Of Amourous Theory and Brash Practice

With the last line uttered passionately by silken lips, the audience roars in exclamation, their voices drowning the buzzing of the air with shouts of praise and claims of delight.

ACT I

Outside the wind blew mercilessly, the heavens above becoming dark and grey as the rumbling of the thunder grew with the blinding flashes of lightning. The heavy rain engulfed the odd pair's flat while its showers cleaned the murky and rough paved streets before them. Sherlock stared blankly outside the wet window, following the disjointed trails of the falling raindrops until they bled against one another, the natural occurrence becoming vastly extraordinary under the consulting detective's calculating gaze.

"Care for a cuppa, Sherlock?" John's warm baritone voice abruptly resonated throughout the small sitting room, its owner making his way towards the kitchen to prepare the hot beverage. "It's the perfect weather, don't you think?" John hummed absentmindedly while he poured the water into the old but still-working kettle, the warm steam comforting in his calloused hands. "Figured we could rest a little before Lestrade called with the next case." Heavy footsteps grew louder and louder as they simultaneously grew closer and closer.

John tugged at the ends of his crème colored jumper. "Are you listening? Sherlock?" A pair of slender arms suddenly snaked their way towards the soldier's waist making him jump slightly in surprise. The shorter man brought his own hands towards Sherlock's attempting to unclasp them from his midsection but unfortunately, to no avail. "Sherlock," John let out a teetering sigh. "Don't do this. Not right now. Scotland Yard is expecting us in 30 minutes—"

"We'll make do with 20."

Another sigh escaped his lips. John didn't dare turn around. He couldn't bear to see that look one more time, so cold, so devoid of any emotion so...Sherlock. "Oh, for Christ's sake!" John harshly whispered through clenched teeth. "We can't be late to the crime scene, again. Greg will have a fit!"

"It's worth it if he ends up taking his frustration on that waste of oxygen that's Anderson." Sherlock's fingertips rubbed slowly over John's hips in a circular motion, eventually pressing harder into his skin, oh so deliciously harder...

"Please, Sherlock," The shorter man's breath hitched in his throat when he felt one of those arms travel lower still. John's voice faltered with each passing second, his small puffs of breath becoming ragged pants of delicious, miserable anticipation. "I just asked if you wanted—"

"You know what I want," In one fluid motion, Sherlock had John turned, his grey-green eyes gazing into blue vibrating ones. Their bodies flushed together with their noses touching, their lips just millimeters apart, seconds away from giving rein to pure, animalistic pleasure.

Sherlock licked his lips. John gulped.

"Sherlock..."

His gasp was swallowed by an all-engulfing kiss, all traces of hesitation gone with the sensuous brush of lips. John's arms trembled as they wrapped themselves around the taller man's slender neck, that simple motion bringing the pair impossibly closer still. The soldier's eyes fluttered shut as his lips moved to and fro, eventually parting with an audible intake of air, willingly submitting to the harsh demand of the detective's sinful tongue. Their heads turned as the kiss deepened, Sherlock's tongue leading the other as in an erotic dance while his right hand wondered inside John's fuzzy choice of cloth.

The rest lasted for but a moment and soon their lips met once again. "Mmm..." John's neck tilted back, exposing its full length to the person more than willing to devour its extent. The detective languidly trailed his tongue across the smooth terrain, nipping beneath the ear lobe then traveling down to John's Adam's apple, licking the bump in a circle thrice, kissing it twice, then sucking once, long and hard. "Jesus, Sherlock," John absentmindedly pulled at his dark curls, his fingernails trailing sinuous figures on Sherlock's scalp. One tentative hand roamed under Sherlock's tight dress shirt, the buttons long gone with an unceremonious pop from John's hasty hands. Each inch of pale skin was touched delicately, every single one of the caresses made just right to elicit the most desirable moans of pleasure from the normally stoic detective. Oh, to say John felt privileged was an understatement.

Brr. Brr.

"Sherlock," John muttered in between Sherlock's fervid kisses. "The phone—"

"Leave it."

"But—"

"I said leave it."

John then hissed as Sherlock's long fingers brushed candidly pass his left nipple, the tip already hard and aching, not unlike the prominent bulge in his charcoal trousers.

"Bloody hell, John, I need you. Now."

Make that their trousers.

John could never get used to the perfection that Sherlock brought because Sherlock was perfection. Upon all the sadness and shame that came after their heating encounters, John could not help but be in awe at such a display. Sherlock's spontaneous outbursts of sudden contact were filled with raw want, raw need for him and only him.

At least, that's what John always told himself.

Sherlock's shoulders shook with fevered lust as he raised John's hips, John quickly taking the hint and bracing himself against the kitchen table. His smaller legs wrapped tightly around Sherlock while both of their trousers pooled around their feet like puddles of melted fabric. With a groan, Sherlock aligned his dripping manhood with John's pulsating hole. It fits perfectly, he thought dismissively.

Meanwhile, John whimpered as Sherlock's cock penetrated him, the tightness seemingly overwhelming for the first few seconds. His shiny blue eyes tightened as he subtly breathed in and out through his nose, his fingernails abandoning Sherlock's luscious chocolate mane for his slender shoulders instead. He opened one eye to catch a small glimpse of the man before him and suddenly felt the need to open both.

Sherlock looked absolutely breathtaking. His dark hair looked darker now plastered to his forehead with sweat dripping down from it. A hard look of concentration marred his features, completely neutralizing any other movement except for the slight twitch of his brow. His bottom lip was bitten down harshly by his teeth as his chest heaved with every breath he took. John could simply not look away.

"Ah!"

Sherlock never approached anything with kindness, much less calm. Of course this rule applied to sex as well, John was well aware of that, although that didn't make it any less painful. His thrusts matched that of his kisses: rough and calculating, but with a vast amount of lust. John desperately wanted more, so much more, but he knew the limits of their agreement. For now, he'd gladly take what he was given.

"Sherlock...oh, God!" The soldier buried his golden head in Sherlock's collarbone, Sherlock's hips thrusting forward in time with his moans.

"Nngh..." The small flat was soon filled with the lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin, groans and moans of utter pleasure mixing aesthetically with the thunder of the storm outside. Sherlock gnashed his teeth as an intense heat pooled in his groin, his grip on John's hips leaving bruising marks.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock," John clutched to Sherlock with all his might, just one delectable push away from sheer ecstasy. "I'm coming...!" And with one final thrust, Sherlock spilled his seed inside the shorter man, John soon following after.

Their post-sex bliss was far from one, really. It had barely enough time to register in John's mind before Sherlock pulled out while John detached himself from Sherlock's body. Sherlock raised one quivering hand to the left and reached for the kitchen table napkins to clean the white spectacle.

Three seconds had passed, now four, before John heard the vibrating sensation of Sherlock's infamous phone break through. In one swift motion, Sherlock grabbed it and answered the call, his voice curt and to the point. "I heard you the first time, George, we're on our way."

"It's 'Greg', you twat-!"

With a flick of a wrist, the line was rudely cut off. Not that it bothered Sherlock in the slightest and, honestly, John was too confused to care.

"You heard the queen." Sherlock raised his trousers and buckled his belt. He managed to change into another dress shirt conveniently draped over his chair then proceeded to tame his wild curls by combing them with his fingers. "I suggest we get moving."

Already buckling his own belt, John fixed himself up at best as he could. Truth be told, it failed to make much of a difference. Pulling down his jumper then reaching for his black coat, the doctor made his way out the door. He found the detective far ahead of him with his long trench coat flapping behind him as he bolted down the stairs.

And that's all this is. John's steps slowed down as he made his way quietly past those very same stairs. A quick fuck. He knew that, by God he knew that.

"Oh, for God's sake, quickly, John!"

That did not mean he accepted it though.

"Well it's about bloody time!" Lestrade threw his hands in mid-air for emphasis. "Care to explain what the hell you two were doing?"

"Where's the corpse?" Completely ignoring the inspector's question, Sherlock walked right past him as he pulled his miniature magnifying glass out of the compact leather satchel. "I'm seeing it alone. Keep your men out of it."

Lestrade glared daggers to the back of his head but soon realized it was all for naught. He then turned his attention to John. "You've got to be joking," he placed his hands on his hips. "This is the third time you've been late for a case this week. What the hell is going on?"

"Probably all of London's cabbies figured out what a colossal freak Sherlock is." Donovan's insult cut through Lestrade's monologue. "Don't blame them. I wouldn't give him a ride either."

Although the comments were directed at John and Sherlock, neither of them claimed nor denied anything; one was too busy observing a mutilated corpse while the other was too busy staring at his shoes.

"Out of anyone, John, I'd thought you would..." Lestrade's voice trailed off as his eyes squinted in John's direction. His eyes briefly met John's but lost the connection once the army-doctor quickly turned his head the opposite way. Apparently, he found the wall's crevices much more fascinating. "John," Lestrade took two steps towards John. "Are those...?" His fingers pointed at John's neck. John immediately followed his gaze then sucked in a breath. He felt his cheeks go aflame as he realized what exactly was it that made the inspector's eyes go wide. Out of the corner of his eye, John could clearly distinguish a red-purple bruise just centimeters above his collarbone.

The other was on the opposite side of the other bruise, hallway hidden beneath the collar of his buttoned shirt. A lot more obvious they were, what with the large contrast between his pale skin and the bright undertones of the love bites. "I..." John stuttered. "I-I don't know..."

"So that's why you two were late." Anderson sauntered behind Lestrade and Donovan, his hands covered in bright blue nylon. His shirt was badly wrinkled and his belt missed a loop on his trousers. "We always suspected it but never thought you'd actually follow through." He snorted in amusement. "Would you look at that. Even the human block of ice gets the urges now and then."

"You know, Anderson," Sherlock spoke from behind the whole group, his hands probing through the mass of scarred flesh and burned hair beneath his feet. "There's a lot more to this case than just one corpse." A sniff here, another sniff there. "Why don't you us all a favor and spread your stupidity somewhere else?"

Anderson's face turned red in anger. "You son of a— "

"That's enough, Anderson," Lestrade rubbed his eyes in agitation then pointed to the door. "Get back to your position."

With one last look of utter disgust, the forensics man left the room. Sherlock resumed his own inspection once again as he made his way to the opposite side of the room, his gaze fully concentrating on the incinerated wooden floor.

Lestrade cleared his throat then looked at John once again. "So..." His hands clasped behind his back as if he were a troubled little boy. "You two, huh?" He gave a tight lip smile. "Well, I can't say I'm surprised—"

"Oh, please. He got them from his late-night date." Sherlock voiced out from the back of the room. "Couldn't have the decency to place them in far more secret places,"

"Alright, I get it. You're not together, fine." The inspector sighed while Donovan rolled her eyes. "Could we please get back to the task at hand?"

John, completely mortified by the previous discussion, vigorously nodded his head. "If it's not too much to ask..." He covered his neck extra carefully then resumed his place, just a couple of feet behind Sherlock, and took out his note pad and pen ready to jot down any given information.

"Well, then," Lestrade clapped his hands. "What do we have so far?"

Sherlock tugged his scarf a little loose then proceeded to give his famous fast-paced deduction. "Obviously female, 27/28 years old, judging by the angle of the burns..."

John tried to follow his deduction, momentarily admiring the vigor with which Sherlock carried his theoretical speculations. The way his eyes would widen whenever he mentioned an especially important detail and the way his hands would be brought up to draw signs and make air calculations. John admired it all and stored in the back of his mind for later reminiscing. But then his eyes grew downcast and he subconsciously found himself going further back, away from Sherlock. He won't lie, Sherlock's denial of the prominent love bites stung in more ways than one. He knew telling the truth would, at this point, be preposterous, but he couldn't help but feel a glimmer of hope.

After the long and rather detailed deduction, Donovan approached Sherlock from behind, her boots stopping centimeters away from his bent knees. "So you're really not together?" Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Sherlock placed his small leather satchel inside his coat then turned to look at her, his nose crinkling in contempt. "Why on earth would I be with John in that way?"

And much like a candle without oxygen, the small glimmer of hope inside John's heart extinguished, leaving nothing but broken remnants behind.

.

.

.

Edit 5/5/2017: God, talk about word vomit. I'm going to have to edit the shit out of this story...