Sherlock shoved John against the door of 221B the second they were inside. His hands went straight to John’s belt, yanking it open with zero patience. “Been staring at your cock through those trousers all day,” Sherlock growled. “Get it out.”
John’s breath hitched but he didn’t argue. He popped the button and shoved his jeans and boxers down just far enough for his dick to spring free, already half-hard. Sherlock dropped to his knees right there on the rug and swallowed him in one go. No teasing, no slow licks—just hot, wet suction and the wet sound of his throat working.
“Fuck, Sherlock,” John grunted, one hand fisting in those dark curls. Sherlock hummed around the shaft and took him deeper, nose pressing into John’s pubic hair. Spit ran down Sherlock’s chin. He pulled off only to spit on the head and stroke it fast with a tight fist.
“Turn around,” Sherlock ordered, voice rough. John spun, palms flat on the door. Sherlock spread his cheeks and licked straight over his hole, tongue pushing in without warning. John swore and pushed back against the wet pressure. Sherlock ate him like he was starving, alternating between broad licks and stiff tongue-fucks until John’s thighs shook.
Sherlock stood, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and freed his own cock. He spat into his palm, slicked himself, and lined up. One hard thrust and he was buried to the balls. John groaned loud, forehead knocking the wood. Sherlock didn’t wait; he fucked in short, brutal strokes, hips slapping skin.
“Wanted to bend you over the lab table this morning,” Sherlock panted against the back of John’s neck. “Make you come on my dick while you pretended to take notes.” He reached around and jerked John’s cock in time with his thrusts. Pre-cum smeared over Sherlock’s fingers.
John pushed back to meet every snap of hips. “Harder. Come on, you bastard, fuck me like you mean it.”
Sherlock gave it to him. He hauled John away from the door and bent him over the arm of the sofa instead, never pulling out. The new angle let him drive deeper. The slap of skin and John’s punched-out moans filled the flat. Sherlock’s balls swung heavy with every thrust.
He pulled out suddenly, flipped John onto his back on the cushions, and shoved back inside. Face to face now, he watched every twitch of John’s expression while he pounded him. John’s cock lay thick and red against his stomach, leaking steadily. Sherlock wrapped a hand around it again and stroked fast.
“Gonna come inside you,” Sherlock warned, voice low and filthy. “Fill you up so you feel it every time you sit down tomorrow.”
John’s eyes rolled back. “Do it. Fuck, Sherlock—come in me.”
Sherlock’s rhythm broke. He slammed in three more times, buried himself, and came with a guttural sound, pulsing hot and deep. The feeling pushed John over; he shot across his own stomach and chest, thick ropes that Sherlock kept stroking through until John twitched from oversensitivity.
Sherlock stayed inside him while they caught their breath, then eased out slowly. Cum trickled out of John’s hole and down his crack. Sherlock dragged two fingers through it and pushed it back in, watching John’s face. John just groaned and let him.
Later, cleaned up and sprawled on the bed, Sherlock’s hand rested possessive on John’s thigh. “Round two in ten minutes,” he said, already half-hard again. John laughed, low and satisfied, and pulled him in for a rough kiss that promised they weren’t done yet.
