Doctor, Tailor, Soldier - Sigh!

John studied his handiwork and smiled wickedly. Oh, his flatmate would be in for so much of a surprise. The only problem would be not to snicker the moment he caught sight of Sherlock. With a final mental pat to his shoulder, John shook out Sherlock's trousers and hung them up, together with three shirts that had come back from the dry cleaners. Afterwards he sent a text to Greg.

'Now. JW'

Not ten minutes later his mobile buzzed.

'Done. GL'

One minute later.

'You owe me, big time. Got quite an earful. GL'

'Next beers are on me. JW'

'And fish & chips. GL'

'That bad, huh? JW'

'Worse! GL'

A grin spread over John's face before he went to the kitchen to make tea. Now he had to wait.

Sherlock came home, fuming, twenty minutes later.

"Lestrade is an idiot!" he shouted.

"What happened?" John asked, peeping over the top of the newspaper to look at the angry man. And didn't he look handsome with eyes blazing, his face scrunched up and curls flying all over the place.

"He spilt coffee over my trousers. They are soaking wet. Got them back from the dry cleaner just yesterday. I swear, if that coffee stains..."

"I know the proverb is about spilt milk but don't you think you're overreacting?" John looked at Sherlock with oh so innocent blue eyes.

The detective huffed, went to the bathroom and slammed the door close behind him. Half a minute later the shower could be heard and John smiled.

Three hours later Sherlock sat in front of his microscope, engrossed in studying various green, slimy-looking bits he pulled from a whole assortment of labelled tubes bit by bit. John had taken a shower himself and was now stretched out on the sofa, watching TV. He kept shooting glances at the detective's back. When he was certain Sherlock should be down to the last two test-tubes he sent the text.

As expected the mobile in Sherlock's pocket went 'ping'.

"John!" Sherlock didn't even look up.

"What?"

"See what the text says."

"What text?"

"The text that came in on my mobile."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Nope!"

John sighed. "And where is your bloody mobile?"

"Trousers, right pocket."

Rolling his eyes in exasperation and himself off the sofa, John stood up. Stretching his back and yawning he slowly walked over. "Lucky for you I was going to make tea and had to get up anyway."

"Hmm..."

Not in a talkative mood.

Sherlock changed the angle of his body slightly to give John better access to his pocket but his eyes were still glued to the microscope.

Now that the moment had come, John had to admit to himself, that he was a bit nervous. Easy enough to deduce that Sherlock couldn't be arsed getting the mobile himself when he was busy looking at green slime but what if he didn't like what John had thought would at least get his attention?

'Too late, Watson. It's now or never.'

Taking a deep breath, John went down on one knee, shoved his hand into Sherlock's pocket and pushed at the seam he had tampered with earlier. As he had planned the seam split and suddenly his fingers were gliding along the very top of Sherlock's right thigh.

Both men sucked in their breaths sharply.

"John." His name sounded almost strangled when it came out of Sherlock's mouth.

John kept his hand right where it had ended up, at the warm, no, hot skin of the detective's thigh. His thumb felt the soft material of Sherlock's pants and he couldn't prevent that the tips of his fingers started twitching. John's universe shrunk to what his curious hand had encountered. Soft skin and the slight peppering of coarse hair. He didn't dare to explore further than he had ventured already but didn't want to remove his hand either, so he kept staring where his hand had disappeared inside the detective's clothes.

"John." Sherlock's voice was a deep rumble.

When the doctor looked up he found himself the target of the intense gaze. Sherlock had turned his attention away from the microscope and onto the handsome blond man who was kneeling at his side. Only the first inch of those finger were in contact with the skin of his thigh but it had already ignited a fire. A fire, Sherlock knew, would soon engulf and consume him.

Pupils blown to full extend he watched as John licked his bottom-lip nervously. Just the tip of pink that snuck out but the sight shook him out of his frozen state.

"Please, John. Kindly remove your hand from my pocket."

'Blast! I almost sound like Mycroft.' Sherlock thought.

John first blushed, then he blanched. He removed his hand like he had suddenly burnt his fingers, scrambling to stand up.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I..."

Whatever it was John had wanted to say, died on the man's lips for Sherlock had stood up the moment the hand had been removed and put the tip of his index-finger to John's lips to silence him.

A smile danced in the detective's eyes when he pulled out the mobile from the breast-pocket of his jacket.

"Oh!" John felt himself incapable of uttering more than that one word. And while his lips were still slightly parted, Sherlock bend down and kissed him. John's eyes slid shut automatically, a split second before those glorious full lips, shaped like they had been the final achievement of the finest sculptor, connected with his.

The kiss lasted all but a second before Sherlock pulled back. He put the mobile on the table top, changed his stance and hauled John in for another kiss. This time he held him at his biceps, before the doctor finally wrapped one arm around his waist, the other sliding into the unruly curls.

They kept kissing until they were out of breath and panting like race horses. Resting his forehead against Sherlock's, John found his voice to speak up again.

"I wanted to touch you so very much," he confessed.

"And I wanted you to touch me," Sherlock replied.

John felt Sherlock's smile against his face.

"Turn around," Sherlock told him.

"What?"

"Turn around, John."

He turned and Sherlock pressed against the well toned back of the ex-soldier, before his hands slipped into the pockets of John's jeans. Well prepared seams inside both pockets split and John let his head fall back against Sherlock's chest when he felt the detective's hands gliding over his thighs. Thumbs were grazing along the front of his pants, making him buck.

"Sherlock!"

Hot lips sucked at the sensitive skin of John's neck for a moment. "Maybe there are other ways to touch each other than through the pockets," Sherlock suggested, withdrawing his hands.

"Oh God, yes!" John replied, before he dragged Sherlock towards his bedroom.