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The Best Laid Plans

Chapter Text

Sherlock slumped onto the floor, panting, as John pulled out of him and swayed for a moment on his knees before half falling, half siting down. This time, they had managed to avoid staining the rug: Sherlock had only had his forearms on it, so the mess had ended up on the bare floorboards.

"You all right?" John asked. His voice sounded hoarse, and he cleared his throat.

Sherlock flopped onto his back, grinning. "I'm perfect." His elbows and knees were reddened from the friction, but the skin didn't seem broken or even likely to bruise.

"You are," John agreed, and if his smile was a little too tender, Sherlock didn't mention it. "Hungry?"

"Yes." Sherlock's pants and trousers were still around one ankle, and he kicked them off. John wondered if he'd left his shoes on the stairs again – Mrs Hudson didn't approve of that. "Pizza."

"Pizza?" John raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Absolutely." Sherlock jumped to his feet, unfairly graceful for someone who only moments ago had been fucked on the hardwood floor as if there were no tomorrow. "I'll order – you had mushrooms in it the last time."

Last time, John thought, amused – it had been at least a year since they'd had pizza.

Sherlock sauntered towards the kitchen, only stopping to pick up his coat from the floor and dig his phone out of the pocket. He was already dialling the number as he walked.

"You like mushrooms," John called after him, following Sherlock with his gaze. Sherlock was still wearing his shirt but nothing else, and the view was brilliant. John especially liked the trickle of come sliding down his inner thigh.

"Not in pizza, John, obviously. Clean up the floor, we can have a shower before it arrives."

"All right, all right," John said and reached for Sherlock's pants.

As he used them to wipe the semen from the floor, he thought about Sherlock's reddened knees and elbows and his own aching joints. Next time, he promised himself, they'd have their post-case sex in bed. He would not fuck his husband on the floor like some bloody barbarian; he'd take Sherlock to bed and make love to him like a perfect gentleman, slow and sweet and tender.

Satisfied with his decision, John staggered to his feet, pulling his jeans up so that he could follow Sherlock into the bathroom.