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Sherlock sighed in relief when his hand finally wrapped around the soft fabric he was searching for. It was his favorite dressing gown, but one he rarely had the pleasure of wearing anymore. The material was thin, breathable. Luxurious. He took time undressing in his bedroom. Carefully hanging up the suit jacket and trousers in his bureau before deftly unbuttoning his shirt and tossing it in the hamper, followed by his socks and pants. This dressing gown was special and touched only skin. He stood in front of his mirror and watched himself dress in the white gown in the dim lighting of the room. One arm, then the other. The dressing gown fell to the back of his knees. He took the silk belt in his hands and made a perfect bow around his waist, the gown now hugging him snugly, though the arms were still loose, crinkling in his elbows.
Sherlock loved this dressing gown. He loved the slide of the lace against his skin, the way it caught in the coarser hair atop his thighs, above his cock, and pulled just enough that you were aware of it. The way it draped across his back, always in danger of falling off one of his shoulders and exposing the skin there. Not that the dressing gown hid much, but that was the point. It hinted at everything, obscuring the dusky pink peak of his nipples, which had pebbled against the glorious feel of the lace against his flesh. He watched himself in the mirror, watched as his body responded to the physical feel of the gown against him. Felt heat as it began to pool in his groin, his cock getting heavier between his legs. He watched the material of his gown shift as blood filled his cock and the feeling of the luxurious fabric against him made him harder. He watched, enthralled, as the gown tented and the lace caught against his foreskin, clinging to the sensitive skin and sending shivers racing down his nerve endings, causing his thigh muscles to bunch and release in the anticipation of pleasure.
He watched and wished someone else was watching him, but knew that would never happen. John was out on another date with some woman he couldn’t remember the name of, which is why Sherlock even had the opportunity to treat himself to his favorite gown tonight. It was the third date, which meant John would be going home with her, and Sherlock would be alone in the flat. He saw himself frowning in the mirror and quickly shoved his melancholy thoughts away.
This gown was special and deserved to be treated better than that. Dwelling on thoughts of John with another wasn’t productive for his plans for the evening.
Dwelling on thoughts of John with Sherlock, however, was much more helpful.
Sherlock turned from the mirror and strode across his room to his bed, aware of the spin of the gown when he turned, the way it brushed and tickled the back of his knees, his thighs, as he walked. He pulled back the duvet until it was bunched at the end of his bed. It wasn’t needed. Then he carefully lifted the ends of the gown so he wouldn’t rip the material as he crawled atop his sheets, the cool cotton sending shivers down his spine in opposition of the skin-warmed lace of his gown. He laid himself out on his back, pillows piled beneath his head, causing the gown to gape open and expose his chest to the cool air that filtered through the room due to the open window.
His skin erupted in goose flesh at the temperature and arousal flooded through him again as his nipples tightened in reaction and plumping his cock further. He looked down at his chest and the sparse hair that covered him. His eyes caught on the sharp contrast of pink nipple against pale skin; against clean white lace.
His cock twitched, foreskin sliding down just a touch, and Sherlock felt the first drag of lace against the sensitive head of his cock and he sucked in a breath, before letting it out slowly on a low moan.
Sherlock let his hands graze across his body, fingertips catching on the lace, then trailing over exposed skin. He arranged his dressing gown to cover his chest again. He wanted the feel of the material against him and took great pleasure in teasing a nipple through the sheer gown. His entire body felt electric, on edge. Each pass of his fingers over a nipple, of his other hand idly making its way down his body, thrummed through him like vibrato on his violin.
His hand eventually reached his upper thigh, fingertips grazing over the skin, then his nails. He let his eyes close, concentrating on the feel of his body under his hands, of the sensations his touch brought. He pinched his nipple harder, sending a thrill of pleasure straight to his cock, which jerked up on his belly against the sheer material of his gown. Precome dampened the material, but he wasn’t worried. He would have it cleaned later. For now, his focus was on his body.
It was novel, putting so much of his attention on his transport. It wasn’t something he engaged in as often as he would have liked, in all honesty. John thought he wasn’t interested in sex at all. How wrong John was.
When Sherlock’s body felt tight as the strings on his bow, he finally acquiesced and let his wandering hands make their way to his now aching cock. The first drag of fingertips up his cock through the lace had him releasing a moan that felt pulled up from his toes. Precome dribbled from his slit, slipping down his cockhead and sticking to the lace, clinging to the material. Sherlock gently peeled the lace away, releasing his cock to the cool air of the room, and gave himself a long, slow stroke. There wasn’t enough lubrication, not yet, but he let himself enjoy the friction for a few moments.
He pulled up his knees and settled his feet on the mattress before slipping one hand under his pillow, where he retrieved the bottle of lubricant and the prostate massager he placed there earlier. Tonight was a special night, indeed.
Sherlock fingered himself slowly open with a slick hand; thoughts of thicker, shorter fingers reverently doing this instead flickered through his mind and ramped up his arousal. His neglected cock twitched on his belly. When he was ready, he carefully inserted the toy, fucking into himself slowly. There was no rush. He had all night.
The toy nudged against his prostate, sending fireworks of pleasure skittering down his spine, and he groaned in appreciation. He adjusted it, getting the toy exactly where he wanted, his mouth open on a silent whine, then reached back under his pillow for the small remote. He pressed the button that turned the vibrating option on. His toes curled in response, his hands gripping the sheets, before he released them and took a hold of himself with his lube-slicked hand. He teased and pinched his foreskin before grasping harder and began working into a steady rhythm. The toy vibrated against his prostrate, sending so many pleasure signals coursing through his body that his mind became quiet. He was getting close, but it was too soon for that. He wasn’t ready for the finale just yet.
Sherlock let go of his cock and clicked the button to turn off the vibrations. He fumbled a hand behind his balls and pulled the toy out of direct contact with his prostate. A breath of air gusted out of him as his body slowly stepped back from the cliff of orgasm.
When his breathing came back under control, he replaced the toy, clicked on the vibration, and again brought himself to the brink before forcing himself to back off.
He loved that part of his self-play. Bringing himself to the edge of total distraction, of sexual destruction, then forcing himself to step back. It felt like insanity, but the end result was always worth the effort of holding off. He wasn’t always the best at delayed gratification, but he had learned that an orgasm was definitely worth the wait.
He edged himself twice more, his body thrumming with unreleased tension when he finally decided that it was time. So far, he had only been thinking of his own body, his own pleasure, but now it was time to let his mind palace come into play. The John in his mind palace enjoyed playing with Sherlock, and Sherlock loved to let him play.
After his body had come down to a simmer of arousal for the fourth time, he opened up the John wing of his mind palace, and there John was with a smirk on his thin lips that Sherlock had never seen directed at him in real life. He shivered. He slid the toy in once again, his body greedily clinging to the intrusion, and once again sending ripples of pleasure through him as it nudged into his prostrate and the vibrations turned on.
Sherlock let John out to play with him. He thought only of John, of John’s hands on him. John’s warm, wet mouth. It was John’s cock hitting that spot within causing starbursts to erupt behind his closed eyelids, now. He let himself become completely submerged in his own pleasure and the fantasy that played out on the landscape of his mind palace.
John over him, touching him, pressing him down into the mattress, fucking into him. It was perfect. He held himself tighter, his arousal spiraling higher, higher, as his other hand rose to pinch a nipple through the lacy gown again, and Sherlock groaned out John’s name, his mouth open and panting. John’s name was a litany on his tongue, a mantra, and he was nearly there, right there, just a little tighter, a little quicker, another twist of his wrist, and he was calling out John’s name.
“Sherlock?”
Sherlock’s eyes flew open, the peak he was on the brink of reaching falling away from him. Sherlock knew his mind palace was impressive, but it was not so impressive as to manifest a physical presence into reality.
John was there. Sherlock’s eyes were locked on John, his date shoes on, plaid button-up, and the dark slacks he had been wearing when he left earlier that evening. He was standing in Sherlock’s doorway. John was standing there, his hands flexing in and out of fists. John’s eyes were locked on him, on his body, on his cock. The arousal that he thought was gone in the wake of John’s unexpected, though not unwelcome, presence flooded back through him, his cock hardening further under John’s rapt attention. Sherlock’s legs unconsciously drifted open, exposing himself. The shift caused the toy, which was still happily buzzing, to press harder into his prostate and Sherlock groaned, his head falling back into the pillow.
He could feel John’s gaze on him even with his own eyes now on the ceiling. John’s breath caught in his throat, and Sherlock heard him take a step. Into the room or out? Voluntary or involuntary? He didn’t know, couldn’t tell in the haze of hormones that he was under. He couldn’t lift his head to look and find out just yet. He was in limbo, caught between John wanting him and not wanting him.
His body, his transport, was a live-wire, trembling in anticipation as he stood on the edge of rushing head-long into either pleasure or shame. Sherlock shifted, reaching for the remote that he tossed down on the bed earlier, and managed to hit the button that controlled the vibrating. The room fell into a deafening silence as the toy clicked off. The only sound was Sherlock’s heart pounding in his chest, in his throat, in his ears.
Except that wasn’t true. Underneath, Sherlock could hear John’s breathing. He could hear the pattern of his breathing, more rapid and shallow than it should be. Why? Was he about to start yelling? To call him a ‘freak’ and storm out of the room, the flat, Sherlock’s life?
No. John wouldn’t do that. Even if he was disturbed, disgusted, he wouldn’t leave like that. Not for forever. Just to get some air, perhaps.
Except, that wasn’t what was happening, either.
Sherlock’s heart rate began to settle, his erection softening, and he finally turned his head to look at John. John, who was standing closer than he had expected to the bed. John, whose eyes were unblinking and locked on his cock, which twitched under the attention, and John’s breath hitched in his throat. Sherlock’s eyes widened at his reaction, and his brain finally started to observe rather than react. John’s eyes shifted from his cock to his thighs, to his bare feet, then traveled back up his body, taking in the entirety of Sherlock’s nude form. His eyes lingered now on his nipples, visible through the soft material of his dressing gown, then up again to his neck and throat. His breathing was still too quick, pupils blown wide, and there, trapped within the confines of too big denims, was the bulge of John’s burgeoning erection. Sherlock’s cock began to fill again at the attention and John’s eyes were immediately drawn to the movement like a moth to a flame. Sherlock barely bit back a groan.
John didn’t find their current predicament unsettling. John, clearly, was turned on. By Sherlock’s body.
John reached out a hand, two fingers tentatively catching the fine material of Sherlock’s lace gown where it rested near his hip and rubbed the material between them. Sherlock would have sworn his pupils expanded even more at the feel of the lace. John might not wear expensive clothing, but he clearly appreciated the fine material and seemed to understand that it was special.
John would, of course. He always understood Sherlock better than anyone else ever had.
“Sherlock,” he said again. John’s voice was low, thick with arousal, and Sherlock shivered at the raw want in it.
“Please tell me if I’m reading this wrong, Sherlock. I have to know if you want this, too.”
Beneath the want was a thread of doubt. As if John couldn’t believe that what he was seeing, what he had heard, was correct. He was doubting his own deductions and Sherlock wanted to roll his eyes, to tell John that he needed to ‘observe, not just see’, to yell in frustration.
What came out, though, was a breathless plea.
“Please.”
Please, John. Touch me. I want your hands on me, your mouth.
Thank God John was a man of action. Within moments John had kicked off his hideous date shoes, nearly popped the buttons of his shirt off in his haste to remove it, and had pushed down his trousers and pants.
John was naked.
He was naked, in Sherlock’s room, and he was more beautiful than Sherlock imagined. His eyes flickered over John’s body, taking in the pale expanse of his chest, the entrance wound near his left clavicle that ended his career as a soldier and surgeon, the soft belly that Sherlock wanted nothing more than to rest his head on and feel the muscle that lay beneath. The rounded strength of his biceps, his forearms, the muscles that bunched and shifted in his thighs as he strode closer to the bed and kneeled upon it at Sherlock’s feet.
And there, nestled in dark blonde curls, was the most beautiful cock Sherlock had ever seen. Beautiful, with its dark pink head, the foreskin pulled back and shiny with a sheen of pre-come. Beautifully thick and not too long, and perfectly curved to the left. Beautiful, because it was John’s and he was hard and wanted Sherlock.
Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure he was breathing as John reached out and his hand brushed against the arch of Sherlock’s foot. Sherlock felt the touch zing through his entire body and breathed in sharply shifting his leg and causing the toy still inside to press into his prostate again. He barely bit back a groan.
John’s eyes traveled up to his face.
“Please don’t do that. I want to hear you.”
John’s voice was thick as honey. Sherlock had never heard John sound like that and now he didn’t think he ever wanted to hear John speak any other way. He also was incapable of denying John what he wanted and let out the groan that came from the feel of John’s hands as they trailed up his calves, his knees. Sherlock’s leg fell open and John shifted forward on his knees, careful of the gown, and his hands traveled down the length of Sherlock’s thighs towards his hips.
John’s thumbs dug into the dip between Sherlock’s thighs and groin, but didn’t touch, and Sherlock nearly sobbed as John’s hands instead moved up his sides. John was parting the gown, revealing the skin beneath, and his hands were nearly reverent against him. His fingers touched the satin bow that was still tied around Sherlock’s waist.
“This is beautiful,” John murmured. “I love how it feels in my hands.”
John loved his dressing gown. Loved the feel of it. He appreciated how fine it was and Sherlock thought he might come from that alone. He squirmed beneath John, unable to keep still beneath his exploring fingers and darkened gaze.
He whined, unashamedly, as John’s thumb flicked across a nipple and sent a jolt that went straight to his cock.
John shifted closer to him between his legs, but still not close enough.
“Shh, I’ve got you. I’ll take care of you,” John promised. “Let me take care of you.”
Sherlock nodded, his heart beating hard and his mouth dry.
“Yes, John. Please.”
John’s eyes locked onto Sherlock’s again, dark with arousal, and Sherlock watched as John slowly leaned down and laved his tongue over his nipple. Sherlock’s hips bucked up automatically at the sensation and his mouth fell open. The wet heat of John’s mouth over the lace, the drag of his tongue and the lace over his nipple was exquisite. He closed his eyes as pleasure shot through him and he knew it was more than the physical.
It was John.
John here, with him, wanting him and touching him. John’s hands and eyes on him. Sherlock didn’t let himself think about why this was happening now. What brought John home early from his date. Why John didn’t leave when he saw what Sherlock was doing. It didn’t matter right now because right now John was here, and his mouth was on Sherlock’s chest, his clavicle, trailing kisses up his neck, his jaw. John’s mouth hovered over Sherlock’s mouth just as his body hovered over him.
Sherlock waited and waited, but John didn’t move to close the distance between them. They breathed the same air and John’s body was covering his with the most delicious heat, but still he didn’t move.
Sherlock opened his eyes and found John staring down at him. His eyes were so blue and Sherlock wanted him.
“Sherlock.”
“John.”
“Kiss me,” John demanded, pleaded, and Sherlock didn’t need to be told twice.
Sherlock’s hands came up, his fingers digging into John’s hair, and he pulled him down to his mouth. John took control of the kiss as soon their lips met and Sherlock let him, reveling in the feeling of John’s lips against his, the press of his tongue requesting entrance, and Sherlock opened for him.
It was intoxicating, kissing John, and Sherlock never wanted it to stop. The hot sweep of tongues gliding against each other, the taste of John – the tea he had before he left, had John even made it to the restaurant? No, stop thinking about that, it doesn't matter – and the gentle press of John’s body against his; the short, spiky feel of John’s hair in his hands. John’s hands were framing Sherlock’s head as he propped himself up against the mattress. He wanted John closer, he wasn’t close enough, but John was controlling this situation, this kiss, and Sherlock tried to make himself content with that. He was content with that.
He just also wanted more.
Sherlock shifted under him again, opening his legs wider, tempting John to shift closer to him, and he felt the pull of John’s lips into a smile. He didn’t shift forward, though. Instead, John pulled away and Sherlock whined.
He opened his eyes and looked up at John, who was watching him with the most fascinating expression on his face, like he couldn’t believe what was happening. John’s lips were red and swollen from their kissing. His eyes were traveling over Sherlock’s face, then down his chest, before flicking back up. Then he leaned down and pressed a kiss over Sherlock’s nipple before trailing kissing down his sternum.
“Absolutely gorgeous,” John whispered into his skin between kisses.
Sherlock moaned, deep in his chest, as John’s hands left the mattress and traced down his chest, his fingers pressing the material of the gown into Sherlock’s skin, and gooseflesh erupted across his body as the sensation. He loved the feeling of the lace against him, but the warmth of John’s caressing palms over the lace was almost too much for Sherlock to process. When John’s mouth hovered over the tip of his cock, he worried for a moment that he might come before John even touched him.
The gentle flick of John’s tongue against him had Sherlock’s hips arching up involuntarily in search for more, but John, clever John, appeared to have prepared for that, and had pulled his mouth away. Sherlock felt the press of John’s forearm against him, holding him down in place, and the heat of his breath against his prick again.
“God, you’re so responsive.”
Sherlock didn’t whine, he didn’t, but it was a near thing.
“John,” he said again, because it was the only thing that mattered at that moment. He could have begged, pleaded, but John took mercy on him.
John leaned closer, their eyes locked together, and he forced himself to watch as John licked a stripe up his cock. He couldn’t look away, didn’t want to, as John opened his mouth and took him inside. John’s mouth was so hot, his tongue swirling around the head before pressing against his frenulum. Sherlock did close his eyes then. He had to — it was simply too much.
John took him further into his mouth, his other hand coming up to fondle his testicles, which nudged the toy that was still in Sherlock. His mouth fell open on a gasp at the unexpected contact to his prostate.
John hummed around him, sending tiny shockwaves of pleasure running through his body, and Sherlock pushed a hand into John’s short hair and scratched his nails down the nape of his neck. John nearly purred at the contact and took more of Sherlock in. He could feel John’s throat constricting around him and pulled at John’s hair.
“John, John—,” he attempted to warn, but words weren’t coming as easily to him.
Luckily, John had always been good at reading Sherlock without needing words.
John pulled slowly off, letting Sherlock’s cock slip from his mouth. He lifted himself and crawled up Sherlock’s body, pressing kisses into his skin before capturing Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock opened for him immediately, his hand back in John’s hair, as John settled carefully over him before pulling up again.
Sherlock watched while John reached over to the small bottle of lube on the pillow by Sherlock’s head. John opened the bottle and poured enough to coat his fingers in lube. Sherlock opened his mouth to protest the need for more lube, but John lifted up on his knees and reached behind him.
“John, what are you—” Sherlock began, then choked on his words as he watched John’s eyes flutter closed as he pushed his fingers into himself. John was fucking himself on his fingers, small pants of breath leaving his open mouth, and Sherlock stared at the flickering pulse on his neck.
“I want you, Sherlock. I want you to fuck me. Now.”
“Yes, John,” he replied, because what else could he say to that?
John poured more lube into his palm and reached behind him again to grasp Sherlock’s cock. He groaned as John stroked him, but the feeling was nothing to the sudden sensation of Sherlock’s cock being pressed against John’s entrance, then into John’s body as he slowly sank down.
“John,” he rasped. He was unable to form any other coherent word and he wasn’t completely sure whether that had been coherent. His mind palace was rearranging itself to accommodate all of the new physical sensations coursing through him. The feel of John around his cock—hot, so hot, and wet, and tight. The lace of his gown against his bare skin. When John started to lift himself up, then down, building into a slow rhythm, Sherlock thought his mind palace might actually shut down for moments of time as he was lost in the physical and emotional feelings he was experiencing.
Sherlock’s hands gripped onto John’s thighs, noting how the muscles bunched and flexed under his palms as John rode him. John leaned over him again, kissing him deeply, when Sherlock bucked wildly up into him. John— brilliant, wonderful John, had found the remote for Sherlock’s prostate massager and turned it on. His mind palace was definitely blinking in and out after that.
John around him and the toy vibrating inside him was almost too much for him to process. John seemed to know what was happening to him, because he pulled back from their kiss and picked up his pace. Sherlock grasped his hips, helping him to keep pace and bucking into him. John’s mouth was open, his eyes half-closed as he watched Sherlock watching him. John braced one hand against Sherlock’s chest, then took himself in hand and started to pull frantically.
Sherlock watched in fascination as John’s hand flew over himself, the dark red head of his cock appearing and disappearing as he chased his pleasure. Sherlock held onto him, his eyes locked on John. He was enraptured when John gasped, his head falling back as he climaxed, hot come landing on Sherlock’s chest and abdomen. John’s body tightened around him and Sherlock choked out his name as he followed swiftly after John to his own orgasm.
John, clever John, turned the vibration off the toy that was still inside Sherlock. Then he looked down at Sherlock, lifted his hand from Sherlock’s chest to brush Sherlock’s bottom lip with his thumb.
“You’re beautiful. Do you know that?”
John leaned down again without waiting for an answer, pressing his mouth to Sherlock’s jaw, his chin, his neck. Sherlock moaned, turning his head to give John better access, and John hummed in appreciation. He nipped gently at Sherlock’s pulse point before pulling the skin into his mouth and sucking.
“Your neck is gorgeous. I’ve wanted to put my mouth on it since the day we met. Then when I saw you in that damned purple shirt… Why don’t you button it properly?”
Sherlock couldn’t help it when a bubble of amusement came out in a throaty laugh.
“I don’t button it properly because I have noticed how you watch me when I leave it unbuttoned.”
John paused in his kissing, his mouth now on Sherlock’s left pectoral, and then he giggled in that way that Sherlock loved, but deeper in tone. He pressed his face into Sherlock’s chest and Sherlock smiled, his reawakening arousal stepping back in the wake of John’s amusement, to be replaced with a quiet fondness that only John seemed capable of bringing out in him.
“Sherlock,” he said, his voice warm and affectionate. “You drive me mad.”
Sherlock hummed, his fingers twisting in John’s hair before he dragged his fingernails gently across John’s scalp. John leaned into the sensation.
“That feels nice.”
Sherlock hummed again, then sighed when John carefully pulled off of him and removed the toy. He placed it on the side table, then lay back on his side beside Sherlock, one leg thrown carelessly over Sherlock’s own.
They laid there quietly for several minutes, hot and sticky, but Sherlock didn’t mind. He didn’t know if he would ever have this again, and he was in no rush to end it. He felt John’s breathing slow, his heartbeat steady and sure beneath the hand that Sherlock laid on his chest. John was drifting off to sleep, warm and soft against him, and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to live in that moment forever. Unfortunately, Sherlock’s thoughts began to drift back to the thoughts he had denied himself to linger on earlier, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep until he knew what had brought John home early.
“What happened to your date?”
John was silent for several moments, then shifted his head to look at Sherlock.
“I canceled it”
Sherlock stared at him and John frowned before continuing.
“I was angry at our conversation before I left. You told me to enjoy my third date shag, you actually said shag, and something about it just didn’t sit well with me. So, there I was standing outside the restaurant when I realized I didn’t want to be there just for a shag because it was a third date. I called and canceled. She wasn’t exactly pleased,” John admitted with a wry smile. “I walked back home and the whole way I just kept thinking about what you said. I wanted to apologize for calling you a prick. That isn’t to say that you weren’t being a prick at the time, mind, but I shouldn’t have said it. Mostly, though, I was just thinking about you.”
Sherlock smiled, pleased with the idea that John thought of him when he was supposed to be on dates.
“Why did you call my name?”
“Hm?” Sherlock hummed. He was pleasantly drowsy in his post-orgasmic state. John was warm against his side. His body was sated in a way he couldn’t recall ever feeling before. Outside, he could hear the night chorus of the city he loved.
“Earlier. Before I came in. You called out my name.”
“Oh.”
“Why?” John asked, though surely John knew exactly why Sherlock would shout out his name.
“I was just thinking about you,” Sherlock replied, mimicking John’s answer from before.
John huffed out a laugh, then began to peel himself up, but Sherlock grabbed his wrist.
“Stay,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
John leaned over to kiss him, slow and sweet. When he pulled away there was a smile on his face.
“I’m going to stay, but I am going to get a flannel to clean us up first. I’m not listening to you complain about being a mess later.”
Sherlock snorted, but let John go and watched him cross the room to the loo. The water splashed in the sink as he wetted a cloth, and when he came back, Sherlock once again watched him. John grinned when he sat down on the bed and gently began to clean Sherlock.
When he was finished, he tossed the flannel into the hamper and crawled back under the covers with Sherlock. He pressed himself against Sherlock. He let his hand come up to scratch gentle nails against John’s scalp.
“Thank you, John.”
John giggled and Sherlock loved it.
“You’re welcome, love. Was that everything you wanted it to be?”
“Mm, yes. It was perfect. You were perfect. That couldn’t have gone better if we planned it.”
“We did plan it, you berk.”
“Well. Yes, technically, but you didn’t know the details. Just to leave and come back in half an hour.”
“True. I didn’t expect to find you lying in bed on display like that.”
“Yes, I know. That was the point.”
“The point was to find you pulling one off?”
“Exactly.”
“I should have realized you had a bit of an exhibitionist streak in you.”
Sherlock frowned slightly. “Not exhibitionist, I don’t think. Not in a public setting kind of way, in any case. Perhaps for you, though.”
“Perhaps you’re a bit of an exhibitionist for me?” John asked, sounding amused.
“I love the way you watch me. Your eyes tracking my every movement. So, yes. I suppose you could say I do have an exhibitionist streak when it comes to you watching me.”
“Jesus, Sherlock. You need to stop talking like that. I’m not a young man anymore.”
Sherlock smirked. “You’re not an old man.”
“Hm, well. Regardless, my refractory period is longer than twenty minutes.”
“I can wait.”
John laughed again, soft and fond, pressed against Sherlock’s side.
“I liked your reason for coming back, by the way. I always hoped you thought about me when you were on those dates.”
“Oh, I did. Think about you, I mean. Often.”
“Mm. Good.”
“Do you have any other fantasies you wanted to bring to life?”
“I’m sure there’s one or two more I’d like to fulfill.”
“I’m sure,” John agreed, the smile evident in his voice.
A moment later, Sherlock felt the caress of John’s fingers against the lace gown.
“I love this."
“It is lovely, isn’t it?” It truly was Sherlock’s favorite dressing gown.
“It is. You should wear it more often.”
“Perhaps.”
They laid together for several minutes, their breathing and heart rates slowed, and Sherlock could feel John’s body once again relaxing into sleep. He turned his head and pressed his lips to the top of John’s head. John hummed sleepily.
“Love you.”
Sherlock smiled.
“I love you.”