This doesn't happen to Sherlock. It has happened before. Contrary to popular belief, he's not actually the virgin he's rumored to be, but it's been years, over a decade and closer to two, because it hadn't been something he'd found worth repeating. It was all too much trouble for a result that was mildly satisfactory at best, and so inefficient that all he'd been able to really focus on was how much time was being wasted. But he'd wanted to try it, see what all the fuss was about. He knows about variety, he's heard the argument that he must not have found what it is he likes, but nothing had changed his mind because even if he did find something that sparked his interest, it wouldn't change the fact that it was a waste of time, something he could efficiently replace with his own hand if needed or, more frequently, simply ignoring any physical stirring until it faded away. It had been easy enough to compartmentalize it and ignore it for all these years until very recently.
Until now. Sherlock is so close to John that he can smell him. He hasn't showered yet today, though there's still a lingering hint of his cheap soap and deodorant beneath the warm scent of his skin. John whimpers in his arms as the fight fades out of him and to Sherlock's body, starved as it is for physical contact, the way John moves - trying and failing to struggle away - feels unspeakably good. His body shifting, twisting in his grip brings friction between them and Sherlock suddenly and remarkably has forgotten how this started. Was he going to say something? Something comes out in a low groan over the shell of John's ear that's definitely not another demand that John give up, because he's entirely forgotten that they were fighting.
Is John talking? He could swear he's heard his voice and yet he hasn't got a clue what he's saying. He suddenly feels that he finally knows what the fuss was about. Efficiency be damned. Those rare times he takes care of himself with his hand, that entire failed experiment years before, they're absolutely nothing compared to this. To just the simple rush of holding John tight, the friction as they move, and the soft sounds he makes (even if his actual words fall away).
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Until now. Sherlock is so close to John that he can smell him. He hasn't showered yet today, though there's still a lingering hint of his cheap soap and deodorant beneath the warm scent of his skin. John whimpers in his arms as the fight fades out of him and to Sherlock's body, starved as it is for physical contact, the way John moves - trying and failing to struggle away - feels unspeakably good. His body shifting, twisting in his grip brings friction between them and Sherlock suddenly and remarkably has forgotten how this started. Was he going to say something? Something comes out in a low groan over the shell of John's ear that's definitely not another demand that John give up, because he's entirely forgotten that they were fighting.
Is John talking? He could swear he's heard his voice and yet he hasn't got a clue what he's saying. He suddenly feels that he finally knows what the fuss was about. Efficiency be damned. Those rare times he takes care of himself with his hand, that entire failed experiment years before, they're absolutely nothing compared to this. To just the simple rush of holding John tight, the friction as they move, and the soft sounds he makes (even if his actual words fall away).