Sherlock stood in front of the mantle, lightly tapping his skull with an index finger. Deep in thought, he quickly turned and moved toward his desk then back to the mantle, pacing, something he did quite often. He was the only one home, so the flat was quiet. Though Sherlock didn't mind solitude, (he preferred it) there was something about the air sitting so still that irked him. When he paced though, agitating the atmosphere around him, at least there was some semblance of activity.
He paused when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Heavy and quick. It was John. Sherlock immediately went back to pacing, bringing a thoughtful hand to his chin and narrowing his eyes.
John walked in the door and looked at Sherlock, a sudden rigidness to him. He stood still and took a deep breath, closing his eyes. He closed the door and took a few steps forward. He cleared his throat to get Sherlock's attention, which obviously didn't work, it never did. He moved in the direct path of Sherlock's pacing and was greeted with wide confused eyes.
"Yes?" Sherlock said.
"Sherlock," John said with a slight restraint. He shuffled tensely and looked down at the floor.
"What, John? What do you want?"
With Sherlock towering over him, John looked up at him with a heat in his eyes that wasn't present a moment ago.
"Sherlock, I want you to," he began.
"What?" Sherlock cut him off, intrigued by the sudden intensity.
"Take-" he paused, possibly trying to see if there was a better way to put it. "Take off my shirt," he blurted abruptly, deciding to just get it over with.
Sherlock stood for a moment; the little space between them was suddenly filled with tension. But after a mere second he started to work the buttons on John's shirt until each and every one was undone. He pushed it off and let it fall to the floor. John's breath was slightly relieved, but he still stood rather strained.
"Trousers. The trousers too," John motioned lower, Sherlock's eyes following. He gave a slight smirk as his hands went to slowly and carefully unfasten the button and push down the zipper. As Sherlock carefully pulled them off the cool air coming in contact with heated skin, John's breath hitched and he shut his eyes, restraining himself with great difficulty. A hotness growing inside him that he didn't know if he would have the capability to control much longer, John clenched his fists and breathed short quick breaths.
"And the pants, Sherlock. The pants!" he ordered, eyes opening with a crazed hunger for relief. He said Sherlock's name tersely with an emphasized exasperation on the last consonant of his name, the hard "k" sound filling in the flat.
With fluidity about him, Sherlock did as he was told and with torturously slow movements removed John's pants, his long fingers grazing the skin softly. He knew he was driving John mad and smiled internally at the thought, but kept a stony face as he looked back into John's eyes.
Sherlock smiled at him, teasing.
Without warning, John's eyes flared with sudden anger, obviously frustrated. In a huff, he gathered the clothes from floor and tried his best not to let loose a barrage of fury. Nearly stomping to the door, he clutched the pile of clothes to his chest. Before leaving, he turned to Sherlock, still standing in the same place with an impassive expression. John's voice was stressed and annoyed.
"And I should thank you to stop wearing my clothes whenever I'm away," he opened the door and started out.
"Would you rather I did so when you're here?" Sherlock asked.
John slammed the door at the mocking suggestion, leaving Sherlock in the flat, unclothed. The scene over, he began to pace again.
Sorry, I had to! :D