Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock. Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss are the creators.

Army Reunion

Summary: John's old regiment, The Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, are having a reunion. When John walks into the living room in his uniform, it has a rather pleasant effect on Sherlock. Johnlock. One-shot. Light smut.

"Do you have to go out tonight?" Sherlock whines as John goes through his wardrobe, pulling clothes off the hooks and adding to the mess of their bedroom. A pale blue shirt lands alongside a congealed bowl of blood and spoil milk Sherlock was experimenting with a few weeks ago. He shudders at the putrid colour and rancid smell accompanying it as he reminds himself that the upcoming weekend is their day to tidy the flat before Mrs Hudson can threaten them with eviction again. Of course it's an action she'd never follow through with.

"Yes. I haven't seen my regiment in 10 years! It'll be nice to finally meet up, see how we're all faring as civilians. You can come along too; we agreed that we can bring a plus one."

"No. I'll most likely say or deduce something that will either upset or embarrass that person. All of which would make your acquaintances hate me and be annoyed at you for bringing me."

"True, but I thought I'd ask regardless. Alright, I'm going to get changed." He announces pushing Sherlock off the bed and out of their room. The man's seen him naked countless times but he wants his attire to be a surprise so kicking him out like an _ cat will suffice. Sherlock flops into his chair in the living room, boredom driving his thoughts into dangerous territory such as purchasing his own gun to assault the wall instead of using John's. There's nothing wrong with using his browning but having two firearms will surely relieve double the amount of boredom? Before he can conclude on this _, only 10 minutes have passed as he hears footsteps move down the hall towards him. John stands in front of his partner clad in his uniform. He coughs lightly and holds out his arms.

"What do you think?" Sherlock's eyes widen as he looks over John's psychic. He isn't as athletic as he was in his army days but the uniform still fits in all the right places.

"I…" Sherlock trails off, his eyes roaming over his partner in crime, literally, and appreciates the sight that falls before him. He continues to absorb the image, his senses running enflamed as he stares entranced at the man in uniform; from the khaki jacket to the dog tags disappearing below his white tee. That's the final straw. Much to his own surprise, he stands off the couch and crosses the room to the solider.

"You are not going out." Sherlock demands, grabbing John's face and connecting their mouths in a familiar and heated fashion. They've had their intense moments, Sherlock is human after all no matter how much he tries to suppress the fact, as well as their more slow and gentle ones; both leaving them swimming in lust or love. John moans into the kiss, taken aback by the sudden action and enjoying the loss of control; rather parallel to the reunion he is going to run late for where control was once everything. Without control, you died. Allowing himself to indulge, he drops his _, through this gesture showing Sherlock he has control and isn't disappointed when he's pinned against the nearest wall. Sherlock moves to his neck, his hand roaming over the camouflage clothes and reaches the cool tags.

"Sher - Sherlock." John grits out, just managing to detach himself from the eager detective while keeping his arms around the taller man's waist as he surfaces from _.

"I'm going to be late."

Drawing on his old career for some strength he straightens up, taking a step back. He instantly regrets the action, seeing Sherlock's flustered face, his pink cheeks, slightly swollen lips and erratic hair. Arousal thrums through him, wanting nothing more to skip the evening and remain in the flat until a horn form outside alerts him that his taxi has arrived.

"Don't you want to continue this?" Sherlock purrs, his deep baritone voice making John shiver. He takes a step forward, pleased when John doesn't move back and nips at his ear, licking a trail down his neck as he sucks a spot that brings stars to John's eyes on his collar bone. As expected John moans again and brings Sherlocks lips to his own.

"God, you know I want to love, but it's not often the boys are all together." He pecks his cheek, retucks his shirt that amongst the roaming has become unlodged and heads to the door.

"I'll see you later tonight." With that John darts out the door before he can be convinced to stay. Sherlock sighs forlornly and moves to the window, pulling back the curtain and sees John opening the cab door. John looks up at the window, knowing Sherlock would be there and waves at him before getting in.

Alcohol flows freely and everyone's spirits are up. They talk about their partners, families, careers, everything and anything that you thought you'd never be able to experience after being a solider on the front line, with the prospect of death always imminent. John talks and laughs with his colleagues all evening but he isn't fully focused on the tale of the two prostitutes in Amsterdam McClain is retelling for the fourth time, his mind is distracted by the image of pure, dark lust burning in the brunet's eyes.

After eating; a starter of roasted butternut squash and chestnut soup, a main course of fresh tomato tagliatelle and a chocolate fondant with raspberry coulis, the party drink for a further 2 hours but John still can't shake his lovers face from his mind. The pint in his hand, maybe his fourth…or is it his fifth, definitely isn't helping to clear his head. Aware of his growing intoxication and plastered mates, he finds it acceptable to make his excuses to leave, waving at all and grinning as they slur their goodbyes before hailing a cab.

Curled up in his Le Corbusier, leather chair, Sherlock watches the brain numbing invention which is television as he awaits for John to return home. 'Dull' is the most fitting word that describes the shows playing as he skims the channels for something of interest. He leaves it on the Jeremy Kyle show, the ridiculous excuse for entertainment bringing him amusement at how people lie and yell at each other when the answer to their questions are right in front of them. 'Honestly, how could he ever be the father with those thumbs?' Upon hearing the click of a car door closing, Sherlock moves to the window and sees John pay the driver and rub his shoulder.

John has been standing, no, sitting for at least two hours bringing stiffness and sensitivity to his bullet wound.

John enters the flat, calling out "I'm back" and starts on untying his military boots. Knowing his shoulder is aching; Sherlock forces himself not to pounce on the man and give into human instincts usual beyond him but being with John has brought out the ache for companionship and adoration.

"I know your shoulder is bothering you and if it hurts too much that we can't fuck right now, then we can simply, forgive the dire term, 'cuddle' while watching a movie."

"Hello to you too," John chuckles, barely absorbing what Sherlock suggested, "Can I make a cup of tea and take off my boots first?"

"Fine." Sherlock replies. As John waits for the kettle to boil, Sherlock stands behind him, places his chin on John's collarbone and wraps his arms around his waist.

"You're very touchy; signs of wanting to progress physically, attachment and caring." Sherlock raises an eyebrow so John continues, "I've been in enough relationships to know what my partner wants."

"You're getting good at deductions." Sherlock admires. Whenever he's complimented, John feels appreciated and he knows that he means a lot to the detective. Only he is allowed to see this side of Sherlock.

"Well what can you deduce about me now Captain Watson?" Sherlock reaches around John and begins unbuttoning his jacket, slipping his hands up his top and across his chest. John's breathe hitches as Sherlock's cool fingers trace patterns against his body.

"Body touches above the groin shows wanting foreplay, either as the recipient doesn't want to go the full way or to initiate sex. It also shows the start for a promising and long-lasting relationship."

"Good." Sherlock praises, lowering his hands to undo the belt on trousers, "What else?"

Reaching beneath the waistband, he brushes over John's member before moving round to grip his ass eliciting a soft moan from both.

"B-below the waist suggests a one-night stand, possessiveness or fulfilment." John turns around, facing Sherlock whose eyes have turned from an ice blue to a deep cerulean and smiles at him, knowing that he has caused this sociopath to have such a physical and emotional reaction to him. He leans upwards and gently kisses his partner, who reciprocates and presses his lips to John's firmly. John bites gently on his bottom lip, working the tender flesh as Sherlock opens his mouth immediately, his tongue seeking John's. They explore each other's mouths for a bit longer then separate panting softly. No words are needed to describe what they feel for each other.

John gives Sherlock one last kiss before returning to finish making their tea. Sherlock moves to sit on the couch and takes his tea from John. The brunet takes a mouthful of his drink but he can't keep his eyes off the medic for more than a few seconds.

"What?" John asks feeling his gaze and is barely able to conceal his smile from the action.

"Just you." He smiles, such sentimentalities are rare.

"And the uniform?"

"Definitely the uniform." Sherlock smirks, taking John's tea off him and placing it on the floor as he caves to the impulse to kiss him again when John places a hand on his chest stopping him. Footsteps.

"Mrs Hudson."

"She'll be fine if she walks in on us. She thinks we're constantly at it anyway and she's absolutely right." John laughs at Sherlock's plainness but doesn't give in to his momentary desires.

"I know, but I'm not comfortable with our landlady and friend walking in on us like that."

Sherlock pouts for a millisecond, an action he'd deny but was there nonetheless, and leans back against the countertop picking up his own brew of tea. John grabs his free hand and squeezes it.

Mrs Hudson finally reaches their door and opens it without knocking, habit.

"Good evening boys. Sherlock, I ordered you Chinese knowing you haven't eaten since John was out."

She places the Chinese on the dining table and strikes a conversation with John about the reunion and how his colleagues are doing. She asks about Harry and then gossips about what the tenant in the flat next door's newest order from Amazon is. An order Sherlock already knows about. John converses with her politely and the conversation soon dries up so she leaves. Before the door has fully closed, Sherlock's already peppering John's neck and jaw with wet, open-mouthed kisses.

"Sherlock. Eat." He commands, further surprised by the man's lustfulness this evening and why he's stupidly rejecting it.

"I don't want to."

"Then I will take off this uniform and we will not continue this." Sherlock scowls at John knowing he will follow through with his threat unless he eats something. Picking up the containers of rice and sweet and sour, he pours them onto a plate and begins eating, well, more like picking at his food. John smiles at his partner and drains the rest of his tea.

Captain John Watson, ex-army medic of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and Sherlock Holmes, high-functioning sociopath and the world's only Consulting Detective, are utterly and uncontrollably in love.

Update: I am going through my first/old fanfics and am rewriting them so they're not quite so bad!

Thanks for reading, any feedback is appreciated x