Such sweet and easy peace.

Can’t stop. Won’t stop.

So. This happened:

cumberbitchsandwich: He looks like he could be doing something naughty.

exorin: I think it looks like he could be watching something naughty. Like John.

cumberbitchsandwich: THIS time I read the fucking tags. :D You’d better pony up.

John. Sherlock. Same as all the other fics I’ve been writing lately. Except a moderate amount of sappy because that’s JohnLock for you.

(Masturbation! Because it’s quick, dirty, and easy).

Sherlock doesn’t usually go into John’s room- John once told him that it has something to do with not disturbing the privacy of flat-mates. And he trusts John and John trusts him.

But there’s been occasions where Sherlock has heard the soft whimpering and the desperately whispered please and please no- and he’s walked quietly up the stairs and opened the door and seen John sleeping restlessly, with his blankets thrown off and his pillows being abused by clenching fists and inescapable tears. In moments like that Sherlock has broken the promise he made to John and he’s stepped inside and sat on the edge of John’s bed with his hand against the Doctor’s shoulder and John has curled immediately around him and stilled completely.

Tonight is the same. He can hear John from the living room, soft whispers and louder groans. Sherlock gets to his feet and walks slowly across the flat to the small staircase that leads up to John’s room. He pads quietly up the steps and listens outside the door for a moment- he can hear the rustling fabric of the sheets being moved, the low shuddering exhales of John breathing deeply. His hand presses against the wooden door and he presses it open slowly.

John’s room is dark, even the blinds are pulled across the window to block out any ambient streetlights. Sherlock takes a step in and stops- John gasps and it brushes against Sherlock’s ear like a secret. Now that Sherlock’s eyes are adjusting to the darkness he can see the outline of John’s body- he’s pressed flat to the mattress, his head is tilted back against his pillows, chin jutted forward and neck exposed. His chest is bare, there are lines that Sherlock can recognize as scars and a thousand questions push through his mind- but none of them more important than the question of what they would taste and feel like if Sherlock dragged the tip of his tongue over them.

Sherlock tries to stop himself from breathing, scared that John will look up and see him standing in the doorway, awestruck.

John has an arm thrown over his eyes, his other hand is pressed- palm down- against his stomach and is sliding down and down and down. His fingertips slip under the elastic waistband of his pyjama pants and he sighs- Sherlock wants him to tug those pants down so he can better see what’s happening; although, he can deduce.

From the way John’s wrist curves and the way his hips pull up from the bed, Sherlock assumes that his fingers have slid around the base of his erection. He can see the outline pressed hard against the cotton fabric of John’s pants, he forces the moan back down his throat and shoves a hand against his mouth to prevent anything from escaping.

John’s groan hits Sherlock’s ears like a sledgehammer, and it takes effort for him to stay upright. Sherlock leans against the wall right beside the door and watches the way John’s wrist twists and jerks with undisguised interest. He can feel his breath hitting his palm in short, sharp gasps and is only too glad that John is making more noise than he is.

His back arches up from the sheets, his arm moving fast and steady; Sherlock can see the moisture pressing against cotton and making it damp as John thrusts into his fingers, he can see the perfect shape of John’s cock outlined against the material. There’s a moment where Sherlock thinks that he should leave before John comes- that he should step out of the room and pretend that he had never been inside.

But. He just can’t.

Sherlock can’t imagine leaving now, not when the curve of John’s back and the soft gasping breaths are getting higher. Not when he’s so close to orgasm. He needs all the data, all the information. He wants to know what John sounds like, what he looks like, how he twists his wrist to tug himself off over that last edge.

John’s fingers clench, Sherlock can see the tendons in his wrist stretch- he hears a short, sharp gasp and looks up to suddenly meet John’s eyes, there’s a low groan and the sound of his own name brushes by his ears. Sherlock. John comes and Sherlock can’t seem to breathe.

It’s the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.