So sorry I've been gone for so long but I can promise I have chapters written for the other fics, just not posted yet as they need some serious reworking. Meanwhile, I haven't been able to keep the itch to write new things at bay so we have this. Hopefully, you will enjoy it.
Laptop resting comfortably across his knees, John perused the latest headlines, steadfastly ignoring the moody detective that slumped, slouched, huffed and occasionally flat out threw himself, across every available surface in their flat. It had been easy at first, months of living together having acclimated John to his flatmate's fits of boredom but the moodiness was progressing.
John risked a glance at the man currently slumped across the coffee, arse up and face slack on top of a stack of old magazines, and grit his teeth. Yes, definitely getting worse. He needed to get out of the flat soon before it was too late. The only difficulty was thinking up an excuse that either Sherlock wouldn't see through, bloody unlikely, or that Sherlock couldn't put up any reasonable argument against, even less bloody likely.
Well, best start the extrication now before it was too late.
Without a word, John removed himself from his chair and walked past Sherlock and up the stairs to his room. He didn't have to look to know that though Sherlock hadn't reacted, he was no doubt tracking every movement. It was still quiet except for the occasional long drawn groan from Sherlock and John took this as a good sign. The world's only consulting detective was no doubt aware that John was trying to make a run from the flat but hadn't moved to impede said escape attempt yet. If he moved quickly, chances seemed fair John could make it out unscathed.
Chuckling tiredly, he pulled on a fresh jumper and pocketed both wallet and keys. Before leaving his room, he stopped in the doorway and took a steadying breath. No doubt Sherlock would somehow hear and analyze that as well but it couldn't be helped. He'd spent the brief minutes in his room trying to decide on an excuse but was finding himself at a loss. For once they actually had milk in the flat, Sarah had dumped him two weeks previous and Sherlock would know if he lied about having a date, that was the extent of the parts of John's life that weren't Sherlock-related.
Right. Nothing for it but to try then. Bolstering himself with thoughts of warm pubs, he began is descent...
..and was nearly gone before a Sherlock sized mess in their living room broke its silence.
"John?" Petulance. Exactly what he was hoping to avoid.
At about stage 3 of these fits, as John had in fact parsed them out into stages, Sherlock reached a state of childlike neediness. The man simply couldn't handle inaction. He needed mental stimulation in order to keep his mind from turning on itself, an animal not totally in Sherlock's control no matter his claims otherwise.
"Yes, Sherlock?" He sounds resigned and then angry. Resigned because he knows he's going to lose this fight, angry because of it.
"You're not leaving, are you?" Petulance under scored not by inquisitiveness or disbelief but self-assuredness, the inevitable outcome obvious. The truth in it sets John's teeth further on edge.
"Suppose I am?" He's still only a few feet from leaving, eyes fixed ahead of him, refusing to give Sherlock the attention the man clearly craved.
"Look at me." It's a command and for that alone he wants to refuse him, wants to simply walk away and leave without another word.
But he won't. Because Sherlock is Sherlock and John is John and all that really means is he'll be spending the rest of his foreseeable future dancing on the whims of this madman.
"John." Not a question but a sigh of irritation. So be it then. John turns and stares directly at Sherlock and finds himself confronted with everything he'd hoped to avoid.
"Come here." He'd call the expression in Sherlock's eyes needy if it weren't so authoritative.
"Sherlock-"
"Here. Now. John." Sherlock is sprawled across his chair in a terrible impersonation of a pile of throw pillows, hand lazily cocked in the direction of John's chair. Grey eyes, indecipherable as ever, meet John's evenly from beneath a fringe of dark curls. A warm tug in his stomach nearly causes the doctor to flinch but he dare not show that to Sherlock. Never that.
"Sherlock, don't be an-"
"John." And oh for heaven's sake, fine. Crossing the room in curt, military pace, he sets himself down in his chair and simply glares at Sherlock. The man will know he's angry regardless and since he's choosing to make him angrier, John isn't feeling the need to hold back.
John waits. Sherlock stares. John waits longer. Sherlock is still only staring but the barest hint of a twitch in his lips suggests amusement. John is not waiting anymore.
"Why, if you have no need of me, must I stay here, Sherlock?" Through the anger there's the slightest tint of desperation and John hates himself for it, hates feeling he needs to hide anything from Sherlock.
Hates how beautiful his madman currently looks, robe open and sleeping pants pulled tight across all his angles and jutting bones. Hates that he can't touch but hates even more that he wants to.
"Well, Sherlock?" Instead of a response, John finds himself quite suddenly with a lap full of sulky detective. Oh, god.
No. No, no, no, not good. Bad, very bad. Hands frozen to the armrests, his fingers dig deep even as they itch to grab the hips currently straddling his legs. His eyes never leave Sherlock's now empty chair across the room but that doesn't mean he can't feel the amusement practically rolling off of the man in his lap.
"John, I'm bored." Do not look at him, do not humor him, he doesn't realize what this is doing to you.
"Oh, I'm quite aware." Sherlock's tone is the kind that should land a man in prison. It's so deep it seems to sink into him, melting everything it touches before pooling in a dangerous warmth in John's stomach.
Too dangerous, much too dangerous. Self-preservation instincts kick in but too much blood is rushing in a southerly direction for John to do anything but remain frozen in his seat with a look of utter mortification written across his face.
"I'd much rather you be participative but," and oh, god are those Sherlock's fingers under the neck of his jumper? "I will not let your antiquated sense of propriety and your irrational fears of domestic squabbles stop me."
"Sherlock, stop that, get your hand out of there!" The detective takes his hand back but the look on his face says John will pay for it later. "What are you doing?"
"Honestly, I thought it quite obvious that I'm attempting to get into your pants." Ignoring John's spluttering, he continues, "You'd made your attraction to me quite obvious, oh don't look at me like that, and though I've given the necessary cues, you don't seem to be reading them."
He's been giving out cues? What cues? Sherlock Holmes' very nearly exudes asexuality.
"For god's sake, stop acting ignorant, John. I share my home with you, my work, my life, even Mycroft associates with you from time to time! I know you want to kiss me so just do it and ask questions later."
John knows he could take the time to sort all of this out, to get it straight and clear so he can make a rational decision, Sherlock would let him. But as the seconds tick by without a response, Sherlock grows fractionally more tense in his lap and John knows that Sherlock is expecting an answer sooner rather than later.
Inhaling, he takes a brief moment to solidify his decision:
Sherlock is on his lap.
Sherlock wants John to kiss him.
The slight tenting of Sherlock's pajama pants says that Sherlock would very much like John to kiss him soon.
But could their friendship survive the adding of benefits?
"Well, there's no saying it needs to be a short-term state of affairs." Oh, god. At that, John is hit with the full force of months of longing and only those months of practice keep his control from slipping. Not yet. God, soon, but not just yet.
"I need to be clear on what you're offering here, Sherlock." He doesn't know a thing about Sherlock's past romantic entanglements, if there have been any at all, and the last thing he wants is to ruin this by pushing the man too far.
"John, I am going to get up and walk right out of this room and into the arms of the first wayward pedestrian I find if you don't snog me this instant." Nails drag up the nape of John's neck and into his hairline, "And honestly, a snog is the least you could do to make up for all of this..."
There are teeth on John's neck and he has never been harder in his life than at this moment.
"...insufferable waiting." The words aren't even out before John's hands have involuntarily fisted themselves in the fabric at Sherlock's hips, pulling down and grinding their arousals together. Their mutual moans are muffled by tongues and teeth and a ridiculous fight for dominance that would have John smiling if he weren't so bloody hard it nearly hurt.