lick the sweat off your intellect

If John has to look at Sherlock strut around the flat in just a towel one more time, he’s going to snap.

  John closed his eyes and tried to think of calm, cool things. The mirror-like surface of a still lake. The blue expanse of an autumn sky. Sherlock’s pale, paper skin stretching across his shoulders, his-

Shit. No. Not that.

“Sherlock, please can you put something on? Or go straight to the shower instead of faffing about in just a towel? I don’t think nudity is necessary for whatever the hell you’re doing,” John grumbled, trying to make sense of the journal article he was reading. Epigenetics, who? What? Why were all these words so long? He turned a page self consciously, hoping Sherlock’s blind spot for other’s attraction would hide the flush that was taking over his face.

John had known Sherlock was decidedly not body shy from pretty much the beginning of their acquaintance, a fact confirmed by the whole Buckingham Palace debacle. But, since a few of weeks ago, Sherlock had taken to strutting around the flat in only a towel for minutes on end before getting in the shower. The sight of so much spilt, perfect skin would tighten any sane man’s pants, and John wasn’t even particularly sound of mind, lately.

“I’m in the middle of an experiment, John. If I leave these cultures they’ll be ruined,” Sherlock said absentmindedly, doing something suspicious to a row of Petri dishes. John risked a glance at his flatmate and immediately regretted the action. Sherlock was bent slightly over one of the kitchen counters, completely nude except for a small, white towel precariously hanging from his hips by no discernible force except magic. The slight outline of his ribs could be counted by John’s wandering eye, his shoulder blades the feline posture of a hunter, and in the shadow of the table John could just see the sparse hairs of his treasure trail, a mouth-watering invitation to all kinds of riches. John ran his tongue against the underside of his teeth, lips parting, wondering how wide he would have to open, how much he could take.

Oh God. Someone help him.

“Couldn’t you have thought of that before undressing?” John muttered bitterly, flipping another page in frustration. A very specific kind of frustration.

“I don’t see what the problem is, John. You were in the army, aren’t you used to nudity?” Sherlock asked. John clenched his teeth. Yes, but none of his army buddies had looked like that, or been nearly as brilliant, or infuriating for that matter.

“Yes but this is my home, not the barracks. Compartmentalisation and all that.”

“Ah. Interesting,” Sherlock said in that tone that suggested his brain was doing something obscene and intrusive with the “interesting” piece of data. John closed his now crumpled journal as his own brain did obscene and intrusive things to Sherlock’s own “piece of data”.

“Tea. Definitely tea. And toast,” he said, and with that decision made got up from his armchair and tried to avoid looking at Sherlock as he moved to the kitchen. He failed, of course, but at least he tried.

John submerged himself in the familiar actions of tea making. Fill and click on the kettle, settle a Twining’s bag at the bottom of a chipped cup, take out the milk, slot two pieces of bread in the toaster, take out the jam. He would offer Sherlock a mug, but the cretin didn’t deserve anything as wonderful of tea. He could just stand there in his towel, parched. See how he liked it.

“I could go for some toast,” Sherlock said, suddenly beside him. John looked at him instinctively, took in the perfectly circular shape of his nipples, and then back down to the counter. They had been hard and perky in the cool air. John tried to count backwards from 100, got to cock, and realized that wasn’t a number.

“Make it yourself, then,” he bit out, pouring the now boiled water in the mug. The tea bag trembled as it was hit by the liquid, then floated to the surface like a pathetic, dead fish.

“Maybe just some jam, then,” Sherlock said. John heard the slight pop of the opened lid and couldn’t help but look, wondering what the other man was up to. As one of Sherlock’s hands rose, John instantly knew what was going to happen, but he was rooted to the spot, staring as one of Sherlock’s long, long fingers dipped into the blackcurrant jam, scooping up the dark jelly that only made his skin seem paler. The digit rose and John’s mouth opened empathetically as it met Sherlock’s lips, tongue darting out to languidly lick the underbelly of his finger, removing the excess jam before inserting the whole thing in, from root to tip, and sliding it out. It surfaced wet and jamless, and John had never been so suddenly hard in his life. That pink tongue darted out once again to taste the fingertip before the lips curled into a smile, a knowing smile, and John’s eyes lifted to meet Sherlock’s own dark, feline ones.

“You...bastard.” John wanted to punch Sherlock so badly his knuckles physically hurt from the restraint. Sherlock’s smile widened, and John was helpless as Sherlock reached out to grasp John’s hand, that wet finger against his heated skin a jolt of awareness so sharp it almost overtook him. Slowly, Sherlock manoeuvred John’s pointer and middle fingers so that they, too, collected the thick jam, before lifting them to his lips. John watched- no, more, felt- as Sherlock tongued at his finger once, twice, moving between them, a tease against the sensitive skin that joint them at the root, before taking them both at once, sucking the fruity concoction off them. And then he moaned. Not a porn star noise, nor a slight sound, but just a deep, short rumble of satisfaction. Outside, dogs started barking, children started crying, a swarm of locusts swept in, chewed everybody’s faces off, and left. In other words, John was pretty sure the world had ended.

With a light pop the fingers were removed and the wrist released, leaving the hand to drop uselessly by John’s side. The jam jar was set with a clink on the counter. The smell of burnt toast filled the air.

“Well, I’m going to take a shower,” Sherlock said, and with a last, dark look left the kitchen. John stood there in the barren land of his apocalypse, trying to remember what coherence was like. Then, from down the hallway, drifted Sherlock’s voice.

“You can join me, if you want.”

Those words seemed to echo in John’s head. You can join me if you want. You can join me. If you want.

There were certain times in John’s life when there wasn’t enough time for thought. It was action, or death.

This felt like one of those moments.

All was quiet as John approached the loo and his heart thundered with a combination of anxiety and excitement, a combination which often preceded the best moments of his life. Or, at least the most dangerous, which was synonymous in John’s dictionary of life.

He stepped in front of the open doorway and Sherlock ambushed him in an instant, fisting his striped jumper and shoving him against the sink. The porcelain dug against the small of John’s back and he yelped in protest, though the sound didn’t have far to go as Sherlock’s lips descended messily on his. Their teeth clacked against each other and Sherlock made a deep, growling sound that went straight to John’s groin.

“Oh God, what’s going on?” He said against Sherlock’s mouth.

“What’s going on is that I’m tired of waiting, John, so I’m taking what I want,” Sherlock replied. His breath spread against John’s face. It smelt like jam.

“What?” John said. His cognitive function was down to 5%, and it was getting increasingly difficult to form words, let alone strings of thought.

“I’ve seen how you look at me. I’ve been walking around practically naked for thirty-five minutes, four times a week for three weeks, and you haven’t done anything about it...except look.” Sherlock pushed his tongue against John’s in a sweeping motion before nipping at the edge of his bottom lip; teasing.

“If you didn’t want me to look then you shouldn’t, ah, God, shouldn’t have walked around in only a towel,” John panted. Where had all the oxygen gone? He was pretty sure Sherlock was hogging it all, leaving John dizzy. That was so like him.

“It’s not that I didn’t want you to look, it’s just that I wanted you to do more than look. Come on, John, think.” At Sherlock’s commanding tone, John frowned.

“Careful what you wish for,” he said lowly, and pushed against Sherlock, using the surprise to crowd the taller man against the tiled wall, surely cold against his bare back, and took control of the kiss. He could leave all the thinking to Sherlock. This he was good at.

John let his tongue invade Sherlock’s foreign territory, taking stock of the land; the straight teeth, the hot breath, the ridged palate. Sherlock was making a whole array of low, needy noises at the back of his throat, and John wanted more. He wanted Sherlock screaming, moaning, wanted him to remember his own name only because John was chanting it. He let go of Sherlock’s mouth, despite his protest, and turned to his jaw, nipping at the hard line of it before catching the lobe of his ear with his front teeth. Sherlock moaned, squirmed, pulling roughly at John’s hair to get him closer, and John obliged. He licked a long, hot line down his neck, finding the pulse and bruising it, and the sound Sherlock made was borderline illegal.

What a way to kill the mighty Sherlock Holmes.

“Take you fucking clothes off,” Sherlock demanded, yanking John away from him. John chuckled before scrambling blindly as his jumper and undershirt caught on his head. After a few moments of painful pulling and cursing the damned things were off, flung out of the room dramatically by Sherlock. Next, the trousers, and Sherlock’s uncoordinated attempts to unbutton and unzip him would have been funny if John hadn’t been sporting an erection so hard he could smash diamonds with it.

“Why are there two buttons!? Is this some kind of precaution least someone try and steals your jewels?” Sherlock practically shouted, the words echoing in the acoustic room. Amused despite himself, John ran his fingers around Sherlock’s nipples, pinching one. The look Sherlock threw him could have curdled milk, but John was made of stronger stuff.

“Stop that now,” he ordered, and John raised his hands in a defensive gesture. Anger seemed to be a focusing tool for Sherlock, however, as the next moment found John’s trousers on the floor. Sherlock bent down to untangle them from John’s ankles and then John’s world went white and intense as Sherlock pushed an open, impossibly hot mouth against his erection, still covered by the red cotton of John’s pants. John slammed his palms against the cold tiles of the wall and panted.

“Oh God, Sherlock, what, wait, what?” Sherlock chuckled against him, his tongue now lapping at the material, mouthing his erection in rhythmic movements. John tried desperately to think.

“Wait...Oh my God, fuck, Sherlock, have you, ah, have you done this before?” John managed.

“No.”

“No-uh?”

“No, John, no. I’ve read up on it, though.”

“What? Wait, that’s not, Sherlock!” John grabbed at his shoulders and pulled him away, making Sherlock sit back on his heels, throwing him a petulant look.

“What, John? What is it?” He said, eyeing John’s covered cock as if it were a particularly grisly crime scene he was being kept from. The metaphor was oddly alluring. John shook his head.

“Are you...have you had sex before?” He said slowly. He wasn’t exactly afraid of insulting Sherlock- nothing as trivial as being a 28-year-old virgin would upset someone like him, but he still didn’t want to tread on any delicate issues.

“No John, I haven’t. So?”

“So? So...so why now? You’ve gone 28 years without sex, why now, why me?” John asked, truly puzzled. Sherlock sighed his familiar, why-must-you-choke-me-with-your-miasma-of-stupidity sigh.

“Because I want to, John. I want you. I want to measure the length of your cock with my tongue, the width of it by how much I have to stretch when you’re inside me, I want to know what your cum tastes like, what you look like when you-”

“Ok, you need to stop saying those kinds of things in that kind of voice or none of that will happen because I’ll come on your face right now.” John choked out. Jesus Christ, where had this man been all this time? Though it certainly wasn’t out of character; Sherlock found interests suddenly and aggressively, and took everything they had to offer as if he had every right to it. And maybe he did.

“Hmm,” Sherlock said speculatively, “That would be acceptable. But not today.” John tried not to fall over from those words. Had Sherlock just given him permission to come on his face? And what did he mean, not today? Would there be more, later?

Oh God, yes.

“By the look on your face I see that you’re amenable, so, if you don’t mind,” Sherlock said, gesturing at John’s straining cock with a flourish of his hand. John nodded, copying his gesture. Yes, here is my cock. You may have at it. 

“Just...be careful,” John said. Sherlock snorted.

“Oh, do be quiet.” John felt his pants being pulled down, cock springing free with a hallelujah! and John almost sobbed at the sight that met him as he looked down. His red pants were pooled around his feet, Sherlock leaning before him, towel discarded and his own long, lean, pink cock straining against his stomach. The heart shape of Sherlock’s mouth was open, and his wet tongue slipped between the broken shape to press against his frenulum. John almost passed out, one hand leaving Sherlock’s shoulder to support him on the blessedly cool tiles, the other clenching hard around Sherlock’s bones.

“Oh God, you’re killing me,” John moaned, and felt Sherlock’s chuckle against his sensitive skin.

“Well, don’t die just yet, I’m only starting.” At those words a drop of pre-cum dripped from John’s painfully hard cock. Sherlock curled a smile and lapped at it, rubbing the flat of his tongue around the glans before taken it into his mouth, pushing the foreskin down with his tongue and sucking. John’s knees trembled.

“Ohgod, wait, change positions,” John said, and they clumsily switched, John almost slamming against the towel rack as he turned to press his back against the wall.

“I like you like this,” Sherlock said darkly, and John put an arm over his eyes.

“For all that is good and holy, don’t talk. If I hear your voice one more time this is going to end really, really soon.” With that threat hanging in the air Sherlock opened his mouth only to take as much of John as he could at once. A nebula of stars burst under John’s eyelids before his eyes snapped open.

“Ow! Teeth, Sherlock, careful!”

“Oh, stop being such a cry-baby,” Sherlock said, and John didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so he settled for moaning as Sherlock, more carefully now, took John in his mouth again. His tongue did sinful thing against the vein running the underside of his cock. John tried not to die.

“Ah, teeth, ah, ah God.” John melted as Sherlock growled low in his throat, trying desperately not to buck his hips. This was Sherlock’s first time, he would not, I repeat, would not fuck Sherlock’s face. Even if his dick really wanted him to.

“Ok Sherlock stop, stop stop,” John pleaded, pulling at Sherlock’s hair.

“What now?”

“Just, stop, too much. Come up here,” John said. Now that he knew this was Sherlock’s first sexual experience he was going to make sure it was as good as it could get. Sherlock got off his knees and John didn’t miss the slight tremble in them, the way pre-cum was leaking from his cock. John looked at those cool, dark eyes for a moment before kissing Sherlock gently, lapping up his own taste, running his fingers down Sherlock’s spine so that the other man shivered. One of his hands dipped to caress a testicle, and Sherlock moaned against him, pressing closer, wanting more, but it was John’s turn to take control, now. He took hold of Sherlock’s cock loosely, up, down, once, before collecting the pre-cum at the tip with two fingers. Mirroring Sherlock’s earlier seduction in the kitchen, John lapped up at the liquid there, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s, whose pupils were blown and analysing everything under the fluorescent lights. John gave him a little moan of pleasure, of pure desire at having Sherlock’s taste in his mouth. Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered.

“John,” he said lowly. John smiled, pushing away from the wall.

“Shower,” John said simply, and slid the shower door open to turn on the tap, making sure the water would come out tepid. As they waited for the temperature to rise John kissed Sherlock, running his fingers over his cock, spreading the liquid there, until Sherlock was trembling and growling against his lips.

“In,” Sherlock ordered, and they stepped inside the shower. The water hit John first, and the feeling of it against his sensitized skin was almost too much to bear. He turned so that Sherlock was the one under the spray, making sure to close the door, not wanting to clean the flood later. The space was cramped, but this wasn’t John’s first stint at shower sex. He watched as Sherlock closed his eyes against the falling water, the liquid smoothing and uncurling his hair so that it plastered against his forehead and neck. Drops of water drew rivulets on his pale skin. Sherlock opened his eyes and John was, for a moment, dumbstruck. He had never seen Sherlock look so vulnerable or determined at once, except, perhaps, that one time beside the pool as John stumbled under the weight of explosives.

John ran his hand across Sherlock’s forehead, pushing his hair out of his eyes. Sherlock tilted his head and kissed John’s wrist, a constellation on his veins. John moved forward, kissing him, deeper this time, letting the water fall on them, encapsulating them in a warm and endless moment. Slowly, John reached for the shampoo. Sherlock opened his mouth but John shook his head, an I know what I’m doing, and Sherlock stayed silent, trusting him. He lathered Sherlock's hair for the pure pleasure of it, running his fingers through the wet strands, massaging his scalp in rhythmic circles until Sherlock was boneless, relaxed, his eyes closed and little sounds of pleasure escaping him even now. John moved him under the shower once again, rinsing the product out, before grabbing Sherlock’s sponge and foaming it with soap. Languidly he ran it across Sherlock's skin; the ridges of his delicate collarbones, down the shadow of his nipples, circling the bellybutton, down to his cock and then down, further, kneeling in front of him to clean his thighs, his knees, his toes. With a circular movement of his finger in the air he motioned Sherlock to turn around, and he obeyed without a word.

If John has known this was what it took to keep Sherlock silent and pliant he would have done it much sooner.

He continued to run the sponge against Sherlock, taking care with the cleft of his ass, enjoying the murmurs of approval. Done, he put the sponge in its place before cleaning Sherlock off, running his hands across all of him. He was so warm, so alive. John had never wanted anything so much.

“Turn around, face the wall. Lean against it,” John said, aiding him with hands on his hips. Sherlock rested his forehead against his folded arms, a bridge of strong marrow and thin skin from floor to wall. John tweaked the showerhead so that the angle of projection increased and got on his knees, the water sluicing against his back. He ran his hands over Sherlock's thighs, cheeks, before spreading him slightly. His eager tongue came out so sweep the cleft and Sherlock tensed, moaning loudly even at that slight contact, they were both so keyed up.

“Oh fuck,” he growled, “I swear to God if you don’t get that tongue in me now they’ll never find your body.” John laughed, but had no reason to object. He swept against the puckered hole one more time, just to be a tease, and then pointed and slipped his tongue in. The noise Sherlock made echoed in the bathroom, in John’s head.

“Faster, damn you,” Sherlock ordered, and John had to clutch at his hips to keep them from pushing back. The floor was hard against John’s knees, but it hardly mattered when he had Sherlock against him like this. He picked up the pace, curling the tongue upwards at each backstroke, and soon Sherlock was panting and writhing, cursing John’s name and his clever tongue. John let his breath warm the depth of Sherlock, and he could tell when it threatened to become too much.

“What, don’t stop!” Sherlock whined as John pulled away. John laughed, trying not to fall over as he got on his feet. Sherlock threw him a glare over his shoulder.

“Don’t worry, this next bit’s better.” He adjusted the head of the shower and opened the door, stepping out into the horribly cold air, almost braining himself on the sink as he opened the cabinet to grab some lube and one of the condoms he found there. Obviously Sherlock had thought this through. Whilst he was at it John closed the bathroom door, thinking of the heat. Once inside the shower he slicked his fingers with the lube, making sure the water didn’t get too much of it off, though the stuff was pretty water resistant.

“Ok?” John asked, holding up his hands.

“Obviously,” Sherlock replied, but his face was flushed, his bottom lip red and swollen from being bitten.

“Don’t look away,” John said, and he pushed the first finger inside in one move; Sherlock was already slightly open from his tongue, and there had been enough of the teasing, now. He watched as Sherlock closed his eyes, his mouth opening in a desperate pant, shoulders straining, blades moving. The sight was so delicious John had to bite his own lip to keep from moaning. Sherlock's tightness around his finger was an almost unbearable promise of what was to come as the water fell over, around them, all heat and sensation.

“More, more, come on John, I’m a virgin not made of glass.”

“I’m not rushing this, Sherlock,” John said, but he pushed another finger in carefully, making sure Sherlock didn’t thrust back, a stilling hand on his hip. He pumped in, out, scissoring his fingers when he felt Sherlock could take it, and then curved them upwards, deep, finding the prostrate. Sherlock cried out, pushing his head against his forearms, thrusting back, but John contained him, setting the pace.

“I’ll kill you,” Sherlock muttered, straining against John’s hands, but it was only a petite mort that was on the agenda. Slowly, John pushed in a third finger, and Sherlock begun to come undone.

“John, please, stop, fuck me now or this is, oh fuck, not going to last.” It was the “please” that did it. He removed his fingers, caressing Sherlock's back as he ripped the condom packet open with his teeth. He put it on, adding liberal amounts of lube away from the water spray, and positioned himself against Sherlock.

“Ready?” John asked.

“Don’t make me hit you,” Sherlock bit out, and huffed a moan as John’s glans pushed in. Making absolutely sure Sherlock wouldn’t thrust back he moved forward, taking a few inches at a time, until he was buried to the hilt and Sherlock was a mess under him. He thanked the lord above for the slight dulling sensation of condoms, otherwise this wouldn’t have lasted much longer, the overwhelming heat, the pressure, almost too much to take.

“Move!” Sherlock groaned, but John just stood there for a moment, hit by the sight of this. Turned impossibly on, not because the scene that met him was out of a porn movie, an obscene thing made of minutes of crude pleasure. He stopped because this was Sherlock, Sherlock, under him, around him, undone by him. The brilliant man, that sharp mind, given, taken, his. They were breaking apart, together, remoulding into something whole and joined. This wouldn’t end here, John thought, knew, in the same way that Sherlock knows things; with clarity, conviction.

“Damn you-” But Sherlock was cut off as John finally moved, out almost entirely and then, slowly, in, and again, and again, until the pace quickened, Sherlock's commands of harder, harder, melting away into senseless noises of need. John reached around to grab Sherlock's cock, pumping it with the same rhythm of his hips, and Sherlock only got louder. The pressure mounted, that burning coil at the pit of John’s stomach scorching, twisting, and Sherlock pushed against him with the same desperation. Water splashed and flew off them, the sounds of their cries filling the small space like fluttering birds until, without warning, Sherlock stilled and stuttered below John, crying out his name in shreds. The very sound of it, the sight of Sherlock's straining form, the squeeze around John’s cock, was all far, far too much, and John came with a shout, Sherlock's name spilling from his lips like the water that cascaded around them.

He could hear his pulse in his ears. The sound of everything else seemed far away, lost in the blissful whiteness.

Sherlock panted against the wall for a few moments, John flush against him, but their knees failed them. John caught the opening of the condom, removing, knotting and dazedly placing it out of the shower before they slid down to the wet floor, each their own exhausted heap, Sherlock's back against the wall and John settled with his against Sherlock's chest, careful not to touch his sensitive cock. For minutes they simply sat there, the only noise the rain and drain of water, washing over their slowing breaths.

“Well,” Sherlock said finally, “That was interesting.”

“Interesting? That’s one way to describe it.”

“Hmm. An experiment that will have to be repeated, if you are amenable. There are many other rooms in the flat which’s possibilities must be explored. I’ve thought of something we could do with the oven-”

“No! Sherlock, no ovens!” John said, resting his head back on Sherlock's shoulder. “But I am amenable to other suggestions.”

“Well, if you didn’t like the oven then I’m guessing the freezer is out,” Sherlock grumbled. John tried not to smile.

“How about the kitchen table? Doesn’t that sound like a nice, solid thing we could experiment on?”

“We could cover it in jam,” Sherlock said. John laughed, tilting his face to kiss the corner of Sherlock's lips.