John’s smile in return lit up Sherlock’s very soul, if he were to believe in such a thing. It reached deep inside his core, soothing so many years of tension and loneliness immediately and effortlessly. John was always good at that, though. He could pull Sherlock from his lowest and darkest times, bringing him back to Earth and back to here and now.
This was certainly not a dark time, however. This was as perfect as it was insane and ridiculous. John had been aggressively ‘not gay’ not that long ago, and Sherlock had been too lost within himself and keeping the dark moods at bay to even give most people the time of day. It was completely against reason that they should fall in love, but then, it somehow made all the sense in the world.
They completed each other effortlessly, the both of them filling the empty spaces in one another’s lives and hearts perfectly. Sherlock gave John excitement, gave him a purpose in someone who needed him as badly as Sherlock needed John. Left to his own devices, Sherlock could self-destruct with the best of them, but John made sure it never came to that. John gave Sherlock something he had never experienced before in unconditional understanding and love. John always knew what to say and do, pulling Sherlock back from the precipice of a manic episode with a few choice words and liberal displays of affection. They were a beautiful organism together, living in perfect symbiosis with one another.
This was a perfect example of their give and take, giving one another what they wanted and taking what they needed in turn. Being on top of John like this, getting to watch his expressions as he rode him was something Sherlock was sorely addicted to. He rolled his hips faster, panting and squeezing John’s shoulder at the perfect feeling of it all. He was so grateful that John understood the signal that they had found that perfect angle, crying out when John made that lovely sound and moved his hips to hit that sweet spot over and over.
It was a miracle that he had lasted this long, to be honest. John knew the perfect formula to undo him, Sherlock never able to last very long when John was stroking him, hitting his prostate and speaking such lovely words. He was panting hard, grinding his hips in a desperate rhythm as he sought out his swiftly coming release.
“John, yes, John, I will, I am-” he panted out, the last word interrupted by his tossing his head back with a howl of pleasure as he spilled over John’s hand.
Sherlock Holmes losing control wasn’t usually a beautiful sight to behold. It was devastation and chaos and a recklessness bordering on suicidal. Anything, anything at all, to stop being bored. That's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever. Why would I do that? Because you're an idiot. Sherlock out of control was dangerous, feral, a danger to himself and the people around him. John had seen it happen a handful of times, had gotten at seeing the signs leading up to it, tried his hardest to gently but firmly steer Sherlock onto another, less destructive path. It didn’t always work, but oh, he tried.
It had of course been fun, for a time, exhilarating, the thrill of the chase, the blood thumping through their veins as they wreaked havoc upon London’s underworld. They couldn’t continue like that, not forever, not all the time. Sometimes, yes. When Sherlock was about to jump out of his own skin if he didn’t have a case right here right now. When even John’s skin started to itch, his fingers flexing. When Sherlock started to leave John’s gun on the coffee table, on the kitchen counter, in the bloody sink for him to find in the morning when he was about to have a wash--- Addicts, the pair of them, both sustaining and feeding each other’s vices. John wouldn’t have it any other way. Being with Sherlock made him feel alive, truly alive. That had been the case since day one.
Sherlock was losing control now. And it was heartbreakingly, soul-shatteringly beautiful to behold. It happened suddenly, violently, taking them both by surprise, and John gasped as he watched Sherlock come undone, the evidence of his release spilling over his hand.
He stroked him through his orgasm, until he knew there’d be a sweet edge of pain to the pleasure. Finally he stopped, withdrawing his hand. There was electricity in his veins and white noise in his head. His skin felt like it was on fire, and he hungered, God, how he hungered. Control had been foregone a while ago. All that mattered now was chasing his own pleasure, his own release, marking Sherlock as his, claiming him once more. He moved forward, wrapping his arms around the other man and reversing their positions so Sherlock lay back on the bed.
“ Jesus, look at you, ” John panted, pushing back inside Sherlock and leaning forward to capture his lips in a frenzied kiss as his hips started to move again. “ Lovely, so lovely, and all mine, God, Sherlock, I’m close--- ”
A handful of thrusts, and John cried out, burying his face in the shadows of Sherlock’s neck as he pushed deep, deep inside of him one final time before collapsing on top of the other man. Time and space lost all meaning for a few moments, John breathing harshly against Sherlock’s neck as he slowly gained his bearings again.
“ Well, then, ” he finally said, his voice a touch hoarse, lazily mouthing Sherlock’s neck for a moment. “ Reckon you made it up to me. You alright? I lost control for a bit there. Sorry. ”