Matt gives an agreeable moan, his back arching against Sherlock's chest.

(reverence be to thee coming, reverence to thee going)

His hips start to jerk as his hand works faster. He is keeping hold of the bright thread of magic but losing touch with the rest, growing heedless of the noises he's making and the near-frantic motion of his hand, so close almost--

(reverence to thee when thou breathest in reverence when thou breathest out reverence--)


This time, the mess is mostly on his chest.