Sherlock sat in his apartment, gun cocked in hand, ready to fire at the wall that seemed to close in on him every moment John wasn't there. He sighed and closed his eyes, pulling the trigger and resisting the kick of the gun. He shot the wall three more times, each time making him increasingly irritated. His mind was racing - this was unusual for him, the loss of control of his imagination. But his imagination ran wild - whenever he tried to tame it, it just grew more vivid.
John stepped out of the cab, heart pulsing rapidly, short of breath. Ten quick strides and he'd be to the door that led to his - and Sherlock's - apartment. One turn of the knob, one push of the door, twenty steps to climb and he'd be face-to-face with Sherlock. He head swam with images of endless possibilities. Sherlock was always so unpredictable, one step ahead of him.
Sherlock heard the car door slam shut, followed by the echoing footsteps of John slowly ascending the stairs, as if he was procrastinating their inevitable match. Sherlock didn't face the door, he knew that it was John. There was a certain confidence he walked with, presumably learned while he was in service. He heard John reach the top step and hesitate with his hand on the doorknob, before slowing pushing it open. "Sherlock?" John almost whispered.
Sherlock didn't turn to face him, didn't respond to him. He sat motionless, knuckles white from his tightly-clenched fist that wrapped around the arm of his now-empty gun. "I see you've emptied your gun into our wall again. I'm surprised Ms. Hudson hasn't confronted you." John was making small talk; he was nervous. Sherlock detected a slight quiver, uncertainty, in John's voice that was always reserved for when he spoke to him.
"Ms. Hudson is out on errands," Sherlock drawled. He stood and turned quickly, coming face-to-face with John. "Oh, I didn't expect you to be so near."
"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I did a terrible thing."
"What terrible thing could you have done, John? You weren't gone long." They were playing a game now; they both knew Sherlock was already aware of what had happened.
"I might have tipped Mycroft some fairly inaccurate information about the current case we're working on." A twinkle in John's eye sent a shiver up Sherlock's spine.
"Ooo, naughty John Watson. What must I do to punish you?" He ran a hand through John's short, silver hair and cupped his chin, pulling his face up to his. John's chin was sprinkled with hair and he smelled strongly of aftershave.
John let out a shaky breath he hadn't realized he was holding and clasped his hand around Sherlock's wrist, ensuring it would not leave its position. Sherlock's eyes were fiery, and he violently pushed his lips against John's. Their teeth clashed against each other, their tongues battling each other's for dominance. John always tasted of liquor; it wasn't a taste Sherlock was fond of, but it certainly could be intoxicating.
Sherlock was always a man of habit, methodically running his hand through John's hair, slow and tantalizing. "When will Ms. Hudson get home?" John muttered between kisses.
"We have enough time. I might have suggested she pick up a few extra things," Sherlock teased.
"Fantastic," John pulled Sherlock closer, unzipping his pants.