It was two days after they found Jennifer Wilson and one day after the pretend drugs bust before they could meet again.
Sherlock had simply slipped out when John was in the shower, a small note on his laptop saying he was off to see someone about some equipment for a new experiment. It shouldn’t raise suspicion in his new flatmate, and Sherlock would be free for at least a few hours. He hailed a taxi, rattled off the address, and spent the next ten minutes fidgeting until the cab stopped in front of a moderate looking rowhouse. Sherlock handed the cabbie his fare and glanced around for a moment. The car that belonged here was gone, and had been for well over a week, if the small oil stains on the road where it was normally parked were any indication. He gave a small smile, then strode up to the door.
Three sharp raps of his knuckles, and the door opened. He stepped inside.
Sherlock chuckled. “Oh Anderson, how I haven’t missed the sound of your voice.” He turned, and pulled Anderson close, pressing their mouths together as his arms locked around Anderson’s torso.
He felt fingers come up to run through his hair, felt Anderson’s lips moving against his, and he smiled into the kiss.
“You’re such a bastard.” Anderson’s voice was quiet, rough, and did things to Sherlock’s libido that Sherlock couldn’t accurately quantify.
“Shut up, I’m not done kissing you.” Sherlock’s mouth worked harder, lips straying to Anderson’s chin, along his jaw, to his neck and that spot just behind his ear…
“God, I knew this was a bad idea.”
“Shut.” Sherlock nipped Anderson’s earlobe. “Up.”
Anderson snorted. “Make me.”
Sherlock let his teeth graze along Anderson’s skin. “As you wish.” He bit down, just hard enough to get Anderson to stop talking and start gasping, moaning, begging and pleading over and over.
“Sherlock, fuck, Sherlock, please, please…”
Sherlock pulled back just enough to smile at Anderson, then pulled him along into the bedroom. “I see your wife’s picture is still face down, no doubt from when Sally was here.”
Sherlock turned to see Anderson already out of his shirt, one eyebrow quirked. Sherlock glared at him. “Incredibly so.”
“Good. Maybe you’ll stop acting like I’m useless at crime scenes-“
“You are useless at crime scenes.”
Anderson laughed. “I really hate you sometimes.”
Sherlock smirked. “I know.”
Anderson bit his lower lip and watched as Sherlock started slowly unbuttoning his shirt, pulling the tails out of his trousers as he went. When he’d finished with the buttons, he slipped the shirt, the jacket, and his Belstaff coat off in one fluid movement, moving to the small chair in the corner of the room and draping them over it.
“It’s just a coat, Sherlock.”
Sherlock looked up and raised his eyebrows. “If I were asked to run into a burning house and save either this coat or your own life, I would choose the coat.”
His voice was clear and matter-of-fact when he said it, and Anderson frowned. “Why do I put up with you?”
Sherlock walked towards him until they stood so close a deep breath would make them touch. “Because you need me.”
Then he grabs Anderson and spins him around, shoving him towards the bed. Anderson stumbles only a little, backing up until he’s sprawled out on the duvet, breath coming fast and heart beating so hard he’s sure the neighbors hear it. Sherlock stalks towards him, climbing up onto the bed, straddling his hips and looming over him, long lines and pale skin that Anderson wants to color with scratches and teeth marks, the violent signs of his devotion to this mad man.
“What are you waiting for?” Anderson stares up into Sherlock’s eyes, one of the strangest and yet most normal things about him.
Sherlock looked up and down Anderson’s torso, then back up into Anderson’s face. He leans in, never blinking, his focus unnerving. “For you to admit that I’m right.”
Anderson shivers as Sherlock whispers and he closes his eyes. “Yes.” His own voice is too soft, too strained, and he clears his throat. “Yes, you’re right. I need you. I’m a fucking addict, are you happy?”
He opens his eyes and sees Sherlock grinning. “Yes.”
Their trousers and pants are off before Anderson even knows what’s happening, and then Sherlock’s hands are everywhere, grabbing and touching and teasing and Anderson has to throw his head back, gulping air as he hears the sound of the bottle of lubricant snap open, hears it spurt onto Sherlock’s fingers. It’s cold and he jumps when it touches his skin as Sherlock wraps his hand around Anderson’s cock, long teasing strokes making him whimper.
“God, you are perfection incarnate when you stop talking, did you know that?” Sherlock’s voice sounds so far away, and Anderson sucks both his lips between his teeth as he feels Sherlock’s fingers move down and slip inside him, just one to start, moving slowly and deliberately.
It’s agony, to want so much and be forced to wait.
“Nothing better than seeing you spread open before me.” Sherlock leans over carefully, planting a gentle, chaste kiss on Anderson’s left hip, his lips lingering just a moment as he slips another finger into him, and Anderson is damn near hyperventilating now, his moaning becomes a desperate whining that he’d be ashamed of if he had any room in his head for such an emotion.
He hears the condom wrapper as Sherlock opens it, and he spares a glance down to see Sherlock positioning his hips. Sherlock looks up, and Anderson would swear it’s like Sherlock just wants to devour him, leave nothing behind, not even his bones.
“Still the addict?”
Anderson lets out a long, shuddering breath. “Just fuck me already, you son of a bitch.”
“That’s a yes.”
And then Sherlock pushes into him.
There nothing quite like this moment, the precise moment where Sherlock begins to come entirely undone above him.
This is the first of two moments that make Anderson come back to him, again and again and again.
Sherlock starts slowly, hips moving rhythmically and steady, a second heartbeat that only beats at half the rate of the one in Anderson’s chest, but it doesn’t last long. Then Sherlock’s thrusting in time with his pulse and Anderson’s own hand is around his cock, stroking himself in time with Sherlock until he can feel it, Sherlock’s hips start to buck out of time and then Anderson tilts his hips slightly.
That’s when Sherlock cries out, and Anderson clenches around him, his own orgasm now coating his stomach and chest and Sherlock is spasming over him and all Anderson can think is that he’s never looked better.
They’re silent as they clean up, neither admitting anything to the other nor themselves. It’s better if they don’t say anything right now. But when Anderson climbs back into bed, Sherlock will stand there for a moment, licking his swollen lips and watching, then he climbs in too, curling against Anderson’s side.
“You know, I’ve been thinking about transferring. To a different team, different office.” Sherlock is silent against him as he says this. “If I did, it… might be less awkward. For you.”
Anderson closes his eyes.
“If you leave, who will I torment other than Sally?”
And this is the second of two moments that make Anderson come back to him, again and again and again. The moment when he lets his guard down and says something that proves he cares, in his own way.
“I’m sure you could torment whoever took my place.”
Sherlock takes several deep breaths. “I’d… prefer it if you didn’t leave.”
Anderson smiles, his eyes still closed.