Author's Note: This is unashamed crack!fic based on the fact that many people consider Sherlock and The Coat to be the official OTP of Sherlock BBC while others think it's Sherlock/John. So, OT3 anyone?
Purr
Aka: OT3
Sherlock bounded up the stairs, taking the treads two at a time. It had been an unseasonably warm morning, and Sherlock had actually been sitting about with his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows when Lestrade had arrived with a case that the consulting detective simply had to help him with. In his haste to accompany the DI to the crime scene, he'd actually left his coat at the flat, something he almost never did. Now the lowering skies threatened rain, and Sherlock wanted his coat with him. The expensive wool would shed water, his Dolce and Gabbana shirts would not. If only John weren't picking up a few extra hours as a locum at the clinic today, Sherlock could just have texted him and demanded that he deliver the coat to its proper owner. Alas, his flatmate had promised the insipid Sarah that he would fill in for a doctor currently away on a tropical cruise. No doubt the fellow was off somewhere imbibing drinks with little paper umbrellas in them – revolting – and leaving Sherlock to make do without his personal blogger. Feh.
Rapidly unlocking the flat, Sherlock hurried inside, but his coat wasn't where he'd left it hanging. When the sitting room showed no signs of the Belstaff jacket, he headed for his bedroom, finding the door unexpectedly closed. Eyebrows climbing, Sherlock leaned toward the door, listening intently. There were distinct sounds of movement coming from the other side. An intruder! Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock grabbed the knob and turned it slowly, easing the door open and peeking inside, prepared to trounce any burglar foolish enough to try to steal from him or, preferably, as it was more interesting, to pummel any master criminal who might be laying in wait to assassinate him.
No master criminal waited. No burglar either. Sherlock froze, all thoughts of danger and daring draining away as his mind simply refused for a moment to process what it was seeing. John Watson… his flatmate… his partner in criminal detection, was lying on his bed, rolling about like a tawny cat on top of his spread open coat and emitting a sound suspiciously like a purr. The doctor's hands were fisted in the wool as he rubbed his cheek against the coat's collar, and Sherlock couldn't help but notice how beautifully John's golden hair contrasted with the blue of the garment. John's eyes were closed, but his lips were parted and looked swollen, as if he'd been biting them. Stunned by the sight, and by his body's entirely unexpected and extremely enthusiastic reaction to it, Sherlock flung the door the rest of the way open. Released from his grasp, it slammed into a stack of true crime novels, causing the books to tumble to the floor. John jumped on the bed, rising instantly to a sitting position. For several seconds they simply stared at one another, both breathing hard.
At last, John swallowed noticeably. "Well," he said, "this is… awkward." He flushed to the roots of his hair as he spoke, and Sherlock stared at him, unblinking. "I'm so sorry. I'll stop. I – "
"No," Sherlock hastily assured him. "It's fine. Truly. Just… fine." John blinked rapidly, as Sherlock settled on the edge of the bed, one hand coming down to rest on the coat, beside his flatmate's thigh. The longer John looked at him with that adorable, flummoxed expression, the faster Sherlock's breathing became, and it was with only minor surprise that he realized his fingers were brushing back and forth along John's thigh. The doctor shivered, his lips parting again, and Sherlock leaned into him, towering over his flatmate, feeling the warmth of his body through their thin clothing. "Tell me, John, is there anything else you'd care to rub?"