Summary: John is hopeful at best about ending up in the bedroom, Sherlock is resolute and always manages to keep John in their living room area.
Disclaimer: This is meant to be an escape from existential dread. And Johnlock is fucking real.
(See the end of the work for more notes)
Morning Tea
"Why do you never deny it?"
There. He did it. John Watson had finally found the courage to ask Sherlock Holmes the question that had been nagging at his mind ever since their first case.
Since there wasn't a question with a more obvious answer, Sherlock Holmes paid it no mind.
"Sherlock?" John asked, craning his neck and catching a glimpse of the top of his roommate's mop of dark curls over The Times.
"Hm?"
Terse. Disinterested. Classic Sherlock.
"Why do you never deny it?"
Silence.
"Sherlock-" John started and instantly heard the kettle go off. He sighed before getting up.
John was pouring the tea into their mugs when he chanced a glance towards the sitting area and heard the papers rustle back upwards. John grinned into his tea.
"I'm not an idiot..." Sherlock arched an eyebrow at that which John pointedly ignored, "I did notice you bought that frightful Chinese cat sculpture."
Sherlock was staring at his paper again.
"After the shopkeeper suggested your wife would like it"
"Do you want milk in your tea?" Sherlock asked, dropping the daily and dashing to the kitchen, his voice a little too loud.
John turned back to his paper and grinned into his second cup of tea.
"Because I never considered myself adequate."
A fortnight and a day, John counted silently, while Sherlock drew his violin away and turned to look him in the eye in weeks.
John couldn't decide if was: Baffled. Humbled. Terrified. Wanting. In that particular order or not.
"Oh Sherlock," he said, realization dawning slowly, "that's not how it works."
"While I appreciate your sentiments, John, I'm very sure-" but he never got to the end of that sentence because John put away his cup of tea and practically leapt across the room to press his lips to Sherlock's in response.
Jesus Christ. John thinks when Sherlock looks at him from over the rim of his teacup, his eyes dark and heated.
Was this a come on?
He was a little uncertain since they hadn't really done anything of consequence so far. Except for that one hell of a snogging session they had had three weeks ago against their door when they'd both been intoxicated on adrenaline after successfully chasing a burglar for ten straight minutes.
Not that he minded the lack of snogging too much as they were always preoccupied with The Work since John's blog.
Okay, no, he did mind. A bit.
A lot, actually.
So when Sherlock lowered his cup, still looking at him with his lips now slightly parted and his face a little flushed, John decided this was definitely a come on.
"Is this a come on?" he asked, instantly cursing his insecurity.
Sherlock raised his eyebrows in irony, "Obviously."
John had wondered for so long that he had deeply miscalculated how it would feel to actually do this. This right now, with the morning daily askew on the floor and John sliding down his armchair under Sherlock's weight while John grasped around, undoing his shirt buttons while his roommate undid his belt. Their cups of tea long forgotten and cold, sweating together on the coffee table by his side.
"Fuck-"
John's vocabulary, while they remained in their flat, had become increasingly limited to that word and its variations.
"Oh god."
Sherlock chuckled with his mouth still around his prick, his breath hot against it.
"Fuck-"
"John-" he breathed, clicking his tongue and pulling away with a faint pop.
"Shut up!"
Sherlock flashed John his cheekiest grin before settling back down on his elbows again.
John couldn't, for the life of him, understand how they hadn't done this all the time now that they were doing this all the time.
Although his current position wasn't the most comfortable what with the heating not yet turned on and his arse freezing on the floor and his back stiff with his and Sherlock's combined weight against their door.
"Sherlock-"
Insistent full lips on his, large pale hands cold and roving his hot skin.
A nearly missed clicking sound, the opening of the front door downstairs.
"Sherlock-"
A throat clearing with intent and a swift series of knocks on their door that vibrated against John's skin.
"Sherlock-"
"What?" Sherlock barked, his cheeks matching the colour of his lips.
"I think its Mycroft."
"Well, he can't get in," he answered tersely, pausing briefly.
"I wouldn't count on tha-Oh. Christ."
They really needed the privacy as the number of visitations to 221B seemed to have suddenly tripled ever since John and Sherlock had addressed their mutual feelings.
"Yoo-hoo, boys!" he heard Mrs Hudson shout, "Keep it down up there, please." while Sherlock paid no heed.
John swore for the umpteenth time that he would make sure they were in one of the bedrooms next time they were at it.
One of these days they would surely make it to the bedroom...
John thought wistfully and with a lot of effort since an extremely resolute Sherlock simply refused to relocate, working his mouth furiously while John clutched his partner's hair and spilt on his lips and jaw, panting heavily and biting down on his lower lip in pleasure as Sherlock began to smile from his position.
"Hello? John? Sherlock? I haven't heard from you since last night. I tried calling the both of you, twenty-eight texts, Sherlock. What is-"
Greg Lestrade registered the sight of his two friends. One was sat on the table with no pants, and the other (with pants on, thank god!) was kneeling by the same, placed precariously between the former's legs.
Bloody Fucking hell.
He then looked at John Watson's red face, then down at Sherlock's unperturbed-slightly annoyed red face, then back at John Watson while the both of them looked at his own face which felt extremely red.
"Oh my god"
"No" was all John could say.
"Did you need something, Lestrade?"
"Oh my god" Greg simply repeated.
"Yeah-"
"Best if you wait downstairs" Sherlock chirped, throwing him a caustic tight-lipped smirk.
"Oh my god" Greg continued, climbing down the staircase with his arms supporting him on the wooden bannister.
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