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Despite the fact that he was crouching by a body on the floor, Sherlock couldn’t quite focus. Every time a deduction occurred to him, he’d look up across the body, intent on informing John of this new observation, wanting to see that fond, amazed expression. Whenever he glanced up though, he found Lestrade instead, and the deduction would die on his lips.
It was unsettling, how much he’d come to rely on John’s presence during a case. He couldn’t even remember how he used to work without John beside him, supporting him no matter how obscure a deduction may be.
Sighing softly, Sherlock cast his eyes around the apartment, searching for anything that was even slightly amiss. The only thing he could think of as strange, however, was the way that John had texted to say that he couldn’t get away from his duties at the clinic. In the past, John had used any excuse to get away from the clinic when Sherlock needed him, and since his return … The clinic finally stopped questioning why he had to leave. For them to suddenly decide that they needed John today … Well, it was just unusual, and something about the situation didn’t quite add up. There was a piece of the puzzle he was missing, and Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he thought about it.
“What is it?” Lestrade asked, unexpectedly catching Sherlocks ruffled expression.
Sherlock simply cocked his eyebrow at the inspector, mildly surprised that he was actually paying attention. “It’s nothing,” Sherlock muttered as he stood up, looking at the body from another angle.
Focus Sherlock. Focus, he told himself, and clasped his hands behind his back as he thought.
The victim was a man in his late twenties, he’d died from a blow to the head with a blunt object. The object was easy enough to ascertain, considering the frying pan lying beside the body was covered in blood. The thing that had the police stumped, unsurprisingly, was that their victim lay dead in an apartment that was not his own, and the owner of that apartment, according to his neighbours, had not been home all week. The windows were not broken, and there were no signs of forced entry. How, then, did the man find his death in the apartment, and at who’s hand?
Before he could even start to form any deductions, Sherlock’s message tone went off, and it had barely even finished chiming before he’d whipped the phone out – There was only one person who’d be texting him after all, since Lestrade was in the room with him and his elder brother was otherwise occupied with a government meeting.
He frowned slightly as he looked at the screen though. Sherlock had expected John would be asking where he was, assumed that he’d managed to leave the clinic after all. What met Sherlock’s eyes, however, was a nonsensical picture message.
For a mere second, Sherlock considered stuffing the phone back in his pocket, displeased that John wouldn’t be joining them after all, but then, curiosity got the better of him, and he enlarged the message. Enlarging the picture gave no further insight as to what John was trying to say however – It was just a picture of the floor of John’s room, predictably immaculate save for the sweater that lay rumpled on the floor.
Sherlock felt a jab of irritation at the pointless message – John was well aware that he was on a case after all – Until he came to the conclusion that John must have mistakenly taken a picture earlier that day and accidentally sent it to him. It was the only thing that explained such a nothing message. The corner of his mouth twitched with amusement at the thought as he returned the phone to his pocket.
Ignoring Lestrade’s question of “John joining us after all?”, Sherlock pressed his hands together, and brought them up to his mouth as he thought. A victim in a room that was not his own, no signs of forced entry, no suspect, and no apartment-owner present. The only thing he could think was –
His thoughts were broken as his phone chimed again. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock left it in his pocket, smirking to himself as he anticipated John’s message of Shit. Damn phone. Did not mean to send that – How’s the case going? Yes, that was surely what John would be saying.
Huffing out a frustrated breath, Sherlock returned his focus to the body at his feet, deciding that it would be better to unravel the mystery of the kind of person the victim had been instead, and why somebody would want to kill him.
Just as he was about to roll the body over – Looking at his back was only telling Sherlock so much – His message tone went off again. Arching an eyebrow, and ignoring Lestrade’s bemused snort, Sherlock pulled his phone out this time.
Only to do a mental double take as he realised that John hadn’t sent an apologetic message a moment ago. Instead, there were another two picture messages waiting for him. One picture could have been an accident, and, considering its John, he could have passed off two as accidental. But three? These messages were intentional.
Frowning, Sherlock enlarged the earlier photo first. His eyebrows drew together, though, as he saw that it was another picture of John’s floor. The sole difference between it, and the first that he’d received, was that there was now a shirt lying haphazardly near the sweater.
“What are you doing John?” Sherlock muttered, as he flicked over to the third image that was waiting for him.
At the new image, Sherlock was forced to narrow his eyes with thought, trying to place what he was looking at exactly. His eyes trailed down along the navy that took up most of the screen, and from there his eyes skipped to the faded red on the side, only to hesitate at what looked like the a bone jutting out above the blue.
Blinking in quick succession as a thought occurred to him, Sherlock flicked back to the previous image, and saw the same shade of red peeking in at the side. The red of John’s bed cover.
Swallowing the lump that had inexplicably formed in his throat, Sherlock returned to the most recent photo and was forced to swallow again as he realised; if the red in the photo was John’s bedcover, then the navy, in all likelihood, belonged to the jeans that he’d worn that day. But, if that was the case, then the bone that Sherlock could see, could only be John’s hipbone. Sherlock’s brows drew together as he zoomed in on the lowest corner of the photo, sure that he was mistaken. Warmth rushed through him a second later as he realised that he hadn’t been mistaken though, for, there, in the very corner of the photo, was the impression of a belly button.
Which simply begged the question … What was John doing? Rather - since it was obvious what he was doing - who was he doing it for? Sherlock was sure that John wasn’t seeing anyone - He hadn’t been on a single date since Sherlock had returned, after all.
Uninvited, the thought that he was taking the pictures for Sherlock rose, but the Consulting Detective ruthlessly beat the foolish thought away. If there was anything that he was certain of – And he was certain about quite a lot of things – it was that John didn’t, and wouldn’t, think of Sherlock like that. Long ago, he may have thought it were possible. But, that had been before the fall, and since Sherlock had returned, John had been … Not cold, certainly not cold, but he kept a distance between them now that never existed before.
Shaking the damnable thoughts away, and cursing himself for allowing himself to have become so thoroughly distracted while he was on a case, Sherlock sent John an annoyed, You are aware that you’re sending these images to me, aren’t you? SH. After hesitating for a fleeting moment, he added, with narrowed eyes and angry jabs at the keypad, I’m busy with a case – The one that you said you couldn’t get away from the clinic to help with? – Remember that before troubling me with your technological incompetence.
Then, with a scowl, Sherlock jammed the phone into the back pocket of his trousers, intent on ignoring John’s affronted reply. Still scowling, he turned back to the body lying on the floor and glared Lestrade into silence as he hissed with horror at the way that Sherlock carelessly rolled it over.
Turning it over allowed Sherlock to see that there was a bruise on his neck, and, based on the size and location, he surmised that it was from a lover. The darkness of the bruise implied that it had only happened the night before. There were cuffs around the victim’s wrists too, presumably there would be a key in the room somewhere. If they could get to the key, they should be able to track it to –
Lestrade groaned, “Come on Sherlock!” as his phone went off again. Sherlock had it in his hand and was unlocking it before he remembered that he’d just sent John an irritated message, and was meant to be ignoring the equally pissed off reply.
His eyes widened and his cheeks flooded with warmth as he realised that, instead of the incensed reply he’d been anticipating, he had another picture message. Heedless to the way that Lestrade was looking at Sherlock’s blush-darkened cheeks as if doubting his eyes, Sherlock enlarged the image, and drew in a quiet gasp of surprise through his nose as he saw the newest picture.
The jeans of the last image had disappeared completely, so that all Sherlock could see was thigh, the white banding of what could only be John’s briefs, curling in to his inner thigh, and in the very bottom of the image, was a flash of tartan. Distantly, Sherlock wondered if John realised that the particular print of tartan briefs he wore, was the Watson print.
Mostly, he was struggling to wrap his mind around the fact that John had just sent another picture to him, despite how Sherlock had informed him that he was the one receiving the messages. Was there any other way for him to interpret that besides John meaning for Sherlock to get them, then? But, that was absurd – Why would John be sending images of that particular nature, to him?
Biting his lip, Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from looking down at the phone, eyes absolutely ensnared by the expanse of thigh, and ironic Watson tartan briefs. As he crouched there, completely oblivious to the fact that Lestrade had started hissing his name, Sherlock decided that he must be misunderstanding something, he couldn’t figure out what John’s intention was. He hadn’t received a single text message along with the pictures, which simply made it difficult for Sherlock to decipher what John was thinking. How was Sherlock supposed to be taking this? Was this a test of some description, and if so, what was he being tested on? Was this John’s less than subtle way of finding out if Sherlock was interested? And if so, what had urged his sudden need to know? There were too many unknown variables for him to understand what was happening.
As he ran through every possible meaning to the images, another came through. He only caught the briefest glimpse of a hand resting at a collarbone and the column of a straining throat before the phone was snatched from his hands though, which effectively brought Sherlock back to the crime scene he was supposed to be solving.
There was muttering outside the door, and Lestrade was snapping at him about paying attention – What was the point of calling him in if he was just going to mess around?! - but the only thing that Sherlock could focus on in that moment was the fact that his phone was in Lestrade’s hand. With a new picture message.
“Lestrade. Hand it over,” Sherlock breathed, and was momentarily taken aback by how shaken his voice was.
“Why? What on earth could be so important at the moment that you can’t even focus?”
Growling in the back of his throat, Sherlock lashed out, intent on reclaiming the phone, but Lestrade simply pulled it out of his reach with an annoyed scowl on his face.
“Lestrade!” Sherlock snarled, still stretching for the phone. He couldn’t care less what Lestrade was thinking in that moment, he just knew that he was getting increasingly, and irrationally, desperate to have his phone back in his hand, and to see what the most recent image had been.
Bewildered, Lestrade raised his eyebrows at the way that Sherlock was petulantly reaching for the phone. His eyes flicked over to it, clearly wondering what it was that could make Sherlock react the way that he was.
Still in Lestrade’s grip as he held it out of Sherlock’s reach, the alert chimed once more, and Lestrade frowned as he looked at the phone. “Who’d be messaging you so much anyway?” the Inspector muttered, and Sherlock grit his teeth as Lestrade flicked his thumb across the screen.
“It can’t be John – You’d have told him to come down by now,” he added, before he glanced at the screen.
The next second, Lestrade’s face visibly went blank as he realised what he was looking at. And then he was thrusting the phone back at Sherlock as if the device had burnt him, a rosy hue on his cheeks as he refused to meet Sherlock’s eye.
The room was silent as Sherlock glared at Lestrade, and Lestrade avoided his gaze, presumably processing what he’d seen and the implications that came with it. After a few seconds, as Sherlock continued to glare at him venomously, Lestrade muttered, “Sorry.”
The silence stretched on for another moment before Lestrade’s eyes flicked to the phone for the briefest moment, and then he said, with a decidedly deeper blush, “You … Should probably go home. Seems … Serious.”
Sherlock bit the inside of his lip at the words, and the things that Lestrade was implying - Go home and … And what? This was not his area of expertise, and while he couldn’t deny that he wanted what Lestrade was suggesting – The increasing lack of room in his trousers was a testament to that – the very idea of it actually happening just made him anxious.
Before he could dwell on the reasons behind that anxiety, Lestrade caught his attention as he rubbed at the back of his neck and mumbled, “It’s about you two are doing something about that tension though,” Sherlock could only arch an eyebrow at the comment. Lestrade shrugged, clearly uncomfortable as he explained, “The team were starting to take bets on how long it’d be before we found you making out – or more – at a crime scene.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes at the comment and how pathetic Scotland Yard were if that was how they were choosing to spend their time, before he realised what Lestrade was saying.
Frowning, he rose to his feet and said, “It’s not … John and I - We’re not.”
Lestrade’s response was to give Sherlock’s phone a pointed look and cocked his head as he said, “Looks like you’re about to be then,” and the flash of the image that came to mind chased the breath from Sherlock’s lungs.
He averted his gaze to the window, and sighed as all the reasons why this was a bad idea ran through his mind; If things went bad, John would leave, and life without John was unacceptable. He’d rather smother how he felt about the man for the rest of their lives than risk that. And then there was the fact that -
“Sherlock,” Lestrade said, drawing him from his thoughts before he could examine them too thoroughly, “He won’t do this again. You don’t have time to doubt. Now or never, and all that.”
The second that Lestrade stopped speaking, Sherlock received another message, as if emphasizing his words. So, with one more glance at Lestrade, and then the body on the floor, Sherlock pulled himself upright and gave Lestrade one stiff nod of appreciation. And then, it was as if someone had given him a shove from behind, because in the next second, he had darted to the door, jerked it open, and took the stairs two at a time, before racing out into street, and didn’t stop running until he could see 221B.
Only once the apartment was in sight did Sherlock allow himself to lean against the wall and look at the newest messages that John had sent as he caught his breath. The first, was the hand at his collar bone that Sherlock had caught a glimpse of before Lestrade had interfered. And then, in the next image, that same hand was splayed across his stomach, fingertips stretching down along the dusting of hair that was there, and Sherlock felt his own stomach clench at the sight.
At the most recent image, Sherlock was left momentarily breathless, and the words “Holy shit,” fell from his lips as he took the picture in. John’s face was mostly hidden by the pillow he was burying himself into, though the blush on his cheeks was still obvious, even in the blurred and grainy image of his out-dated phone. And, as much as wave of heat had washed over Sherlock at the expression, it was the way that John’s arm stretched along his chest, only to disappear beneath his Watson-Tartan briefs, the material bulging obscenely in an effort to accommodate the hand that left Sherlock entirely aroused.
Even as he stood there, gasping for breath – A combination of his mad dash and his sudden, intense, arousal – another message came through, and Sherlock unconsciously licked his lips with anticipation as he enlarged it.
The briefs had been thrown down to join the pile of clothes on the floor.
Abruptly, the situation hit him, and his head fell back into the wall behind as he continued to pant for breath, his eyes closed as he attempted to find some semblance of calm.
Go home, Lestrade had said. Now or never, he’d said, but, Sherlock wasn’t even entirely sure that this should happen. He had no idea where it had come from, for one thing - What had made John suddenly decide to do this? After the careful distance he’d kept from Sherlock since he’d stumbled upon him in the pharmacy on the other side of town several months ago, what on earth had made him decide this was the next step? It simply made no sense.
And, if Sherlock went through with what John was, clearly, offering, it would change everything – Whether that would be for the good, or the bad, Sherlock couldn’t say. He simply didn’t have enough information to be able to make an informed decision in that moment, and only a fool would make a decision without knowing all the variables.
Yes, that was right, Sherlock decided as he made his way down the street to the door of 221. Only a moron would make such an important decision without knowing all there was to know about the situation. Sherlock would go up there, and, before anything went any further, he would get John to explain himself. And, then, Sherlock would be able to decide the path that had the most likelihood of John remaining in his life indefinitely.
Despite that resolve, a thrill of excitement shot through him as he received another message just as he came to a stop outside. That excitement turned into a quiet groan as he saw the newest photo though. The position of John’s hand, the angle at which his arm disappeared out of the photo, the hip bone that peeked out from beneath it, and the trail of hair that drew Sherlock’s eyes to the subtle, barely even there peek of flesh made it all too obvious was John was doing at that moment, a mere floor above.
Another pulse of warmth spread through him at the thought, and Sherlock was briefly thankful that the boxer-briefs he wore served to mostly hide his erection from curious eyes. Like Mrs Hudson as she opened the door, on her way to Mrs. Turner’s, and wondered why he was lurking on the doorstep.
“You’ll give me a heart attack if you keep doing that dear,” Mrs. Hudson scolded as Sherlock stepped past her, paying her absolutely no mind as he did so. The elder woman simply pulled the door shut behind her with a gentle shake of her head, and a fond smile on her face.
Sherlock didn’t even notice she’d spoken to him though, his eyes were focused instead on the stairs leading up to his apartment – And in there, was John. Who was sending Sherlock images as he self satisfied. The thought alone was enough to make him draw a calming breath, and Sherlock made a point to ignore how shaky it was as he made his way up the stairs. And if his fingers were trembling a little as he eased the door open, he ignored that too.
As he shrugged out of his coat, Sherlock’s eyes roamed to the stairs that led up to John’s room, and his heart may have skipped a beat as a gasp echoed down. Slowly, as if he were ensnared by a Siren’s song, Sherlock made his way up those stairs, though he was still uncertain as to what he should be doing, given the circumstance.
Once he was in the doorway, however, all thoughts of what, and why, completely fled, as each thought was consumed by the sight of John in that room, every single one of them dedicated to burning the image to every wall of his Mind Palace.
John’s eyes were closed, much to Sherlock’s displeasure, and he was biting at his lower lip as if trying to contain his gasps and groans. One arm was thrown up above his head, his hand clutching at the pillow behind him as if it were a lifeline and his cheeks were drenched with a deep red blush that spread out to his ears, and down along his neck. Which, naturally, encouraged Sherlock’s gaze to lower, following the trail of John’s arm down to where it was steadily pumping between his legs, legs that had been drawn up so that they were bent at the knees, effectively hiding his movements from Sherlock’s greedy eyes, and, presumably, stabilising him. And, there, lying by John’s undulating hips, was an abandoned phone.
At the sharp intake of breath that Sherlock unintentionally drew, John’s hand stopped in its steady strokes, and his eyes snapped open in a moment of panic. Until he focused, and realised Sherlock was standing in his door, and there was a flash of teeth as John bit at his lip again, his eyebrows slanting up in the way they did when John was uncertain, or concerned.
And, in the second that their eyes met, Sherlock came to the startling realisation that all of the why’s he’d wanted answers for, the ones he’d wanted to contemplate extensively before deciding how to proceed … Not a single one of them actually mattered. Because, as uncertain and hesitant as he may be about taking this step with John – Whatever that step may be, exactly - John was equally so unsure.
There would be a time to discuss the ramifications of this move – Of what going through with this meant exactly. But, as John’s eyes took on a determined fire and he held the hand that had been clutching at the pillow out to Sherlock, Sherlock knew that then was not that moment. Even if he wanted to, as John shifted his feet so that his knees lowered, no longer hiding a single thing, he didn’t think he’d be able to string together a single coherent sentence.
Which was precisely why, Sherlock didn’t even try. He simply met John’s outstretched hand with his own, and John exhaled heavily at the feel, as if releasing a breath that he’d been holding, before he twined their fingers together, and pulled Sherlock down, as he arched up into a kiss.
The very second their lips touched, it was if the still of the moment passed, and the kiss abruptly turned frantic, and desperate, as John impatiently tugged at the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt, and Sherlock just as eagerly ran his hands along every inch of skin he could reach, fingertips lingering at the ravaged flesh of John’s scar for a moment. He only managed to move past it by promising himself that he’d spend hours lavishing it with attention later.
Before Sherlock’s shirt had even fallen to join the pile of John’s discarded clothes, John began to tug at his belt and trouser clasps, as his mouth and tongue bit and sucked at the underside of his chin, the sensation of which drew a low hiss from the back of Sherlock’s throat.
“John,” Sherlock breathed, as his eyes closed and a hand came up to clench in John’s hair, feeling there was one thing he ought to tell John, even if it was a non-issue in his mind, “You are aware that -”
“That you haven’t done this before?” John asked, his lips brushing against Sherlock’s neck with each word, encouraging a pleased hum to fall from the Detective’s lips. “Of course I know,” John said, and, as Sherlock’s pants dropped to the floor, he added, “Which is why we don’t have to do this if you -”
Sherlock rolled his eyes the second that John had uttered ‘Why’, and the rest of John’s sentence was lost as Sherlock pushed his chest, making him fall back to the bed with a yelp. Without another thought, Sherlock abandoned his trousers, and boxers, to the growing pile of clothes on the floor, and straddled John. He simply smirked as John looked up at him reproachfully.
And then, after arching an unrepentant eyebrow, he lowered himself so that his breath ghosted over John’s lips. He just barely caught himself from smirking again as John’s lips parted at the sensation.
“Don’t mistake my telling you as hesitance, John,” Sherlock told him, “I only wanted to be sure you were aware because people insist on worshipping a misunderstood ideal of being virginal – That doesn’t suddenly make me an unwilling participant.”
John hesitated for a moment, sighed, “You are such a dick,” and then, twisted his fingers into the hair at the back of Sherlock’s neck, holding him in place as he arched up, kissing Sherlock with just as much fervour as before.
After a moment, Sherlock took hold of John’s waist and rolled his hips experimentally, only to hiss with surprise at the sensation of their erections grinding against one another - That was a much nicer feeling than he’d been anticipating. A sentiment that was clearly shared, if John’s appreciative groan and the way that his hands jerked up to clutch at Sherlock’s hips was any indication.
He only managed to repeat the movement three times before John ground out, “Fuck. Sherlock! Too … Can’t! … Shit,”
“I’m aware,” Sherlock hummed, as he wrapped a hand around the bases of both John’s, and his own cocks, and began to pump them in time to each roll of his hips. Before ducking down to kiss John again, he added in a breathy whisper, “You’re not the only one.”
John simply hummed curiously against Sherlock’s mouth at the comment, and Sherlock drew in a sudden sharp intake of breath as he skimmed a hand up along his spine, dragging his nails along the skin as he went.
And then, Sherlock shifted so that he could drag his teeth along the side of John’s neck, and John surprised him with a rather vocal groan as his hand rose to clutch at the back of Sherlock’s neck, fingers tangling in the curls there almost painfully. Curious about the reaction, Sherlock bit down on the curve where John’s shoulder met his neck, and was rewarded with a whimpered “Sherlock…”
Smirking, Sherlock filed the reaction away for future reference, and continued to bite and suck at John’s neck for the grinds that followed, irrationally pleased when bruises formed from his ministrations. And then, abruptly, John’s hips thrust up to meet the roll of Sherlock’s, a move that surprised a gasped moan from him as the hold John had of Sherlock’s hair became almost painful. In the next second, warmth coated Sherlock’s hand, and John fell back to the bed, limp, with sweat on his brow, and a satisfied grin on his face.
“Bloody hell,” he groaned, as Sherlock straightened up so that he could file John’s orgasm face away for later examination, and then looking down at his fluid-covered fingers, brows drawing together with consideration. Noticing where Sherlock’s gaze was, the grin faded from John’s face, and he suddenly, ridiculously, looked self conscious. “Bugger. Should I have warned you?”
Sherlock ignored John’s fretting, and dragged his tongue over his palm, eyes fixed on John’s face as he did so, curious both about the flavour, and John’s expression. John’s reaction did not disappoint either - he blushed a bright red to the very roots of his hair, and threw his arms over his face, muttering something about “If I hadn’t just come …”
No sooner than the words had left his mouth, John abruptly sat up, an unusual wide-eyed hesitance to his eyes as he wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s waist, and Sherlock could only cock an eyebrow curiously at the expression. The next second, he buried his head in John’s shoulder in an pointless attempt to muffle his surprised moan as John wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s dick, and, Oh. It was irrational, and inexplicable. But the feel of John being the one to touch him was just so remarkably different from his own hand, even though, logically speaking there was no difference.
Sherlock’s thoughts quickly unravelled as John dragged his hand up along Sherlock’s shaft, twisting his hand with each backwards stroke, trailing kisses along his shoulder, and anywhere else his mouth could reach with Sherlock nestled into the crook of his neck as he was, as he did so.
He wasn’t able to smother the groan that left his lips at the feel, at the mounting warmth that seemed to burn in the very depth of his stomach. And, as John’s thumb ran over the head, Sherlock’s hand darted up to clutch at his shoulder.
“Sherlock?” John asked, and Sherlock wanted to laugh at the way that he sounded concerned. As if John had anything to be concerned about as stars danced on the edge of Sherlock’s vision.
“I’m perfectly fine John,” he breathed, though ‘fine’ was such an inadequate word for the way that he felt in that moment. And then, his eyes flew open, his entire back stiffened and his nails dug into John’s shoulder as the pool of warmth burst, and Sherlock pressed an open mouthed kiss to side of John’s throat as that warmth left him, leaving him feeling empty and boneless.
For a few seconds, they simply remained in that position, both breathing heavily as John’s hand traced nonsensical patterns into Sherlock’s skin. As Sherlock sat there, his nose turned in to the side of John’s neck so that he was breathing in John’s unique scent, he tried to decide if John smelled more like musk, mint, or tea.
He frowned as he recovered from the boneless feeling, though, and instantly began to analyse everything that had just happened -The most obvious deduction being that John had planned to lure him away from the crime scene, because he obviously had been able to get away from the clinic. But, that simply brought Sherlock back to the question that had been bothering him since he realised that John’s messages had been intentional - Why?
Lifting his head up from John’s shoulder, Sherlock distantly wondered if John was aware that he’d just traced the rune for future on Sherlock’s back. John’s hand stopped it’s tracing as Sherlock asked “John?” though.
At first, John just sighed, and then, he groaned, “Shut up Sherlock,” as he fell back down to the mattress, glaring up at Sherlock as if annoyed he’d broken the silence. “There is such a thing as ‘after glow’,” he added petulantly as one hand rummaged blindly under the bed.
Narrowing his eyes as he watched John pull some moist towelettes out from beneath the bed, Sherlock stated, “You planned this,” and John paused in the act of cleaning himself off at the statement.
Far from looking contrite, John simply grinned mischievously, much to Sherlock’s irritation, and threw a towelette at him as he asked, “What gives you that impression?”
As he stretched his arms out to take hold of Sherlock’s hips again, that wide eyed, hesitant look returned to John’s eye, almost as if he were afraid that Sherlock was going to push him away now that they’d been intimate. Sherlock was half inclined to slap the hands away, equally irritated, and surprised, at John’s cheek. But, the look in John’s eye made decide against it. That expression gave him distinct impression that pushing John away in that moment would be incredibly detrimental to his ‘keep John indefinitely’ plan.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he drawled with a roll of his eyes, “There’s the fact that you excused yourself from the clinic to drive me nigh insane with your pictures, for one thing.”
“Did I now?” John hummed with a pleased grin, his hands shifting to actually grip Sherlock’s waist instead of simply resting on it. Mentally, Sherlock frowned at the shift – John had been uncertain, but about what exactly? Had he doubted what had caused Sherlock to come home, what drawn him in to the room? Had he been concerned Sherlock would deny him? How was it possible he hadn’t known, without any doubt, that Sherlock was completely enamoured by him?
The thoughts made Sherlock’s mouth twist into a scowl, a scowl that he easily played off as irritation at John’s feigned innocence, “You managed to lure me from a case, did you not? And, I hope you’ll be claiming responsibility when the murderer gets away, since it was left to Scotland Yard, no thanks to you.” He couldn’t stop the corners of his lips twitching up at John’s amused laugh.
The smile faded as John looked up at him, and Sherlock’s brows drew together with frustration as a thought returned to him. “Why though?” he asked after a moment of hesitation, and John’s eyebrows rose with confusion at the question, “That’s what I can’t solve – What was it that made you do this, after making a point to keep a distance between us, ensuring things couldn’t be as they were … What brought this on?”
Unexpectedly, the warm smile that John had worn seconds before lit his face up again, and the hold he had on Sherlock’s hips tightened. For a moment, John didn’t say a word, he simply kept looking up at Sherlock with that grin on his face. It wasn’t until Sherlock opened his mouth to ask a bewildered ‘What’ that John said, “Because you said my name.”
At that, Sherlock blinked, arched an eyebrow, and did end up asking “What?” in a deadpan tone.
“You said my name,” John repeated, the smile on his lips growing at whatever memory he was experiencing. Sherlock scowled, and parted his lips, intent on informing John that he always said his name, but stopped as John held a finger to his lips. “In your sleep,” he clarified, and then chuckled before adding, “Actually, you told me not to go.” Suddenly, John’s expression turned fierce, and Sherlock’s eyebrows rose with bewilderment at the change, and the hand that had been holding a finger to Sherlock’s mouth moved to cup his cheek instead as John declared, “And I’m not going anywhere Sherlock. Ever.”
Sherlock looked down at John for a moment, processing the underlying message behind those words. Then, because he couldn’t think of anything to say, Sherlock ducked his head and pressed his lips to John’s, silently warning him that he’d hold him to that promise. John simply grinned into the kiss, and raised a hand to the small of Sherlock’s back. If Sherlock had been able see to his expression, he’d see that John’s eyebrows had that determined tilt to them.