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He shuffled his elbows to a more stable position as John's hands started to slide back up his thighs, moving round to the inside and stroking a couple of inches higher, then an inch back down, over and over, higher and higher, edging ever nearer to the top until Sherlock was trying to push himself down without pulling away from John's mouth, which was clearly impossible but he tried anyway, stretching his body, rocking his hips, biting his lip to stop himself begging, his head hanging down and his breathing loud, filling his ears with the sounds of his own desperation... and John hadn't even really touched him yet, what the hell had he got into here? And why hadn't they done this long, long ago?
"I could use some of those supplies you claimed to have," John said, pulling his mouth free.
Sherlock stared down at him.
"Lube?" John specified, raising one eyebrow in query.
"Yes," managed Sherlock. "Good."
John gripped his hips again while he shifted back up the bed, then he wrapped an arm around Sherlock's waist and sat them both up, Sherlock's knees sliding forward so that he ended astride John's thighs.
"Cabinet?" suggested John, nodding his head to the side, and Sherlock blinked, then pulled himself together and stretched across, scrabbling in the drawer until he found what they needed. He sat up again, leaning back a little this time so that he could finally see... his gaze fell to John's lap and his eyes widened.
"John..." Sherlock was almost embarrassed by how breathless he sounded. He glanced up, but then immediately dropped the supplies, all other concerns forgotten in the light of John's expression.
"John? John, what is it? What's the matter?" Sherlock took hold of his shoulders, then looked down at himself doubtfully. There was nothing wrong with him, was there? He'd always thought this was one area where physically at least he appeared entirely normal.
"There's nothing wrong with you," John said at once, leaving Sherlock wondering, not for the first time with John, if he'd actually spoken out loud without meaning to. "You're perfect," John went on. "Absolutely perfect. Gorgeous. Flawless." He didn't seem happy about it.
"And this is a problem because...?"
John twitched his wounded shoulder out of Sherlock's grasp and looked away. "You could have anybody, Sherlock. Anybody at all. Why would you even...?"
Sherlock wanted to laugh at the sheer absurdity of John's doubts, but he bit it back. He took John's face in his hands and forced it round.
"And of a world population which is nearing seven billion," he said, holding John's gaze, "how many could ever love me as much as you do?"
They stared at each other. "None of them," John acknowledged at last.
"None of them," Sherlock confirmed. "And they're incurably dull anyway."
John's lips twitched. "I'm being an idiot, aren't I?"
"You are," Sherlock agreed. "Strangely, it doesn't seem to be putting me off in the slightest."
John grinned and looped an arm round his neck, tugging him down for a kiss which Sherlock threw himself into, resolving to keep John so thoroughly and regularly sated in the future that any thoughts of being undesirable would be too shagged out to surface.
With that thought in mind, he reached down between their bodies and wrapped his hand around John's cock, feeling the way his whole body trembled as Sherlock flexed his fingers assessingly, and then stroked up and down, exploring and learning.
John broke away from the kiss with a gasp, putting both hands behind him and leaning his weight on them, his head tipped back and his breathing unsteady. Sherlock smiled, enjoying his power. He adjusted the angle of his wrist and leaned forward to kiss John again, bringing up his free hand to cup the back of his head, holding him firmly as he swallowed every moan, recorded every gasp, memorised every muttered encouragement, ready to catch him if his shoulder gave way, and John was shaking, it seemed that he might fall, but then he turned his head and drew in a deep breath and Sherlock could feel him collecting himself.
His arms steadied, muscles tensed, power returning as he shifted his balance and sat up straighter, tilting Sherlock back and reaching to the side. Lubrication, Sherlock remembered, releasing his grip and holding out his hand. John squirted some onto his palm, but then grabbed his wrist before he could move, dropping the bottle and bringing his hand back to press against Sherlock's, smearing and warming the gel between them.
As soon as he was released, Sherlock returned to his task, his hand moving more smoothly now, gliding easily, and he tried to focus on his actions and not on the anticipation of what John would do next, but he didn't have to wait long, the first skim of John's slick fingers over his length making him shudder and moan, his free hand rising to clutch at John's neck and he had just registered that some distant part of his brain was wondering about John's other hand when a surreptitiously lubed finger moved down behind his balls, sliding into place like a prostate-seeking missile.
"Bloody, fucking hell!" Sherlock's head fell back as he tried to adjust; it had been a long time since anyone had done this to him and it wasn't entirely comfortable. His mind unhelpfully reminded him of the size disparity between what he was feeling and what he held in his hand and he felt a momentary concern, but then he looked down and the sight of John's hand on him, the other beneath, made his cock jerk before his eyes, and John's finger inside him was rubbing gently, gradually stimulating his prostate into arousal.
"All right?" John asked, his voice husky and low, and Sherlock nodded, raising his eyes, his hand stroking the back of John's neck in time with everything else and they leaned together, Sherlock curved forward over John, kissing when they had breath, looking down and then back into each other's eyes, absorbing their new reality as John gradually stretched Sherlock, adding a second finger, then a third, always stroking him, soothing him, both of them keeping their pace deliberately slow, easing off when breathing became too fast, when sensations became too much; learning each other.
"I love you like this," John murmured, and Sherlock was abruptly ready. More than ready. Way past ready and heading into desperate.
"That's enough preparation," he said.
"Are you sure? You said it had been a long time..."
"I'm sure."
"But, really, Sherlock - you're incredibly tight and I don't want to hurt you..."
"I'm sure! I'm sure, I am absolutely fucking sure, John. Please!"
The last word was barely out of his mouth when John's hand left his cock, wiped itself on his thigh, then rose to grab a fistful of curls, tugging him down into a kiss of such ferocity, such mind-wiping, toe-curling, pulse-racing lust that it took Sherlock three attempts to compose a sentence when he was finally released.
"Is it the swearing or the begging?" he asked breathlessly.
"I neither know, nor care. Pass me a condom."
Sherlock scrambled to comply, ripping the packet open and offering it. "Do you want me to...?" He looked down.
"Please," invited John, pulling his fingers out of Sherlock's body and wiping them on one of the stray socks which were scattered about the bed. He picked up the lube as Sherlock rolled on the condom, then applied a generous coating.
"How do you want to do this?"
Sherlock hesitated. "I usually imagine you behind me, but..."
John waited and Sherlock blushed, which was absolutely ridiculous. "...but I want to be able to see you. I..." God, he was stammering! He forced himself to continue. "I want to be under you. Is that...?"
"...perfect," said John. "That's perfect." He reached up and kissed Sherlock's embarrassment away, then pulled him down onto the bed and rolled him onto his back, shoving a pillow under his hips as they went and settling on top of him.
Sherlock raised his legs, adjusting himself to the optimal angle.
"Easy," warned John. "Just take it steady, there's no..."
Sherlock flexed the long muscles in his thighs then tightened them, pulling John inside his body in one smooth slide.
"...rush," finished John, biting his lip, his arms trembling where they supported his weight.
Sherlock held still. He knew that the initial discomfort was showing in his face, and he also knew that it would fade. He tried to relax.
"Talk to me," said John, and Sherlock was grateful that he didn't suggest stopping. "Why this way round? You surprised me." The tendons in his neck stood out with the effort of not moving and his voice wasn't entirely steady, but he was clearly determined to wait until Sherlock was ready.
Sherlock smoothed his hands over John's shoulders, then down his arms, feeling the muscles ripple under his touch. "People have no idea what's under those jumpers," he said. "Your strength is one of the things you hide." He smiled. "But not from me."
He remembered the way John had lifted him earlier and felt a throb of arousal, the unaccustomed fullness in his body suddenly beginning to feel much more welcome. He briefly tried a gentle rocking motion, but then decided against it. "Do you remember in the kitchen three weeks ago, when you decided that I was in the way?"
John shifted a bit in remembered outrage and Sherlock hissed. "Sorry," he said. "But you were in the way! You deliberately obstructed the kettle for ten minutes, just to be annoying."
"And you moved me," Sherlock thought back to that moment and rocked again, to much better effect. "You just picked me up and moved me."
