morning John – unexpected pliable afternoon John deserved the same attention.

"Yes?" Sherlock inquired between kisses, pausing to sink his teeth gently into the tender flesh, not surprised when John's legs separated slightly to accommodate him. He repeated the process a few centimeters higher and John's fingers dug into the back of his neck, the nails scraping slightly as Sherlock brushed his nose into the junction of thigh and groin. He strategically ignored John's cock as it began to tent the sheet next to his cheek. There were too many other things to taste, and if he focused on John's growing erection he would never get to them.

Sherlock moved over the sheet and dipped his tongue into the hollow of John's hip. He knew his thumbs fit perfectly into those small grooves, having held onto John's hips many times while the doctor rode him to orgasm. The memory stirred an ache in Sherlock's chest and he balanced his weight on one hand so he could bring his other hand up dig his thumb into the opposite hip. Sherlock could feel John's smile at the tender gesture and knew that the doctor was now more awake than asleep. As if to confirm this, John's hand trailed from Sherlock's neck down to his bicep and gave it an easy squeeze.

"I've missed you," John said quietly as Sherlock trailed over dipping his tongue into John's navel. The muscles along the doctor's stomach twitched as he let out a quiet moan, and Sherlock nipped the tender skin of John's stomach.

Sherlock wouldn't voice that he too had been lonely over the last several days. The words always got stuck in his throat, but they weren't necessary. John knew, he always knew. In the moments when Sherlock would ache to express his emotion, feeling that if he couldn't declare it everything would slip away, John knew. He'd press a tender kiss into Sherlock's temple and whisper meaningless words and everything would be right again. John knew, and that was all that mattered.

Sherlock let his tongue trail up the doctor's body, swirling above John's belly button and up to his ribs. John squirmed at the touch, shifting so that his hardened cock brushed Sherlock's sternum. The contact shivered up Sherlock's spine and his own hips thrust involuntarily into nothing. His groin throbbed and he sighed, sucking one of John's nipples into his mouth. His long torturous exploration was going to have to wait.

Sherlock brought his hand down to wrap his fingers around himself. He loosened his grip when his initial touch made his toes curl. It was going to be over soon – too soon – but he was determined to hold off as long as he could.

"Mm," John said, arching up as his fingers twined through Sherlock's hair. At the light tug, Sherlock all but collapsed onto the doctor, wanting to grind himself into whatever piece of skin he could find.

"God," Sherlock said pulling back and letting his forehead rest on John's chest.

"What's the plan?" John said as his fingers mixed with Sherlock's on the detective's cock. Sherlock let his hand fall away, twisting his fingers into the sheet at John's hip. "Are you going to bury this in me?" Sherlock nodded then froze, letting out a grunt as John brushed his thumb over the head. "Or do you want me to finish it like this?" Sherlock shuddered again, clamping a hand on John's wrist. It was too much, too close. The doctor's fingers went lax and he let out a quiet chuckle.

Sherlock stayed still for a moment, regaining control of his breathing before looking up to meet John's eyes. The blue pools were shining in the odd light of the room, the affection and desire apparent. John's hand slid around to his cheek and a rough thumb brushed over his bottom lip. Sherlock puckered against it and received a smile.

"How about," John started, trailing his other hand down Sherlock's back, short nails scratching lightly over his prominent spine. Sherlock could almost feel the sensation echoing through his bones. He let his head drop to John's chest again, and John turned his head. Sherlock felt the exhalation just before he spoke again, his lips brushing over the edges of the detective's ear, "we do it the other way around?" John's fingers brushed over the curve of Sherlock's ass before pushing between the cheeks.

Sherlock shuddered as the doctor's fingers grazed his opening, and suddenly John's idea seemed like the most brilliant idea ever. He nodded and felt a kiss against his ear before he heard the sound of the drawer being opened and the soft pop of the plastic container. He spread his legs farther, almost sinking into John as faint hint of citrus filled his nostrils, burrowing his face into John's neck as the cool, slick fingers traced over him again.

Sherlock wound his fingers into the sheets as John slowly pushed the first finger into him. The fit was tight, and Sherlock struggled to force the muscles to relax. He pulled on the sheets and felt his face contort with the effort.

"God," John whispered the breaths brushing through Sherlock's hair. "You're so close," he continued. "It's going to feel so good to be inside you." The thought surged through Sherlock, and he gasped in a breath and felt himself relax.

"That's better," John whispered, adding another finger almost immediately and slowly staring to press against the muscles. The fingers scissored, the pleasant pressure settling in Sherlock's lower back, and when they managed to catch his prostate it became too much.

"Now," Sherlock said, pulling up so John's fingers slid out of him. He shivered as he sat up, planting a hand on John's good shoulder when his thighs felt like they might slip out from under him.

Sherlock spread the gel quickly over his fingers before reaching behind him and wrapping his fingers around John. The doctor's face relaxed as Sherlock gave a long, strong pull. John groaned as Sherlock palmed the cockhead, his hips curled up into the detective's hand.

"Now would be good," John mumbled and Sherlock smiled, positioning himself above the doctor before sinking down.

"Uh," John gasped, his neck arching as he forced his head into pillow. The image stirred through Sherlock – John being overcome with a sensation was one of his favorite sights.

Sherlock leaned back until John's cockhead brushed his prostate. The angle was perfect, and as he sank the rest of the way down, he closed his eyes and took a moment to savor the feeling.

"Mmm," John hummed, rolling his hips. Sherlock's muscles tensed, trying to fold his body forward, but he resisted, and John moved again. Sherlock lifted slightly, giving the doctor more room.

"Yes," Sherlock said as John planted his feet and thrust upward. His groin tightened as John slid out before immediately pushing back up again.

"God, you feel good," John said, his fingers gripping into Sherlock's hips. There'd probably be bruises, and the thought of seeing them reflected on his pale skin make Sherlock smile. He loved being marked by John, loved that someone wanted him enough to stake a claim.

Sherlock leaned back, arching until John's knees pressed below his shoulder blades. He let his head hang backward as he reached blindly forward to trace fingers over John's stomach.

"Gorgeous," John said, causing the smile on Sherlock's face to grow. He'd been told he was attractive before, but he'd never understood it or really believed it until John. Sherlock liked being attractive to John, liked that John took pride in it, and admired it.

"Fucking gorgeous," John added, the exertion apparent in his voice. Sherlock could help. He could lean forward and take over some of the work. But it was so perfect, the angle just right, and Sherlock's balls were starting to tighten as they brushed through John's coarse hairs. As John's thumbs pressed into the corners of his pelvis, Sherlock knew John didn't want him to move.

"I want to feel it," John gasped, breathing harder and harder with every movement. "I want to feel it, Sherlock. Touch yourself."

The detective did as commanded, tracing his fingers up his thigh and over his stomach, drawing goose bumps before he reached down and closed his fingers over his aching member.

"Uh," he moaned, timing his movements with John's thrusts. John grunted and Sherlock smiled at the ceiling, feeling the doctor's eyes boring into him. John didn't miss much in those movements.

After several long, steady strokes, Sherlock focused on the head, twisting his wrist and dragging his thumb over the leaking slit.

"That's it," John said, and Sherlock felt as though John were getting larger inside of him. He knew that wasn't true, that he was getting tighter, gripping the doctor in desperation as he pushed himself closer to the edge, but he liked to think it was John swelling inside of him, overcome with desire. "Shit," John said. "Oh shit."

He was close too, Sherlock knew as he settled his weight into the doctor's thighs. It was perfect, absolutely divine, and as the feelings coalesced in his groin, he used his fingers to press his head into his palm.

"Yes," John hissed in the moment before Sherlock erupted over his fingers, moaning the doctor's name at the ceiling. The detective's knees pressed against John's sides, and Sherlock heard the air rush out of John's lungs. The doctor held still, fingers holding tight as they rode the orgasm out. It was euphoric and wonderful and as Sherlock collapsed forward, he was certain to lift his hips enough to let John move.

"Fuck yes," John said his hips slamming up into Sherlock. The detective grunted, the sensation almost too much, but he buried his face into John's neck again and tucked his arms beneath his shoulders. He held the doctor close as the thrusts became irregular and when John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's back and started to keen Sherlock tightened his grip.

"Come on," he said quietly, knowing John would hear it. And as if on cue John's body forced upwards and he cried out Sherlock's name, emptying himself into the detective's body. That was too much, and Sherlock half-shivered, half-cringed at the overstimulation.

Sherlock kept himself still, allowing his body to mold to the doctor's. He had no idea if he was a welcome weight or if he was an uncomfortable burden who was simply tolerated because of the sex, and he didn't care. He liked covering John and feeling like he was surrounding John, preventing the rest of the world from seeing the wonderful treasure he'd stumbled upon.

"Edwards is taking the late shifts next week," John murmured after a moment, and it was a testament to how wonderful their sexual interaction had been that it took Sherlock several seconds to catch up. John would be home with Sherlock and free to help with the cases – and free to have regular sex again.

Sherlock shifted, burying his arms underneath the pillows. He could feel the exhaustion slipping into John again. He would go back to sleep, perhaps for the rest of the night.

"There's a peeping Tom making his way through Greenwich. He strikes on Tuesdays, and Lestrade's asked me to look into it next week."

John chuckled and placed another kiss into Sherlock's hair. "It's a date. Tuesday, you, me, and a peeping Tom. Romantic."

"A date," he confirmed and let his eyes drift closed.