Sherlock doesn't masturbate often, but when he does he times it with John. He sneaks upstairs and listens outside the bedroom door, biting his other fist as he strokes himself to a dramatic orgasm.
Sherlock doesn’t fantasize. He finds it tremendously tedious, because really, there’s only one thing he could fantasize about and if he’s not going to have it for real, he should not be wasting his time on imagining it happening.
One evening, he climbs up the stairs two by two to inform John that there’s a new interesting case in his emails, except that he doesn’t push the door open because it’s evident by the sound of it that John is rather… busy at the moment.
It takes Sherlock days to admit that it turns him on, listening to John masturbating, because it’s not something he has to imagine – it’s happening, right there, on the other side of the wall. It takes him a few more days until he finally slips his hand into his pants, in front of John’s room, biting his fist to not make any sound, as to not to betray himself. It’s dangerous – John could get out of his room and catch him at any moment, and that thought, above everything else, makes him harder than he’s ever been.
What he isn’t aware of is that John knows. That John has heard him that first night and each time after that, because Sherlock has no control over his whimpers when he comes. And John toys with him, putting up a show every time it happens, panting hard, letting out little uhuhuhs and fuckfuckfuckfucks and yesss, you’re so good, so fucking good.
It lasts until the day when they’re just done with a case and going to their respective rooms for the night. Sherlock can’t resist climbing up the stairs, knowing precisely what John will be doing at this hour. He leans his back on John’s door, careful for it not to creak, and promises himself as he strokes his cock that it’s just for this time, because he absolutely needs the proximity.
He’s so close—he’s so very close that he doesn’t hear John getting out of bed, only the BANG against the door that makes his whole body vibrate with want, and he sees it clearly: John on the other side of the door, stroking his cock hard and fast, fingers raking at the thin piece of wood that’s separating them.
“Are you— coming?” John pants, his voice low and hoarse. “Because—fuck, I’m coming.”
Sherlock moans, his head hitting the door, making it shake once more between them. He drops his fist from his mouth and comes so hard that he nearly blacks-out, tumbling backwards when John opens the door. John is there to catch him, and pulls him upwards, pushes him against the closed door and smears his mouth over Sherlock’s.
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