Sherlock was fascinated by male sexuality, in particular the way an orgasm stimulated more aspects of the human brain than any other natural sensation. It was like leaping into the air from a great height and looking around as quickly as possible in order to memorize the view. He liked to experiment with technique, both on himself and his partners, in attempt to draw out the longest possible peak. But he was often disappointed when his lovers hurried right past their finish, showing few signs of enjoyment except to grunt now and again until it was over.
But John was different. He relished an orgasm like no one Sherlock had ever seen. The moment climax overtook his body, the tension that held him stiffly in place—and slightly twisted to accommodate whichever angle Sherlock was fucking him from—seemed to melt from his limbs. He would roll onto his back and arch his neck while a blissful smile poured across his face, and the hand that once pumped away furiously at his cock slowed to smooth, broad strokes as low moans and semen expelled effortlessly into the air above him.
“Fucking brilliant,” Sherlock murmured the first time he observed this.
Reaching his own peak usually meant shutting out the world around him, but this time Sherlock kept his eyes open and fixated on the bright unguarded smile that beamed up at him, encouraging him to not only come off as hard as he could, but that waited to share in its splendor.
When the keen pleasure began to curl into Sherlock’s spine and spiral down his legs, it was accompanied by an unfamiliar sound. A moment later he realized that he was laughing, and that John was laughing, with the same breathless glee that sometimes punctuated an exhilarating chase through the streets of London. He was still chuckling softly when he collapsed onto his lover’s chest and John dug an affectionate hand into Sherlock’s hair.
Now, on this dull rainy Thursday, Sherlock was bored. Bored and listless. His two least favorite moods could compel him towards any number of unsavory activities, and their rooms still bore the scars of most of them. But rather than fantasizing about crime or an elaborate scheme that would bring much consternation to the police force, he found his thoughts turning continuously to John.
They really did strike an ideal situation. In fact, Sherlock found it so agreeable that he allowed an occasional gesture of sentiment to graze the boundary of their relationship. He was certain that nothing need come of a playful hair-tousle, an encouraging squeeze on an arm or even a lingering moment to open his mouth against John’s neck and inhale the way a cat imbibes an essence.
He was simply appreciating John. It was perfectly logical that he should do so.
So, why exactly did John’s three-day absence seem like a month? Why was it that when Sherlock surveyed their rooms for something to appease his chaotic attention span, all he could land on were— ahem—certain moments of deep appreciation?
Of course he didn’t miss John. He would call him to prove it.
He picked up his phone, pressed #1 on his speed dial and waited. Four rings later, John answered. He sounded like he was inside a crowded tunnel.
“Tell me you have something more interesting than chemoprophylaxis in the prevention of leprosy,” John half-shouted and half-groaned. They rarely said hello and goodbye, and Sherlock liked it that way.
“Stimulating conference?” Sherlock perked up. Boredom loves company.
“Not bad, really, but surprisingly few medical professionals make good lecturers. And the atmosphere is a bit stuffy, to say the least. Is something on in London?”
“Not really,” Sherlock admitted, though he decided to ignore the odd little jumps in his stomach that had started as soon as John answered the phone. “Where are you?”
“In the lobby of the hotel. There’s a reception for Dr. Gunnar, who’s retiring from the BMA this year, but it’s so crowded I can’t even see the buffet. What’s up?”
“Oh,” said Sherlock, flopping onto the sofa to help create an air of nonchalance, “I was just thinking about something.”
“Yes?” John must have lifted the phone closer to his mouth because now he sounded crystal clear.
“Being buried balls deep in your arse.”
“Can I call you back?”
“If you like.” Sherlock tossed the phone aside and sighed. Fine, he’d take care of this himself and get back to work on...something. His bare cock was in his fist when the phone chirped with John’s signal.
“I just thought if you weren’t busy…” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes at the infernal pounding of his heart. Christ, had it been that long?
“Actually I’m in my room now,” John replied warmly. “You were saying?”
“Yes,” Sherlock cleared his throat. “Well, I’m here at home and, ah, just tidying the room a bit and I—“
“Bullshit,” John announced, and Sherlock’s face burned inexplicably. He was suddenly at a loss for words.
“You’ve never tidied anything, Sherlock,” John reminded him in a somehow alluring mix of sincerity and scorn.
Sherlock gave up. “I’m bored. I’m fucking bored in this apartment, in this whole godforsaken city, and I need a distraction, yeah?”
“How can I help?” John asked, sounding like he already knew the answer. Sherlock could certainly hear his grin.
“Tell me what you remember about the time we shagged on the kitchen table,” Sherlock said. He closed his eyes and tilted his hips upwards. His erection swelled in his hand.
“Mmmm. You insisted I get undressed but kept your clothes on. That was cool.” John’s voice hitched a few times as though he were moving into a more comfortable position. “I didn’t mind too much, either, when you ordered me to pull your cock out. I suppose you recall my slamming my tongue into your mouth as I unzipped your trousers. God, you were hard.”
Sherlock grinned and his cock twitched. John was rather good at this.
“I remember how your clothes felt on my bare skin,” John continued thoughtfully, “and for a moment I felt a bit like a rent boy about to be taken by a high-end professional. Especially since you were still wearing your suit from before.”
Sherlock nodded. He had barely made it through the inquest, so distracted was he by the sight of John describing the corpse with perfect medical precision.
“You tried to tell me you didn’t care for kissing much,” John said, his voice now a full register lower, “but I didn’t find that to be true once we started. I could taste how much you wanted me.”
Sherlock recognized this last bit as a challenge. “Your own state of arousal indicated that you were several steps ahead of me already.” He gazed approvingly down at his erection as he threaded his fingers around it.
John was unfazed. “You had no idea what you were in for, did you?”
“You mean how quickly you offered yourself up to me, or the enthusiasm with which you bounced around on my cock?”
“Ah,” John’s voice caught in his throat and Sherlock warmed in triumph over finally gaining the upper hand.
“I’ve no idea how long you pounded into me, but I don’t think I’ve ever been so vigorously fucked like that. Listen, do you mind if I put the phone down for a moment? It’s getting warm in here.”
“Take everything off,” Sherlock commanded him. “And lie down on the bed. But don’t touch yourself until I tell you.” He heard soft shuffling sounds as John acquiesced. Beads of pre-come began to spout through his fingers.
“All right,” John whispered a few moments later, “I’m here. What are you going to do with me?” The huskiness in his tone immediately brought Sherlock back to the sensation of having John wrapped around his form, bumping his calves rhythmically into his arse.
“I’ll start by lowering my mouth over your cock while simultaneously pushing inside you until you can’t think about anything except the tip of my finger teasing your prostate.”
“Oh Jesus,” John breathed on the other end.
“Then,” Sherlock went on, nearly quaking with sexual confidence, “I would place my other hand on your chest and start pinching your nipple. You like that, don’t you?”
“God yes,” John moaned.
“Are you pinching it now? Go ahead. Tell me how it feels.”
“It’s…oh…it’s like…a million delicious pinpricks to my groin,” he slurred from a haze of early pleasure.
‘What does my mouth feel like?” Sherlock no longer fought to contain the hunger in his tone.
“Your mouth, your mouth is…” John had to pause and swallow, “so warm that I want to push as far into it as I can. I want to feel the back of your throat and you’re…humming and…moaning and it’s sending exquisite vibrations into my core.”
“Mmmmm,” Sherlock saw it exactly as John described: his dark head bobbing over John’s crotch as he writhed underneath him, placing one hand firmly over the crown of Sherlock’s head to encourage him along.
“If I told you I was about to come, what would you do?” John whispered.
“I’d…” now it was Sherlock’s turn to swallow, he was so close. “I’d swirl my tongue one last time over your cock and then let it go.” He increased the speed of his strokes to keep up with the urgent burning desire that was beginning to give his own cock a mind of its own.
“Then I’d raise myself to my knees, grab your legs and watch your face as I slid all the way in.” Shit, he was practically there. “And I’d fuck you slowly, deeply, scraping every nerve, in and out, in and out….”
“Oh,” was all John could manage over his labored breaths, which resonated like flashes of white noise in Sherlock’s ear.
“And I wouldn’t let you touch yourself until you—” Any sentence now could be his last. “—until you begged me to fuck you harder.”
“Fuck me harder,” John growled through gritted teeth.
Sherlock pulled the phone away from his ear and relinquished his final grip on restraint. Blind with lust, his daily visions flooding every corner of his infinite imagination, he fucked John with everything he had. He could see and feel it all: John’s ankles locked around his waist, his arms stretched high above his head, hands grasping the edge of the table to give him more traction while his body pulsed and pushed into Sherlock’s thrusts. And he was smiling, savoring every minute of it.
“Now!” he gasped. “NOW.” And distorted sounds of helpless groaning emanated from the phone that hung limply in Sherlock’s left hand.
Sherlock came hard, harder than he’d ever come by himself, but it wasn’t himself he was thinking about. It was John’s smile, his beautiful brilliant smile that had the power to pull Sherlock’s attention away from whatever he was doing, however momentarily, to appreciate it. Was he calling his name? It didn’t matter. He followed the pleasure that drove through him, turning corners, descending, ascending, pausing and resuming until the molecules in his brain stopped buzzing and he finally went still.
He heard long sighs coming from the phone. He brought it back to his ear.
He exhaled before answering, “Still here.”
“That was…did you finish?”
Sherlock saw John through closed eyes. He was gently stroking his softened cock and wearing a wide grin.
“You’ve had phone sex before, then?” Sherlock wasn’t sure why he was asking, or what he wanted the answer to be.
“Sure, lots of times,” John said, “I’ve lost track, really.”
“Oh—you have?” Turns out he didn’t care for that answer.
“No,” John laughed and Sherlock wished madly that he was there with him. “First time. How’d I do?”
You catapulted me into another universe.
“Fine,” he said. “You were fine.”
“Almost as good as the real thing,” John replied, and Sherlock couldn’t tell if this was a question or an affirmation.
“I’m glad I called,” was all he could think of to say. “So, a few more days in Leeds?”
“Nah, I think I’ll take the train home tomorrow.”
“Sure you won’t be missing anything?”
“I’m beginning to think I’m missing more up here.”
“I told you there’s nothing on right now, so if you think—I mean, if you’re chatting with colleagues and all that then maybe you ought to finish out the conference.” Sherlock said this purely out of habit, only realizing later that it would be his final vain attempt to remain unattached.
“If you need my help,” John said, “with anything…”
That was it. He just needed John's help sometimes.
“Come home then,” he said quietly. "And John?"
“It was...really lovely. So. Thanks.”
“I'll see you tomorrow," he said softly.