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"Really?" Sherlock said, in a lazy, unconcerned drawl.
"Really!" John snapped. Sherlock was lounging on the couch in his dressing gown, a t-shirt, and pajama bottoms, and just his very position, his very arrogant, languid, mocking posture was getting right up John's nose.
"Really, really?" Sherlock asked, and lifted the magazine he'd been reading in front of his face.
"Really really!" John snarled back at him.
"Hm," Sherlock said behind the magazine. "Really."
"Say 'really' one more time!" John warned.
Sherlock lowered the magazine and looked pointedly at him. "Really."
John stormed off to the kitchen.
By the time he got there he had forgotten entirely what they were arguing about. In fact, he'd forgotten about fifteen minutes ago as it slowly dissolved into arguing for the sake of arguing. When Sherlock was feeling combative, cheeky, or God forbid bored, he would argue about the color of the wallpaper if presented with the subject. So much for a blissful Sunday afternoon.
John slammed around the kitchen a bit, pointless mostly, and put some water on to boil.
"Bring me some tea?" Sherlock called.
"No!"
Sherlock was thankfully silent for a while. John had almost simmered down when he called out again.
"Sweet and milky, you know how I like it."
"Do not say another word to me!" John yelled back. He slammed some dishes in the sink.
He should have known better than to voice such a demand.
"Come in and change the telly for me," Sherlock called out.
John stormed back to the living room. The gesture wasn't very effective since he was in his socks. He'd gotten fully dressed—jumper, button up, jeans, because he thought he might go out later—but stomping around was much less threatening without shoes.
Sherlock looked at him placidly from the couch. He reached down and picked up a box from the floor and shook it. "If you're going out, pick me up some more nicotine patches."
John finally reached his breaking point. He marched to the couch and ripped the magazine out of Sherlock's hand and flung it across the room. Sherlock frowned petulantly after it. John grabbed the nicotine patches out of his other hand and flung the box down next to the couch. Sherlock scowled.
"Are you going to have a tantrum like a child?"
John reached down and gripped the top of Sherlock's pajama bottoms and yanked them down. Sherlock's eyes went wide. John was not at all shocked to find he had no pants on underneath. While John worked them angrily down his legs Sherlock simply lay there, watching.
"Oh, you're going to spank me," he said derisively.
John pulled them off one leg and just left them on the other. Then he got on top of him. Sherlock gave an annoyed grunt.
"I'll give you something sweet and milky," John said, "you insufferable, infuriating cocksucker."
"Really John," Sherlock huffed as John started hastily undoing his jeans. "That's a bit much, don't you think? I'm not insufferable."
"You better have some fucking lube stashed in this couch somewhere or this is going to hurt."
Sherlock sighed dramatically and pushed a hand between the cushion and the back of the couch. He felt around, frowning. "Hm…no. That's the spare gun. Lestrade's badge. A package of biscuits…ah!" He pulled out a half-deflated tube of lubricant and held it triumphantly aloft.
John had pushed his jeans and pants down to his knees and didn't bother going any further. He only pondered for a moment it was entirely demented his rage had made his prick hard as a rock. Admittedly, it also had something to do with Sherlock currently being naked from the waist down—apart from his pajama bottoms wrapped around his ankle—t-shirt rucked up to his chest, and his own prick, beautifully thick and long, hard enough already his foreskin was retracted and a little dollop of pre-cum glistened in the hair just below his navel.
Sherlock made a vaguely inconvenienced sound when John pushed a slick finger into him. John wanted to stuff two up there—three, even—but no matter how mad he was at the git, the gentle creature inside him couldn't hurt him. The oily scent of the lubricant just made him harder, producing an olfactory memory of the first time they fucked, right over the desk in the living room. John used way too much lubricant in his zealousness and it was literally running down Sherlock's inner thigh. Aside from the embarrassing squishy sounds through the whole event, it was an incredible experience.
John added more lube—not too much, just enough—and got the second finger in. Sherlock squirmed, legs wriggling on either side of John's hips.
"Oh get on with it," Sherlock demanded. "I want some tea."
"You're just asking to be struck across the head with a blunt object today aren't you?" John pushed upward against his prostate.
Sherlock made a gurgling sound and his prick twitched, issuing another drop of clear fluid. John's own prick was dripping right onto Sherlock's thigh, and if he had the patience to withhold fulfilling Sherlock's request, he would have slid down and licked it off while he fingered him mercilessly.
Instead, John slid his fingers out, gripped himself, and lined up. Sherlock dug a heel into his calf.
"Lube that up too!" he said, and threw the tube of lubricant at John, so it bounced off his chest and landed between their tangled bodies.
John picked up the tube and flung it on the floor. "Shut your flapping gob!" He stroked himself with his slick fingers instead, smearing the excess down the shaft.
Sherlock made the most incredible sound when John pushed into him. A loud uh! which was equal parts discomfort, surprise, and pleasure. He was exquisitely tight and hot and John wanted to shag the contrariness right out of his body, leave him limp and complacent and deliciously used.
It took a moment for Sherlock to adjust and relax fully around him, and then there was no more arguing, as they both wanted the same thing.
"Fuck me hard," Sherlock demanded, and his voice had gone low and breathy. He stretched beneath John and his eyelashes fluttered. "Shag the hell out of me."
John had no problem accepting these orders. He put his arms under Sherlock's thighs, jerked his knees up, and started thrusting. He hoped Mrs. Hudson had gone out to meet with friends as she said earlier, because neither of them could be quiet during sex.
True to this, Sherlock moaned gorgeously, getting louder with each deep, hard thrust. John was groaning too, drinking in the sight beneath him: Sherlock with his head thrown back, curls smashed against the couch arm, bare neck stretched out and begging to be bitten. His eyes were closed, his pale pink lips open and wet.
"You maddening, gorgeous creature," John huffed at him, pounding him firmly into the couch. "Look at you. You've just been gasping for this prick, haven't you?"
Sherlock's lips curled in a smile, his eyes still closed. "Such a filthy mouth you have there, Doctor."
"Want to hear more?" John was uncomfortably hot beneath his shirt and jumper. He felt sweat trickling down his face and neck.
"God yes."
John adjusted the angle of his hips, pushing upward. He gazed down at Sherlock, eyebrows raised in expectation. "That it? Right there? That the spot?"
Sherlock answered with a desperate yelp.
"Oh, now you can't fucking talk, can you? I stuff you up with my prick and that shuts you up. I'll have to keep that in mind."
Sherlock turned his head to look up at John, the top still pressed against the arm of the couch, his pale eyes vibrant, mouth open, pale cheeks flushed. John finally had him pinned down and he loved it.
"You want me to stroke your cock?" John asked.
Sherlock nodded eagerly.
John had to untangle himself, as Sherlock's ankle was bobbing next to his ear and his dangling pajama bottoms had gotten wrapped around John's arm. He squeezed his fingers around Sherlock's prick and found it hot, hard and slick.
"Let's see if we can't get you to make a mess of yourself," John said.
Sherlock strained up and licked the sweat dripping from John's chin. "Ah," he gasped as he dropped his head back, eyes falling shut. "Right there," he said urgently. "Right there John, don't move an inch…ah…that's it…"
John stayed in exactly the same place and pounded into him with one last burst of furious energy. He knew Sherlock was going to come even before he made that face—that wide-eyed, open-mouthed, shocked and desperate expression—feeling his inner muscles rippling and clenching around him. He knew before Sherlock announced, quite loudly, "John, I'm coming!"
John felt the first shot of warm fluid over his fingers—the feel of cum was unlike any other fluid and John could never find the exact words to describe it. It was, however, exactly the feeling that put him over the edge as well. He groaned and growled, pushing up hard into Sherlock and flooding him.
Even though he was still shaking in orgasm, cock still throbbing between John's grasping fingers, Sherlock shuddered out, "Damn, we nearly made it simultaneous that time!"
When he was through coming, John slumped against Sherlock, panting, trembling. He only stayed there a moment though, as he was maddeningly overheated and needed to breathe.
He untangled himself from Sherlock and moved to the other end of the couch, where he sat panting, one arm slung across the back and the other over the side, pants and jeans still around his knees. Sherlock sprawled out, one heel on the floor and the other on the arm of the couch on John's end, the one with his pajama bottoms still wound around his ankle.
John looked over and saw Sherlock's taut, flat stomach was flushed and covered with glistening white fluid, his softening prick flopped over in the mess, his foreskin covering the head. Some had splattered his shirt as well. His hair was a wild mess and he looked, John thought with smug delirium, well shagged. Sherlock reached over the edge of the couch, turning his head that direction, and John closed his eyes again, waiting for his breath and heartbeat to slow.
A faint tearing sound brought John's eyes open again. Sherlock was applying a nicotine patch. John smirked and closed his eyes again.
"For future reference," John said lazily, "if you want to shag you can either just ask or try a bit of seduction. Combativeness isn't exactly the best way to get what you want."
"It makes you fuck me obscenely hard," Sherlock said absently.
"If you want me to fuck you hard, you can just ask for that as well."
He heard another tearing sound. Then another. Then another.
John opened his eyes and frowned. Sherlock had three patches on his upraised arm and was trying to find room for a fourth. "Sherlock, you realize you can bloody overdose on nicotine patches, yes?"
Sherlock looked down the couch, leveling his gaze on him.
"Really?"