They'd been at it for hours and it might as well have been days. Not in a bad way, but in a how many times can you fuck before it actually falls off kind of way. John can't remember ever wanting anyone this much before, except maybe when he was fourteen and the mere sight of a girl crossing or uncrossing her legs would cause his prick to burst into flame. Especially Mary Hilton who had breasts like a cartoon superheroine that jiggled when she walked, and when she turned fast they seemed to follow a fraction of a second behind, as if her bra wasn't quite up to the G-force needed to change direction so quickly.

Yes, he'd been a breast man, but what relatively straight boy isn't at that age, when suddenly you're confronted with the startling and unavoidable proof of the difference between boys and girls?

But he'd also been a leg man and an arse man in his time. He was pretty much an altogether, whole-package kind of man.

Sherlock certainly didn't have breasts, but he had miles and miles of leg, and a sweet, surprising, little arse that was eminently cup-able, firm and grippable in John's hands. The fact that Sherlock enthusiastically enjoyed wrapping those slim, strong legs around John's waist and clasping him as tightly as a vice—sometimes too tightly—and actively delighted in John's gropes at his arse no matter the occasion, pretty much made the lack of breasts a non-issue.

John's balls were chaffed; his dick was raw. His bum…well, he hoped he'd be able to go in to the surgery the next day, but he'd absolutely be seeing his patients standing up. Additionally, his glutes and hamstrings ached from being held in strange positions and used for too many…reps. He seriously doubted he had any semen left to ejaculate even if he managed to get it up, or keep it up, or keep his body upright, for that matter.

The cause of these disabilities was currently a tangled heap of sweaty limbs next to him. Sherlock's face was pressed sideways into the pillow, and he was drooling slightly, which shouldn't be erotic but was, to the point where John thought he might get to find out if he could come again, but Sherlock muttered in his sleep, made a funny little face, and turned away.

It wasn't so much the number of orgasms in question as the range of positions and array of locations. After dining on Mrs. Hudson's excellent tuna casserole, Sherlock proposed that they christen the room and after John was explained the details, they proceeded to do just that.

The couch they'd already covered, in more ways than one, but that didn't stop Sherlock from thinking that a quick refresh was in order. So he'd straddled John's lap, a position which was nice in that John got to grip the aforementioned arse, but unpleasant for John's ego, in that he only came up to Sherlock's sternum. And while he could coax some delectable sounds out of Sherlock's throat simply by working on his nipples, he did like to be able to press their lips together, and not feel quite so much like a nine year old boy dancing with a twelve year old girl at some holiday party.

Sherlock next proposed moving to the coffee table, but John pointed out that it wouldn't hold both their weights, so Sherlock sprawled across it, while John did some fun things with Sherlock's cock until Sherlock stopped him with a groan. It was beginning to feel like an obstacle race. Gropings and humpings against walls, knocking down books and knick-knacks (why did they have all this stuff exactly?), and finally shoving a riot of paper and pens out of the way to bend Sherlock over the table and really give him what for.

After John's legs stopped trembling, Sherlock pushed John into the stuffed chair on his knees, with his chest resting on the back and since the height of John's arse was then ideal, proceeded to return the favor.

That left only Sherlock's chair in the sitting room as there had already been some adventures against the mantle piece, against the front door—both open and closed—and on the floor in front of the fireplace which Sherlock graciously agreed to accept as adequately christened (despite the interruptus of the night before or perhaps because of it). John called for a time-out but it was cut short, when Sherlock proceeded to climb into his lap and straddle him backwards, giving Sherlock complete control of speed, angle and depth, while John could only reach around and hold on for dear life. Not that that was a bad thing if having control made Sherlock lose control so thoroughly. Particularly when John's hand on Sherlock's penis was matching the rhythm of Sherlock's hips sliding up and down and Sherlock was wailing out entreaties to all manner of deities, feet pointed and calves taut as he strained towards conclusion. John couldn't actually see the calves or the ballet positions of the feet, but he could feel Sherlock's muscles twitching along his own calves and Sherlock's heels brushing along his shins, and make his own deductions. Sherlock's triumphant yell as he splattered his own chest took John magnificently over the edge for the second time in less than an hour.

Something to be said for shagging (and being in love with) one's flatmate, over the charms of any number of girls (and boys, to be accurate) with whom John had been infatuated over the years, beginning with the nubile Miss Hilton, was the fact that as you shared the flat, there were no other roommates to appease or avoid or humor. Not that John had had any chance of enjoying Miss Hilton's charms nubile or otherwise as they both lived with their parents and were closely guarded at that age, but even since, at Uni or after when his time had been his own, his living arrangements had never been exclusively his.

There was Mrs. Hudson to consider, and as she was home, he did just manage to convince Sherlock that breaking-in either set of stairs or any of the communal hallways was right out, although he knew that that meant a rain-check for when Sherlock's freedom from a case coincided with Mrs. Hudson's book-club night at her sister's. He wasn't complaining about that per se, although he suspected that there would be some very interesting bruising patterns involved, enough to please Sherlock both intellectually and physically.

The kitchen table was old hat, and they'd done the bare bit of wall only that morning. That just left against the refrigerator (over the stove seemed unsafe even to Sherlock). Sherlock was on a roll, as it were, in bottoming and held onto the door bent over while John thrust into him at a punishing pace. Which was all fine, until Sherlock, jolted by the force with which John was pushing him forward and pulling him back, actually opened the refrigerator door causing them both to be pulled wildly off balance as when one picks up a box thinking it's going to be heavy and when it isn't ends up throwing it over one's head. The joy of orgasm is rather lost if it happens while one is suddenly freefalling. After that they decided that maybe trying different positions in bed might be the better course for the rest of the afternoon.

Sherlock attacked this with his usual zest, which had the unfortunate effect of making John feel like he was in a porn film. Just when he'd find a good rhythm and be relaxing into it, whatever it might be—Sherlock astride him, Sherlock under him, Sherlock being fucked sideways (and he'd always thought that was just a term, but apparently not) by him—Sherlock would suggest a new position and it was change partners all (well, at least change direction). Until finally John refused to yield again, and proceeded to fuck Sherlock (they were crossways on the bed at this point) nearly off the bed, so that Sherlock's head was hanging over the edge when they both came.

The sensation of blood rushing to the head while coming was so exciting to Sherlock that he insisted that John try it as soon as they were both even reasonably able. And John had to admit that it did add something without the dangers of erotic asphyxiation (which he absolutely refused to try despite Sherlock's insistence that they were both capable men of science and medicine respectively and should be able to do it safely).

And that brought the total to five in the afternoon and three in the morning, which really was quite impressive from a man of nearly forty, and even seemed to possibly be enough for a highly energetic man of thirty-four, judging by the way he essentially passed out after the last orgasm.

And so John was just drifting off to sleep (on his side, thank you, although so was Sherlock) when a low, sleepy voice murmured, "We didn't try it under the table, did we?"