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Scream? Surely not. Sherlock Holmes was not a screamer, nor was he one to give away the machinations of his mind. John could try. Oh god, he wanted him to try. He hadn't expected to be so carried away by the seas of lust suppressed inside of him, but from the moment John forced him backward he was lost; lost to the rational word, lost in the sensory feast being laid before him. He felt as though every nerve of his body was alive and electrified, waiting to be stimulated. It was sensational.

John began working his pajamas down once more, leaning in much too close, his breath hot and moist against Sherlock's delicate flesh. Sherlock watched with eager eyes as he was left naked before John Hamish Watson, age 37, army surgeon and conductor of the brightest light. The doctor sat back, taking in the image of Sherlock nude for the first time. Dark, curly hair, perfectly maintained, rested above the swell of his cock. He was large, apparently more than John had expected. Sherlock listened as he sucked in a breath through closed teeth. He quickly regained his senses and lowered himself, kissing the inside of Sherlock's thigh.

Oh, you tease.

Sherlock was up quickly, pulling John up with him. He gripped the man by his jumper and buried his lip in the hollow of his throat. John was solid beneath him, unyielding even as the moans slipped from his mouth. His vocal chords vibrated. Sherlock loved it.

"My turn," he half-growled as he pushed firmly on John's chest.

John leaned back, his eyes half-closed as Sherlock began to undress him. John was a gift, a present, and he wanted to unwrap him as slowly as he would them. First his jumper, warm and slightly itchy, followed by his tight white undershirt. Oh yes, yes, perfect.

Muscular and scarred, John's torso was exquisite. Shot there, in the shoulder. Stabbed and cut multiple times, what looked suspiciously like the bite of a whip peeking out from around his back. Oh, it was like a map, a map just for Sherlock Holmes to devour and catalogue. Every wound John had ever received, laid out before Sherlock's hungry gaze. Broken ribs once. Broken collar bone. Rotary cuff injury. Torn ligament. John was a warrior, and it showed on every inch of his flesh.

Sherlock sighed as he kissed a trail down John's stomach, stroking his sides with his slender fingers. As he reached the denim barrier of the doctor's jeans, he darted his tongue just under the band. It flicked against John's skin, wet and warm, Sherlock's breath stirring the blonde hair nested beneath it. Above him, John sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. Sherlock smiled coyly, moving to undo the leather belt holding the trousers in place.

He slipped it out and tossed it aside, his eyes focused on John as he undid the button. As John held his gaze, he pinched the zipper between two fingers and pulled it down with agonizing slowness. The sound was loud in the stillness of the room- neither of them dared to breathe. Sherlock hooked his hands into the jeans and pulled, his knuckles caressing the bare skin of John's legs. A tremor ran though his body at the contact. Sherlock watched as his breathing increased, fascinated by the fluttering of his eyelids.

"You're beautiful," he whispered as he undressed John. He meant it.

The jeans joined the pile of clothes gathering on the floor. Sherlock leaned close to John's thighs, bright eyes focused on his face as he leaned close to the bulge beneath his pants. He inhaled, catching the scent of denim, cotton, and sweat. It was erotic, an aphrodisiac like he had never experienced before. His eyes snapped closed, cataloging the sensation, trapping it for later. It was something he never wanted to lose.

Sherlock placed his hand over the material, gently cupping and massaging John through the fabric. Above him John moaned and clenched the sheet in his fist, unable to keep his eyes from closing beneath the waves of pleasure threatening to swallow him. Sherlock smiled hungrily, relished the feel of the soft cotton dampening beneath his palm.

"Sherlock," John choked out, "stop, I don't... Not like this, not like a teenager, please..."

Cracking on eye open, Sherlock risked a quick glance up at his partner. John was flushed, his heart pounding visibly in the pulse-points of his throat, his muscles tight-

Oh.

Sherlock ceased his caressing and decided to finish undressing John, pulling off his red pants and tossing them aside. He leaned back, content to study the new territory as John recovered. His legs were covered with course blonde hair, muscular and defined even after the damage of the psychosomatic limp. These, too, were scarred, but noticeably less so. There were traces of minor cuts, evidence of one bone broken in childhood, and a few burn marks. It was incredible. He forced his gaze upward, along the shapely thighs and-

OH.

Much like the rest of him, John's cock was broad and defined, surrounded by course golden curls.

"You shaved last week," Sherlock murmured, running his fingers through John's hairs, "but it's grown back quickly. How often do you get your hair cut, then?"

John chuckled, a sound so unique to him that hearing it made Sherlock's heart swell.

"Once a week, when I can afford it. When I can't, Mrs. Hudson is happy to help. I trim my nails every few days; they grow incredibly fast. Good genetics, I suppose. And how do you-"

"An errant hair on your towel, John."

"God, Sherlock... Do you really pay that close attention to me? Have I been missing the signs this whole time? DON'T. Don't answer that."

Sherlock's mouth snapped closed, and John smiled down at him. His hands rested behind his head, propping him up to watch Sherlock's every move. He really was gorgeous, and at times he seemed almost magnetic. People were drawn to him, in ways he didn't seem to catch. It kept him modest. Sherlock liked it.

"What do you want to do, John?"

"You're the one who's been plotting, aren't you? I assumed you had something in mind."

Sherlock rose, icy gaze fixed on John, and began to crawl up the bed. He licked his upper lip and watched as John's body shuddered in response. He knew how to move his hips, knew how to rotate his shoulders in time with his gyrations, and the way John watched, the way his breath caught... it was glorious. Sherlock loved the attention. When he reached John's chest, he placed a cool hand on his neck and drew him close.

"I know exactly what I want, John," he whispered against the doctor's ear, "I want you to tie me up. I want you to blindfold me. I want you to touch me until I can't stand it, until I strain against my bonds and writhe beneath you. I want to hear you speak to me, telling me what you're going to do, lying, keeping me guessing. I want the world narrowed down to the sounds and scents of you, and me, until we're the only things that exist. I want to to bring you to the brink and hurt you, mark you, make you bleed. I want you to scream my name, beg me for more, beg for me. Then, and only then, will I push you over the edge. I want to experience so much with you, John, and I want to do so much to you, that I don't know where to begin. So tell me, John. Tell me what you want."

He leaned back, a very Sherlock smirk on his face, as he observed John's reaction. The doctor's eyes were closed, his breath ragged, his nails digging into his palms as he processed everything that passed Sherlock's arched lips.

"I... bloody hell, Sherlock..."