The sounds of 221B drifted around in the humid summer evening haze.
Mrs. Hudson, humming along to her radio downstairs. The neighbours at 219, noisily discussing finances. The blare of a cab horn through the open window, amongst the din of passing traffic. John clinking dishes, as he cleaned up from dinner. The hum of the laptop fan, left on the floor next to the sofa. Sherlock's breathing, steady and controlled. The pad of bare feet. The rustle of jeans.
Something cool touched Sherlock's lips. He opened his mouth, without opening his eyes, and took in the coarse, but soft texture.
"Mmmmmm…. watermelon, John."
"Is it sweet?"
"Yes."
"Let me taste…"
Silence… sudden absolute silence… except for the sound of Sherlock's carnal moan, as John's soft lips pressed against his own.
"Mmmm, yes… it IS very sweet." John pulled away, but Sherlock placed his hand on John's solid chest.
"I'm not sure you've collected enough data to make a proper analysis, John."
The evening's sounds were no longer nearly as interesting as the touches. John's hands slid in between the blue silk dressing gown, then under the loose t-shirt. John's whole body glided on top of Sherlock, all while his resumed kiss became more insistent, tongue licking along Sherlock's lower lip, then back across the bow of the glorious upper.
"Bed."