Sherlock did actually pick up his cards this time, but he put them down again without exchanging any. He settled back on his heels in silence, tugging the blindfold into place, and kept his face turned toward John even though there was no way he could see more than perhaps a vague suggestion of motion. John knew he ought to look at his own hand, at least go through the motions, but he'd have been hard-pressed to remember which side was the front and which was the back at the moment. Poker hands rather paled in comparison with a blindfolded, naked Sherlock.

"John?"

"I, um." John shoved his hand away. "I fold."

"Excellent. Me too." Sherlock licked his lips. "Does that mean it's a draw, then?"

Oh god. "It's . . . it's whatever you want." John's pulse pounded strangely loud in his ears. "Surprised you remembered what a draw is, honestly."

"Mmmm." Sherlock swept the cards away with one elegant motion. Table clear, he leaned forward on his elbows, grinned lasciviously . . . and then actually tried to crawl over the table, with significantly less grace. It was an awkward flop in slow motion - blindly reaching for the floor with one hand, misjudging the distance, and then long limbs everywhere as he nearly chinned himself on the tabletop. Only John's quick reflexes saved him from a nasty bruise. Sherlock scowled and shook his head. The expression on his face looked exactly like when a cat misjudges a jump and hopes nobody saw. "That wasn't at all what I'd planned," he whined.

John had to literally bite his tongue to keep from giggling out loud. "It was fine, Sherlock. Dignified as - ahem! - dignified as always." The sudden break in the tension gave him the courage to reach out and place a hand on Sherlock's bare shoulder, helping Sherlock regain his sense of direction. "You could have just walked around, you know."

"That seemed more seductive in my head." Sherlock shouldered the table out of the way and tugged at John's calves, guiding him to sit on the very edge of the sofa cushion, and just like that John's laughter was gone. Sherlock was very warm and very large in front of him, shoulders between John's knees, and only the fabric of John's jeans and Y-fronts kept him from possibly poking Sherlock in the eye with his very interested cock. Just as well Sherlock couldn't see.

John cleared his throat. And then had to clear it again, because somehow having Sherlock kneeling between his legs was seriously throwing off his sense of normal. "You're naked," he said lamely.

"Not quite." Sherlock slid warm palms up the inside of John's thighs, scalding him through the denim. "I'm still wearing my scarf, you might notice."

"I, ah. I did."

"I rather like it, actually." Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his face against the softer-than-John-would-like skin of John's stomach. The brush of the scarf whispered like a kiss and left goosepimples in its wake. "Lets me focus on how you feel. Smell." His tongue darted out to wet a small patch of skin on John's abdomen. "Taste."

"Fuck."

"Eventually." Sherlock slid his palms around to John's hips. "If you're amenable. First, though - may I?"

No way in hell John was going to say no, so he exhaled hard and leaned back against the cushions of the sofa to give Sherlock more space and tried to focus on not coming the moment Sherlock touched his flies. Sherlock, for his part, seemed determined to draw it out as long as possible - he breathed and tasted and sampled just above John's waistband an impossibly long time more before finally popping the button loose from its mooring and teasing the zip open. John's erection immediately surged forward, tenting his pants in a way that left absolutely no doubt how much he was appreciating the attention.

"You don't even know," Sherlock murmured. "I want to bottle this up. Essence of John. The taste of your skin and the smell of anticipation and the way you tense your abdominal muscles when I breathe on you. The texture of your pants after you've been wearing them all day and they've absorbed your sweat and your pre-come and your skin cells. I don't need to see you - I've got everything I need right here."

John rested a tentative hand in Sherlock's hair. His brain was having serious trouble transmitting any actual thoughts with Sherlock's mouth that close to his cock, but even through the haze of bloody hell this is actually happening he vaguely recognized that this didn't sound like run-of-the-mill dirty talk. Sounded rather like Sherlock had been thinking about this a lot, actually. Which was absolutely, totally fine.

Sherlock used his tongue and one gentle fingertip to nudge John's cock out from the flap of his Y-fronts and into sight. Well, into John's sight. Sherlock was presumably operating entirely on feel and smell. The blindfold didn't seem to be hindering him much - he nosed around until he had his lips poised over the crown of John's cock, then hummed happily and closed the gap.

"Fuck."

Sherlock gave an all-over wiggle, which John immediately recognized as his smug I-just-did-something-brilliant expression re-imagined as body language while his lips were otherwise occupied. John was beyond objecting, though - the most he was capable of at the moment was digging his heels into the floor and arching his back further into the sofa and trying not to keel over with the sensation of Sherlock bloody Holmes sucking his cock. Not just sucking. Fellating. Playing with. Wanking and teasing and exploring and cherishing and all the other things John loved about Sherlock's sense of endless curiosity, distilled down to a few hundred square centimeters of nerve endings and one bloody talented mouth.

John let Sherlock go for as long as he could stand it, but eventually he tightened his grip in Sherlock's hair and Sherlock pulled off with a low whimper. From John's vantage point looking down between their bodies, he could see a perfect head-on view of Sherlock petting his own cock slowly while he got his breath back. Sherlock leaned back against the table a bit, the better for John to watch, but didn't speed up his gentle strokes.

"Want to come inside me?" he murmured. "I can't see your expression, so I'm having to guess."

That brought a little breathless laugh to John's throat. "You never guess. Come on, deduce it."

Sherlock frowned, his forehead wrinkling slightly. "You're encouraging me, so I can't have done too badly. You're not dragging me into your lap, though, so . . . embarrassment? Uncomfortable with anal sex? Or - oh. First time with a male partner."

"That is so much a guess. And also wrong." John slid his hand through Sherlock's hair, unable to resist the feel of the curls tickling his fingers, and cupped the back of Sherlock's head. "I may be ninety-ten biased toward female partners, but that doesn't mean I've never done this before. And in my expert opinion, you were doing brilliantly."

"Oh. Oh." Sherlock full-body shuddered and pressed his skull into John's hand. "So that's a yes?"

Ooh, if that's how he wanted it . . . John grabbed the lube and the condom off the table, leaning over Sherlock to do so, then sat back and got the condom on as quick as was humanly possible before his fingers got too slippery to rip the packet open. Because damn it, this was a chance to take charge, and he bloody well wasn't going to pass it by. "You've got the blindfold on, as you pointed out," John murmured, "so shall I describe what you'd see? You've gathered a wealth of data already, I'm sure. Because you're you and I don't think the rapture itself could keep you from analyzing everything even while parts of your brain are . . . otherwise occupied." He slipped his toes behind Sherlock's thigh and prodded. "Get up here, you berk."

Sherlock scrambled to his feet and then to straddling John's lap, his arms demurely at his sides. He didn't even object to the insult, which John took as high praise indeed.

"So you want to know what we look like. Hmmm." John grabbed Sherlock's hips and settled him more comfortably, both of their cocks touching air but with Sherlock's sternum within kissing range. "Going to have to put myself in your head for this, you realize. Heaven knows it'll be a bit roomy for me."

Sherlock emitted a high-pitched sound that John was absolutely, positively 100% sure he'd later deny was actually a whine. "John-"

"Shush. I'm painting a picture here." John shifted his grip to encompass the mouthwatering globes of Sherlock's arse. "You know how I taste already, but I bet if you could see me, you'd comment on my eyes being dilated sixty percent more than normal or some nonsense like that. Flush on my skin covering seventy-two percent of my body. Or possibly -" - he leaned forward and ran one long lick up Sherlock's pale sternum - "-possibly you'd notice that I've got this ridiculously massive hard-on for you. Because you're so amazingly beautiful like this, Sherlock. Enough that I might possibly even forgive you for tricking me into believing that you didn't know how to play poker."

Sherlock bristled at that. "John, I-"

"Nope." John started rubbing, soothing little circles which started encroaching on Sherlock's arse crack. It shut Sherlock up rather brilliantly. "I was going to drag this out for a while, give myself a minute to calm back down, but somehow I get the impression you'd prefer I just get on with it. Slick up a finger or two and play with that poor arsehole you've been abusing all evening. Should I start with one, do you think? Or go straight for the quickest possible route to you riding my dick?"

"Nngh." Sherlock grappled blindly, his hands eventually settling on John's biceps. "Don't need it, just need your erection inside me. Please."

John rolled his eyes - not like Sherlock could see to call him on it - and leaned forward to deliver a mostly-gentle nip to Sherlock's chest. "Not optional, you twit. But I will go as fast as you're comfortable with." He withdrew his hands long enough to get the lube open and a healthy dollop on his forefingers, then slipped a hand between Sherlock's legs (grazing his own cock in the process, fuck) and working two fingertips in with minimal fuss. The plug had done its job: Sherlock's hole was impressively open, swallowing John's fingers with barely any resistance. John twisted them a bit, scissored them apart, teased the sensitive lining inside Sherlock's arse. Sherlock threw his head back and keened. His cock was vivid and straining and practically dripping on John's below it and it was glorious. John curled his fingers one final time inside Sherlock before his own dick couldn't wait any longer.

"Now?" Sherlock panted.

"Now." John guided him down, one hand on the base of his own cock and one on Sherlock's hip. Sherlock moaned aloud and squirmed his way down until he was planted firmly in John's lap and they both needed a moment to adjust.

"Good?"

"Mmmm." Sherlock dipped his head, pressing his forehead to John's hair. "I just - I can't believe - there's no way I - nngh."

"Take your time." John added another dollop of lube to his palm, then closed his hand casually around Sherlock's cock. And holy fuck I am actually inside Sherlock. Part of John's mind kept running on autopilot while another, much larger part was busy running around in circles and gibbering. My dick is inside Sherlock and I'm wanking him and he's naked and holy mother of god does he look gorgeous like this. Just as well Sherlock couldn't see - John was far past the point of guarding his expression from the world's most perceptive consulting detective. "In fact," he added aloud, "I'm just gonna sit here like this and let you do the work." He squeezed his hand slightly and slid it downward, slicking up the rest of Sherlock's shaft. "Whenever you're ready."

Sherlock took a minute to get into a rhythm - hands clenching the back of the sofa, long legs bracketing John's, head thrown back and mouth open and pale throat exposed and fuck if only I were taller - but John really wasn't in a position to complain. Was barely holding on as it was. When Sherlock sped up in that familiar stutter-step "Ah! Ah! Ah!" pattern, John had absolutely no trouble following him over the edge a few thrusts later.

They fell asleep like that, much to Sherlock's total embarrassment later. John woke to a lapful of snoring flatmate, a cramp in his lower back to rival the pain of sleeping on an army bunk, and the glow of streetlights outside having replaced the slanted afternoon sunlight. He'd gotten as far as pulling out and tying off the condom, but they were both still nude and sticky and probably going to be getting cold in the very near future since Sherlock removed the afghan from the back of the sofa again.

All in all, it was an entirely satisfactory poker game.