A/N: full disclaimer: this is all porn, please skip if this makes you uncomfortable

Writing this actually made me p uncomfortable so yall better fucking like it lmao

The drive was unremarkable and tense. Neither of them spoke; they just watched as fresh snow hit the windshield of the Bugatti and the wipers cleaned it off. When John looked at Sherlock's hands in the low light, he saw that they were splotched white and pink from gripping the steering wheel too hard.

"Where are we going?" John asked, not really expecting an answer.

"Home."

***

John got out of the car as soon as they pulled into the garage, slamming the door shut and stalking across the freezing cold room that was full of expensive automobiles to the entrance that led inside. Behind him, he could hear Sherlock shut the car door and follow him.

He walked in quickly and tried to find his way around the dimly lit hall before Sherlock could catch up and say something scathing about John not mattering to him. "Hey!" he heard Sherlock shout angrily. He kept on walking, only to realize Sherlock was only five or six feet behind him at this point, and he had no clue where to go. "John," Sherlock said behind him with a threat in his voice, "You-"

At that, John pivoted on his heel to face Sherlock, walking close enough so he could see the whites of Sherlock's eyes but not close enough to be able to count his individual eyelashes. His expression was dark and churning and so lost, so unknown. He looked undone. Like something had snapped inside him between the dinner party and now, something he hadn't known was there.

"You're a prick, Sherlock Holmes," John bellowed, his finger coming up to point. "An arrogant prick. I'll pretend I don't care, if that's what you want. I'll act like we don't matter to each other. But God help me - if you think - if you think that I'll allow you to make me your trophy wife when you deem me convenient, Sherlock - God help me." When John turned around to march away, he felt a unwelcome hand pull him back with an absence of precision completely unlike Sherlock.

"Do you think this is easy for me?" Sherlock hissed viciously, grip tightening.

"I don't care!" John yelled. "You don't get to be angry. You chose this. You don't get to be angry."

"I'm not," Sherlock insisted, shoving John away from him.

"Course you're not," John retorted. "'The great violinist Sherlock Holmes could hardly be angry. Machines don't get angry.'" With a hint of utter disbelief in his voice: "Do you honestly expect me to believe that, now? Do you honestly think I'm that willfully blind?"

"Your skills of deduction are par for the course, I'm afraid," he snarled.

"You're unbelievable. Unbelievable, Sherlock. You make it so hard for everyone around you, and in turn all you have to show for it is selfishness."

"What did you expect?" Sherlock shouted in frustration, his face contorting into a mix between anger and incredulity.

"I don't know, alright? But you need to make up your mind. You need to stop stringing me along on your everlasting power trip. I'm not going to sit around to stroke your fucking ego for you."

"What makes you believe that I ever intended to string you along?"

"Because those are the choices you make when you're frightened," John replied. He slumped against the wallpaper and watched Sherlock's expression slowly shift from anger to something much more subdued and ominous.

"Then you knew, and you willfully chose this."

"Maybe," John agreed, slowly. "Maybe I did. But I'm tired of having one foot out for the sake of your leisure."

"Then why don't you make it easy on both of us and just go back with her?" Sherlock spat.

"For a genius, you're incredibly thick."

"Answer me," Sherlock demanded, voice like acid. "Tell me why - I'm dying to know."

John took a large inhale. "Because I don't weigh my decisions on ease, Sherlock."

"What do you weigh your decisions on? It can't possibly be rationale."

"Always with the attitude." John's voice became low and restrained with tired, frustrated sincerity. He enunciated each word as if he felt Sherlock was struggling to hear him. "I didn't... go back to her because I don't... want her."

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked in a tone that connoted no hopefulness whatsoever. He acted as if all he was interested in was hard, cold facts - as if he was an outsider looking in.

John's eyes slid heavenward in exasperation. He crossed his arms as he spoke, looking upwards like he was lost in prayer. Taking a few moments to fully appreciate the absurdity of this conversation, John finally looked at Sherlock, who remained clueless. In an overly patient voice: "I want you, alright?" The tension in his voice dissolved into resignation. "I want you."

His confession was met with distinct silence.

"I want you more than I hate that you sat down next to me with Elizabeth practically fondling you, knowing... that I..." John trailed into the empty air. An emotion that John didn't have pinned down yet flickered across Sherlock's features. He took a step back and his eyes widened, silent like he didn't know what to do with his thoughts.

"And I want you enough to explicitly tell you so, because you're an annoying dick that refuses to see what's right in front of him," John supplied.

Still, Sherlock stayed unmoving, watching John carefully in the dim light, trying to pick apart his expression. (John felt that he was succeeding with little difficulty. And that was scary - because then Sherlock knew how scared he actually was.)

"Can you say something?" John finally asked after a minute-long pause. His palms were sticky. "Anything? Just so I know you haven't gone mute."

"Mm," Sherlock offered.

"Thank you." When Sherlock said nothing else, John nodded briskly and started walking away again, into the next hallway.

"John," Sherlock said to his back.

"Yeah," John mumbled, even as he kept going.

"For the record," he called, "My father ordered the seating to be changed without my knowledge."

John slowed his tread slightly, Sherlock's voice becoming less confident as he continued.

"He wanted me to negotiate with Claire's father. And you're right when you say that I'm frightened. I don't know what to do." His voice faltered, becoming quiet as he took a timid step in John's direction. "I don't know how to feel."

"If you don't know how to feel, then what am I here for? Your entertainment?" John asked the wall he was facing in a voice that was more pained than challenging.

"I don't know how to feel, but I do know how I feel. I hope that makes sense."

John was quiet, but he nodded.

"I want you. And this," Sherlock whispered. "Sorry. For not telling you sooner."

John turned slowly, finally letting himself look at Sherlock like this, Sherlock coveted by darkness and a quiet honesty. John was hesitant to speak in fear that his voice would give out - even though he had so much, too much to say-

"I," John started, so completely unsure, "I didn't even think you felt things. Not like that. Not after everything that happened with Victor."

"John - don't be foolish. You're not Victor."

"I thought I was."

The space between them narrowed, although they hadn't moved.

"You're not," Sherlock said simply.

John let out a slow exhale, his entire body relaxing. He nodded. "Alright."

"I'll walk you up."

"That's chivalrous."

"Necessary. We're two rooms away from each other and you obviously have no idea where you're going if you're not coming from the main entrance."

"Well." John gestured into the next hallway, half a smile flickering on his features. "Lead the way."

Sherlock started to walk, and John fell in behind him. The house seemed extra quiet, now that he and Sherlock weren't filling up the spaces. "Is Mrs. Hudson home?" John whispered, so the delicate silence would be preserved.

"She's in her cottage on the other side of the property," Sherlock said, starting the climb up the stairs. The floorboards didn't creak as John went up to the second floor, where all the rooms and guest bedrooms were. It was a bit eerie, actually - how the house sucked up all the noise. They reached the top of the stairs. John couldn't even hear crickets. All he could hear was his heart beat, and how it picked up when Sherlock looked at him from across the floor, his eyes cutting a hole in the air.

"Night," John said.

"Goodnight."

Neither of them moved.

Sherlock's bottom lip was trapped under his teeth, like he was biting something back. In some other plane of existence Sherlock and John were here, too. In every variation of life where they could have wanted this, they ended up here. Maybe in another time, too. Maybe in a small flat, where everything was sepia toned and they both weren't so scared of the future.

John eyed him for a moment more. And then - he travelled across the floor and cupped his hand around Sherlock's jaw. Sherlock's pulse hitched from where John could sense it in his neck, and they waltzed back so that Sherlock was pressed into a wall. John had made this movement a thousand times, with Claire, with his exes, with one night stands, but this was the first time it was coupled with this terrible, profound tug in his gut, like his body was warning him of the danger and pulling him closer at the same time.

"John-" Sherlock said with an aborted breath. His hands were at his sides. For the first time, he didn't seem to know what to do with them.

"It's okay," John breathed.

Sherlock's eyes were wide and dark. "I don't - I haven't-"

"No - I've got you." His eyelashes were fluttering. "You're okay."

John smiled as Sherlock closed his eyes.

He kissed him, then. Slowly, so he could feel the roundness of his lip against his own, and taste the dessert that they'd had earlier that night. Apple tarts. Sherlock still didn't move his hands - maybe because they were still shaking, maybe because he'd forgotten how to.

John didn't know whether or not to say what they were both thinking: This time matters. But maybe it was better that they didn't think at all, because then he'd start thinking about how apprehensive he was, right now - God - it'd been so long, since-

Sherlock shouldered off his coat, letting it pool around his feet, and kicked off his damp shoes in the same movement. His socked toes curled into the floor when John kissed him, opening his mouth for easier access and threading both hands into his hair.

There was something so subtly wanton in Sherlock's kisses. He experimentally ran his tongue along John's top lip, and his tongue swelled against it. John broke away when Sherlock tried to peel off his overcoat, peel off the layers between them. One at a time, their clothes fell to the floor, until the only top John was wearing was a white undershirt. Sherlock was still in that fucking burgundy suit. "Do you" - Sherlock sharply inhaled as John's hand slid down from his jaw to his ribcage. John could feel his chest expand and constrict, like a snake - "do you want to..."

John kissed the hollow of Sherlock's throat. "Yeah," he rumbled into Sherlock's skin, palming the slope of Sherlock's thigh. Once he felt the semi Sherlock was sporting, John made a noise in the back of his throat, heaving with energy as he pulled both of Sherlock's thighs up and pinned him to the wall, bracing their bodies with his left hand. His legs closed around John's waist. A small nudge of John's hips - that was all it took for Sherlock to give a shaky shudder and have his groin tighten completely.

He murmured through his kisses that he was placing on Sherlock's neck. Compliments peppered Sherlock's soft, pale skin, until Sherlock lazed his hands across John's shoulders and pressed his aching dick into John's waistline. "Like this," Sherlock whispered, bracing himself. "I want you to fuck me."

John stopped kissing him to inhale sharply, looking up to find some remnant of humor in Sherlock's eyes. There was a vulnerability, a sincerity there - but not a smile. Not the clever smirk he was always sporting when he teased a hard on out of John at the academy. Not that annoyed glare when John tried to initiate a hand job while he was practicing for the orchestra.

"Sherlock," John asked without really asking.

"Bedroom," Sherlock said, kissing the corner of John's mouth.

John slid the hand that was holding them both up to Sherlock's arse, where he readjusted awkwardly for a second, taking care to make sure that Sherlock was comfortable. When he was being carried, he was heavy, but strangely small. John didn't know how to account for all the negative space. He could have sworn that Sherlock was thicker, taller, heavier. The bed was only a few steps away; John nudged the door to Sherlock's unlit bedroom open with his elbow, slowly passing by the desk with sheet music scattered all over it.

"Swear to God," John grunted, "if I slip on a piece of paper, we're never having sex again."

"I'll clean," Sherlock whined, kissing John's neck. "I promise, I'll clean."

"Liar."

There was a rumble, light and humorous, in the back of Sherlock's throat. It was only until John found his way to the bed and gently laid Sherlock's body down, climbing in after with his shoes still on his feet, that Sherlock stopped laughing. His smile died away, and even someone as unobservant as John could see his breath pick up in his chest. He was practically panting from excitement, even if the only evidence of that on his face was a slightly debauched, unhinged expression. John was so close to him. His breath smelled like white wine. In the dark, John could still see every slight freckle that dotted Sherlock's cheeks, his neck.

John rocked back, pushing himself off of Sherlock's body so he could truly look at all of him, untouched, entirely still. There was rarely a moment where one of them wasn't moving, so this moment - both of them quiet, still so sick with lust, anticipation soaking three layers down - John wanted to drink it up. Snapshot it.

Without taking his eyes away, John unbuckled his belt. Sherlock's tongue darted out to wet his lips; John caught the gleam of his eyes following John's hand as he pulled his belt from the loops. His chest rose and fell evenly, watching John in bated anticipation.

Sherlock looked stunning like this. He was still dressed, still cased in crisp burgundy fabric. His expression was unguarded, certain. And John wanted to deconstruct him. To tear him apart and put him back together again with the violence and conviction of a storm.

He lowered himself, bracketing Sherlock's head with his forearms. John pressed his lips to Sherlock's tentatively, sinking down low enough to rub their cocks together. Sherlock's mouth parted to let out a soft gasp as John inhaled sharply, bracing his body to do it again. Three more leisure but firm pushes of his dick into Sherlock's, and Sherlock was breathing shallowly into John's ear. "That's right, Sherlock," John murmured, thrusting against Sherlock's hardness. "That's what you want?"

"Yes," Sherlock responded, shuddering.

"That's right," he said, like an afterthought. He loosened Sherlock's black bow tie, opening his collar with a newly found hastiness. Each button was easily undone until the last three, when John became suddenly impatient and ripped the rest of Sherlock's shirt open. Each button popped off with a sharp noise in quick succession. Sherlock's gasps turned into quiet, smug laughter.

"There's a ration on fabric and your first impulse is to ruin my goddamn dress shirt-" Sherlock's words were cut off by the sudden sensation of John at his trouser zipper. And then hands underneath his back, pulling his bare chest up to John's mouth. John kissed his way down from Sherlock's collarbones to his chest with smug grin, worrying at the soft skin of Sherlock's stomach with his teeth and flicking his tongue against Sherlock's nipple. Sherlock arched even more, biting back desperate whines as John sucked and licked at the hardened nubs.

"John," Sherlock gasped, "oh-"

Sliding down, John finally began the process of discarding Sherlock's trousers when he heard his voice, desperate and shaky. "John." Sherlock slid his hand into John's hair, pulling him up to look Sherlock in the face. "John, please," he breathed.

John paused. "Anything."

"Fuck me," Sherlock confessed, not daring to look away. John's eyes rested on his, searching them for some kind of joke. There was nothing. "I need you, John," Sherlock begged. "Please."

There was a moment where John didn't really hear what he said, just watched his mouth move and his breath swell and constrict in his chest. So beautiful. He smoothed his palm down Sherlock's side and took all of him in from underneath his lashes, enraptured by the sight of him, silent and ready.

With those few seconds of silence still clinging to him, John carefully slid Sherlock's trousers off of his thighs. Shuffling down the bed, John pulled them off from his ankles. He never took his eyes off of Sherlock; Sherlock was still heaving with breath, with energy, his eyelids fluttering whenever John touched him. John climbed back between Sherlock's legs, and slid both hands under his hips, pulling him closer.

Now, with Sherlock's only clothing being a pair of boxer briefs, John could clearly see the swelling hardness in his pants. He looked up at Sherlock for some sort of confirmation, only to see his eyes glued to John's hand. Tentatively, John dragged his fingertips down the length of Sherlock's engorged shaft. Sherlock gasped, jerking hard, rolling his hips into John's palm. "You're amazing," John whispered as Sherlock writhed. "You're so amazing, so hard" - Sherlock moaned - "Jesus, Jesus Christ-"

"John," Sherlock exhaled through gritted teeth. He pushed harder into John's hand, begging for some release.

"Gorgeous," John said, peeling Sherlock's pants down to reveal a pale pink dick, straining upwards. "Your cock is gorgeous." John leaned down, planted an open kiss on the head. Sherlock couldn't seem to contain himself, barking out a sound that vaguely resembled a plea. His name kept leaving Sherlock's lips: "John, please - oh, please-"

John pulled his trousers and pants down to his knees in one motion, his mouth still working at Sherlock's shaft, tongue licking up the bittersweet precum beading at Sherlock's head. If his mouth wasn't occupied, he would have stated quite clearly what he thought of Sherlock like this. His legs splayed apart, eager and endlessly wanton. He'd wanted this for so long. Too long. To be buried inside Sherlock, pumping until he shattered.

"Your mouth," Sherlock gasped. John pulled away right then to slide off the bed, leaving Sherlock to whine in dismay at the loss of contact. His breath was coming hard and fast, now, unevenly. John made quick work of his shoes and trousers, tossing them away from the foot of the bed. Sherlock traced his movements with his eyes as he climbed back in, cock hard and heavy in his hand. He lowered himself down. Chest to chest, thigh to thigh. John kissed his cheekbone, his eyebrow, the corner of his lips. "I've wanted you like this since the day I first saw you," John breathed. "Just like this."

Sherlock exhaled shakily.

"You're so responsive," John whispered, taking their cocks in hand. "Isn't that right?"

"Yes," Sherlock responded breathily, thrusting hard into John's hand. "Yes, oh-"

"That's right, Sherlock," John said, making his own pleasure a far off thought. "Ever since the second I fucking saw you. Just like this."

John kept on kissing his face, his neck, everywhere but his lips, evenly pumping his fist with both their cocks in hand. "Would you ride me? Huh?"

"Yes, John, anything, John," Sherlock gasped, jerking into John's fingers.

"It's all for you." John met his lips with a breathless kiss. "I'd do anything for you."

"Lube," Sherlock panted. Managing not to break their heated kiss, Sherlock mindlessly reached out his hand to the bedside table, opening a drawer without looking and scrambling for a bottle. After a few seconds of feeling around, Sherlock gripped it and planted it soundly on the bedside table, where John promptly grabbed it and sat up, easing Sherlock up with him in a breathless kiss. Sherlock's legs looped over John's, their cocks still pressed together, glistening. "Beautiful," John said as he broke the kiss, carefully sliding Sherlock's shirt off of his shoulders and tossing it on the hardwood floor. He was totally bare, now. John ran his hand down Sherlock's heaving chest and wiped a thumb against his nipple, eliciting a loud reaction from Sherlock. He eventually rested his hands against Sherlock's delicate rib cage, experiencing it expand so obviously towards the surface as Sherlock inhaled. His skin was alabaster pale, and his frame was delicate and wiry. Sherlock's eyes were closed, even as he slid a hand underneath John's sleeveless shirt to his stomach, where his bruise was slowly yellowing out.

"It still hurts," Sherlock noted softly.

John winced. "A little."

Sherlock lifted John's shirt up and off, throwing it to the foot of the bed. John's skin prickled as Sherlock touched his neck, his chest.

John took the lube in hand and squeezed out a coin sized amount onto his fingers. John felt Sherlock lift his arse up, supporting the weight with his shins. He took John's hand in his. "Here," he breathed shakily, leading John's fingers, wet with lube, to his hole. At the first signs of pressure - John's fingers found his perineum, and then the cleft of his arse - Sherlock shuddered loudly into John's hair, mouthing at his forehead, his temple. "John," he begged, "please-"

"You take me so well," John murmured, pressing his middle finger against Sherlock's hole. "So well." Sherlock whimpered against John's temple in response. With a sharp inhale, he pushed against some level of resistance to enter into Sherlock's heat. Working his finger in and out, Sherlock lost it, rocking into the movement with closed eyes and white knuckles. "So tight, Sherlock. I wanna be inside you so bad - fuck, fuck - fuck my fingers." Every thrust loosened Sherlock more, contorting his face into pure ecstasy. Claire was a far off wisp of memory, now, with Sherlock in his arms. Moaning uncontrollably.

Another finger, and Sherlock was writhing in pleasure. John was pulsing his index inside him, against his prostate, drawing out the filthiest, most beautiful noises John had ever heard. "Now," he heard Sherlock shudder out. "I need to ride you, now."

Hearing those words drove something hot and solid into his groin. John eased out slowly, only to trace the loosened hole that he had fucked open with his fingers. "You're so good," he praised.

"Fuck, John," Sherlock said, writhing back. Right now, flailing, reaching for coherency and breath, he somehow looked beautiful in a completely different way. Like how a sunset looked different from a dawn. He wanted to tell him that. While Sherlock was out of his mind: I adore you, never lose me, never lose this-

John squirted more lube into his palm and wrapped his hand around the base of his cock. The sensation made his eyelids flutter shut - cool wetness being stroked up and down his length - but the sound of Sherlock mewling for attention brought John back to the present. He wrapped his arm around Sherlock, held him close - and with his other hand, held the base of his prick so Sherlock could slowly calibrate. Slowly, painfully slowly, Sherlock lowered himself onto the slick head of John's cock. At the first sensation of real heat, John failed to bite back a groan that came straight from his stomach.

"You like that," Sherlock gasped - not a question.

John white knuckled against Sherlock's skin, the white hot feeling of intense arousal pooling thickly at his groin. "That's it, love," he said, not thinking at all. Love. "Jesus, you feel" - Sherlock shuddered violently - "so good, Sherlock."

So slow, but so good. This was the first time John had ever felt this way, had ever been inside of Sherlock. He'd trade anything for this feeling. For Sherlock's rib cage under his hands, for his shaky, barely there moans, for his kisses, desperate and open-mouthed. He pressed in as Sherlock slid down until he was fully buried in Sherlock's heat.

"You okay?" John somehow managed.

"Yeah, it's just been a while since I - oh-"

"You're doing beautifully," John praised breathily, embracing Sherlock gently in both arms. "Jesus, you feel tight."

At that compliment, Sherlock finally began to move. At first, they were both deathly silent, lost in the all consuming sensation. Sherlock's eyes were closed, brows scrunched together in concentration and some level of painful pleasure. John watched him slide up, and then work his way back down until he was more relaxed, and had a rhythm. He seemed like he was trying to hold it together. And John was completely mesmerized by every labored breath that escaped Sherlock's lips. "John," he exhaled, the syllable just a murmur, a passing afterthought. As if he was recalling something long gone. And then, hushed but somewhat louder, "John, John, perfect" - he quickened his pace, sliding up and then pounding himself back down - "fuck me, yes."

Even though the lights were off, John could feel him like he was a liquid, a casing of heat and arousal, pounding into John's mind with every slow movement. The apprehension he'd felt just minutes before was completely lost to this. This hammering, constant, of his heartbeat, elation that transcended beyond the physical into something else entirely.

He was hitting something, too. Sherlock was forgetting himself, slinging his arms over John's shoulders, curling his fingers into John's hair, at a loss. "Yes, yes, yes," he chanted. "Right there - oh-"

There was something about watching Sherlock fuck and pleasure himself on John's cock that made John unable to tear his eyes away. The byproduct of that was the sudden plow of arousal into his groin, making him involuntarily moan into the hollow of Sherlock's collarbone. He was going to come if Sherlock didn't-

"Slow down, Sherlock," John gurgled out. Sherlock immediately paused, looking down at John to check if he was alright.

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No, but..."

"You need more control," Sherlock stated. His voice had slid from worry into sincerity, as if this was the most important thing John had ever done. (Maybe it was?) John nodded, once, and licked his lips.

"Alright." Sherlock pushed himself off. He laid pliant on his back, legs forming angles with the bed. "However you want."

Silently, wordlessly, John tipped forward, onto his knees, running his hands along the inner side of Sherlock's thigh. Sherlock froze, like a deer in headlights. Unsure of what was going to happen, but sure whatever it was was going to come. The faintest lapse in his breathing denoted his anxiety.

"Hey," John said to Sherlock's unmoving form. "If you don't want to, tell me."

"I want to," Sherlock immediately said. "I just - I'm not used to...this."

"Being taken care of?" John asked, a smile halfway onto his lips. A nervous chuckle escaped Sherlock's. It wasn't until John climbed forward and pressed their chests together, on his forearms, that Sherlock went lax.

"You drive me mad," John said, grasping his cock and guiding it against Sherlock's hole. Sherlock's eyes squeezed shut. "Bloody mad," John said, soothing Sherlock's anxiety by kissing his open mouth. By now, he was unresponsive and breathing hard, overtaken by the simple feeling of being slowly pushed into. He took barely a centimeter before wincing. "Look at me, love," John whispered.

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes, blown wide with painful pleasure and anxiousness. "I wish you knew," John said in a gravelly string of euphoria, pressing deeper into his heat. "I wish you knew how perfect you are, how much I want you." Their intimate eye contact struck John like a lightning bolt. All that sadness, that fear - it was apparent as day. He wanted to tell him exactly how he made him feel, with no room for error - how he made his stomach twist in knots, how he created something from nothing at all. How he was the only thing John could ever want.

"Tell me how you feel," John said, once almost fully seated inside him.

"Sore," Sherlock answered honestly, earning a snorting laugh from John.

"Should I move?"

Sherlock nodded quickly. "Yes."

The first thrusts were more of a rocking motion, eliciting heavy grunts of effort from John's mouth. Sherlock was breathing harder than he had been before, obviously unused to being in this position, tensed up in pain.

"Relax," John soothed, pushing back Sherlock's curls, damp with moisture. Sherlock shuddered, eyelids fluttering.

"John," he whispered, almost like he was going to ask a question - but then John rocked into him - and he writhed, both hands gathering the sheets in a bunch and squeezing, hard.

"That's it," John said, kissing Sherlock's brow as Sherlock let out shallow, fast breaths. He gave him a moment to recover, and then rocked into him again.

"Christ, John" - Sherlock gasped, back arching. John found his hand among the sheets and took it in his, intertwining their fingers as he began to progress the rocking to an earnest, but slow thrust. "Christ, give it to me."

John was starting to feel a slight burn in his thighs, pushing into Sherlock like this. At Sherlock's request, he started driving with more force into Sherlock's hole, each thrust met with a breathlessly needy moan of pleasure from Sherlock. "I will," John whispered into Sherlock's cheek, their bodies pressed together from groin to torso. "Jesus, you're perfect. So clever."

Sherlock clenched John's hand harder, tilting his head up so he could see John as he thrusted - know he meant every word he said. "The first time we met, I couldn't get you out of my head, Sherlock."

"Ah," Sherlock panted, his words turning raspy from breathlessness, desire. "John, I need you - I wanted you so badly, so long, please fuck me-"

"I will, love" - John switched from a shallow thrust into a long, hard push, making the bed whine from stress and making Sherlock jerk into his cock, making it deeper, better. "I-" John bit the words he wanted to say back into his mouth. He was shaking from effort, but the hot fire of arousal was more prevalent as Sherlock lost all reservation. His eyes were open wide, and all he seemed to see was John centimeters above him, thrusting.

"Do you know what you do to me?" John asked, speeding up, lowering himself to get a better angle. Their noses brushed. "Oh - fuck."

"So close," Sherlock breathed. His words lit a fire inside of John; he pressed his lips to Sherlock's temple, lining his cheekbone with kisses. "You can come for me, love," John murmured breathlessly into Sherlock's ear, fucking him hard and fast. "Come on. I want you to."

A few more thrusts and Sherlock's eyes flew shut with intense, flooding euphoria. "Ah - John" - his chest seized - "I'm-"

Sherlock bucked, hard and suddenly. His open mouth worked over as if he was going to shout but lost his inhibitions entirely, lost his ability to speak. John pressed his mouth to Sherlock's damp temples, his lips, his cheeks - Sherlock jerked upwards, face twisted in absolute gratification, lost to it. As soon as he buckled back down, a low whine escaped his mouth, along with a shaky, pitiful "John."

At the sound of Sherlock brokenly uttering his name after falling apart, John desperately thrusted - short and shallow - into the rising heat. With a grunting shout, he followed after, pressing his lips to Sherlock's, letting his moans be swallowed by Sherlock's mouth. Their hands were still intertwined in the sheets as John shook through his powerful orgasm, panting furiously on top of Sherlock.

Sherlock's head was tucked against John's cheek, his breath shallow and fast. There was a smile in John's voice when he panted: "I've got you; I've got you." And Sherlock kissed him like he was saying "I know" back. Closed lips, softly, certain.

He finally relaxed after the last tremors ebbed, closing his eyes and letting his breathing slow to something deep and heavy. John pulled out and moved off, eyes closed from exhaustion.

Sherlock, tired as he was, turned and curled up against John hand in hand. His voice was a hardly-formed murmur when he spoke. "You didn't have to say all those things."

"What things?" John whispered into Sherlock's feverish forehead. "That I think about you all of the time? That you're gorgeous and clever? That I wanted you since the moment I stepped foot in that music room?" John kissed his hair. "I was telling the truth."

"The truth is dangerous," Sherlock said, his voice somber and hush.

Their interlaced hands were on John's sternum, above his heart, and John was afraid Sherlock would feel it speed up. "The truth is that I adore you," he breathed. Sherlock shifted to wrap his other arm around John's stomach. And lower, if that were even possible: "And that I never want you to leave."

Sherlock was silent.

"Sherlock?"

John opened his eyes and looked at his lover, quiet and pale in his arms. He was asleep. John combed his fingers affectionately through the curls on the back of Sherlock's neck, kissed his temple, and smiled.

They would see each other in the morning.