Title: Flirting
Author: AnitaB
Author's notes: I own nothing from Sherlock and make no money. No infringement is intended. Set in my co writer's fix it land for Reichenbach, John and Sherlock reaffirm their relationship after a night out at the pub with their friends. That man at the bar should have known better than to flirt with John's Sherlock. Committed slash romantic smut ahead. Be warned.
Flirting
by AnitaB
Chapter 1: Knowing Why
The door slammed shut behind the two men with a chill swoop of London air. Several more steps took them to the flat of the wall at the base of the stairs. Breathing that was just beginning to slow after the running was held as eyes met in a moment of tension.
Then the two fully grown men started giggling as they leaned against the wall.
"How do we keep getting ourselves into things like that?" John fought the laughter into a submission that only lasted until Sherlock smiled at him.
"Well, we caught the killer, in record time no less." Sherlock's smile twisted just a bit. "So you wanted to celebrate with a pint."
"Don't act like you weren't enjoying yourself. You kept telling Lestrade old stories of your exploits just to keep him laughing." John smiled, tapped a hand on the sleeve of Sherlock's coat. "I've never seen him or Molly laugh that hard."
Sherlock made the 'I know I'm clever' shrug and then turned to meet John's eyes more directly. "And then the man stopped at our table…"
He watched John's smile fade a bit, his jaw tightening subtly. "To flirt with you, Sherlock. And you let him." The 'it was nothing' wave of Sherlock's hand only narrowed John's eyes more. His hand on Sherlock's coat closed over a fold of the cloth. "And then you let him corner you at the bar when you went for the next round." John's hand tightened, the other one rising from the wall for a matching grip on the other sleeve. "You even let him touch you when any idiot could see you didn't want him to. Why?"
Sherlock's shrug didn't answer the question, but that didn't keep him from responding with words. "Another two pounds of pressure and you would have broken his wrist when you pinned him over the bar."
"And don't even think that I didn't consider giving him the break instead of the sprain. And don't try to tell me you don't know why, Sherlock."
The hands that had defended his honor tonight and his life so many times opened, slid up the arms of his coat to get a grip on the collar. Sherlock knew he was leaning closer, watching those lips move around the sound of his name. "And what if I really don't know why, John?"
"Then you're an idiot." One set of those fingers fisted in his scarf to bend him just a little lower. Sherlock rested both hands on John's sides, fingertips curling into his coat pockets for a grip. "You know I'm the only one who can touch you like that. The only one you want touching you like that."
Now Sherlock was smiling, sliding both hands around to pull John more securely against him. "Prove it,"
He adored that sound on John's lips. And the former soldier knew it, made that breathless little growl -on purpose just for the response he got. John adored the sight of Sherlock's eyes half-closed with need.
Strong fingers caught and clenched in his hair, holding him a breathless, straining inch from those lips. "You and your evidence. Here's some data for you."
Lips touched. Just touched for several beats of Sherlock's heart. He knew the shape of these lips against his own, knew the exact combination of soft and firm pressure. He knew exactly how even this simple a kiss changed their heart rates, spiked their breathing. If Sherlock were to pull back right now, John would look at him with pupils blown wide, reach for him with trembling hands.
But he didn't want to pull back. He wanted to press closer, infinitely closer. Sherlock wanted more warmth, wanted the hitch in John's breathing when he deepened the kiss, wanted John's taste on his tongue.
Sherlock smiled against those lips and changed the angle of John's head with one hand along that stubborn jaw. John's lips opened just a bit automatically, then he gasped around the first thrust of Sherlock's tongue.
He adored that gasp, adored the play of that tongue against his own. /More, John, give me more.\\
It was like John heard him, like the doctor in his arms had read his mind. Or maybe he just wanted Sherlock as much as Sherlock wanted him. Because strong arms tightened around him as John took over the kiss and claimed the inside of Sherlock's mouth with a low growl and an agile tongue.
That was exactly what he wanted. John was the only one who could make him feel like this, the only one he ever wanted to touch him. Even as that man suddenly pulled back.
"Sherlock, we have to take this upstairs unless we want Mrs. Hudson to need her 'soothers' before dinner." And people called him a genius. Sherlock stopped resisting the hand pressed against his chest and wove their fingers together instead.
"Lead the way, John."
000
That man could be infuriating. But he could also be amazing, incredible, and so damn hot that John still had a hard time believing that Sherlock had picked him.
Short, ordinary, scarred John Watson was the only person that tall, extraordinary, statuesque Sherlock Holmes responded to like this. He, with only a kiss, a touch, a sound, could bring this amazing man to full attention or complete distraction.
He could pull the most delicious sounds from those lips. He could make that man shake with need and even forget he was halfway through an experiment.
He, John Ordinary Watson, could make Sherlock press hard against his hand and ask with every inch of his body for another kiss.
Something John always wanted to give him. Every single day.
John watched as Sherlock deliberately joined their hands together right against his chest. John could feel the rhythm change against his hand. He watched those perfect eyes drop to his lips, watched Sherlock watch and mirror his stroke of his own tongue over his own lip. "Lead the way, John."
It was hard to breathe at the way Sherlock made his name sound. It was hard to remember why he shouldn't pin that lean body right back against the foyer wall to kiss him until his knees went weak. They could peel off a couple of layers right here and …
/Oh, that's right. We don't want Mrs. Hudson to have another fainting spell.\\
"Right, upstairs." John dropped his hand, keeping Sherlock's fingers tight between his own. Doing a sharp about face on one heel, he moved up the stairs trailing Sherlock by the length of their arms.
He didn't rush the steps for one simple reason. It was always more fun to wait and make impatient Sherlock to the rushing. There was nothing John liked more than when Sherlock reached for him, wanted him.
Just like this. The second Sherlock's heels crossed their door he took back his hand. John watched as Sherlock's coat hit the floor at his heels, followed just as quickly by his suit jacket.
Then those hands, shaking just a little bit, reached for the zipper of John's coat. "John," Long fingers pulled John close and he completely forgot any thoughts about trying to slow Sherlock down a bit. But then Sherlock's kisses always made him forget anything existed beyond the need for more of this man against more of him.
Groaning against those perfect lips, John helped Sherlock peel the jacket off him and reached for the buttons of Sherlock's shirt. He wasn't about to be the only one naked. And if Sherlock had his way, John would be down to his skin before the genius lost one more stitch of clothing. John found himself pinned to that lean chest as those hands jerked at the back of his jumper. "Hmm, no, Sherlock…" His voice stopped in his throat at the hot, strong slide of those hands up his back flat against his skin.
/Oh, bloody, hell, yes, Sherlock. Touch me.\\ John gave in for a moment, fisting both hands into dark curls to drag his stupid genius in for a desperate kiss.
He was lost in the thrust and dance of their tongues until Sherlock's simply gorgeous hands stroked up his chest and over his scar. "Hmm, John, let me…"
/Let me strip you bare and drive you mad with pleasure, John.\\ That's what Sherlock meant by the breathless set of words and the strain of his fingers upward. That's what Sherlock always meant. "No, Sherlock, you're losing the shirt first or I'm ripping you out of it and damn the buttons."
Sherlock chuckled against his mouth and pulled back those hot, strong hands. "Yes, sir, now lose the jumper."
Good lord, that man was gorgeous. John stepped back, peeling his jumper off over his head, watching those amazing hands dance down the buttons hiding that lean chest. Pale skin gleamed in the growing gap. It made him want to touch, lick, maybe even bite.
Finally all those buttons were open and Sherlock paused with his hands at his belt. "Your turn, John, or am I ripping you out of your buttons?"
As fun as that had been the last time, John didn't want to beg Mrs. Hudson into another round of sewing.
And he bloody well adored the way Sherlock always looked at him when he was shirtless. John sped his way through the buttons before meeting those eyes with a warm smile. "Same time?"
Sherlock nodded and locked his eyes to the gap in John's shirt. The heat in those eyes was burning him alive. And he wanted more.
Two pairs of shoulders rolled and two shirts hit the floor at their heels. /Bloody gorgeous, my Sherlock.\\
Those lips were swollen from his kiss. Those eyes were filled with heat as they trailed over his body. Those hands clenched in time with a low, sweet groan.
And that skin… that smooth, pale skin begged to be touched, to be kissed. "Sherlock,"
"Come here, John. I need you."
Hell itself couldn't keep John from stepping into those open arms, leaning in for that desperate hungry kiss and the heat of all that skin against his own.
000