They tumbled back into 221B in a whirl of limbs, fetching up against the wall briefly before lurching across the sitting room and into the kitchen. Five seconds later, Sherlock was being bent over the table and John was pressed up tight against his arse through the fabric of their trousers.
Which was totally unfair. "You said I could top if I kept my mouth shut, John," Sherlock protested.
"And you said I could bugger you over the kitchen table if you didn't, so here we are." There was the sound of a zipper, then John's bare cock was a hard line against the crack of Sherlock's arse and John was fumbling with Sherlock's flies. "I'm not an idiot," he added. "Just because you didn't call him stupid directly-"
"I was entirely polite."
"You called him a scobberlotcher," John said. "What, you think I wouldn't go look up antiquated insults before I made this bet with you in the first place? Scobberlotcher: Old English for a lazy person. Greg didn't understand but that doesn't mean it wasn't an insult. Plus, I spent the last half-hour looking forward to ploughing you in your gorgeous arse."
Sherlock gave a full-body shiver, then stilled. "Well when you put it ithat/i way . . . why wait longer?"
"Berk."
"Scobberlotcher."
John rutted forward, knocking Sherlock deliciously off-balance. "Behave."