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Isn't There Something in Living Dangerously

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John floated in a haze of half-sleep, fighting against full consciousness. He was having a really good dream-- a dream in which he’d just had the best sex of his entire life with a strange, frightening yet beautiful and enigmatic man.  

John sighed, shifting slightly, but he immediately stilled, realizing that his chest was pressed up against Sherlock Holmes's back, and his nose was buried in a riot of boyish curls. 

Everything that had happened the night before-- the cabbie, the Chinese restaurant, the alley, the post-coital almost-confession-- came flooding back to him. John tried not to breathe too loudly, wondering if he had woken Sherlock up, but after a few seconds Sherlock let out a loud snore. John relaxed, sliding his hand around Sherlock’s waist as he planted a kiss on the back of his neck. Sherlock shifted, but his breathing remained even, so John smiled and closed his eyes, letting himself drift off again.

Sometime later, he awoke again to see that Sherlock had turned over. Since he was still fast asleep, John let himself indulge in watching Sherlock’s sleeping face. The winter morning sunlight bathed them in faded blue, glinting on Sherlock’s dark hair, and his dark eyelashes fluttered over his pale cheeks. John wondered briefly if it was creepy to watch someone that he’d spent one night with sleeping like this, but he couldn’t really stop himself. 

Sherlock stirred slightly. Panicking a bit, John closed his eyes to make it seem as though he were asleep. Sherlock groaned softly, stretching his legs, and John let his eyes crack open fractionally, as if he too were just waking up.

Sherlock blinked his eyes open, and he sleepily took in John’s face, seeming to pause here and there, until he met John’s gaze. His expression softened, and he looked at John with a heartbreaking innocence that was completely at odds with the haughty man he had first met at Bart’s. His plush lips, which looked even more delectable than they had the night before, slid upward into a tentative grin.

“Morning,” Sherlock whispered. John felt a puff of warm air on his face as he said the word.

“Good morning,” John replied, his mouth twitching into a matching smile. He slid his arm around Sherlock’s body, trailing the pads of his fingertips up Sherlock's back. 

“How… did you sleep?” Sherlock asked. 

John tried not to chuckle at his awkwardness. Has he never shared a bed with someone before? “Wonderfully, thanks.” 

Sherlock nodded absently, biting his lip as his sharp eyes continued to scan John’s face. He looked like he wanted to say something more, but he couldn’t quite find the nerve.

“What is it?” John prompted softly, his fingers skimming up Sherlock’s spine.

Sherlock hesitated for a long moment. “Can I kiss you again?” he whispered.

John’s breath caught in his throat. He swallowed, trying to regain his composure.  “God, yes.”  

Sherlock’s eyes brightened just the tiniest bit, and John felt a strange sensation in his chest at the sight, like an answering happiness to the light in those eyes.

God, Watson. You’ve got it bad. 

John quashed the thought quickly and leaned in to brush his lips against Sherlock’s. They were warm, dry, and beautifully plump, just as he’d remembered. John sucked his lower lip lightly, and Sherlock made a small noise in the back of his throat. Smiling into the kiss, John pulled Sherlock closer until they were flush against each other, and Sherlock responded by wrapping a leg around John.

They kissed softly, sleepily, their warm tongues and lips sliding against each other. Sherlock was tentative at first, as if he were seeking permission with his tongue, and John tried to reassure him with his embrace. He had no idea how much time passed, and despite the fact that his not-insubstantial erection was pressed up against Sherlock’s belly, John would have been perfectly content to simply snog for the foreseeable future. That is, until he sucked at the juncture where Sherlock’s jaw met his throat, and Sherlock let out a small moan that sent a thrill down his whole body. Letting out a groan of his own, John involuntarily rolled his hips against Sherlock’s, automatically seeking more friction.

The kiss immediately became more heated, and John growled, pushing Sherlock down until he was on top. Sherlock wrapped his legs around him without prompting, causing their cocks to slide against each other, so John rolled his hips again, enjoying the small sighs and gasps coming from Sherlock as he moved. 

“John,” Sherlock breathed, his fingernails raking down John’s back. It was just barely painful enough to cause another spike of arousal to pulse down John’s body. He needed more. He wanted to taste everything, to feel everything.

John broke off the kiss long enough to gasp, “Turn over.” 

Sherlock’s eyes widened fractionally before he complied, flipping over so that his arse was in John’s full view. John sat back a bit, smoothing his hands down Sherlock’s hips. 

“Your arse is glorious, you know that?” John said, kissing down Sherlock’s spine to the top of the cleft. He pulled the cheeks apart slowly as he kissed down the slope of Sherlock’s arse. “Truly gorgeous. Delectable, even." 

Sherlock turned his head slightly to the side. “If you are simply going to recite over-exaggerated adjectives--” 

John smirked, shutting him up by licking a long stripe up the perineum and over Sherlock’s hole.  

Sherlock gasped, his hands fisting into the bedclothes as his hips canted upward involuntarily. John smiled again, skimming his tongue over Sherlock’s opening, wriggling it over the tight muscle. Sherlock pressed his face into the pillow, not altogether muffling the loud moans he was emitting.

John massaged Sherlock’s hole again, circling his tongue once more, before he pushed inward. Sherlock gasped, his whole body shivering at the contact.

John pulled back. “Too much?” he gasped.

“No, god, please, keep-- k-keep--” Sherlock babbled. 

John pushed his tongue in again, massaging it in slowly at first to loosen Sherlock more, before he pointed his tongue and started fucking him with it.

He glanced up to see that Sherlock was now biting down on the pillow, and his cock was hanging heavily between his legs, leaking lightly. Taking pity, John reached down with one hand to stroke down Sherlock’s erection in one long pull. Sherlock shuddered again, stuck between wanting to push backward against John’s tongue and thrust into his hand.  

John felt his own cock throbbing in sympathy, but he didn’t want to stop. Seeing Sherlock like this-- completely lost to sensation-- made him dizzy with want. After twisting his tongue around once more, he kissed up to Sherlock’s lower back, replacing his tongue with a finger as he mouthed over Sherlock’s hip.  

He massaged the hole to loosen it before pressing in just a bit, feeling Sherlock shudder again. He rotated his finger around, once, twice, just barely brushing Sherlock’s prostate but not stimulating enough to get him off. With his other hand he continued to stroke Sherlock’s cock slowly, modifying his technique when he felt Sherlock shivering, bringing him to the brink and back again over and over.

Apparently unable to take this any longer, Sherlock turned his now-flushed face from the pillow. “John,” he gasped. “Please. I need more." He canted his hips backward, pressing against John’s finger.  

John twisted his wrist again. “I thought you didn’t want-- we don’t have to--” he panted. 

“Last night I didn’t. But now I do.” Sherlock looked at John with darkened, ravenous eyes.

“Jesus,” John gasped. “Alright.” He scrambled toward the bedside dresser where the lube was still located from the night before.  

When he turned back, Sherlock was watching him hungrily, his pale chest heaving and his hair completely askew. 

John’s hand clenched around the bottle involuntarily. “Condom?” he asked, his voice slightly strangled. They hadn’t exactly had the have-you-been-tested talk, despite what they’d done the night before, and he didn’t think he could stop long enough to have that talk just now. 

“Drawer.” Sherlock lifted his chin, indicating the bedside table. John fumbled with it, grabbing a foil wrapper and ripping it open before rolling it onto himself and quickly slicking his length. It would make him last longer, if nothing else. 

As he moved back behind Sherlock, he lubed two of his fingers liberally. Taking a deep breath, he pressed them into Sherlock’s hole again and they both moaned. Sherlock’s hips moved under him, and John was reaching his limit; his very skin ached with the need to be inside of Sherlock. The air felt like it was vibrating with energy and heat, despite the fact that the window was cracked open, letting the winter air in. He smoothed his hand down Sherlock’s back, which was now pearled with sweat, and twisted his fingers around, adding another.

“Ready?” John asked, feeling faint. He was fighting against every urge to plunge his cock into Sherlock and take him hard right there. 

“Wait.” Sherlock raised his head from the pillow, as if he could hear John’s thoughts. John managed to look up, dizzy with arousal. 

Sherlock looked back over his shoulder, still shaking slightly. “I don’t think either of us is going to last in this position, and I don’t want this to be over yet.” He swallowed, as if trying to gain his composure. “Just… lay back.”

John nodded, his head spinning as he fell back onto his elbows at the foot of the bed. Sherlock pressed his face into the pillow once more, breathing deeply for a few seconds, before he unfolded his body slowly and pushed himself up onto his knees. He straddled John's stomach, his leaking cock bobbed heavily against his belly, and the winter light reflecting in the distorted glass of the bathroom door highlighted his skin like an impressionist’s brush. 

John smoothed his hands up Sherlock’s thighs, feeling the heated skin. Sherlock looked down at him, his eyes completely dark and his cheeks flushed with arousal. He leaned down to tongue John’s nipples, one after the other, rocking back against John’s cock at the same time. John gasped, closing his eyes and letting himself just feel. 

Sherlock kissed up John’s sternum and throat, and when he captured John’s mouth, the sweet slide of their lips became John’s whole world. John twisted his fingers into Sherlock’s curls, pulling him closer as Sherlock rocked back just a little against John’s cock again. John moaned into the kiss, his eyes still closed, and Sherlock chuckled as he leaned back, sliding his hand up and down John’s cock once, twice. He rubbed his thumb on the head, lightly enough that it gave John no relief.

“Tease,” John panted breathlessly, sitting up to nip at Sherlock’s mouth.

“Not quite,” Sherlock said, holding John’s cock as he lined himself up, then sank down slowly, letting out a deep sigh as his head fell back.  

“Oh, Christ.” John splayed his hands over Sherlock’s hips, feeling himself slide into the exquisite tight heat.

Once he had seated himself completely on John’s lap, Sherlock didn’t move for several long seconds.

“Should I--” John asked breathlessly. 

“Wait.” Sherlock’s eyes were still closed, and John felt like he was going to have an aneurism from the effort of not moving. 

Finally, ever so slowly, Sherlock started to ride him, his pale skin rippling in the dim light. John grasped him by the hips, feeling the soft undulations of the lithe body above him. Opening his eyes, Sherlock looked down at him, rolling his hips to create a complex twist of pleasure radiating down John’s body. 

“You’re gorgeous, you know that?” John gasped. “God, you feel amazing." 

Sherlock’s lips turned upward into a crooked grin, and he leaned forward, starting to fuck himself harder on John’s cock, his arse slapping lewdly against John’s thighs. 

John groaned again, his fingers digging into the flesh of Sherlock’s hips and arse, holding on as best he could. 

“John, oh, John,” Sherlock gasped, his eyes falling closed again.

John twisted his hips to meet him, but let Sherlock set the pace for several minutes, feeling the slow build until it was no longer enough for him.  

“Can I--” John breathed. 

“Yes,” Sherlock panted. John planted his feet on the bed and bucked his hips upward, starting to fuck him. Sherlock held himself in place, eyes closed again, and John took advantage. He twisted Sherlock by the shoulders to pull him down to the bed, switching their positions and slipping out in the process. 

“Sorry, are you alright?” John asked breathlessly. 

“For god’s sake, I’ve never been more alright in my life. More, now--” Sherlock pulled him closer, and John didn’t need any further confirmation, pressing in past the first ring of muscle again. Sherlock arched underneath him, emitting a long groan, and John felt as though every nerve ending in his body was firing. Mustering every fibre of self control, he retracted slowly, then pushed in again, only halfway. 

“John,” Sherlock gasped. “Please." 

John kissed him again, pressing in and out steadily, and Sherlock lifted his hips to meet him, begging him with every free breath. John bit his lip, reaching down to stroke Sherlock firmly in time with his thrusts and reveling in the shudder that wracked Sherlock’s body as he thrusted into the right spot.

“John,” Sherlock moaned again, his head thrown back slightly, exposing his long neck. His hand slid down John’s back to his hips, grasping him as if to pull him even closer.

“So good,” John breathed, leaning down to suck at Sherlock’s throat as he thrust in harder.  

He was using one arm to brace himself, and his fingers brushed against Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock interlocked their fingers until their hands were clasped together, and John held on tight. 

Sherlock broke off the kiss, looking up at John intensely, and John couldn’t look away. It was as if he were pinned in place by those dark pupils, surrounded by a ring of light iris that was currently as turbulent as a steel grey sea. They weren’t kissing, more panting into each other’s mouths, their noses barely touching, and the intensity of Sherlock's gaze made him feel flayed open. 

John felt himself losing control, and his thrusts started to become more erratic. Sherlock’s forehead crinkled just a bit, and his hand clenched John’s even more as his muscles started to flutter around John’s cock.  

“John,” Sherlock said, and then he was coming between them in long pulses. John cradled him through it, rocking his hips and feeling his own orgasm being milked out of him until the waves of his own pleasure crashed over him.

He collapsed onto Sherlock, and everything was a void for a long moment in the aftermath. When he finally opened his eyes and raised his head, still panting, John saw that Sherlock had thrown one arm over his eyes. Kissing him once more, John held onto the condom and pulled out slowly. Sherlock moaned again at the sensation, and John got rid of the condom quickly, flopping back onto the bed on his stomach, feeling completely spent. 

Sherlock hadn’t moved at all other than to shift his arm from his eyes. He watched John, chest heaving, not making any motion to move closer.  

There had been something raw, something intense, something real in Sherlock's eyes the moment before Sherlock had come. John had felt it, and he knew that Sherlock had too-- it wasn’t just sex. It had been more like... making love.  

Feeling something shift further in his chest, John very deliberately reached over and took Sherlock’s upturned palm. Keeping Sherlock's gaze locked in his own, he slowly brought it to his lips.  

Sherlock’s breath stuttered, his eyes questioning, and John nodded just the tiniest bit. Sherlock swallowed deeply again, looking at John with what looked like tentative hope. 

“Get over here,” John said simply, and Sherlock closed the small gap to nestle his head in the crook of John’s neck, both of them sighing deeply. John combed his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, wondering if he had ever felt more whole, even before he’d been shot. 

Apparently he drifted off again, because the next thing he knew, John was awakening to the sound of Sherlock’s stomach growling. He glanced downward, but Sherlock was dead to the world. He realized that he was ravenous, and that neither of them had eaten in far too long. Resolving to remedy that situation, John kissed Sherlock’s forehead.

“I’ll be back, love,” John whispered into Sherlock’s skin, lingering for a second longer than was truly necessary before pulling himself out of his embrace.

John took one of Sherlock’s dressing gowns and pulled it on, stealing one more look back at the bed. Sherlock was sprawled across half of it, his chest rising and falling slowly.

John smiled to himself and started down the hall to the kitchen, grabbing his pants and trousers from the hall and taking them into the kitchen with him. The softer afternoon light was filtering into the flat, making it feel even more like home. His mouth quirked upward into a half grin, John filled the kettle and set it on the stove. He leaned against the counter, shaking his head slightly, as the small grin grew into a full fledged smile.  

John started giggling, realizing how strange it was. He was literally standing in the kitchen of his new flat, grinning idiotically at a kettle, unable to contain the happiness that was bubbling out of him.

Then he heard the front door open and close. His reverie broken, John padded over to the door to the hall to listen. There were voices coming from downstairs, and some of them sounded familiar.  

“Shit,” he swore under his breath, remembering that Lestrade was supposed to come back to the crime scene in the living room that afternoon. He glanced at the clock: it was already half two. There were footsteps coming up the stairs, and the way back to the bedroom was directly past the stairway, so he was trapped. Steeling himself and tying the robe a little tighter, and walked back over to stand by the stove.  He knew he must look a sight, his hair sex-mussed and his eyes bleary from sleep-- dressed in Sherlock’s dressing gown no less-- but there was really nothing for it.

The door to the kitchen opened and Lestrade walked in.  

“...hasn’t answered his phone, must be having a lie-in, you know how he is after cases--” Lestrade was saying over his shoulder, then as he caught sight of John, he stopped in his tracks. 

Anderson, who was standing directly behind Lestrade, looked over his shoulder and sniggered. “Is that the so-called Doctor from last night? I knew it. Who had last night on the betting pool? I put my money on next week, blast.”

John lifted his chin just a bit, refusing to address the insult. “Afternoon. Would you like some tea? I’m just making some.” 

Lestrade’s gaze flicked down John’s form once, then over to the pants and trousers slung over the chair, and his mouth twitched. “Where’s Sherlock?” he asked innocently. “And yes, I’d love some tea.” 

“What’s going on? What did the freak do this time?” Sergeant Donovan pushed herself past Lestrade into the kitchen.

“Well, well, then,” Donovan said, crossing her arms and looking John up and down. “I can see you didn't heed my advice and stay away from him.”

“I really fail to see how that’s any of your business whatsoever,” John said airily, leaning back against the counter. “Now if you’ll just be seated, I’d be happy to make you all tea before you head into the salon to work.”

“That’s very kind of you, thanks,” Lestrade said, walking over to the kitchen table with Anderson in tow. He didn’t look smug or disgusted like Donovan and Anderson-- rather, he almosr looked relieved. John frowned at him, making a mental note to find out what that was about.

“John?” Sherlock said from the hallway.  

“In here,” John called out. “Stay there, I’ll be there in a minute--”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock said, yawning as he entered the room with only a sheet wrapped around him. 

“Hi, freak,” Donovan said. “Late night?” She smiled in mock-sweetness up at him, and Anderson sniggered.

Sherlock flinched just the tiniest bit, but quickly regained his composure. "Doing your job for you, yes, it was,” he said imperiously. 

Donovan’s mouth twisted, turning her attention back to John. “You seem like a respectable bloke, John. You should get out of here while you still can. He’s an addict, did he tell you that? Coke mostly. He does whatever he can to get what he wants-- uses people, manipulates them and then gets rid of them as soon as they bore him. I hate to see you used and discarded like a soiled rag by that psychopath.” She spat the last word out.  

John's fists were now clenched at his sides, and he was glaring at her, trying to contain his temper. 

Sherlock, on the other hand, completely ignored her. “Lestrade, you have full reign in the salon. Do show yourselves out once you are done. Afternoon,” Sherlock said, lifting his chin and turning back to march back down the hallway. John winced as he heard the door slam. 

“See,” Donovan said, tilting her head toward Sherlock’s room.

John slowly drew himself up to his full height, which was quite a bit shorter than Donovan, but she visibly shrank at the sight. He looked at her with the full force of his gaze, the kind he used when he was staring down a misbehaving subordinate in the military.   

“He is not a psychopath,” he said quietly, but loud enough that they all could hear, as he started to walk slowly toward her. “You would take kindly, madam, not to call him that. Or a ‘freak,' or whatever else it is you have labeled him. I don’t know what he’s done in the past to make you think that of him, but it’s simply untrue. If you think you can handle that, you are welcome to stay. Otherwise--" he paused, now standing directly in front of her, "--get the fuck out of my flat.” 

Donovan and Anderson gaped at him, and Lestrade’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. The flat was dead quiet for several long seconds, punctuated by the sound of the kettle starting to boil. 

“You really don’t know what you’re getting into, do you?” Anderson asked, still looking slightly stunned.

John frowned, trying to decide how to respond to that, but Lestrade beat him to it.  “We’ve obviously come at a bad time. We’ll be back tomorrow morning, ten a.m. sharp, alright, Doctor Watson? Just don’t go into the living room yet.” 

John clenched his jaw, nodding once. Anderson and Donovan gave him looks that ranged from pity to anger as the D.I. ushered them from the room. It wasn’t until he heard the front door slam shut that John finally closed his eyes, sighing, as he let his chin fall forward to his chest.

There was no sound from the bedroom, but he could guess that Sherlock was sulking in there. Bracing himself, he marched back down the hallway, pushing the door open. Sherlock was standing at one of the windows, his back to John. 

John stepped forward tentatively. “Sherlock--” 

“If you wish to leave before I-- what was it?-- ah yes, discard you like a ‘soiled rag,’ you may feel free to do so. You are under no obligation to pay for the flat, as you have not yet signed a lease.” 

John stopped, frowning. “You honestly think that’s all I care about?”

“What else could you possibly have an investment in? This flat is pleasant, but surely you can find another one with a flatmate that is amenable, and not a psychopath.”

“What else--- seriously? God, you bloody idiot.” John ran his hand through his hair in frustration. “Don’t you remember what I said last night? What we just-- you’re really letting them ruin what we--” he stopped, unable to articulate what had just occurred between them.  

Sherlock didn’t answer, continuing to look out the window, the sheet still wrapped tightly around him. 

“I don’t want to leave,” John said slowly, trying to be as clear as possible. 

“You heard them. It’s best if you do. Besides, I’m used to being alone. In fact, I prefer it.”

“That’s bollocks, and you know it.” 

Sherlock ran his thumb over his lips. “If one’s different, one’s bound to be lonely,” he said softly.  

John frowned at him, recognizing the quote. “It doesn’t have to be that way.”

“That’s the way it’s always been. Why should the course of history alter itself now?” Sherlock’s words had a hollow ring to them, as if he were exhausted after a long fight.

“What are you even talking about?” John clenched his left fist, feeling the tremor start to come back. 

Sherlock sighed, his shoulders slumping further. “You have only been in my company for one day. As Sergeant Donovan so eloquently delineated, you are not fully aware of what I’ve done, who I am.” 

John shook his head. “You don’t know who I am, either.” 

“I’m an addict, John. To drugs, cases. You heard her. ”  

“I don’t care--” John began.

“If you wish to leave now," Sherlock interrupted, "before the situation becomes messy, I won’t stop you.” His voice was quiet, even, as if he had been practicing how to say it in his head. 

John pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to find the right thing to say.  “I don’t think you get it.” 

“Everyone leaves eventually," Sherlock said in that same defeated voice. 

I won’t!” John yelled with more force than he had originally meant to.

Sherlock turned around, his eyebrows raised. “How do you know?” he asked simply. 

John stared at him in shock, mouth agape. As the silence lengthened between them, he shook his head again. “Christ, you really don’t have any idea.”  

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in lieu of a response.

John walked over to join him at the window, taking one of Sherlock’s hands in both of his own. “I don’t want to live life in shades of monochrome. That’s what my life was before.” Before you.  

Sherlock remained unmoved, so John looked down at their hands. “I don’t want comfort. I want poetry, I want danger, I want freedom,” he quoted.

Sherlock blinked at him, looking surprised. “You know Huxley.” 

John’s mouth twitched. “Just because I was a soldier doesn’t mean I haven’t read literature. The real question is why you were quoting a book about a fucked-up dystopia in reference to yourself.” 

Sherlock bit his lip, still looking uncertain, so John sighed in exasperation.

“I don’t care that I don’t know your past. I’ll learn it all. I know it’s only been one day. I know this might seem insane. But I want… I want you,” he said softly.  He pressed his hand to Sherlock’s chest for emphasis, and Sherlock looked down at his hand, his forehead crinkling again. He hesitated for a moment, then pressed his hand flat over John’s. Somehow the small gesture felt more intimate than sex had.

John used his other hand to raise Sherlock's face by the chin. “So?” he said, moving closer. Sherlock’s eyes glinted as they darted all over John’s face. 

There was nothing left to say. Instead, he leaned forward to capture Sherlock’s lips in a kiss. 

Sherlock felt stiff at first, as if he were still somewhat guarded; but John pressed his body against Sherlock’s until he finally relaxed into him. He pulled Sherlock closer, sliding his hands beneath the sheet. They kissed unhurriedly, as if they were making a promise, sealing something deep down that had been unanswered until now. 

John was on the verge of pushing Sherlock back onto the bed for another go when they heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

“Yoo hoo! Are you presentable, dears?” Mrs. Hudson’s voice was like a physical force driving them apart, and Sherlock jumped backward, eyes widening. John bit his lip, trying not to chuckle.

“There in a second, Mrs. Hudson,” he called out.

“Don’t mind me, just bringing you some biscuits.” Her light footsteps moved toward the kitchen.

“Put some clothes on or something, yeah?” John whispered, kissing Sherlock once more before releasing him. Squaring his shoulders, he headed back into the kitchen, where Mrs. Hudson was currently pouring tea into three mugs.  

“Afternoon, Mrs. Hudson,” he said, grabbing a biscuit and biting into it. “Sherlock will be out in a mo’.” 

She looked up at him with a sly grin. “So, you’re moved in already, I see?” 

John glanced back toward Sherlock’s room, trying not to grin too widely.  “Well, I still have to break my lease, but yes.”

Mrs. Hudson handed him a cup of tea. “Here you are,” she said, smiling at him. "Just this once, mind. I'm not your housekeeper."

“Ta,” John said, taking the tea and blowing on it.

“I hope it’s not too bold,” she said lightly, carefully looking down into her cup, “but I’m glad you only need the one bedroom.”

John glanced up at her, unsure how to respond to that. He wasn’t sure whether Sherlock would want him to confirm or deny anything… after all, he’d just outed them to half of NSY.

“Never you mind,” she said, patting his arm. “Just... do what you have been doing. I've never seen him so happy as he has been.” 

“Er, thanks,” John said awkwardly. 

“By the way, dear,” she said, putting down her tea and walking toward the hall. “You might want to get a different headboard. That one makes quite the racket.” 

John flushed in embarrassment, but she simply beamed at him once more before she left. 

"She's gone now," John called out. "You can stop hiding."

"Really, John, I wasn't hiding." Sherlock, now clothed in another dressing gown, flounced up to John and kissed him briefly as if they had been doing it every day for years. Then he picked up his tea in one fluid motion and swept back into the salon.  

“We aren’t supposed to--” John protested. 

“I’ll leave it as I found it. Lestrade won’t know the difference. Come join me,” Sherlock said, grabbing his laptop and laying lengthwise on the couch. 

John rolled his eyes, but followed him anyway. Sherlock leaned upward, as if to indicate that John should sit under his head, so John sighed and sat down. Sherlock rested his head on his lap, wriggling downward a bit, his eyes still glued to the screen. John hesitated, then started combing his hand through Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock sighed, moving his head up into John’s hand, and John’s mouth twitched with the effort not to smile. They sat in this way for a good long time, Sherlock clicking through emails.  

“Hmmm,” Sherlock hummed eventually. 

“What?” John prompted. 

“Old friend of mine from uni. Well, I say friend.”

“What’s this ‘not-friend’ want, exactly?” 

“Needs help with some kind of break-in at his bank. The cameras didn’t catch anything.”

“Interesting. When do we meet him?” John asked.

“We,” Sherlock repeated slowly, his eyes still on the screen. It was as if he’d never heard the word before.  

“Yes, we,” John said, running his hand down to Sherlock’s chin and pulling it upward so that he could plant another kiss on Sherlock’s lips.  

As John leaned back, Sherlock’s eyes were keenly searching John’s face as if there were something there he should be able to deduce. It was the same look he’d given John the night before when he’d asked, Why you, John Watson? 

John grinned.  “Well, then, how’s about we have one more shag, then I’ll go to my flat and move my paltry belongings before we go and investigate?”

Sherlock watched him for another long moment before his lips slid upward into a smile. “God, yes,” he breathed, pulling John down to capture his lips in another lingering kiss.