Author's Note: To make up for the lack of smut in my last fic, I present to you: unabashed porn.

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Gymnophoria (from Greek γυμνός - gumnos, "naked"[1] and φόβος – phoria, "to bring"[2]):

n. the sensation that someone is mentally undressing you.

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John could feel it on him, running over every inch of him. It was trailing down his chest and dragging up his thighs and raking through the hair at the nape of his neck. He pointedly ignored it, schooling his expression into one of unmoved boredom. His fingers tapped absentmindedly against the cup of tea in his hand, the one he knew he would shortly abandon. He shifted his weight slightly in a distracted way and even rolled his shoulder, pretending to stretch it. His every move was currently being catalogued, and he knew it. He wondered how long he'd keep up the charade this time.

John was doing an excellent job of feigning disinterest, if he did say so himself. He could sense the tension that was rapidly building as a result; it crackled along his skin like irritable energy. John knew full well he couldn't keep up the act forever, though. The force of it was probing at him, searching for soft spots, hot and heavy like a physical touch. It was only through incredible exertion of his will-power that he kept up the pretence. He probably wasn't fooling anyone. He bet it was glaringly obvious that his pulse was racing, his breathing was growing ragged and all the blood in his body was surging south with dizzying speed.

Sherlock's gaze was on him, and John felt it like warm fingers roving over his skin.

The detective was watching him from the sofa in the other room—his long legs spread out and his palms pressed together under his nose—and he was making no attempt to hide his scrutiny. John was standing in the kitchen, having just made his customary evening cup of tea, and was casually leaning against the counter as he sipped it. The air between them was simmering even with the distance. John was surprised he couldn't actually see the heat lines.

It had been a week since the first time they'd kissed.

It had surprised them both, truthfully. They'd been panting in an alleyway, having just run fourteen blocks in pursuit of a jewellery thief that had somehow managed to give them the slip. Sherlock was growling between deep breaths, obviously furious with himself for letting the suspect escape. He punched the brick wall John was leaning on and then agitatedly ran a hand through his messy curls. He then proceeded to pace with his palms pressed together in front of his lips, muttering under his breath and completely ignoring the man next to him.

Mad as he looked, it was obvious to John what was going on in his head, and he certainly sympathised. Sherlock was full of adrenaline and the thrill of the chase. Because there had been no satisfactory conclusion to their endeavour, he had no outlet for those feelings. They were welling up in his chest, pressing against his rib cage, building and building like the inside of a pressure cooker. He needed to do something, he needed—

In a strange burst of intuition, John understood exactly what Sherlock needed.

He moved before he fully comprehended what he was doing.

He put himself in Sherlock's path, blocking his agitated pacing with his body. The man glared at him and attempted to shove him out of the way, but John caught his wrist. The next thing he knew, he'd leaned up and pressed their lips briefly but firmly together.

There was a long moment in which both of them did nothing but look startled.

Then Sherlock was on him like a hurricane of hands and teeth.

John found himself shoved back against the wall and pinned there by the violence of Sherlock's attention. His mouth was pried open, and a hot tongue invaded, rubbing wetly over his. Every inch of his body was pressed against every inch of Sherlock's, and the world was suddenly unbearably hot. He couldn't say if Sherlock was kissing him or attacking him, because he felt teeth as often as he felt soft, pliant lips. His train of thought cut to static when suddenly there were large hands on him, pushing up his shirt to get at his stomach and sliding down his thighs.

Sherlock somehow managed to make it feel like he was touching all of him at once. He was pressing him back and trapping him in place and covering him completely with his hard body. John had a brief moment of suffocating panic—Sherlock was seeping through his skin—before surrendering himself to it. He relaxed and let his mad flatmate take what he needed.

Sherlock was, if nothing else, thorough.

There was something almost clinical about the way he catalogued every inch of flesh he could reach, obviously recording and learning from John's reactions from the way he seemed to instantly locate his erogenous zones. John gave up on trying to be quiet—he was acutely aware of how public their current venue was—and moaned throatily when Sherlock slipped a hand down and ghosted over the erection that was now prominent between his legs.

John fumbled to return the favour, wondering for a second if it was even necessary. Oh, but no, Sherlock was definitely hard: hot and firm and bucking hungrily against his hip. Somehow, the knowledge that he'd turned on a man who'd never before shown any interest in sex made this irrationally, agonisingly hotter. Sherlock was kissing him with desperation now, his hands everywhere and so deliciously deft, and God that thing he was doing to his clothed erection was going to be the death of him, and John was so close he very well might just come in his pants, and—

In a flash, it was over.

Sherlock stepped back, releasing every point of contact between them instantly. He gave John one perfunctory scan and then turned away, muttering to himself again and ignoring John as he'd done before.

John almost collapsed without Sherlock's body to support him. He panted with as much enthusiasm as he had minutes ago when their chase had ended. He watched his flatmate, wondering what the bloody hell had gotten into the lunatic. Actually, he could wonder that about himself as well.

"Sherlock . . ."

"Not now, John. I'm thinking."

The doctor would have laughed if he'd had the breath. They'd just had a furious snogging session in an alleyway like a couple of bloody teenagers—for the first time, John might add—and Sherlock's mind had snapped back to the case the moment he'd got his irritation out of his system.

It was strangely typical for them.

"Come along, John. If we hurry we might be able to catch the thief at his rendezvous point with his dealer." Sherlock took off without checking to see if he was following.

John pushed away from the wall, dusted himself off, and jogged after Sherlock like nothing had changed at all between them.

And for a while, it seemed like nothing had.

Until three days later, when Sherlock had pounced on him, pushed him down onto the sofa, and given him the most mind-shattering blowjob he'd ever received. The attack had come so unexpectedly, John hadn't been able to do much more than stutter a few half-hearted protests before burying his hands in Sherlock's hair and moaning his name incoherently. Sherlock swallowed his erection like he needed it to live. He must have done some form of research, because for a virgin he sure knew his way around a prick. John shuddered and panted and groaned beneath the enthusiastic assault, gasping when Sherlock reached a hand down to palm his balls while his cheeks hollowed from the powerful suction he was applying to his shaft. The sight alone sent a thick pang of desire surging through him: Sherlock with his reddened lips wrapped around John's swollen flesh and his eyes half-lidded as if he were the one being pleasured out of cognizance.

It hadn't take John long to come at all, and when he did it was with Sherlock's name on his lips.

The detective had watched him afterwards as he'd recovered. He'd probably recorded the number of deep, shuddering breaths it took to get his heartbeat back to normal. John couldn't say for certain because instead of talking about it, Sherlock had risen to his feet, wandered into the kitchen and started examining something under a microscope. John had gone back to using pliers to pull bullets from their wall, and everything had carried on as always.

Until John realised Sherlock was watching him.

Every night since the incident on the sofa, John felt his flatmate's gaze on him, observing him, deducing him, crawling beneath his clothing and raking over his skin. He could tell from the way Sherlock's gaze lingered on his belts and buttons and zips that in his mind he was undoing them all.

It was overwhelmingly, unbearably hot.

John had to marvel at the fact that he'd managed to resist this long. But not any longer.

Now John was standing in the kitchen, and he could feel his flatmate undressing him with his eyes.

Casually, he set his cup of tea down on the counter and strolled over to the entrance to the living room. He glanced at the stairs as if he were debating going up to his room, but then he leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms loosely over his chest.

Sherlock's focus dripped down his body once from head to toe before rising to settle on his torso.

John knew what he was really looking at, however. His jumper. In Sherlock's brilliant mind, he was taking his pale fingers, gripping the bottom of it and slowly dragging it over John's head. John wondered if he would smooth his hand over his chest after it was off, if he would drag his fingers down to the bottom of his button-down shirt and slip under it. John had to hold back a shiver as he imagined what it would feel like to have Sherlock rake his fingernails over his taut stomach.

The doctor decided the time for games was over.

John reached both hands down and gripped the hem of his jumper, noting with satisfaction that Sherlock had grown perfectly still. Slowly, ever so slowly, he dragged it up in precisely the same manner that he knew Sherlock had been imagining moments ago. He was blinded for a second as it went over his head, but when he finally got it off, he saw that Sherlock's eyes had narrowed. John threw the jumper to the ground, crossed his arms over his chest again and raised an eyebrow challengingly.

The ball was officially out of his court.

Sherlock studied him for a long, quiet moment. John waited patiently, knowing his flatmate would respond when he was good and ready. As the minutes dragged on, John began to wonder if he'd miscalculated. He was just contemplating going back into the kitchen and retrieving his tea when Sherlock finally moved. He shifted his position on the sofa just slightly, and John froze, watching as the other man raised one pale hand, brought it to his throat and flicked the top button of his shirt open.

It seemed the detective was going to accept his silent challenge.

John obligingly reached up and unbuttoned his own top button. He saw Sherlock tremble ever so slightly in response, and the motion went directly to his groin. He could feel Sherlock's eyes tracing the shape of his next button, popping it open with his mind. After a brief pause, Sherlock's hand drifted down and toyed with the second one, and John's did the same.

There was something maddeningly sexual about Sherlock using his body to tell John what to do to himself. He had no idea what they were headed for here, but he was rapidly ceasing to care.

Sherlock deftly plucked the button open and then dipped his hand inside his shirt to caress his collarbone. John did the same, though his eyes were riveted on the spot where Sherlock's hand disappeared below the fabric. He wondered how it would feel to have those long, pale fingers on him like that.

In this manner, Sherlock mirrored John's shirt open and then with a sliding gesture had him slip it off his shoulders and into a puddle on the floor. His intense gaze never left him for even a moment, searing into his skin and sinking even deeper. John was breathing heavily, an obvious erection straining against the fabric of his trousers. He felt rather than saw Sherlock's gaze drift down to admire the bulge, and he shuddered under the attention. The idea that even if his flatmate weren't a genius, he could plainly see how turned on he was made John's blood hot.

He could see the map of what would happen next reflected in Sherlock's eyes. He felt the other man mentally pulling his belt open, slipping it through the loops and tossing it carelessly aside. The button and zip on his trousers would come next, one popped open with practiced ease, the other tugged down one satisfying click at a time. Maybe Sherlock would shove his hand inside his pants immediately. Maybe he'd tease him first, ghost his fingers over his erection through the soft fabric before gripping him firmly. The idea had him quivering and twitching with need.

To his surprise, he found that while he'd been imagining it, his hands had actually been doing it. His belt was off, his fly was open and there was only one layer between his prick and Sherlock's all-knowing gaze.

With a mental start that he only barely managed to contain, he realised that Sherlock's trousers were open, too. He'd apparently taken to mimicking John while the man was lost in his fantasy. He was hard and looking at him intently. John hesitated. He had no idea where to proceed from here. Should he go over to Sherlock? Should he say something? What exactly were they doing here?

A moment later, the detective made the answer to that last question abundantly clear.

"John." It wasn't so much a name as it was a deep, rumbling vibration that tickled against his flesh. "Eyes on me, John."

He couldn't have looked away if he'd tried.

Slowly, Sherlock eased his hand into his trousers. John mimicked his movements and thumbed the elastic waistband on his pants before pushing it down, freeing his trapped erection. There was a pause as they both drank in the sight of the other's rigid, dripping flesh, and then Sherlock was gripping himself, wrapping his long fingers tightly around his prick. When John followed suite, he had to bite the inside of his cheek to stifle the rich groan that wanted to pour from his lips. It felt so good it ached.

Sherlock set a maddeningly slow pace, pumping himself in long, languid strokes. John desperately wanted more, but the tortured, flushed expression on Sherlock's normally impassive face was enough to placate him for now. God, this was mad. They were two grown men with their pants around their thighs, wanking together in their living room. It was by far the hottest thing John had ever done, and he barely understood how they'd got to this point.

Sherlock twisted his hand when he reached the head of his prick, and when John did the same he couldn't help himself: he screwed his eyes shut and moaned, quivering a little from how good it felt.

"John," Sherlock said breathily. The doctor's eyes sprang immediately open, and he met his flatmate's gaze. It was dark and penetrating. "Keep your eyes on me."

He nodded, panting too hard for words. Sherlock picked up the pace then, stroking himself in quick, short pumps that focused on the head. He was gasping, and the sound filled John's ears and made him impossibly harder. He mimicked the motion, groaning freely now. His hand was wet with sweat and pre-cum, and it slicked the way perfectly.

He watched as Sherlock moved his free hand and began shoving his trousers further down. With a moan, John realised he was making it easier for him to see. Then Sherlock reached further down and fondled his balls, little pleasured noises bubbling up from his parted lips. John, of course, imitated him, and the added stimulation threatened to send him over the edge.

"Sherlock," he groaned through gritted teeth. He couldn't help himself; his eyes slid shut as he absorbed the sharp, hot sensations pouring through him.

"John, open your eyes."

He tried to, he really did, but he was just so close.

The next thing he knew he heard footsteps. Someone grabbed his wrist and yanked it away from his prick, and he whimpered despite himself.

Slowly, he opened his eyes. Sherlock was inches from him, his icy blue gaze somehow managing to burn as it searched his face.

"Not just yet," Sherlock breathed, his voice ragged and even deeper than normal. John had to restrain himself from shuddering as his flatmate slowly reached between them. Sherlock took a step closer, bringing their hips and subsequently their erections together. The friction was so sharp it jolted through him like electricity. Sherlock then wrapped one large hand around them both. John made a choked noise, and Sherlock's pupils were so dilated his eye colour was no longer discernible.

He began stroking them together, his eyes never leaving John's face. John was drowning beneath the force of it, beneath the pressure of the pleasure building between his legs. He kept his eyes locked on Sherlock, knowing somehow that the other man needed him to. Sherlock's hand was moving faster now, and their breath was mingling sweetly between them as they panted and moaned together. John gripped the detective's shoulders tightly as his knees threatened to buckle. The pleasure was deep and thrumming within him. He could feel the edge looming just out of reach, if he could just—

"John," Sherlock moaned, his eyelids lowering halfway in a way that made him look so wanton it was filthy. "John, yes, fuck."

The sound of such a base word coming from that cultured mouth was what ultimately sent John over the edge. He came with a shuddering cry and several long, hot spurts and then both saw and heard Sherlock join him moments later.

They pressed their sweaty foreheads together and panted, looking down at the evidence of what they'd just done painted all over their stomachs. After a long moment, they gradually raised their eyes to study each other. Sherlock's face was blank as usual, and John could only imagine what he must look like. He cast about for something to say. He had absolutely no idea what was considered an appropriate topic of conversation between flatmates who have just shared an impromptu wanking session.

Sherlock, for once, came to his rescue. "I'm proud of you."

John blinked. "What?"

"You've been reading my thoughts these past few days. You knew what I needed in the alley, and then when I was watching you, you could tell precisely what I was thinking of doing to you. Normally I'm the only one who can read people's thoughts." His face split into a grin. "But you're learning."

For a moment, John was speechless. Then he grinned back. "That particular skill of mine seems to only apply to you."

"I think I like it that way."

Sherlock glanced behind him at the closed door to his bedroom and then returned his gaze to John. "My bed?"

The doctor studied him for a moment. They needed to have a proper talk about this, but considering he was knackered and Sherlock was Sherlock, they could probably stand to have that argument some other time.

He nodded, took Sherlock by the hand and led him to bed.

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The end.

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Closing Notes: This porn is going to have a sequel called "apodyopsis: the act of mentally undressing someone", and it'll be from Sherlock's point of view. Please keep an eye out for it!

Thanks for reading, and if you liked what you saw, please leave me a comment.