John had no idea what was the stranger occurrence in this particular situation.
The fact that the Sherlock Holmes, the same one who, moments ago, was agitatedly pacing about the flat with his fingers steepled against his lips, murmuring so low and swiftly under his breath it almost sounded as if he was speaking nonsense, and his coat swishing out with a flourish every time he made a sharp turn around a piece of furniture, but was now pinning the blond man to the wall with crushing strength, arms on either side of his head, lips pressed so firmly upon his he was almost positive bruises were forming on the soft pink flesh, tongue plundering his mouth ferociously…
…or the fact that he was more concerned about the whistling kettle currently screeching something fierce in the kitchen than he was about his best friend arbitrarily snogging him senseless.
The predicament was not...unpleasant, per say. Sherlock smelled rather nice-soap, cologne, and a very faint hint of formaldehyde that resided in the fabric of his coat-and had very plump, supple lips that would've been much more lovely to kiss if they weren't compressing his so damn hard. He tasted vaguely of black coffee and the chocolate biscuits Mrs. Hudson had forced him to eat, because God only knew the last time the brilliant detective had eaten anything, and although the coffee was a rather bitter (the two sugars he insisted on having obviously didn't do much to sweeten the drink) flavor that didn't mesh all that well with the biscuits, he didn't mind it. His eyes had been wide open and staring at the consulting detective, just watching him. His brow was furrowed deeply, almost like he was scowling, his eyelids fluttered occasionally, causing his long, dark lashes to quiver against his high, unnaturally prominent cheekbones, and his curls were splayed out against his forehead; the way he was hunched over just to meet John's lips made it so the silky tresses brushed against the doctor's own skull just slightly. Come to think of it, this predicament was unpleasant at all.
But that damn kettle was grating against his final nerve, effectively splintering any sensual or romantic thoughts that might've spawned.
Sherlock must've shared his sentiment, because he abruptly broke away, mildly out of breath, eyes foggy and darkened with something substantially erotic but struggling to return to their usual clarity and sharpness. "Shall I get that?" he remarked lowly, voice huskier than normal. It took a moment to process the sudden, and admittedly disappointing, turn of events, but eventually John nodded and allowed his arms to be freed from their bony constraints. They fell to his sides limply, uselessly. He watched soundlessly as the younger man, seemingly unfazed, strode over to the kitchen and lifted the silver teakettle off the burner and placed it aside, commendably silencing the bloody annoying scream it had been emitting. Then he turned back around, a small, almost indecipherable grin on his swollen red lips, and his hands clasped behind his back.
The two men stared at each other for what felt like eons, but must've only spanned a minute or so, before John cleared his throat and asked, surprisingly amicably, "What the hell was that?"
"What the hell was what?" Sherlock responded, not missing a beat.
"That." The elder male gestured vaguely to the area in which his flatmate had been standing, as if that plainly explained what he was trying to say. "The whole, ehm…the, uh, kissing, thing…that." Sherlock's Mona Lisa-esque smile morphed into a smug little smirk, one that John was all too familiar with, and an acquainted pang of aggravation resonated in his gut, but was significantly dimmed by the confusion, elation, and lust he was currently feeling towards his sociopathic best friend.
"Ah, that." The brunette glided past the soldier seamlessly, like his feet didn't once come in contact with the floor, and he began divesting himself of his coat and scarf. "I was looking for an outlet. A distraction, if you will."
"…Beg pardon?"
"I loathe repeating myself, John."
"I don't bloody care, Sherlock; you just snogged me against the wall of our flat for no apparent reason and are now acting like it's just another average experiment." He almost cringed at the thought. No matter how chaotically jumbled his thoughts and feelings about the genius were, about whether he was straight or not, or if it was just Sherlock that did these things to him, the very notion that he was just another experiment that the pale man would toss aside once he became bored was, needless to say, a painful one.
"I'm frustrated, John," Sherlock began, interrupting the blond man's musings. "I have all this adrenaline, these compiled and fuzzy thoughts, and all these possible solutions to the case that just keep blurring together and spinning out of control in my head. It's more irritating than it is anything else. I detest not solving a case straight away-"
"I've noticed," the army doctor mumbled, touching a finger to his sore lips. His tongue darted out to wet them, and he suppressed a shiver as Sherlock's flavor blossomed back into his mouth.
"-because when that happens," Sherlock continued, hanging up his trenchcoat on the hook, "I have no outlet for these feelings. So, I simply turned to you." His Glasz eyes flickered to the tanned male's face, flitting over his every feature in what seemed like a nanosecond before returning back to the task at hand.
"What can I possibly do?"
"It's what you've done already, my dear Watson. You see, I'm thinking much more clearly now. In all honesty, for a moment, you rendered my mind completely and blissfully blank. You help me think, help me concentrate, help get my whirring thoughts under control."
"So…I'm your distraction, then? That's it?" The dissatisfaction was evident in John's tone, no matter how valiantly he fought it. Sherlock shook his head, grin never faltering. "Don't be daft. You're much more than that. I thought I'd made that obvious."
"You think you make a lot of things obvious, and more than half of the time you're still being the vaguest person on the face of the planet."
Both men snickered. "I suppose I can't argue that. However, my actions just now should've made my affections quite distinct. Although I haven't completely sussed them out yet, and can't really pinpoint what their exact name is, I know without a shadow of a doubt that I feel very strongly about you, more than a friend would, and I-"
"You talk way too bloody much, Sherlock Holmes."
During the younger man's little speech, John had been confidently striding towards him, for once waiting for that baritone voice to shut itself off. And when it wouldn't, he took matters into his owns hands by gripping Sherlock's face tightly and pulling him down for another kiss. He made a surprised noise in the back of his throat, and steadied himself by placing his hands on John's waist so he wouldn't stumble. The blogger smiled against his lips. After not even a moment's hesitation, long fingers were carding through the army doctor's short, sandy hair and trailing down his back, between his shoulder blades, and the kiss had turned into a very passionate endeavor that had both men gasping for air when they broke apart.
"So…is your head completely emptied yet?" John teased, brushing the pad of his thumb over one of those ridiculous cheekbones.
"Not yet…I think I need a little more of a distraction, Doctor Watson."
With a palm tightly clutching the back of his neck, John was enveloped in another deep, fervent kiss, and this time, when Sherlock's tongue found its way into his mouth, he pushed back against it with fervor.
Maybe being The Distraction would have its perks, after all.