John murmurs against Sherlock’s lips, a soft sound of pleasure and surprise and encouragement. Sherlock leans harder, the turn of his mouth against John’s sharpening.
John lets his hand fall from Sherlock’s arm, glancing down the front of his body, and coming to rest clasped over Sherlock’s hip. Sherlock’s breath stutters inside John’s mouth. John’s thumb presses into the tender skin inside the curve of Sherlock’s hipbone.
Sherlock pulls back, twisting aside from John’s hand.
“I don’t – don’t - ” Sherlock scowls.
“I’m – okay, I’m really not trying to be obtuse but – you’re mixing your signals a bit,” John says, trying to steady his breathing even as his eyes devour the damp flush of Sherlock’s mouth.
“I – I don’t know if I want to be touched,” Sherlock says.
“Okay,” John says doubtfully.
“But – I do know I very much want to touch you,” Sherlock says.
“Right,” John says.
He lifts both arms, reaching up and back to grasp the top of the bedhead with both hands. Sherlock’s gaze flickers over John’s torso.
“All yours,” John says softly. “Go wild.”