It was at the door John first heard the noise. John was about to unlock the door, keys in hand, when a soft sound came from inside the flat.

What was that? John wondered. He shook his head, sure he imagined it, when he heard it again. He pressed his ear against the wood, trying to confirm what it was. Is it? No, it couldn't possibly- John's thoughts were cut off when he heard a long, drawn out moan come from the room. And it was definitely Sherlock.

John looked through the crack between the door and the wall and got a visual assault he wasn't prepared for. Sherlock, draped across the couch, belt buckle and zipper undone. Head thrown back, one hand clutching the arm rest, the other thrown down the front of his trousers. His mouth was slightly parted, ragged breaths coming through. Sherlock's shirt was unbuttoned and his bare chest gleamed in the afternoon sunlight streaming in, his abs flexing with each shift in movement.

Up until this point, John had told himself that he was completely heterosexual. And so he was. Until he moved in with Sherlock Holmes. The man was a walking work of art, a fucking masterpiece. Pale skin like the smoothest marble, a mess of dark curls that sometimes fell in front of his eyes. Ungodly cheekbones, and such a magnificent neck. In short, Sherlock was one hundred percent gorgeous.

John had, more frequently in the recent weeks, caught himself thinking about Sherlock, images flitting through his mind. But this, this glorious scene, it was enough to make John's breath come short and his pants to tighten painfully. Sherlock let out a deep, rich groan, hips rocking in sync with his hand. When Sherlock bit down on his lower lip, eyes shut tight, John shuddered in pleasure. God, how he wanted that mouth, wanted to take it, wanted to feel it take him. Before he could stop and think about it, John began to palm his own straining erection through his jeans, keeping in time with Sherlock's motions. He struggled to remain silent, biting down on his tongue to keep from making a sound. Luckily, when he accidentally let out a soft groan, Sherlock did the same, just a lot louder.

John undid his buckle and zipper and slipped his hand inside his boxers, still matching the detective's rhythm. It got faster and faster, and when Sherlock made another noise, John had to have imagined it. He continued pumping himself, eyes drifting shut and fantasies of Sherlock's hand replacing his beginning to flicker through his mind. But, when Sherlock's hips rocketed off the couch and his whole body flexed, John was sure he cried his name. The sight of Sherlock coming and the sound of his name falling from those wicked lips was enough to bring John to his knees, shuddering as he followed suit, Sherlock's name a silent prayer on his lips.

John stood up, cleaning up his mess. He tied his jumper around his waist to keep the stain from showing and breathed hard, preparing himself. He was about to open the door when it flew open, Sherlock standing there, trousers still undone, shirt still hanging off his lean frame. A sinful smile twisted Sherlock's lips as he pulled the doctor inside, closing the door and slamming him against it, lips crashing together with bruising force.

"I know you saw, John. And I know, while you were watching, you were touching yourself. Well, I'm bored, hot, and I want to feel you in my mouth, want to hear you scream my name when I suck you dry. And I will, John. I promise, I will make you come so hard you won't remember where you are. And I always keep my promises," said Sherlock in John's ear in a voice like velvet, causing John to tremble in anticipation. Oh yes, this was definitely going to be a promising night at 221B Baker Street.