A/N: Written for a prompt on the Sherlock BBC kink meme, which starts with John having a very bad day.
x
He wakes up, literally, on the wrong side of the bed. He's gotten all tangled up in his sheets and his head is lolling off the side and he was having some sort of horrid anxiety dream about grocery shopping and misplaced eyeballs, so he knows before he even gets up that today is going to be a Bad Day.
Then it becomes wretched. It starts raining as soon as he steps off the Tube and he doesn't have an umbrella. His watch stops, so he's late, and he doesn't even realize he's late until his first patient is yelling at him and spitting in his face for keeping him waiting, and then when he thinks it just has to get better, instead of worse, it doesn't. He drops everything he touches, misplaces or runs out of everything he needs, and the only lunch he has time for is a stale bagel from the bakery across the street—and he has to sprint there and back through the rain to get it, too. He doesn't have much patience left by the time he finally gets off work, and certainly not enough patience to deal with the shoving and jostling crowds on his commute, or the puddle from the morning's rains that he accidentally steps in as he turns the corner onto Baker Street. He's just about ready to snap when he realizes he's forgotten his key, and it's only by grace of the well-timed arrival of Mrs. Turner and her shopping that he's even able to get into his own building. He wouldn't even call meeting her luck, either, because she keeps him standing awkwardly at the door to 221B, listening to all the latest news about her son and his husband and how they might be considering a divorce, and oh she hopes he and that nice Mr. Holmes are doing well, they make a lovely couple, she thinks, and there's only so much smiling and nodding he can do before he finally tears himself free and escapes into his flat.
Sherlock is in the kitchen, reading a magazine with one eye while he keeps watch with the other on something molding in a series of dishes, beakers, and test tubes arranged on the table. John throws his still-damp jacket over a chair and kicks his soaked shoes off into a corner, and then he starts taking down a mug and opening a new box of tea and filling the kettle. He takes a certain amount of pleasure from making as much noise as possible. It's childish, but it's just been that sort of day.
"Something wrong?" Sherlock asks absently, as John turns on the stove.
"Why, yes, Sherlock, there is in fact, 'something wrong,'" John answers. He leans with his hands on the top rung of his chair, and stares Sherlock down as best he can, which is difficult, as Sherlock's face is still mostly hidden by the magazine he's keeping just in front of his nose. It isn't that John is annoyed at Sherlock, in particular. He fully expected Sherlock both to read his mood the second he stepped through the door, and not to care in the slightest about that mood, and he isn't offended, because he knows Sherlock well enough by now to know that being offended would be a waste of his time and energy. He's certainly not looking for sympathy. Nothing tragic has happened, after all. "What is wrong," he continues, "is that I have had a horrible day. Nothing has gone right. I do not even want to discuss all of the many, many, little things that have gone wrong and have put me in this terrible mood that you see me in now."
"Okay," Sherlock agrees, still not bothering to glance up from his reading. He does flip his page over, casually, and he spares a look for a moment at one of his beakers of slime before continuing his paragraph. But he doesn't say anything else. John stands where he is, with his grip so tight on the top chair rung he thinks he might break the goddamn thing, but Sherlock doesn't show any more interest in him or his day.
"Did you hear what I just said?" he prompts. The tea kettle is starting to rattle as the water approaches boiling point.
"Yes. You said you'd had a horrible day," Sherlock answers idly, and turns his magazine over to read the opposite page.
"Exactly," John says. "It was horrible. So horrible in fact that once I finish my tea, I'm going to fuck you into the mattress like there's no tomorrow."
At that, Sherlock flips his magazine over his shoulder. It lands in a splayed, bent-page mess near the cabinets where they store the pots. John could almost smile at how easy it is, when he wants, to get Sherlock's full attention, except he wasn't joking, and he's not in a smiling mood. For a moment, Sherlock just stares at him, eyes slightly narrowed, as if he's trying to determine just how serious John is. For his part, John works to keep his expression unfalteringly neutral.
Then Sherlock asks abruptly, "Is the tea really necessary?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
John sighs, the sound barely audible as the kettle starts to whistle, and turns away to fill his cup. "Because," he says as he returns, "I always drink tea when I come home from work."
Sherlock frowns at him as if he found this to be a completely inadequate reason for taking tea, but he doesn't argue. It's almost as annoying to watch him just sitting there, arms folded across each other on the table, watching John as unblinkingly as he watches one of his experiments, as it is to be ignored, but then Sherlock's doing this on purpose too—he wants to keep John on edge. He doesn't want the tea to soothe him too much.
John touches his palms gingerly to the sides of his cup; it's still steaming and almost burns. He breathes in the dark, black smell of it and feels some of the day's tension start to slide off his shoulders, and he even closes his eyes to it, that slow and gentle process of unwinding.
When he opens his eyes again, Sherlock's frown has deepened. It's almost a pout now, an upset child's expression. "You're not even drinking your tea," he points out.
"Not all of us like to scald our tongues with our drinks," John points out tersely, and sets to ignoring Sherlock again.
He has just started to sip tentatively at the still-burning liquid when Sherlock asks, "May I have a sip?" in a voice so polite even someone who didn't know him would be suspicious.
"No," John answers. "You'll drink all of it at once."
Sherlock makes a low, frustrated noise, almost a snort, through his nose. He presses his lips together, fidgets, stretches out his legs until they hit John's and then pulls them back as if it were an accident. It's almost an enjoyable show. Slowly, John's tea cools, and he starts to take bigger sips and then almost-gulps. He looks at Sherlock, still watching him impatiently from the other side of the table. He imagines pulling him forward by the collar of that stupidly attractive purple button-down shirt, smashing their mouths together without grace, so that it hurts, imagines throwing Sherlock back against the wall with a thump so loud all their neighbors will hear and then sending expensive buttons scattering over the floor, yanking down the zip on his trousers and thrusting his hand past layers of fabric, or one layer at least, as Sherlock often seems to find putting on underwear to be a waste of his time, and watching the way Sherlock's eyes go wide. He'll make his hands into fists and bite his lip and pretend later that he hadn't, or that John couldn't read his desperation in these movements. He'll pretend that he's immune to John's touch and John's kiss and that John can't bring him to his knees in minutes, but they'll both know he's lying.
John can already feel his blood pulsing a bit quicker through his veins.
"Are you done yet?" Sherlock asks him tensely.
"No," he answers. "Don't rush me. Haven't you ever heard of patience?"
"No. Perhaps you should instruct me." His eyebrows twitch up at the word instruct, and he manages to make it sound almost filthy with the just the barest change in inflection. John knows just what he's picturing, and he almost smiles, then forces his expression clear at the last moment.
"If I wanted to teach you patience," he says, and drains the last of his tea, "I wouldn't fuck you. I'd make you wait." He stands. "Maybe for days." Sherlock's eyes widen for a brief half-second, as if he honestly believed John's threat. "But," he continues, and strips off his jumper in one quick, easy movement, and lets it fall on the floor by his chair, "that wouldn't do anything to improve my day."
"No," Sherlock murmurs in agreement. He barely opens his mouth to say the word, and it comes out a low purr. "It certainly wouldn't."
John takes two steps around the table, never letting his eyes stray from Sherlock's face for a second, and then he fists his hand into Sherlock's shirt and pulls him up to his feet. Sherlock lets himself be dragged. He's almost giddy and John knows it, knows that look on his face well. Even though has to stretch, has to tilt his head back, to get his face into Sherlock's face, it doesn't matter. He's still in control and they both know it.
"Into the mattress," he whispers, each syllable perfectly enunciated and slow, and he feels a great satisfaction at the way Sherlock visibly shivers at the words.
John presses his body up close to Sherlock's and then, in one sudden, rough, movement, he grabs Sherlock by the back of the neck and pulls him down for a kiss. Sherlock makes a startled, caught-off-guard noise into John's mouth, then recovers, and brings his arms to circle around John's back. Slowly, John starts to walk them backwards, until he's pressed Sherlock up against the kitchen wall. He forces his tongue in past Sherlock's lips and kisses him messily, desperately, carelessly, he lets himself sink, lets himself go.
He forces himself to pull away only with difficulty, though Sherlock leans in after him, trying to recapture the kiss. John just shakes his head sternly. "Patience," he murmurs.
"Fuck patience," Sherlock answers.
At this, John actually laughs, a light and quiet laugh, the first one he's had all day. He's glad for it. He could just about kiss Sherlock, except that that's already been done. So he hooks one finger into the waistband of Sherlock's trousers and starts to lead him, lightly but undeniably, back through the kitchen and toward the door of Sherlock's bedroom. "Are you sure that's the sentiment you're going for?" he asks, lightly but with a bit of edge, for that, to the words, as they step through the doorway.
"No," Sherlock admits. "What I meant—"
John cuts him off with a rough push; he lands on his back on the bed with a bounce. "What you meant?" he prompts.
"What I meant," Sherlock answers, "is fuck me."
"That's what I thought," John grins, and reaches back with one hand to close the door.