Sherlock had been fidgeting in his seat for the last 20 minutes of the flight, snarling at the stewardess and nearly reducing the cabin crew manager to tears when he came to her rescue.
He asked the cab driver to run a red light on several occasions and offered him money if he went faster than allowed.
He needed to get home, to see, to touch, to confirm so badly he was almost shaking.
He started to holler John’s name the moment he was in and took the stairs in such a haste he almost flew through the door as soon as John opened it.
He ripped his coat off, stormed into the kitchen and nearly flung himself at – his microscope.
The content sigh that escaped his lips earned him a huffed out laugh from John.
“If you could teach that thing to make you come, you wouldn’t need me at all.”
John sounded fairly amused so Sherlock didn’t waste time raising his head.
“Wanker. Luckily you still need me to do that.”
He lost track of the blood sample under his lens when John stepped closer and wrapped his arms around him and kissed his neck before starting to suck a mark on it.
And there went his concentration. Another case unsolved in favour of following John to bed.