"Hello?" The call's from Sherlock and calls from Sherlock when they're apart can range from, "Why isn't there any bread?" to "I'm BORED! Why aren't you here? When are you coming home?" to "I need you here. Why aren't you here? Please, John, I miss you." The last said as if it was being dragged forth reluctantly and with much pain.

"What are you doing?"

"Watching telly. Reviewing some of the literature I got today." John doesn't mention that 'reviewing the literature' has actually consisted of him trying to juggle the stress balls branded with different pharmaceutical company names and wondering if the keyboard cleaner brush could be used as a sex toy.

"Oh…" Sherlock drawls and John shivers from the sound of Sherlock's voice, low, rumbling and…breathy.

"Why, what are you doing?"

"Touching myself."

John gasps. He can't help himself. His "Really?" comes out as a bit of a squeak.

"Why would I lie?"

"Of course. Where?"

"In bed. I'm naked."

"Hang on." John puts down the phone to slither out of his own pajama bottoms as quickly as he can, cursing when they catch on his foot. He leaves his tee-shirt on but rucks it up so that it isn't in the way when he grips his own hardening cock.

"You're naked now too, aren't you?" Sherlock asks.

"Almost. Important bits."

There's the softest of chuckles down the line. "Put the phone on speaker."

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" John asks as he complies.

"Bored."

"Of course."

Much softer, "Miss you."

John's mouth is completely dry, so he licks his lips and swallows. He wonders if the purple mark he left in the hollow of Sherlock's shoulder is still dark or has faded to radiating dots of red.

"What do you miss?"

"The taste of your cock in my mouth."

"Ah."

"The smell of your cock when I lick it from my palm. Moist, sweaty, musky, organic, earthy. The taste of your mouth: savory, slightly sour, hints of what you've eaten, toothpaste, me, depending on what we've been doing. Your skin: salty, oily like butter, my own saliva when I go back over the same patch."

"Oh," John manages. He's stroking himself in earnest now, pausing every so often to tug and cup his balls so that it's not over all too soon. "How are you touching yourself?"

"With my hand." There's a light sarcasm to Sherlock's tone, but it's also playful because he knows that John likes him to be himself."

"I didn't think it was with your toes," John teases back. "What are you doing with your hand?"

"I'm pinching my left nipple with my left hand and scraping it with my thumb. I'm stroking myself with my right hand, lightly still, slowish."

"Do you have the lube with you?"

"Yes, though I haven't used it yet."

"Put some on your palm."

There's shuffling noises as Sherlock presumably does as he's told. He comes back, "Alright." His voice is lower, shakier. He's stroking faster. John can hear the rhythm increasing, the thump of the bed against the wall.

"Put some on your fingers, touch yourself, finger yourself."

"No," Sherlock hisses.

"Why?" John wishes he had lube because he's stroking faster too. In his mind he can see the way Sherlock's fingers move in and out when he's prepping himself and it makes him whimper.

"Don't…want…to…come."

"What? Why?" Why would Sherlock do this if not to make them both come? John's hand falters and stills.

"Been edging, since you've been gone." A shuddering sigh. "Building up my resistance. Up to an hour and a half last night—six times, so close."

John's hand resumes its motions. "God…that's…indescribable." He can picture it. The way that the muscles of Sherlock's abdomen tighten when he's close. His thighs tremble. The pink flush travels up from his wildly beating heart, over his pale chest and neck. He'll squeeze his eyes shut until the moment of orgasm when he opens them wide with a desperate "Oh" of pleasure. The thought of Sherlock stopping himself just before that last second, letting go of his cock and letting his breath even out sends a pulse of pleasure along his length. He slides his hand across his own stomach, feeling the muscles clench.

"But why?" He gulps air.

"Want…to…be…so…desperate for you…when you get home…tomorrow." There is a long pause and the sounds of the bed stop. "But able to last and last. For you. Experiment…control…with you."

"Unh." John spreads his legs and plants his heels on the bed so that he can thrust into his own hand better. "God, Sherlock, God… What about me? How will I be able to control myself knowing that you've been…?" John can't even say the word, thinks it might tip him over the edge.

"I'll make sure you enjoy it." The rhythm of the bed begins again and John fancies that he can hear the wet sounds of Sherlock's lubed hand working himself, but probably not.

"I'm so hard for you right now. I won't manage to last until I get my clothes off."

"That's fine," soft moan, "I'll be ready to suck you off in the, ah, doorway."

John's practically reached his own point of no return now. "Your mouth, will your lips be puffy and red? Will you, oh God, pull back to show me how you're licking off the pre-come the way that you do?"

Sherlock gives a brief keen, "Wait, oh, wait, don't say…anything else."

There's a scrick of protest from the bed, and John knows that Sherlock's arched his back the way he sometimes does to calm himself down. He does it when he's beneath John too, pushing him up, making them cling together. John wonders if Sherlock still touching his body, just not his cock, sliding his hands along the tops of his thighs, down his sides. He keeps stroking his own cock, but slower, waiting.

"Alright, go on. Let me hear you. You're close," Sherlock resumes, his breath steadier.

"Yes…" John's hand speeds up. His cock regains the full hardness it had briefly lost. "Say something in your voice, tell me you love me."

There's a slight pause and then Sherlock whispers, "Die große Liebe trifft man - wenn überhaupt - nur einmal im Leben. Ich liebe dich von ganzem Herzen."

John comes with a desperate gasp that might be Sherlock's name even though he has no idea what's been said.

After they've hung up, after John whispered, "You're amazing, you're beautiful. I've never wanted anyone as desperately as I want you. I've never wanted to be with anyone as completely as I want to be with you," Sherlock drops his hands to his sides. His body is screaming for release, from the soles of his feet to the end of his hair, it feels. He wills it back although he thinks that the merest touch of the sheet could be too much. After several deep, slow breaths and a long stretch with toes pointed he feels himself start to soften and relax. He gazes down at his cock and smiles, "The love of my life, John, the love of my life."