"So, if the missing woman really did need money that badly, if what her associates say is true—which isn't always the case—then we can assume that she DID speak to her brother about it because…"
John was having a great deal of difficulty concentrating on what Sherlock was saying when he was so distracted by how Sherlock's knees were slightly parted, and the dressing gown was only playing peek-a-boo with the skin on Sherlock's inner thigh not really covering it at all and the fact John knew that Sherlock was pantless, entirely naked in fact, beneath that dressing gown.
"Now, the brother said that he hadn't spoken to her for almost a month. We know that she disappeared seven and a half days ago, but because she lived alone, no one noticed for…"
John slid off the couch so that he was sitting at Sherlock's knees. He slid his hand up Sherlock's thigh just high enough to touch the stiff, curly hairs.
"…but if the brother— John? Are you listening?"
"Mmm, go on." John parted Sherlock's dressing gown so that he could see Sherlock's cock. It was limp and wrinkled up, but John was remembering it an hour before, long and rigid in his mouth and throat while Sherlock was making desperate noises above him. He remembered Sherlock's face as John stroked him in time with his thrusts, eyes rolled back, mouth open with no sound coming out at all, such a rare occurrence that John's rhythm nearly broke, but not enough to make Sherlock command that he move faster or harder.
"…then the fact that he had that particular brand of floor polish in his house…"
John sat up a little so that he could lean over and take Sherlock's penis in his mouth. He could feel it harden and fill across his tongue as the capillaries surged with blood. Such a fascinating mechanism as Sherlock (or Spock) would say. The pleasure ensuring that the species would continue to pursue the activity and thus reproduce.
"John, I don't think that you are paying attention at all."
"Oh, I'm paying attention," John smiled, looking up. "Just not to your words."
"Well, what is the point of my talking if you're not going to listen?"
"The skull ignores you too. He told me. Anyway, you said it just helps you to talk aloud, so, please continue. I can do this at the same time. No worries."
Sherlock gave him a skeptical look, but went on in a remarkably calm voice for a man who was now entirely hard and being sucked on by his lover.
"Um, where was I? Oh, yes, the floor polish, coupled with the very dirty floor…"
John entirely lost himself in the sensation of Sherlock's cock in his mouth, running his tongue across the tip and under the head, teeth scraping lightly along the length. All the things he knew that Sherlock liked. Sherlock's hips shifted a little and started meeting John's thrust with a tiny push of their own, but the rich, baritone continued evenly on above him. Damn, if that wasn't nearly as sexy as Sherlock moaning.
"…therefore the brother knew, but didn't do anything about it. I need to text Lestrade!"
"It can wait three minutes," John commanded, then returned to his duties. He was stroking himself now, frantically, and if he could just…
"But it makes all the difference!"
"Two minutes," John bargained.
"But that means that he, I mean she, I mean— I, oh, I'm going— OH, FUCK!"
John had to chuckle as Sherlock's come flooded his mouth. He kept his mouth on Sherlock's spasming cock well beyond the point of comfort despite Sherlock's incomprehensible gurgling. Well, he could just suffer for a few moments more. And yes, oh, yes, he was there, there, yes. He collapsed against Sherlock's knees as he rode out his own orgasm.
"Now you can text Lestrade."
"What you were going to say?"
"No," Sherlock moaned, head thrown back against the back of the couch, "how to text."
John smiled. That was so going on his LiveJournal.