Sherlock texts John all the time, whether it makes sense (“Lestrade just called, be at Victoria station by 3 pm., SH”) or not (“Will you bring my book on 18th century alchemy upstairs? I need to look up something. SH”). He texts John at work, when he’s on a date, when he’s asleep, when he’s doing the shopping, when he’s on the bus.
John answers them all, even if it’s just a “No. JW,” and he doesn’t tells Sherlock how often the texts make him chuckle. (He’s also grateful he got an unlimited text plan. He had no idea how useful it would turn out to be.)
So when his phone beeps while he’s consulting with a patient, John just glances at the phone and goes on with his advising — and then does a double take, because rather than something like “We’re out of beans” or even “The murderer was left-handed and had one leg shorter than the other,” as usual, the text message says, “When you get home I want to blow you against the front door. SH.”
John stammers a moment and discreetly pulls a file folder over his phone so his patient won’t see the message. The phone beeps again, and John can feel himself blush even without seeing it.
He hastily sees the patient out and then looks at his phone. “And then I want you to fuck me on the stairs. I can’t wait long enough to get you into bed. SH.”
He texts back, “What’s got into you?”
The answer comes right away. “You, later tonight. SH.”
“Not funny,” John types and shoves the phone aside so he can get some work done.
The phone beeps twice more as he’s making notes, and once again while he’s seeing the next patient. He waits until that patient is gone to look, dreading (only not really, because he wants to see what else Sherlock wants to do to him) what Sherlock has said now.
“I want to lick every inch of you. SH.”
“I could suck your nipples for an hour until you beg me to touch your cock. SH.”
“I can give you testimonials about how good my blowjobs are. SH.”
John types, “Stop it,” and lays his face against the window to cool down. This is completely inappropriate. Worse than that, whatever Sherlock’s trying to do, it’s working. John wants to go home, he wants to throw off his clothes and surrender to Sherlock’s mouth, he wants to let Sherlock keep those promises.
It occurs to John that it’s been entirely too long since he’s gotten laid.
His phone beeps. John stares at it. Crosses the office, picks it up, closes his eyes as he opens the text. He opens one eye to read.
“Slow. You beneath me. Gasping my name. Slow. My hands on your chest. You’re inside me. Slow. SH.”
John’s hand starts shaking and he puts down his phone.
It beeps again.
“I want to see your face as you come inside me the first time. SH.”
John picks up his phone. His hands are still shaking as he types, “You win. I’m coming home,” and turns off the phone as soon as the message is sent.
He has to think.
He has to think of what he’s going to do to Sherlock in return.