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Sherlock was gone by the time John woke, the only sign of his presence a new burn mark on the kitchen table (which was not there when John retired, thank you). It was a quiet Monday afternoon, with warm sunlight and low traffic, and John felt very peaceful.

Very peaceful, and very angry.

He had fallen asleep in Sherlock's arms, surrounded by his scent and warmth, and so of course all he dreamed about was the man's curls and skin, the sound of his voice, the way he felt...

And he had woken up alone and aroused. Bugger.

As he walked through the empty flat, he frowned. He frowned so hard he thought his features would be stuck that way. It was Monday, he had had plans, and Sherlock disappearing did more than throw a wrench in them. It flat out threw them down a well. John huffed. When there was no response he huffed again. "I don't take too kindly to being abandoned on a Monday!"

Someone honked from the street, but it wasn't in response to him. Damn it all. With a final ferocious glare toward Sherlock's open room John stomped off to shower.

The hot water rolled down his skin, flattening his hair against his skull as he bathed. He ran the loofah over his arms, his chest, leaving a thick foam of suds in its wake. Down to his legs-

Sherlock standing over him, his legs long and muscular, and utterly bare. He was panting, reaching for John, commanding him to watch. John obeyed. He always did.

Shit. He was hard. That wasn't fair at all. John decided to do the reasonable thing: ignore it and continue his shower. He scrubbed at his feet, moving back up, running the soapy mesh over his back and buttocks

Spreading him, whispering in that deep baritone, his nails digging into John's muscle as his tongue slipped along the cleft of his arse. The noises John makes are not very becoming of a forty year old man, but Sherlock seems to enjoy them. He hums in approval as he works, twisting and whirling his tongue over John's entrance.

Oh christ. John leaned against the wall, memories and fantasies hitting him like a ton of bricks. He could practically hear Sherlock's voice in his ear, his breath hot as he tells him to touch himself, to-

John shut off the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. Suddenly he was very thankful for Sherlock being out. He left the bathroom, his clothes tucked under his arm, and headed to the kitchen. The door to Sherlock's room creaked as he passed.

On alert, John approached slowly, avoiding all the problem steps as he moved closer. It had definitely moved a good two inches since he came through earlier. He stepped inside, looking for anything out of place. Nothing had been moved, no shadows crept along the walls. Sherlock's window, however, was slightly open, and the wind had picked up outside.

"That settles that, then," John said to the empty room. He was alone, and damp, and he should probably get dressed. He closed the window and sat on the bed; it was comforting. Though he and Sherlock had begun sharing beds, they hadn't been in Sherlock's in at least two weeks- Not since, the... well...

-Strikes his flesh again and again and he moans, he moans so deeply and John can barely keep himself from moving to his head and ramming his cock down his throat. It's a noise of pure need, pure sex, and John wants to fuck it. Sherlock notices the look on his face, of course he does, and smirks slightly before letting his perfect features transform, making them look utterly debauched. "More, Captain, more." And, well, when asked like that, who would say no? John coaxed more of those noises from him greedily.

John had fallen back on the bed, his hand threaded up underneath a pillow, the memory so tangible he could feel it. The whole room smelled like Sherlock, and it was driving him crazy. His heart was pounding in his chest, his blood rushing through his ears, he couldn't-

"And where are you going to put that, Captain?" John glances down at Sherlock, arching an eyebrow. His icy eyes are alight with mischief as he watches John's hand move along his shaft, and the attention drives him mad. "Everywhere, Sherlock."

His cold hand closed around his cock, and John shuddered at the sensation. He began to stroke, rubbing the side of his face against the sheets. He could almost smell the sweat, the passion, and he wondered briefly if Sherlock had washed them since then. God, he hoped not. John rubbed his thumb against the tip of his head, groaning in pleasure as he worked.

Sherlock looks so good in the lingerie, black against his white skin, and it hugs him in all the right ways. John didn't expect to be so aroused. "I want you to use me tonight, Captain Watson." How could John possibly saw no to that? He growls and moves toward Sherlock, stripping his jumper quickly. Beneath the lace panties Sherlock is hard, and he's smirking. "Tonight, Captain, I'm all yours."

John gasped as he reached down with his free hand, dragging a finger along his perineum. He felt filthy, wanking in Sherlock's room, but there was a part of him that had always wanted to. That part seemed to have taken control of his body. He rolled his hips and thrust unto his fist, closing his eyes and imagining it was Sherlock's tight arse. God, he really was the stuff of wet dreams; so wild in the bedroom, so gorgeous, so utterly sexual, and half the time he didn't even realize it. John flexed the muscles of his palm on the upstroke, dragging his teeth across his lips.

Those fucking lips. John can't believe how good they feel around his cock, sliding along the shaft. He glances down, only to find Sherlock's light eyes locked on him. He thinks it's the sexiest thing he's ever seen, the perfect bow bent into a heart shape as he sucks, as he massages with his tongue, and John grabs a fistful of his curls. Sherlock's eyes flutter slightly, and he groans around John. "God, I love you." The fact that his words make Sherlock blush in a way a cock in his mouth can't makes John proud.

John's breathing increases with his heart rate, his hand moving faster and faster as he neared his peak. He hadn't realized the effect Sherlock had on him; he was like a drug, one that boiled John's blood and heightened his physical need. God, he wished he were home; he'd bend him over the kitchen table, right by the burn mark, and rode him until he came all over the floor. More than likely, though, he'd take it- hard and hurried and full of need.

His muscles began to tremble, starting with his legs. Every time he jerked against his head, his back bowed automatically. He moaned, tossing his head from side to side and rolling his hips. Behind his closed eyes the world began to go white with sensation. John was going to come.

"Sherlock, god- yes, yes, Sherlock-" He cried his name as he crashed over the edge, coming hard onto his bare stomach. John lay still in the aftermath, panting, satiated, listening to the calm sounds of London from outside the closed window. When the baritone chuckled, he jumped up, reaching for his towel. Sherlock leaned in the doorway, his silk dressing gown hanging open over his naked body. He was hard, he was smirking, and John swallowed slowly at the sight.

"Well, John, what do you expect your recovery period is today?"