Sherlock’s fingers slide under John’s cardigan, his thumb grazing the small dimples on his lower back. John pauses, key in the lock to 221B, and Sherlock leans forward until every inch of his well-tailored body is flush against him.
A quick twist of the wrist but the key jams; Sherlock’s breath in John’s ear: “I suggest you manage the lock or risk another ASBO for public indecency.”
The deadlock gives as a couple exits Speedy’s and John can barely say, “Would’ve been faster without certain distract—” before his back is against the banister and Sherlock’s mouth is on his, demanding, hot. John pulls on Sherlock’s scarf, arches his back, bites just enough to earn a growl in response.
Sherlock is already en route before John finishes uttering the idea, and the fact that the door didn’t fully close is utterly lost on them both.
Mrs. Hudson is rummaging for sugar while the kettle heats when she hears the thunderous percussion of shoes on the stairs, they’re taking them two at a time again, they know how loud it is when they do that, she’s specifically asked them not to—
She opens the door, pokes her head out. “Boys? Someone came round for you earlier.” They haven’t heard, however; the only reply is more footfalls, distant now, and John’s distinct giggle.
The kettle screams, finally boiling, so she tends to it.
“Why not your room? It is, after all—“ John’s breath hitches as Sherlock gives his arse a territorial squeeze, “—closer.”
“Precisely. Mrs. Hudson’s in, or didn’t you notice she’d sorted the post.” Sherlock shrugs his coat off, effortless yet deliberate, the wool garment all but leaping from his shoulders of its own accord. He’s back in John’s space instantly, hands on his chest, mouth at his neck.
“Your room.” Fingers twisting in cardigan buttons. “Additional flight of stairs.” Teeth on the carotid. “Greater sound barrier.” A practised pinch of the nipple.
John moans, loud and abrupt, then pulls back, ears tinged pink at the volume and lewdness of his own voice.
“You couldn’t have planned on that happening just to prove your point.”
Sherlock wordlessly raises his brow, licks his swollen lips.
“Oh, shut up.” John says, pushing Sherlock onto the mattress.
Two short taps on the doorframe to the kitchen and Sherlock’s makeshift laboratory before Mrs. Hudson walks in.
“Are you back, then?” She asks, only to be met once more with silence. “I’ve barely had five minutes to myself all day before someone’s hitting my buzzer, demanding to speak with you lot.”
There’s a thud from upstairs, the softest hint of mattress springs.
Mrs. Hudson tuts. They can’t be arsed to fix that awful yellow graffiti on the wall, and look, they’ve gone and left the milk on the mantelpiece again.
“Are you wearing perfume?” John glances up at Sherlock, removing his tongue from the spot just below his navel.
“No, but I don’t normally get a mouthful of—lavender?—when working my way down your body.”
“The increased pressure of your erection against my thigh implies you might not mind it happening again.”
“So…you made yourself extra pretty for me?” John bats his eyelashes, doesn’t hide his mocking tone.
Sherlock clicks his tongue. “If you must know, I’m working on an analysis of various perfumes for my website and might have spilled a bit earlier.”
“Is this the riveting sequel to Tobacco Ash the public has been demanding?” John returns his attention to Sherlock’s lower abdomen.
“Perfumes can be a very integral part of solving a crime, least of all because they react to an individual’s unique body chemistry—”
And then he simply stops talking, because John’s mouth is very much not on his stomach anymore.
“This is it, I think—stop here.” The man pays his cabbie, his clammy palms dampening the fiver he gets back; he can feel himself sweating through the armpits of his mustard yellow jumper, can taste onions on his breath—why, why always onions? He’s brushed his teeth twice today.
221B it says—that was the address on the website, right? Must be. The door’s open.
Surely they can help him, surely they must—he was just driving through the country, didn’t mean any harm—stairs, why are there so many bloody stairs in London?
Oh, finally, the flat, someone’s in the kitchen—but that’s not right, it’s a woman, he came for the man in the hat—
“The door was…the door was…” he gasps, winded, vision blurring into the whiteness of the refrigerator light.
John. Yes. John.
John’s mouth is perfect, it always is, and now is no exception. And those hands, that trick he does should really be considered cheating.
Sherlock’s trousers are at his ankles, knees splayed wide. He changes his grip from the back of John’s head to the sheets, kneading them, grasping in rhythm to his undulating hips. Soon, so soon, just another moment and…
Sherlock groans, back arching in a gorgeous parabola, one hand flying up to slam the headboard just as something crashes downstairs.
John carries him through it before pulling off, confused. “Was that you?” he asks at same moment Mrs. Hudson shouts, “Boys! You’ve got another one!”
They disentangle, Sherlock swinging his feet to the side of the bed and rising, tucking himself in and smoothing over a bit of creased fabric.
“What absolutely wonderful timing,” John hisses, collapsing backwards, focusing on deep breaths and slowing his heartbeat instead of the throbbing in his jeans. The bag of thumbs downstairs. That’ll do for a distraction.
“Thank your all-too-popular blog,” Sherlock counters, ignoring the daggers John stares at his relaxed, post-orgasmic gait as he heads for the stairs. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“You better,” John mutters, and doesn’t bother re-buttoning his cardigan.