When it's right…oh, God, when it's right, there's nothing righter. When it all comes together: the case, the chase. The work and the friendship and the passion. Sherlock's brilliant, and with John beside him even more so. It was a near perfect love affair before it was one. Or maybe it always was one, from "Afghanistan or Iraq?" the sex just another layer.
They tumble through the door of 221b, made stupid on adrenaline, triumph and sass, which quickly jumbles into lust so burning that it is only—belated—respect for Mrs. H that stops them from having it off in the hall. By the time they stumble up the stairs, their trousers are undone and their shirts half off. They're grinding together leaning against the door frame when John works his hand between them to grip both cocks and stroke them. Sherlock's head falls back against the wood. "Fuck!" he yells. Well, to hell with respecting Mrs. Hudson's sensibilities. Not when Sherlock's keeping up a steady stream of expletives detailing what he wants to do to John and how he wants to do it in a rumbling voice that would reach the back of the Albert Hall. But when John comes he lets out a cry in his higher tenor range that can probably be heard in the street below.