What do you mean you don't believe in love?"
"I never said I didn't believe in love, I merely stated that I don't believe in the concept of two mundanes relying solely on each other to provide solace," Sherlock corrected, his teal eyes never leaving the thick pages he scrutinized so intently. John raked a hand over his face wearily —years in the military would make that a ritual —and drew an exasperated sigh from his firm seat in the leather armchair directly across from the contemptuous man.
"You know you just contradicted yourself, right?"
"I am aware of what comes out of my mouth, Watson," he replied evenly. John always wondered how any man could be as collected as he. It was as if he was born with the indifferent attitude. "Besides, what kind of living is it when you're constantly dependent on someone else? It isn't probable."
"Oh c'mon, it isn't that improbable," he argued. This made Sherlock crane his neck in sudden curiosity.
"It sounds to me like you're speaking from experience." He folded his hands over his chest, waiting attentively for John's faltering response.
"No—no, I just—I mean that I know many people who have successfully established a relationship and do, in fact, love each other," he confirmed.
"Oh, so you developed telepathy," he stated sadistically, narrowing his eyes for the dramatic effect, "tell me, what am I thinking?"
John heaved another sigh, yet again growing jaded with his partner's belligerence. "You think I'm crazy and love is bullshit."
"Bingo. Well, minus the fact that I think you're crazy because I consequently—"
"Stand up," John demanded abruptly, swinging from the chair.
"What?"
"You heard me," John said, his eyes never averting the taller man and his voice never leaving its sternness, "stand up." Sherlock scoffed; his friend was surely losing his last marble.
John began to move nearer to him until he was just under his chin and he could feel his warm, steady breathing sweeping across his hair. "John, I don't-"
John was just the height to press his lips into the crook of his neck, lightly massaging at the bare skin with his tongue. The taller man hesitated shortly before eventually succumbing to the pressure, propelling John onto his cluttered desk. He spread his legs apart with his long fingers, and climbed over him in attempt to arrange himself perfectly between John's legs. John reeled him in, their tongues entangling, hungrily vying for dominance. John began rummaging his calloused fingers through Sherlock's black tresses, dissecting every brown ringlet. John had always loved his flat mate's hair, soft and coiled to perfection; Sherlock had always favored John's fingers, the tips hardened over years of relentless training.
His upper body retracted as John's hands advanced underneath his sweater, which only thrust his lower into John's throbbing prostate.
"Are you-?"
Sherlock kissed him rapturously, a soundless method of silencing him. To testify even further he began shrugging off the fabric that segregated them and tossing it to the ground along with every other item. He used his other hand to grasp his chin, smashing his lips to form an oval.
"Don't ask stupid questions," he breathed, returning their lips again.
Perspiration began to seep from his cock, he could feel it as it scratched against the denim and with Sherlock pressed sharply against him it certainly didn't do him any favors. He attempted to distract himself by running his fingers over Sherlock's taut shoulder muscles, but this only made it worse. As if reading his mind (which he was quite certain wouldn't be the first time), he began tugging on his jeans before John consequently removed those himself. Soon Sherlock's only concern was getting John in his natural state, and one by one he moved for his jacket, then leisurely for his sweater and lastly his briefs. He began trailing his lips down his torso, eventually sinking his teeth into his flesh as he neared his cock. His eyes gleaming with sudden fascination, he traced his forefingers around the exterior of his prostate, merely teasing the bone. Then, full-fledged, he took John in his mouth; an attempt to ease the tense muscle. At first it was a soft, pleasurable sensation, then, as he began to increase his pace with small bites around his shaft, it was almost more than he could handle not to plead for mercy. A hoarse moan escaped the smaller man; he did, in fact, feel much better.
John pulled him forward again before he could finish and kissed him again to which Sherlock rightfully returned, this time only brushing against his lower lip. A small grin tugged at Sherlock's lips in satisfactory; he never thought John to be the simple and submissive one.
"So, do you believe?"
"It literally pains me to be as susceptible as the average person, which would also mean my former knowledge of scientology, well, has been disproved entirely-"
"Oh for God sakes, Sherlock, I asked for an answer not an essay," John blurted sourly.
"Yes, I do," he confirmed before turning away briefly to mutter, "I suppose my coherent reasoning can only be stretched so far..." John reeled him in for another extended kiss.
"Shut up, Sherlock."