A/N: At various points during the writing of this chapter, I looked around and thought about how brazen I have become about the writing of porn in public places. Also, this was not supposed to end up where it did, but when it started veering off-course I decided to let it. I may have then got a little carried away by it and spent far too long elaborating on it, but I think a part of me needed this (I may or may not be in Sherlock's position with it).
They sat very close to each other in the cab, John's shoulder rubbing against Sherlock's arm with every breath, their fingers linked together. Sherlock picked up their hands in order to examine John's, the tan which ended at the wrist broken by the pale lines of scars that told so many stories. He could read some of them easily, clean lines from slipped scalpels and tiny nicks from shrapnel and the more recent ones that Sherlock had helped him acquire, but there were some that were more variable, stories that he'd never asked. He liked the idea that there were layers to John he hadn't explored yet, but that he would get the chance to lay John out and draw from him the story of every line in his skin.
"The biggest one happened when I was twenty," John supplied without preamble. Sherlock stroked one finger down the faded white mark that travelled from the second knuckle of his index finger to just below where the life-line crossed the side of his palm, one eyebrow raised to check that this was the scar John meant. "I was very drunk at a friend's twenty-first - Bill Murray's, actually. I walked through a glass door."
Sherlock's eyebrow lifted even higher. "What, you walked right through it?" he asked.
John grinned. "I was an exceptionally bull-headed twenty year-old." Sherlock laughed. "I don't remember much, but Bill still insists that half the people at that party told me not to go that way and I kept waving them all off. I was never a very sensible drunk."
"Is that why you don't drink now?" Sherlock asked. He had often wondered, but never wanted to ask when John came back from a night at the pub with army friends or Lestrade never more than a little tipsy.
"Partly," John admitted. "And partly because of Harry. I went tee-total for a while as a kind of protest to her - I drank more than she did with friends, you know, so I thought if I could go off alcohol completely then surely she'd see that she could. Then when I started drinking again I just didn't like the feeling of being drunk anymore."
Sherlock nodded, processing the information. It felt a little like a gift that he had to turn over in his fingers a little before he could dismiss it. John noticed the expression and laughed. "One day, Sherlock, you'll know everything about me. And I'll know everything about you. One day, there won't be any part of either of us left unexplored."
He couldn't help but smile at the thought of all the days until then, and lifted the hand still clasped between both of his own to follow the scar with his lips, then his tongue. John yanked his fingers out of Sherlock's grip and kissed him hard until the cabbie banged on the partition.
"Not in my cab, you don't," he growled. Sherlock glanced at John, but had to look away quickly; John's cheeks were tinged pink and his eyes were dark, his lips still wet with Sherlock's saliva, and the sight of him immediately rerouted all of Sherlock's blood between his legs. He was getting an erection in the back of a taxi. Something else that he'd never imagined would happen to him before John, who was shifting in his seat as though he was in a similar predicament.
Sherlock reached out a hand and slid it onto John's thigh, feeling the warmth of his skin through his trousers. The doctor shifted slightly, letting his legs fall open, and so Sherlock took the invitation and let his hand stroke slowly up the inseam of John's trousers. The move was intended to tease John, but it kindled a slow burn in the pit of his own stomach as well. He hadn't actually felt John's cock in his hand even through his clothes in the course of their roleplays.
After what felt like an age he reached it, hot and pulsing, only to have John's own hand clamp down over his own and remove it. Sherlock looked at him in surprise. "I refuse to come in my pants this time," John whispered, leaning in so that the cabbie wouldn't overhear them. "I want you naked. I want your skin on my skin, your cock on my cock."
"We're going to have to do the fastest strip in history once we get upstairs, then," Sherlock commented just as quietly. "John, it's… it's been years since I've done this properly. With someone I care about. I would hazard a guess that stamina is not going to be high on my body's list of priorities. At least, not the first time."
John laughed. "No, I wouldn't put money on mine, either," he reassured him. "The first time."
With that said, he leaned heavily against Sherlock and closed his eyes with his face buried in Sherlock's coat. Sherlock wasn't sure whether the gesture signified the intent to fall asleep or merely to breathe in the smell of London and Sherlock that the Belstaff seemed to have imbibed, but he left him to it anyway. He tried to will away his erection, but with the weight of John against his side it seemed rather determined to stick around, so he let it be. It would be useful later, he thought with a tiny smirk and a swoop of his stomach.
He'd never anticipated anything like this before, bubbling away like soda water in his stomach. He could feel his hands trembling with it. When the cab finally pulled up outside Baker Street he shot out of his seat so fast he almost hit his head on the roof, threw far too much money at the cabbie, and raced to the doorstep with John hot on his heels.
His search for the keys was arrested by John grabbing his lapels and pushing him against the front door, standing on tiptoes in order to press their lips together. Their bodies rocked solidly against each other, and Sherlock momentarily wished that his coat was four sizes bigger so that he could button it closed around the two of them, shielding them from the outside world.
"God, please tell me your keys are accessible," John groaned against his lips.
Sherlock smirked. "We'd be inside by now if you hadn't attacked me," he accused.
John only laughed. "I couldn't help it," he confessed, leaning up again for a softer, sweeter kiss. "You looked so you and I can kiss you whenever I like now."
Sherlock returned the sweet kisses, little flutters of lips on lips. "I think some situations are still better than others," he pointed out, lifting his keys from his pocket and jangling them in front of John's face.
The doctor laughed as they stumbled into the hallway. "So I should keep the crime-scene kisses to a minimum, then?" he giggled. Sherlock spun him around and pinned him to the inside of the front door.
"I think Lestrade would appreciate that," he replied, grinning, before swooping in for another kiss, tasting the awful Scotland Yard coffee at the back of John's mouth.
"Please tell me Mrs Hudson is out," John panted when Sherlock finally pulled away.
Sherlock frowned briefly. "I don't think she is," he admitted, "but I'm sure if we make enough noise she soon will be." John looked as though he wanted to look disapproving, but amusement won out and he laughed lightly. Sherlock grinned into another kiss. He wanted John, wanted to rip his clothes off and lay him on a bed and taste every inch of his glorious body. The flipside was that he didn't want to stop kissing him for long enough to get there and he was just about considerate enough not to drop to his knees and block their landlady's escape route.
John's hand slipped from its death-grip on Sherlock's upper arm down to where his shirt tucked into his trousers, tugging at it until the shirt came free and his knuckles scraped bare skin. Sherlock moaned against John's lips and kissed harder, plundering his mouth as deeply as he could as John's hand popped open the button on his trousers and worked its way into them. His palm slid against the head of Sherlock's cock, already wet with days of anticipation, and Sherlock's knees buckled and he fell forwards with a soft cry, his hands on either side of John's head just barely keeping him upright.
"Upstairs," John insisted with a growl, withdrawing his hand from Sherlock's trousers and helping him back onto his feet. "Before we lose the ability to move altogether."
Sherlock chuckled weakly. "I think it's too late," he replied, adjusting his shirt where a button was digging into his skin.
John returned the chuckle. "I'd carry you, but I don't think my shoulder could take it," he said, affecting an apologetic tone. "We have to move, Sherlock - I am not doing this without being naked, and I think coming out here to find us shagging nude on the stairs might give Mrs Hudson a heart attack."
Sherlock laughed, dipping his head down into another urgent kiss but breaking away again before the point of no return. "My bedroom's closer," he said quickly, grabbing John's hand and dragging him up the stairs behind him.
He knew Mrs Hudson would still be able to hear them and he had no intention of keeping quiet; hopefully the landlady would have enough sense to recognise the sounds for what they were and go and have a cup of tea with Mrs Turner rather than come up and investigate. He shut his bedroom door behind them anyway. "More naked," he commanded, dropping his coat and hastening to undo the buttons on his shirt.
One day he would like to undress John himself, slowly and reverently, kissing and scrutinising every inch of skin as he revealed it. Right now he just needed skin on skin, touch and warmth and friction, needed to get rid of the frenzied pulse of arousal so that they could build it up again slowly. He didn't think he had ever undressed faster, not even the time someone had let a scorpion loose in his clothes.
John growled in frustration; Sherlock looked up from hooking off his socks to see the doctor bent over with his trousers stuck around his thighs. "Here," he said quickly, moving over to help. John straightened, and Sherlock stopped dead at the sight of him, his scarlet y-fronts stretched over the head of his prick where he had attempted to pull them down. An audible swallow alerted him to the fact that John was staring at the damp spot on the front of Sherlock's own briefs. He smirked coolly, placing a coquettish hand on one hipbone and making John laugh. The doctor took enough of a breath in to calmly pull his fly open the rest of the way and step out of his trousers. They looked at each other for a heartbeat before hooking their thumbs in the waistbands of their pants and simultaneously pulling them down and off.
Sherlock stared at John's cock, unconsciously licking his lips. He'd never wanted anything in his mouth so badly. He watched as the doctor kicked the red-and-white undergarment out of the way and straightened, his eyes falling hungrily on Sherlock's naked body just as Sherlock's roved over his.
"Oh, God," Sherlock breathed, stepping forwards and kissing John again, wrapping their bodies together and burying one hand in the doctor's short, sandy hair. His cock nudged against the soft, dry skin of John's belly, and he could feel the hard heat of his new lover's own member pressing insistently into his thigh. Skin on skin. He whimpered, his knees trembling warningly. "Bed," he insisted once they broke apart for air. "I need you now."
John groaned, following him to the recommended piece of furniture and climbing on after him, settling comfortably between Sherlock's legs as he lay down. "This is familiar," Sherlock quipped, running his hands along the planes of John's shoulders and down his arms. "I wanted to touch your skin so badly my stomach hurt."
The doctor kissed him and lowered his body down so that they touched along the length of their chests. "There's nothing quite like being naked with another person," he agreed, but then their groins met and he cut off any further comments with a deep groan and a quick thrust downwards. Sherlock moaned, his hands travelling down John's back to grab two handfuls of his arse and pull him in again. Not having his hands restrained was a nice change, too.
Their hips were still rocking together, beyond Sherlock's control now; pleasure was sparkling through his chest with each slide of John's cock against his. "John," he murmured, removing his hands from the doctor's arse and working it between their bodies to wrap around their cocks. "I can't - I need to come, we can -"
"God, yes," John agreed, lifting himself enough to get his own hand around Sherlock's, tightening their grip and speeding up his thrusts, clearly beginning a race to climax. Sherlock bit his lip, but it didn't stop the noises spilling from his mouth, frantic gasps and whimpers because John felt so good against him, hot and throbbing, and wasn't the human erection a marvellous thing, so soft and hard at the same time? John's good arm was trembling beside Sherlock's head with the effort of holding him up and little drops of sweat were forming on the bridge of his nose, and Sherlock couldn't hold it; he threw his head back and pulled John closer with the hand that wasn't clenched tightly around their pricks and cried out to John, John, John!
"Sherlock," John gasped, collapsing onto him and knocking all the breath from his chest as his arm finally gave out, his hand taking over to stroke them both through the climax that rocked them until Sherlock felt as though he would never be able to move again, every inch of his body shaking with relief, gasping desperately to regain the breath he had lost to the full weight of John's body resting comfortingly on his own. He liked the feeling of being utterly trapped, pinned there however accidentally by John and unable to escape him.
They lay there for a while, John's breath forcing Sherlock's chest further into the bed, their cocks still twitching helplessly against each other. After a moment, Sherlock sighed contentedly and shifted, and John took the hint and rolled off him to stare up at the ceiling with a tiny smile on his face, still breathing heavily. Sherlock gingerly flexed all his limbs in turn to make sure they all still worked.
"That was fantastic," John sighed after another moment.
Sherlock chuckled. "It was," he agreed, reaching down to take John's hand where it lay between them. "It will get uncomfortable in a minute, though." He ran a hand through their semen on his belly to illustrate, but John grabbed his fingers and sucked them into his mouth, licking the sticky fluid away from them.
He hummed in languid agreement. "It will," he said anyway. Then he sat up abruptly and leant over the side of the bed, returning with his discarded shirt and giving both Sherlock and himself a perfunctory wipe-down. "There," he finished. Sherlock smiled lazily. There would still be a sticky patch on his stomach, but when it began to itch he could simply invite John into his shower.
In the meantime, Sherlock rolled onto his side to look at John, still flat on his back and breathing to the ceiling. He swept his gaze down the doctor's body, smiling at the tan lines so defined at his wrists and neck it almost looked as though he was still wearing a shirt. He had always imagined John's body to be golden brown, but once the tan faded it was actually rather pale. Sherlock put out a hand and rested it, fingers splayed, over John's belly. He knew he was pale, but it was impossible to avoid a slight tan on the hands, and his hands were darker than John's stomach.
John turned his head to look at Sherlock and smiled softly. Sherlock smiled back. "You're beautiful," he told him quietly.
The doctor laughed. "I'm getting old and riddled with battle-scars," he replied, but he blushed and shifted self-consciously anyway.
"Yes," Sherlock agreed, chuckling as John took a half-hearted swing at him. "And it's beautiful."
He ran his fingers over the starburst lump of scar tissue on John's left shoulder, down over his nipples towards the white line from a teenaged appendectomy. John shivered and rolled towards him, his rough surgeon's hand cupping Sherlock's jaw and tugging his mouth in for a deep, languid kiss. Sherlock moved his hand down to John's hip and pulled their entire bodies together, warm and damp with cooling sweat.
They moved together, lazy and comfortable, and the feeling of John's bare skin under his hands was every bit as perfectly erotic as Sherlock had imagined all those times when they pretended to do this. He ran his hands down John's sides and his back and his front and his thighs, wanting to bend and stroke the insteps of John's feet but not being able to reach without separating their mouths. He wanted to know if the soft parts of John's feet were any less soft than the soft parts of Sherlock's, given that Sherlock's insteps were higher than John's. He wanted to know whether John's nipples were just as sensitive as his own, which had sent sparks between his legs even when simply rubbing against the fabric of his shirt as they rutted together.
He wanted to cover himself in the sensation of John's skin the way one might luxuriously spread themselves over a sheepskin rug or silk sheets, but he had a feeling John might object to being spread out and rubbed up against like an over-friendly cat. He smiled into their kiss in utter contentment.
John's penis started to fill out against Sherlock's abdomen once more as they kissed and stroked one another; Sherlock began to notice John's hands roaming over his back and side, trailing over the ticklish dip leading into his hipbone. He squirmed at this, making John break away from the kiss for a moment to chuckle delightedly. "Are you ticklish?" he asked, rather redundantly given that Sherlock was shifting breathlessly away from his fingers.
"I am when you're tickling me," Sherlock retorted, all the snap leaving his voice on the gust of a giggle as John turned his fingers into claws and lightly scraped the stubs of his fingernails over the spot he'd been tickling, making Sherlock's hips jerk forwards against his own. The fingernails moved over the swell of his hip and down, to rake red lines into the looser flesh of his buttock. Sherlock's hips jerked involuntarily again, accompanied by a breathy laugh.
John grinned wickedly. "Your butt is ticklish," he stated, scratching it again.
Sherlock tried to scowl, but lost it in another giggle. "Well, it doesn't get tickled very often," he defended, circling his hips firmly against John's to try and distract him. It worked in a way; John's grin turned into a rich groan, but his fingernails dug into Sherlock's arse instead of grazing across it, which was just as ticklish. Sherlock huffed and bit at his lower lip, earning another groan, and then to change the subject entirely he rocked forwards and rolled them over so that he was on his hands and knees over the doctor and could bend his neck easily to bite the soft hollow underneath his chin, or sit back and survey the entirety of his body from a different angle.
He hadn't been lying; John's body was beautiful. Every inch of it betrayed who his flatmate was, from the tan line to the scars to the way he was lying, terribly self-conscious but trying to show the opposite, his hands still gripping Sherlock's forearms, his eyes soft with more affection than Sherlock had ever seen in one place before. He couldn't stop his hands from continuing their lazy strokes over John's torso and hips, but he bent his head and kissed, licked and sucked every part of his new lover's body from which something could be deduced about him: his collarbone, slightly bent from being broken many years ago, the bullet wound in his shoulder, the still-muscled dip between his pectorals, the less-muscled flesh of his belly, his surgeon's fingers, the slight signs of wastage in his right thigh from months of walking with a limp.
John's fingers twitched urgently as Sherlock bit the soft hollow between John's hipbone and his thigh, a huff of breath almost like a laugh escaping his lips. Sherlock caught the signs immediately and looked up at John with a knowing smirk on his own mouth; John did laugh at the expression. "Shut up," he growled, but his lips twisted into a reluctant smile and his fingers threaded into Sherlock's hair.
He hummed approval at the pressure against his scalp and finally let his face trail closer to John's groin, nosing at his balls and breathing in the earthy, base scent there. He smelt like semen and musk and arousal and man, and Sherlock's breath left his lungs quite suddenly, which in turn made John gasp as it blew out over his groin. Sherlock smiled at the feedback loop, breathing in again and darting out his tongue to lick up the seam between John's testes, resettling himself as John's legs spread wantonly underneath him and his grip in Sherlock's curls tightened.
"Sherlock," John groaned as he bent his head to take one testicle into his mouth and suckle it gently; the fingers in his hair tugged deliciously for a minute or so until Sherlock released it, turning to drop long licks over the other testicle before moving on to his cock, licking the taste of semen away from it before slipping it into his mouth and moaning at the resulting yank on his hair.
It had been years since Sherlock had done this, but he'd always enjoyed it. He knew where John's mind had gone when he'd mentioned the fact that he wasn't a virgin, but not all of Sherlock's sexual encounters had been with people he didn't care about. He supposed he'd had a fairly ordinary sex life when he was younger; at university especially there had been people he'd befriended and then grown attracted to just like anyone else, though perhaps without the soppy smiles and uncontrollable hand-holding that he saw teenagers doing now. He'd liked the feeling of doing something so tangibly pleasurable, liked the trust and the intimacy, but he also liked the simpler, tactile pleasure of having a cock in his mouth, the warmth and weight of it against his tongue and the roof of his mouth, the way it fit or didn't, the firm hands in his hair and the smell of arousal.
He looked up through his eyelashes at John and smirked as best he could, taking his cock as deeply into his throat as he could and swallowing around it. He had a feeling John wouldn't mind indulging this particular pleasure more often.
When his jaw began to ache he pulled off and stroked him instead, resting his head on the hollow in John's hip and still looking up at him with his lips curved into a smile that he hoped wasn't quite as goofily pleased as the doctor's own. John sat up on one elbow to better watch him, grinning. His other hand was still tangled in his hair; John gently disengaged it. Sherlock pouted. "That was nice," he told him plaintively.
John chuckled. "I never understood your obsession with your hair," he mentioned, reaching back down to stroke it gently. Sherlock leaned into his touch like a cat.
"I have sensitive follicles," he defended. "When people play with my hair it's like static electricity - my whole scalp sort of crackles. It's difficult to formulate an appropriate response to that feeling in public, so I style my hair carefully because I don't want to have to touch it. And I definitely don't want other people to touch it."
"But you don't mind me touching it in private?" John asked, his hand stilling.
Sherlock frowned and headbutted his hand. "I already said I enjoyed it, John. The reason I don't want it done in public is because it's horrifically arousing."
John laughed, his hand resuming its stroking motions through the curls at the top of Sherlock's head, before growing thoughtful. "Would you let me wash your hair one day? Give you a scalp massage while shampooing and rinsing your hair?"
A shudder of arousal racked Sherlock's body, making his hand tighten on John's cock and squeezing a moan out of John. "One day? Shit, John, could you do that now?" he asked before he could stop himself.
The doctor's hand clenched in Sherlock's hair as he laughed again, delightedly. "Of course," he replied, sounding a little dazed. Sherlock's cheeks flushed scarlet at his own eagerness, but John was sitting up and Sherlock's hand was falling from his cock and it looked like they were, indeed, doing this now. "I'll run a bath, we both need a wash anyway."
Sherlock smiled at John's practicality in the face of sex, but he still scrambled off the bed after him and opened the door a crack, peering out of it just in case Mrs Hudson had come up after all - somehow he didn't think she'd appreciate the two of them walking out in the altogether and clearly aroused in front of her - but the living room was empty, so they crept quietly out to the bathroom and John turned on the taps, straightening with an anticipatory smile.
It was so John that Sherlock stepped forwards and pressed him against the bathroom sink perhaps harder than necessary, slipping his tongue into his mouth. John groaned, his hands going back to Sherlock's bottom and pulling them impossibly closer until their groins rubbed together again. They moved together for a moment, the sound of the bath running in their ears, until John pulled away just enough to slip a hand between them and wrap it around Sherlock's cock.
He moaned deeply, dropping his head onto John's shoulder at the sensation. Somehow it felt different, sharper, when they were naked and standing up and in the bathroom. He already associated his bedroom with sex - he'd brought someone there once, but more appropriately it was where he and John had role-played, where he'd masturbated while thinking about John, where he'd always imagined anything happening. Up against the bathroom sink made it real.
He let it continue for a moment, wondering whether he should reciprocate but so caught up in the reality of the situation that he couldn't move his hands from clutching John's arms. Then he bit the doctor's shoulder gently. "Please, John, stop," he murmured. "Or I'll come before we even get in the bath - I think three times in one go might be pushing it."
John laughed, but he let go nonetheless after one last twist of his wrist that left Sherlock gasping. "Hey!" John said after another long kiss. "There's still that bottle of bath stuff Harry gave me for Christmas under the sink. The stuff that you thought smelled nice."
It had smelled nice, Sherlock remembered; John had offered it to him, but Sherlock had forgotten about it. He preferred baths to showers if he had the choice, but normally washing was a thing that happened between one event and the other and there wasn't time for relaxing and enjoying the sensations evoked by a bath. By the time he had had the opportunity to enjoy a proper one, he'd forgotten there was something pomegranate-scented he could enjoy it with. He hummed approval and let John go so that he could fish it out of the cupboard and dispense some into the bath.
They kissed until the smell of pomegranates and steam from the hot water surrounded them, until the bath was a little too deep and John had to put towels down around the edges to soak up the water that slopped over them as they got in. Sherlock submerged his head briefly before leaning against John's chest and sighing in utter content.
John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's chest, his fingers playing idle circles around his nipples and making him shiver slightly in the water. They had sat down with John's back against the end of the bath and Sherlock's back against his chest so that John had easy access to Sherlock's hair, and Sherlock rather thought this would be a nice position to simply be with each other after solving a case. It was, however, rather difficult to relax with one erection nudging against the small of his back and another throbbing eagerly between his legs.
He tried rocking back against the one that belonged to John, but the movement caused water to slop dramatically over the sides of the bath, so he stopped, dropping his head back against John's chest and frowning up at him. "This arrangement doesn't do much for you," he commented.
"Don't worry," John told him, already reaching for the bottle of Sherlock's shampoo. "Once we've done your hair, we can let some of the water out and then we'll be able to move. It's not going anywhere, Sherlock, not with you sitting in front of it." Sherlock laughed and let it go, closing his eyes as John tipped shampoo onto his head.
And then John's hands were in his hair, tugging and pulling and massaging his scalp, and Sherlock slipped a few inches further into the water with a deep groan. "Oh, my God," he moaned, his back arching at the feeling of John's fingers on his temple. "Oh, my God, John, where did you learn how to do this?"
John chuckled. "I knew an apprentice hairdresser at university," he explained, but Sherlock wasn't really listening. "Apparently that's the first thing you learn when you're training. He was camp as a row of tents, of course, but a great bloke - he mentioned that head massage was great for getting laid, so I asked him to teach me. You think I have magic fingers, you should have felt his. I was completely straight until he touched my head."
Sherlock snorted. "That's what they all say," he managed, though the sarcasm of his words was lost somewhat in another groan. "God, you have to let me write to this man and thank him."
"I'm not sure I want him near you, actually," John commented. Sherlock could hear the frown in his voice. "Once you've felt his hands, you might not want mine anymore."
His hands shifted slightly so that his fingernails were involved in the process, scraping the shampoo from Sherlock's scalp and redistributing it. Sherlock groaned again, then realised that probably wasn't an appropriate response to John's insecurity. "Will he shoot people for me, too?" he asked lazily, tipping his head back to look at John, which also had the benefit of moving John's attentions from the back of his head to his temples. "Will he make tea and breakfast and tell me I'm brilliant and not be able to set a fire and smile with his entire face, too?" John looked down at him and exhibited that full-faced smile. Sherlock smiled back. "If he's exactly like you, but with better scalp massage skills, then I'll consider swapping." He thought about it. "And even then, I don't know if I would. Your scalp massage skills are more than adequate, and you have the added sentimental benefit of being the first person who ever got close enough to me that I couldn't imagine letting them go."
"All right, all right," John said, but he was grinning. "Head forwards again."
Sherlock tipped his head obligingly forwards and grabbed hold of the edge of the bathtub with one hand as John's fingers shifted to the sides of his head and massaged around his ears and down to the nape of his neck. The growl that escaped his throat as they reached there surprised even him with its low ferocity, making John laugh when he jumped slightly. No-one had ever made him make that noise before. He shifted to take his weight on a different part of his bottom, the hand that wasn't gripping the bath so hard he thought he might break either his fingers or the rim of the bathtub drifting down to squeeze John's thigh in an attempt to avoid touching himself.
John stroked a hand down Sherlock's chest, tweaking his nipples again. "Lean back against me again and I'll rinse," he murmured. Sherlock complied, letting his entire body relax against John's and closing his eyes against the shampoo. John cupped his hand over Sherlock's forehead to divert the soapy water anyway, letting it run over his own shoulders instead. The water and soft stroking motions over his scalp, over-sensitized from John's earlier massages, sent sparks of pleasure to his cock and made him whimper softly. When John bent his head and pressed a kiss to the top of Sherlock's scalp he felt it so distinctly that he gasped in surprise.
"Gentler this time," he murmured softly as he felt cool shampoo drizzle over his hair. John hummed acknowledgment and focused his second shampoo on Sherlock's hair rather than his scalp, shifting and stroking the wet locks without actually touching his scalp more than necessary. Sherlock moaned, his fingers clenching on John's thigh as his groin throbbed.
He could remember the first time someone other than his nanny cut his hair, the first time he'd gone to a proper salon and had his hair washed by a professional. He'd almost jumped right out of the chair the first time the hairdresser touched his head. He was thirteen, and he'd already discovered the link between pulling his hair and sexual arousal, and he'd been completely shocked that a hairdresser could have such a cavalier attitude towards something so intimate. It wasn't until he talked to Mycroft about it afterwards that he'd realised not everyone had the same reaction, and he'd always been clear to his hairdressers since then that he had sensitive follicles and wished to have his head touched as little as possible.
It had been years since anyone had explored his head like this, and Sherlock's entire body was trembling with the joy of it. "John," he whispered, and his voice came out about an octave higher than normal and positively frantic.
"Shh," John returned softly, rinsing the shampoo from his hair again. "I've got you, Sherlock." He stroked the hand that he was scooping the bathwater over Sherlock's head with gently down his temple. "A little bit harder with the conditioner okay?" Sherlock made a confirming noise and both of John's hands left his head to reach for it. "Touch yourself," John suggested.
So he hooked his legs over John's to keep himself upright and brought the hand that had been holding the rim of the bathtub between his legs, closing it around himself and just holding it there as John's hands returned to work on his scalp. They had reached a certain balance between the firm, almost rough massage of the first time and the light, wary manipulations of the second: John was careful not to be too rough and overload Sherlock with sensation, but his movements were more purposeful, more of a massage. With the added pressure of his hand sliding slowly on his cock, Sherlock's breath came in harsh pants and his abdominal muscles twitched as orgasm marched inexorably closer.
"John," he gasped, stroking himself faster as John gently tipped his head forwards to reach around his ears and the nape of his neck. "Oh, John, please, I can't hold it -"
The doctor leaned around his hands and placed a chaste kiss on Sherlock's cheek. "Then don't," he replied simply.
At his words, Sherlock's hand flew over his cock and he started to come almost immediately, his head falling back onto John's shoulder again with a slightly painful thunk and his legs jerking enough to send water slopping over the sides of the bath. John's legs clamped over his own and his hands ceased their movement on his head, burying them and holding firmly instead to keep him from injuring himself any further after the first brutal whack of his knee on the side of the bath. John was saying something, maybe making soothing noises, but Sherlock could barely hear him over the roaring of his own blood in his ears - his vision had gone, he couldn't see, couldn't think, could barely breathe as his whole body surrendered to the inferno of white fire that consumed it.
Even when it faded, it did so in waves, leaving Sherlock to slowly grow aware of the state of the bathroom and the fact that he was still making weak half-moaning, half-gasping noises as the aftershocks washed over him. "Oh, fuck," he whispered when he could control his voice and his mouth again. Nothing he'd ever done had felt like that before.
John chuckled. "That's the third swear word I've heard you use this afternoon," he commented idly. "You have a pottier mouth than I do when it comes to sex."
"Only when it's incredible sex," Sherlock replied, slowly letting his body relax from where his every muscle had clenched during his orgasm. "I think you broke my body, John. That was the best thing I have ever felt."
The chuckle turned into a full-bellied laugh. "I'm glad you enjoyed it," he said warmly. "I'll drain the bath and start the shower - you can't rinse your hair in this, and I don't particularly want your come in my skin until the next time I wash, either."
Sherlock snorted a laugh in return and allowed John to prop him up and shift them forwards in the bath to pull the plug. "I'll just shower sitting down," he said as John struggled to stand. "There's no way my legs will support my weight for the next ten minutes or so."
John smiled down at him as he turned the shower on; Sherlock flinched at the cold spray before it began to warm against his skin. Really though, he mused as he watched the doctor, sitting down was the best place to be in this situation. Perhaps kneeling would put him exactly at eye-level with John's almost painful-looking erection.
After a few minutes Sherlock regained enough control of his legs to shift until he was on his knees in front of John with his back to the shower-head so that the spray was rinsing the conditioner from his hair, aided by John's fingers as the doctor smiled down at him. After another moment, Sherlock smirked back up at John and slipped the erection into his mouth, sucking gently.
"Oh, God," John groaned immediately, caving in around Sherlock's head but being careful not to tug on his hair. Understanding the desperate, urgent arousal John must be feeling, he set up a quick, firm rhythm with his mouth and smiled at the verbal response that tumbled out of the doctor's mouth. "Fuck," John cursed, taking one hand out of Sherlock's hair and bracing himself against the wall. "Oh, Sherlock, fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck - Sherlock!"
He held onto John's hips when the doctor's knees looked like they were about to buckle, swallowing the hot ejaculate as it flooded his mouth and smirking as he finally pulled off of John's softening cock. "What were we saying about potty mouth?" he queried wryly.
John grinned and switched off the shower spray. "I think we agreed it's acceptable if the sex is incredible," he returned.
Later, curled up on Sherlock's bed watching John's collection of Doctor Who – well, John was watching Doctor Who, Sherlock was more focussed on watching John and falling into a doze – Sherlock's phone buzzed with a text.
Charlotte requested your number in case she needs to talk. That ok? –L
Sherlock smiled slightly, tilting the screen towards John. "I sympathise with that girl more than I ought to," he commented, affecting an airy tone he didn't feel. "We were scarily good at that role-playing thing."
"Technically, you were playing Amy, not Charlotte," John corrected him, smiling and settling more comfortably into his arms.
"That's what's scary about it," Sherlock told him. "I honestly think that if it had been Amy who'd been hurt by a string of bad men, Charlotte would have done something equally drastic. Just like if it had been you in that room that day, I would have shot that cabbie to save you."
John was quiet for a moment. "Promise me you'll never hide anything like that from me," he said when it had finished.
Sherlock squeezed him tighter. "I promise," he replied. "Everything I need, I can get from you. We've proven that today." He paused to kiss John's neck gently. "I love you, John."
The doctor tensed as though he had not expected to hear it; he turned in Sherlock's arms and kissed his lips, hard. "I love you too," he said fiercely. Then he split into a bright grin and turned back towards the laptop. "Now shush. The Angels have the phonebox."
A/N: To those of you who have been following me since Infamia and are wondering what happened to the Lord Chamberlain's Men AU I was planning back then, I'm still doing that. Still pretty much in exactly the same place I was last time, although I'm now tossing up between Twelfth Night and Cymbeline, which is my favourite Shakespeare ever but is later than I'd planned historically. Anyway now that this is finished I'll get right onto that.
Thanks so much to absolutely everyone who has commented, subscribed, favourited, bookmarked or even just read this story, you guys are absolutely incredible.