whatofthewarts

He keeps going, aware of every sound in the room, the obscene slap of his hips against Sherlock's. He doesn't know how long it takes before he finishes--he goes through waves of mindless need and lows of overanalysis before he does. He's aching by the time he comes, and can roll over and lie on the floor.

And orgasm, as always, leaves him feeling somehow removed from himself. Lesser, like one of the crowd, like an animal.