Just Within Your Reach

John Watson - Ten

Smut warning my dudes

He had been stupid. He'd fucking kissed Sherlock Holmes on the head. 

He ran a hand over his face as he laid in his bed. It was stupid. No, more than stupid. They were best friends. Of course Sherlock wouldn't feel like that about him.

Two guy best friends who shared a flat, he argued with himself. 

But they were just friends. Sherlock had said before he wasn't one for relationships, he thought.

Yeah, and that's why he's lying to you to protect you, he argued again. 

He turned over onto his stomach and sighed. It wasn't easy being in love with Sherlock. He had been able to feel Sherlock's skin, and he'd been able to see the curve of his cheekbones and the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck.

And how his hips felt under his fingers and the way they peeked out from under Sherlock's shirt. And the curve of Sherlock's thighs under his pants and the way he tensed and John could see the muscle jump. And the way his shoulder blades moved under his shirt and the way Sherlock rolled them when he was nervous.

God, what John would give to touch them, and to press light kisses in between them and to be able to see Sherlock fall apart. And how he would dig his fingers into Sherlock's jutting hip bones, and how he would nip and bite at them, leaving marks there. And how his fingers would curl into Sherlock's hair.

Or how he would make Sherlock beg under him while he licked and bit at the other man's neck, marking up his collar bone. Fuck, how that collar bone killed John every time he saw it after Sherlock would come out the shower. 

And he always came out with a towel riding low on his hips - those damn fucking bloody hips - and he would walk around the flat, which would pull John to look at his thighs, and fuck how he wanted to have those thighs tighten around his head as he made Sherlock cum from just his mouth.

John didn't even realize that the moment he started thinking about parts of Sherlock's body, he began rutting against the mattress. He groaned out loud and went faster, thinking of the ways he wanted to take Sherlock in the shower, how he wanted to pound into him through the haze of water beating down on them. 

He shuddered and his hips stuttered against the bed, and he almost reached down, but he would be damned if he allowed himself to touch himself thinking of Sherlock right after he'd fucking kissed him. 

So he just rutted faster until his breath was coming in fast pants because the friction on his cock. 

He groaned and whimpered - not even fully into the pillow and he was vaguely aware that his noises were echoing around his room. His hips almost fully stopped as the warmth in his stomach tightened to a wire and then broke, and he came. Rutting against his bed. Into his boxers. Half naked. Thinking of Sherlock bloody Holmes. 

After of moment of coming down from his high he stood on wobbly legs and peeled his boxers off, tossing them onto the floor and grabbed a washcloth, cleaning himself. He groaned - him still being sensitive from already cumming once. 

He slowly climbed into his bed and wrapped the covers around him. He was more than tired now, his eyes fluttering closed. 

He half thought about being quieter next time before sleep over took him and he curled himself into his pillow, thinking of Sherlock as he fell asleep.