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John Watson will readily admit that he has always rated his performance in bed based on the sounds of his partner.
He'd always gotten a drunken feeling from their soft moans as they moved toward cries of ecstasy; he'd loved how he could take the most conservatively-tongued woman and have her fisting hands in his hair and shouting curses to the gods.
Lovers on three continents had sung his praises to the rafters, to the ceilings, to the clouds, to the rooftops in cars. He was by no means inexperienced in the ways of pleasuring and receiving pleasure.
So in the beginning, he was thrown for a loop by Sherlock's absolute silence during their lovemaking.
There had been a learning curve--there always was a bit of one with a new partner, and John had been sure that his good luck had run out when he'd been unable to make Sherlock scream his name while he'd sucked and fingered the other man on their very own living room couch six months ago.
The man never shut up. He had once legitimately floundered for air while delivering a deduction because he had neglected to take a breath. How could he possibly be content with breathy sighs during and not so much as a kitten's mewl at climax?
It had been a very awkward conversation that led them to the point in their relationship they were at now, but it was worth it for this. For the quiet; for the sort of intimate touches of breath and body that John couldn't remember having or wanting before Sherlock.
There were no utterances of "Oh, baby, harder" and no howling of John's name, just the almost obscene sound of warm flesh sliding against sweat-dampened skin and breathy sighs that sounded more dreamy than someone in the throes of passion.
Yet here he was.
John was on his back, half propped up against the arm of the sofa. It wasn't the most comfortable position to maintain while Sherlock was resting all of his weight on his hips and torso, but the dig of the sofa into his back was a small price to pay for the warmth wrapped around him, for the closeness of his lover's slick skin.
Sherlock's arms were tight about John's shoulders, pulling him up as much as the angle would allow, and John encouraged their closeness by digging his heels into a shifting couch cushion and pushing upwards into his lover's body while simultaneously dragging him closer, then closer still with hands splayed across his lower back, just above the curve where his arse met his hips.
Oh, gods, that arse.
Selfish hands sought down along that sumptuous curve, groping each cheek and spreading slowly, at the same time moving his hips upward and praying he didn't lose his footing, lest he be disengaged before his time.
John relished the tightness around him, in every sense. The arms, the thighs, the heat.
Sherlock's mouth was against the side of his neck, suckling and tonguing a spectacularly sensitive bit of flesh just below the doctor's ear, and when a soft gasp escaped John's lips, a heart-shaped mouth claimed his own to silence him. Breath and body, that was all they were right then--sensation that couldn't be diluted with words and uselessly attempted articulation.
The consulting detective had been right all those months ago: There weren't words enough for this.
Sherlock could spend all day locked inside his head thinking in a silence so absolute it was near deathly, but that wasn't where he was now. He was here, he was present, he was in a near-ecstatic state that allowed him to switch off that part of his brain and feel. John knew because even though he couldn't get as far into his own mind as Sherlock could, he was nearing that state himself, as fresh as the first time.
The thighs on either side of John's body trembled, muscles protesting beneath the surface of pale skin, and Sherlock's left leg slipped from the couch, startling Sherlock a bit and forcing them to regain their grounding, but the foot stayed planted on the floor for leverage.
John knew Sherlock would be sore later, surely, from the over-exertion, but it was a small price to pay.
John breathed heavily through his nose, trying to keep from crying out whenever Sherlock's body clenched around him forcefully enough to make him see stars. It was fully intentional, and he knew it, but the detective had always been good at setting a pace that would keep John right bloody there until it was time.
Lips parted and closed against his own, teeth occasionally sneaking out for a teasing nibble at his bottom lip. John let his hands slip up his lover's pale back, knowing every blemish and freckle on that expanse of white without having to see, pausing to thumb over the sensitive sides of Sherlock's ribs before wrapping back around to pull him closer by the neck and shoulders.
Sherlock bore down then, his knee knocking against John's ribcage, and the soldier's wandering hands immediately slid back down to spread and cup and hold the vessel of his pleasure.
He couldn't keep still, and he had no intention of doing so, but the slow thrusts upwards into Sherlock's body were maddening, those supple lips against his own were demanding and breathless, and the only sounds in the room were overwhelming to him in a way that echoed quietly off the walls of the places he'd once stored howling fantasies.
Their hearts were beating in syncopated time, though the hummingbird's pace of each was something John would've testified to feeling through their connection.
Sherlock pushed himself up using the armrest behind John's head, steadying himself carefully before sinking back down, seating himself fully in John's lap. This new angle allowed for something deeper, physically as deep as John could go, but there was a detachment that the doctor experienced in the nine inches now separating their lips, the seemingly infinite space between their breaths.
John tried to scoot back, just a bit, to give himself a better laying position, but Sherlock set his hands on his shoulders, holding him down firmly, right thumb tracing over the starburst scar on John's left shoulder. The sweat-damp skin tingled under the touch, wishing the ghosting thumb was the pair of lips that now parted for air as Sherlock's eyes delved into his own.
Every breath Sherlock took was something John could see, and when he slipped his fingers around from his lover's back to trail them up his chest, he could feel every quiver of Sherlock's body, inside and out.
In and out, in and out. Each inhale and exhale seeming more forced and desperate than the one before.
Breathing was boring, except when it wasn't. When Sherlock Holmes was breathing, gasping, riding you with a slow, intimate roll of his hips in the middle of a Sunday afternoon, nothing could be further from boring.
John swallowed the moan that threatened to escape and let his head fall back for the briefest of moments before refocusing his attention. Sherlock's body continued to move above him, a slow, practiced movement meant to keep the doctor on the verge for as long as possible; to draw it out until the pair of them were nearly sobbing with need.
It had been nearly forty minutes. The peak was certainly within view; the point of no return where they stopped being Sherlock and John and simply became a jumble of pleasured cells merging together and whispers of carbon dioxide on skin.
Sherlock's hand slipped around to the back of John's neck, an almost teasing promise, an obvious desire to be closer, for their lips to be joined, for Sherlock's skilled fingers to tangle in John's short hair and lead the kiss. But the position wasn't forgiving; their mouths couldn't take each other's pleasure when the rest of their bodies so demanded their attention.
They settled for breathing into each other, lips parted, heated, running on sense memory of sliding mouths. The tips of their noses touched aligned, and John's breaths curved into a smile along his parted lips.
John reached down to his belly where Sherlock's arousal was hot against him, and began to fist him slowly, giving him the attention he had neglected to give for the duration.
His fingers slid from base to tip, then back down again with a little twist of his wrist on the down stroke. The resultant squeeze around his own member was a welcome afterthought, and John let his other hand stall on Sherlock's hip, helping to keep him steady.
The other man began to clench around him rhythmically on John's upward thrusts, making John's eyes roll back and his neck stretched backward over the arm of the sofa, a clear offering which Sherlock took advantage of within seconds.
Lips closed around his left nipple and John's hips stuttered upwards, his feet digging down into the cushion, which seemed desperate to inch away from him bit by bit. Both of his hands were around Sherlock now, milking him prematurely and lubricating his palms generously with his need.
John brought his head back up to find his lover leaning forward once more, lips instinctively latching onto the side of his neck, letting his hot, panting breaths slip along the moist skin of John's throat. Fingers tangled in curls, holding him in place as John tried to work out the specifics of the way their bodies were situated. Either Sherlock was much more flexible than usual, or John had been too blissed by sensation to notice some important shifting.
No matter. There was a warm, pliable Sherlock in his arms, content to be and to breathe with him for as long as their bodies could stand it, and John didn't worry further about logistics.
John's hands gripped the sides of Sherlock's thighs and urged him up. There was a slight huff of protest against his lips, but that was the only sound that didn't come from the slide of their skin, the shifting of the couch.
John followed him away, not wanting to let those perfect lips leave his own for a second longer, and helped Sherlock wrap his long legs around his waist. Two taps to the detective's sides and a bit of careful lifting on John's part, and he was sat with his legs straining and a lapful of Sherlock Holmes.
Seconds was all it took to decide he needed better leverage, and Jon sacrificed a brief moment to stall their lovemaking in order to awkwardly shift sideways and place one foot on the floor. His guess had been correct--it was much easier to support Sherlock's weight, and when he wrapped both arms around his lover once more, they sighed into each other's lips at the closeness of their bodies, pressed flesh to flushing flesh from groin to forehead.
As with all things, Sherlock caught on quickly, and where his arms had previously been taking a moment to pay homage to John's own hips and the sensitive dips just below his ribs, they now wrapped once more around John's shoulders.
The angle was much more forgiving with a woman, but John paid it no mind, pushing up into Sherlock and gripping those thin hips to help Sherlock find their rhythm again.
Once they were there, slowly rocking into each other with little more than hot air between them, John let his own arms slip around the entirety of Sherlock's thin frame, holding him close and moving with him as his body at once begged for release and for relief from the strain of his lover's weight.
The other man was bent slightly at the neck and shoulders in the effort to keep his forehead pressed against John's as they rode out the continuous waves of pleasure while quickly approaching their joint peak. The little puffs of air that passed across his lips from his partner's told John exactly how close the other man was; exactly what he needed to do to bring them both to the culmination of their pleasure.
John adjusted his foot on the floor and pushed upwards at a slightly different angle, repeating it several times until the stimulation of Sherlock's prostate literally had the man leaking against his stomach and panting into his lover's damp, sandy hair.
No longer able to keep himself bent, Sherlock straightened further and began to lavish the tip of John's right ear with small bites and licks and little gasps of hot breath. John returned the enthusiasm, kissing and nipping at every bit of Sherlock's shoulder his lips, teeth, and tongue could reach, all the while inwardly cursing their height difference for keeping him from having his mouth on Sherlock's in this position.
Sherlock's arms wrapped around him tighter and John knew the other man was close. Torn between wanting to help him along with a hand and gripping that arse to hold them together during their orgasm, John let Sherlock's body choose.
He positioned half a dozen more thrusts upwards into his lover's warmth before heated pulses splashed across his stomach, before that body began to close in on him, dragging him deeper and trying to milk him.
He came with a barely stifled gasp against Sherlock's shoulder, moving carefully in and out of Sherlock's stilling body until the last drop had been taken from him and over sensitivity began to kick in. He stopped moving but held Sherlock near, bodies still joined, while their trembling slowed and breathing returned back to a more regular rate.
Then he leaned back, pulling Sherlock down with him, and tangled them together on the sofa.
It was too small, too cramped to hold them both comfortably, but they weren't going for comfort just then, only proximity and the intimacy of the ever-short-lived afterglow.
Their bodies only came apart when John softened enough to slip out effortlessly, and though they knew they'd have to get up, shower, and return to the regular world soon, for the moment they were content to be, content to breathe.