A low moan escaped Sherlock throat. He watched, enraptured as John got himself off, all the wonderful little noises he was making, the fact that it was *HIS* name that he was groaning as he came.

His own thrusts became more desperate, faster and harder until he came, spilling his molten hot seed into his hand and onto his thighs and toga, making and obscene splatter pattern on the fabric.

Quickly, he cleaned himself with a movement of his fingers. He didn't breath so he wasn't panting, but his whole body tingled with a desire, a need. Being a god, of course he could be ready to go again literally right after he had finished, and his cock seemed to understand that, as it stayed tented under his robes.