fabfandomista replied to your post “john makes sex noises when he gets massages like monica on friends but...”
Umm, Heather. I really think a follow up fic is required here.
John has rotated his shoulder exactly 2.3 times more often than usual this evening.
Sherlock narrows his eyes over the microscope, watching him roll the offending arm almost unconsciously before going back to his horrid chicken peck of a type. There is a seventy-five percent chance of rain through the night and his shoulder is particularly stiff, nagging—obvious. John rolls it again with a tiny grunt. This is intolerable.
“Oh, for god’s sake, I’ll rub it for you,” Sherlock announces.
“Your shoulder. Your arm is bothering you, you are bothering me. Ergo, I will rub it for you.”
“Erm—no, that’s all right. I’ll manage.”
“Come on, John. You’re not going to book a massage at this time of night. You’re going to go on being in pain, which is insufferable. Let. Me.”
John fixes him with an inscrutable look and for a wild moment Sherlock is afraid he’s overstepped. He’s never been sure how “normal” friends relate—not that he ever had any to practice on—and up until John he’s certainly never cared. Was offering a massage too intimate? Something that strictly platonic flatmates Did Not Do? How much of his hand has he just shown?
But then John is saying, “Yeah, okay,” and rising from the chair and unbuttoning his shirt and Sherlock is hyperventilating for an entirely different reason.
John settles on the couch in just his vest and looks over his shoulder at Sherlock. “Off you go, then.”
Sherlock sits gingerly behind him, tries not to lean in and smell his hair or lick his neck or anything else painfully obvious. He places his large hands on John’s shoulders—muscular beautiful shoulders—and experimentally digs in with his thumbs.
And jerks like he’s been struck by lightning, because John moans. It is not a mumble of acknowledgement or a grunt urging him to continue or a groan of deep pleasure-pain. It is no more and no less than filthy.
Sherlock lifts up his hands, settles them down again lightly.
“All right?” John asks. He sounds as if he has no idea, the noise that has just emanated from him.
“Fine.” Sherlock digs his thumbs in again. Being prepared this time doesn’t help one bit, because the second moan is somehow raunchier than the first. He pauses again, trying not to think about the rush of blood headed straight for his cock.
“Sure this is fine?” John asks, turning his head a bit, but Sherlock catches his chin and faces him forward.
“Yes. Don’t twist around, you’ll only mess yourself up more.” He is certain it would be all over if John saw his face right now.
He grits his teeth and sets about working John’s shoulder firmly and professionally, set to a soundtrack out of his wildest, most desperate fantasies. In the dark privacy of his room, John lying in bed one floor above him, Sherlock sometimes strains his ears and pretends he can hear the kind of noises he’s coaxing out of John right now, under his own hands.
“Ooooooooh, yes...god...ohhhh god yes...harder, Sherlock...yes, right there, yessssss...unnnnnghhh...”
Sherlock closes his eyes and pants hard, praying his hands don’t shake as he works out a particularly stubborn knot and John fucking caterwauls “YESYESYESYESSHERLOCKDON’TSTOP” and suddenly he’s going to come in his pants if he doesn’t get away from this situation immediately.
“Yes, yes, well,” Sherlock says, standing up abruptly. “That ought to do it.”
“Mmmmmmm,” John says, rolling out his shoulder in obvious relief. “That was incredible, Sherlock.” He starts to turn toward him and Sherlock panics again, because if John turns around now he’s going to get poked in the eye with Sherlock’s erection.
“No!” Sherlock says, jerking John’s head to the front once more. “You’ve got to stay there for a few minutes to...let it...set.”
“Do I?” John sounds amused and Sherlock isn’t at all sure he’s carried it off. All he knows is that he needs to get to his own room to handle this immediately.
“Ah! I hear my phone. In my room. That’ll be...Lestrade,” he says. “Don’t forget, you just...just stay there.” And he rushes off to his room, slamming the door behind him.
John and Mrs. Hudson are in the kitchen having tea and toast when Sherlock arises the next morning. Sherlock is tempted to snag John’s tea as he shuffles by, but as memories of the previous night flood back—both what actually happened and the sweaty, furious fantasies it inspired—his ears heat up and he studiously avoids touching John in any way.
“Well, I’m off, boys,” Mrs. Hudson says, picking up her dishes. “Oh, and—not that I mind what you get up to, of course, none of my business—but in future, would you mind keeping it down a bit? The neighbors.”
Sherlock takes a moment to process what she could possibly mean, but then he catches her smug, knowing smile (oh, god) and it floods over him. He opens his mouth to—what, protest?—but John just looks equally smug and says, “Of course, Mrs. H. Bye.”
John catches Sherlock’s eye as he closes the door behind her. “Oh, and Lestrade texted after you went to your room last night. You left your phone in the kitchen.” Sherlock looks at the phone, innocuous on the counter, and back to John, at a loss. John rolls his shoulder and smirks. “I’d come with, but my shoulder is awfully sore this morning. It’s going to rain.”
