Sherlock had never thought anything of the layout and design of 221b. It was as it was, he and John were never in a situation where they could not find their own space should they require it. However, now he found himself disconcerted that he shared a wall with the only shower.
He stared at the wall, listening for the sound, wondering if it would repeat. Another low moan appeared that instant, sending shivers up his spine. Sherlock resisted the urge to growl and shifted his seat on the bed, staring intently at the wall.
He could imagine it. John, standing in the shower, the spray beating down on his shoulders, water running down over his back. One forearm would be braced on the wall in front of him. The other work slowly be working over his erection. John was off today. He would take his time. Slow, making certain that he enjoyed it.
Another moan. This one lower. John was clearly enjoying himself. Sherlock looked down at the tent in his pants and pressed a hand his erection, a low gasp escaping himself. He bit down on his lip and rubbed, staring at the wall. A louder groan this time. They were approximately seventy-five seconds apart. John was trying to stay quiet. He could hear the sound of the shower and he hated it.
If the sound of the shower had not been there. What would he hear? Would he hear John’s panting, his breath escaping in short bursts? The sound of his fist moving over his cock, slow and tantalizing. Sherlock bit down a whine that threatened to escape his throat as he rubbed more insistently at the image of John, teasing himself in the shower.
It had been too long. Sherlock closed his eyes and let himself imagine. He slipped his hand beneath the waistband of his shorts and wrapped it around his erection, giving himself a slow pump. It was dry. He frowned and glanced around his bedroom. Ah. Oil. Perfect. Sherlock walked over to the small container. He’d meant to use it for something, an experiment, but it was unimportant. Another, louder groan echoed through the wall. Sherlock poured the oil into his palm and tugged his pants off with the other. No need for them.
He spread himself out on the bed and inhaled slowly. It was not hard to imagine. The oil made the path of his hand much smoother and he was able to stroke quickly as he thought of John. Perhaps he would wait until John was washing his hair, his face tipped into the water. He would go into the bathroom and stare at the shape of John behind the curtain. He would shed his clothes quickly, and then step into the shower behind John.
John. Sherlock bit down on his lip as a low moan threatened to escape. He shut his eyes and bucked his hips up into his fist. This would not last long. An answering moan from John through the wall made more pre-ejaculate leak from the tip of his cock. He smeared it down along the length, imagining John pinning him to the wall.
It would be the work of only an instant for John to notice his reaction. His cock, hard and desperate for a touch from John. He knew John’s hand. Knew the calluses and roughness of his palm. He did not stifle the loud moan that escaped him this time. He could imagine those calluses on him, stroking him while John kept him pressed against the wall. Would he talk?
Sherlock swallowed and stroked himself faster, he was already close, imagining John’s hand instead of his own in the shower. Perhaps John would do nothing more than say his name. Chant it over and over again until it became its own kind of prayer. He arched and let his back bow off the bed. He was close, so close.
John would reach up and tangle his free hand in his hair and Sherlock could imagine him pulling him down until their lips could meet, his hand still moving rapidly over his cock. John wouldn’t kiss him, no, he’d breathe against his lips until Sherlock whined, wanting that touch, ready to beg for it. Just as he would open his mouth, want that kiss, John would whisper. “Come for me Sherlock.”
“John!” Sherlock knew that he’d damn near shouted John’s name as he came, ropes of come coating his chest and stomach. He draped his forearm over his eyes and sighed. He heard the shower shut off and groaned. Ugh. How difficult. He opened his eyes and glanced at the bedside table. No tissues. Or cloth. Or anything he could possibly use to clean himself off.
“Well. It looks like you could use a shower more than me.”
Sherlock’s eyes flew open and he sat up, staring at John, standing in the doorway of his bedroom. He was wearing only a towel and water was dripping down his shoulders, down his stomach and into the line of the towel. He licked his lips and his cock gave a feeble twitch at the sight. When he heard a groan, Sherlock raised his eyes to look at John.
“Right. Fuck subtlety. Come shower with me Sherlock. Now.” John ordered, holding out his hand. “I’m certain I can make you shout louder than that.”
His mouth was dry and he stared at John’s hand for the longest of moments, long enough for doubt to come into John’s eyes before he rolled off of the bed. “You know how I feel about bragging John. Proof. Proof is always required.” Sherlock smirked at John and felt his stomach flutter when John gave him an answering grin.
“I don’t brag unless I can back it up. Get that lovely arse in the shower.”
Sherlock felt a low thrill shoot through him as he walked past John, not bothering with a stitch of clothing. “Proof John. I demand proof!”
John shook his head and grinned, looking back around Sherlock’s room. They’d be back here shortly. No need for stairs that way.