Disclaimer: no recognizable characters are mine. Rated for blasphemy, swearing, and adult situations.
Notes: Poor John.
Enjoy!
It wasn't often John brought someone home.
He didn't get many opportunities to meet women. He was usually too busy with work and the maelstrom living with the "Consulting Detective" could be, and after the disastrous first date with Sarah from the clinic, she barely even spoke to him. Happily, she kept everything professional and never mentioned that horrid night.
But tonight he'd gone to the pub with a few colleagues. Sarah was there, at the end of the table, but she ignored him and he found it easy to ignore her when a petite phlebotomist insisted on keeping his attention. She seemed more interested in him than his blog and subsequent association with Mr. Sherlock Holmes. She also laughed easily and touched his arm, and as the evening wore on her touches lingered longer and twice she slid her fingers down his chest.
He wasn't drunk, not really, just feeling good and suddenly horny and even more suddenly daring, and he invited her back to the flat.
She agreed.
With an arm around her both for support and to lay claim, John took her outside and hailed a cab.
They shared their first fumbly kiss in the back seat, and that sudden horniness bloomed to full on rut. She pulled herself over him to kiss him more deeply and his hands slipped up her shirt to encounter the latch and hook of her bra. That was a little more involved than his fingers could handle tipsy and in the dark of a taxi, so he settled for cupping her breasts. She seemed appreciative.
Then they were at home. The steps from vehicle to door were slowed by groping but the chill night air helped clear his head a bit. John didn't have much difficulty getting the key in the lock and getting her inside quietly.
Sherlock was gone. John half remembered that detail; the detective blitzed out of the flat an hour before John had left for his own evening out, muttering something about bridges and the Fool card from the Tarot.
But Mrs. Hudson was still here, so it was prudent and polite to try and be quiet. With a minimum of giggling and stumbling they made their way up to John's bedroom. He'd bypassed the main living quarters without asking if she'd like another drink or a coffee or to sit or something; he couldn't recall if that leg Sherlock had swaddled in cling wrap was still on the chair in the kitchen and didn't want to bring the evening to a screeching halt while trying to explain it.
His insistence of going straight to the bedroom was met with more giggles, a faked, "Aren't you a cheeky bastard?" reluctance, and absolutely no resistance.
Still, they held back a bit: feeling each other up in the back of a cab hadn't necessarily meant that they'd end up in bed together, but now actually in the presence of a bed they both hesitated a moment.
John wondered if it was best to leave the light on or if that were odd; he couldn't decide if his desire to be able to see her naked overrode the reluctance to be seen naked himself.
When she stripped out of her shirt and that fiendish bra, the decision was made.
He pulled her down on top of him on the bed, and suddenly both of them were wearing too much clothing. Buttons, zippers, and shoes were offensive barriers that were undone and kicked away as quickly as possible, and pants and shirts were tossed unceremoniously to the floor.
In very little time, he and she were naked, kissing exposed flesh, rolling over each other in half-hearted attempts at dominance, and not talking because doing was so very much more important.
At the back of his mind John tried to recollect if he had a condom handy. He'd ended up on top, holding himself up on his knees between her thighs. He didn't want to stop but knew he should; she didn't make his trying to be responsible any easier by urging him forward with eager moans and grasping his ass.
It'd been so long since he'd been laid. He wanted to be safe, wanted it to last, and wanted to go as quickly as possible all at the same time.
Just as he started to give in, protection be damned, her fingernails dug sharply into his skin and she let out an awful half-yelp. In the next second she'd scooted up and out from under him, flailing for the sheets.
"What?" John asked stupidly. He looked over his shoulder and jumped too.
Sherlock sat at the end of the bed.