Started from the end of the small paragraph to let you know what this is about. Not necessary to read if you haven't. Just useful.
Sitting in the station, Sherlock is told that they found positive information that the brother was the culprit, and had admitted to everything.
The brother was blinded by rage when he found out every penny was, as stated by the will, to go to the wife. He'd gone to his brother's home in order to try and convince him differently. The talk turned quickly into an argument and took a turn for the worst.
"What evidence was found?" John asked, seeing the absolute rage in Sherlock.
Lestrade was seeing the same thing and tossed the file at Sherlock. He threw it open and pictures of blood-smeared clothes, an obvious splatter from the blunt murder weapon Sherlock had found. Sherlock flipped through them, as well as the written report of the confession, and threw the file upon Lestrade's desk.
"What about the wife? I found proof she knew about the mistress." Sherlock ground out. John didn't know how Sherlock was going to vent himself out but it didn't look like a good one.
"She's being released now. We have no need to hold her now."
Sherlock shot to the door and John was a flat second behind him. Lestrade didn't know what to do so he followed as well. Just as she was let out of the room a few hallways down, Sherlock dropped in on her.
"Why? Why was it not you!" Sherlock shoved away one of the officers as he grabbed the woman's arm. She had bloodshot eyes and Kleenex in her hands, nose red.
"Wh...what?" She stuttered.
"Sherlock." John called gently, coming to a stop and holding out an arm to keep Lestrade from making it worse.
"You knew of the other woman and you weren't even mad!" Officers started grabbing Sherlock but the woman grabbed his arm, smiling softly.
"I knew about her the whole time. She was my idea, Mr. Holmes. I loved him enough to know he needed more than me." She released him and told the officers it was okay. Sherlock stood still as a statue even after everyone else had gone and John was the only one left with him.
"Home?" John inquired and Sherlock silently followed out the building and into a cab.
On the ride home, Sherlock didn't look at John and about halfway through asked in a rushed tone, "are you still happy with Marry?"
Confused and concerned, John told Sherlock, "yes." The ride to the flat was silent the rest of the time. The question was easily put out of John's mind as just another one of those strange things Sherlock did.
As Sherlock exited the cab, John paid and pulled out his phone.
Sherlock's not doing well, going to stay for a bit. JW
John informed Marry of his intentions as he followed Sherlock up through the door and up the stairs. Inside the flat, everything was almost exactly as it had been left so long ago. Except, of course, John's chair.
Sherlock had pulled most of his clothes already off and thrown them atop the couch. John was correct in thinking the man needed someone to look after him tonight, if not every other blasted night.
He closed the door carefully and locked it. As he turned, Sherlock was standing there, staring at him in nothing but his button up and boxer pants. John didn't know what to do, Sherlock had never done this before, but figured it was no big deal. He took his coat off and slipped off his shoes, all the while being very aware of Sherlock's gaze.
"The violin might help. Go start on that, I'll make some tea." John turned to the kitchen but was surprised when Sherlock shot forward and grabbed a hold of him. Sherlock pushed John backward until he hit the table in the kichen. John had to stop himself from fighting Sherlock, knowing it would end badly, therefore started breathing ragged. He noted Sherlock's eyes had only a small ring of color to them.
"Fuck the tea," Sherlock hissed, coming very close to John's face. The man breathed John in, fingers curled into the sleeves of his jumper. John felt sharp stings from being pinched but said nothing, made no noise. There was a long, drawn out moment before Sherlock let John go roughly, so much so he had to catch himself on the table's edge.
Sherlock spun from his only friend and started pacing the floor, much more furious than John normally saw him. John pulled himself upright, straightened his clothes, and turned to make tea.
Even when the tea was done, Sherlock was still pacing like a wild man. When the cups were set on the table, John enjoyed his tea as Sherlock did seemingly his hardest to ignore the world, busy digging his way through the floor.
After another hour of this senseless behaviour, John stood with every intention to let the man stew by himself. The moment he rose, however, Sherlock's attention drew to him and John stilled as if a rabbit caught in the sight of a hawk.
The sharp, intelligent eyes narrowed on John and the man who was home to those eyes slipped with the grace of a bird forward and grabbed John. His hands, long fingers for that of an artist, slipped up John's jawline, through his hair and bent his head to the perfect angle. Sherlock's lips landed on his, kind for a momentary second before it roughened and John felt the need of release grow in intensity faster than he could gauge.
Sherlock pressed his body, taut and hard, against John's to the point where John flung his hands out to keep from falling over. Sherlock twisted them both and they stumbled together past the coffee table, the sound of a cup shattering rang through them both but neither made a reaction towards it. John slammed into the wall next to the couch. One of Sherlock's hands untangled itself from John's hair and slipped down John's front, touching each curve it could find through the jumper, and burying into the clothing at John's hip. His fingers curled, almost pinching.
John put his hands on Sherlock's ribs, obviously unsure if he wanted this to end yet or not. The shock of the kiss was still stuttering his brain. Before John could start pulling his thoughts back together, Sherlock twisted his wrist and pushed his hand against bare flesh, warm from being under John's clothes. The flesh contact drove a surprised gasp from John, the likes of which Sherlock swallowed.
Feelings John's fingers curl, his body responding in like to Sherlock's, Sherlock started walking them to his room. It was a good idea Sherlock walk backward, for John was stumbling enough as it was, going forwards. Almost completely unfazed at their moving, John had started to tentatively kiss Sherlock back.
By the time they reached the door to his room, John had been washed with need and slammed Sherlock's back into the door. Sherlock was honestly surprised as John opened the door, their mouths still locked together. As one, they stumbled into the bedroom and John kept pushing until Sherlock felt the back of his knees hit the bed and he started to fall. Before he went to far, he latched onto John and they both fell.
Without pausing long enough for John to think, which was still a very real problem, Sherlock raised his legs and ground a thigh between John's legs. A deep, pleased groan rumbled from the man. Sherlock smiled in the darkness and tugged at John's jumper, his fingers catching on the bare shirt underneath. John rose a fraction and they ripped off both tops at once. John's voice was ragged once more, only this time it had nothing to do with self preservation.
Fingers inexperienced with button-ups or undressing in the dark, pulled at Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock let John continue to try as he ran his own fingers over John's ribs, detailing each into his memory. He breathed in, the smell of himself as well as John's nearly overwhelmed him as it had earlier. It was intoxicating.
When the last button was gone, Sherlock shot up, giving John a hurried, heated kiss before falling towards his shoulder, which he nipped with his teeth. From there, he went to John's collar bone and, getting a good response from their, rose to the neck where he got a more-than-likely uncontrolled response bucking of John's hips as well as a gasp.
John's body shuddered, encouraging more attention to his neck. As Sherlock did this, John pulled on Sherlock's boxer shorts and Sherlock fought against John's buckle. Realizing they were gaining little ground, Sherlock lied back down and rose his hips. Before long, he was completely naked. Next, he had John's bare butt open to the air. For a moment, Sherlock let himself revel in the fact that John was, for the first time since they'd met, naked against him. Years he'd thought about it but had not been willing to risk the friendship between them. Tonight was different somehow.
Sherlock pulled his fingers up John's legs, over his bare ass, up his back, receiving an almost purr-like groan, and deep into John's hair, all the while applying so much pressure their bodies had to be pressed together. As he forced their lips back together, he raised his own hips upward and felt against John's hard length, teasing the tender skin with his own. John shivered with a violent shudder and Sherlock threw a hand towards their hips, digging into John's side and wringing another shudder and groan.
"Yes," Sherlock let slip, enjoying the noises his partner made almost more than the feeling of having him naked atop him.
Not sure of how far he would get, Sherlock eased one of his legs up and around John's hip. Once more, to his utter surprise, John reacted with fervor and grabbed Sherlock's other leg, throwing it over his hips. Sherlock hadn't felt so exposed to anyone in a very long time. It was not an outright uncomfortable feeling.
It didn't take much longer for John to position himself just right and Sherlock about groaned aloud as John hissed in his ear, "bite my shoulder." Scant moments after Sherlock did lock on, John pushed forward and Sherlock wasn't sorry to taste blood. The taste, though, was one of the last things upon his mind. First and foremost was the feeling of John inside of him.
The sensation was blissful, once the sharp pain was overlooked. As John started a slow, rhythmic thrusting the pain left all together. Sherlock allowed a moan through his lips and couldn't stop the hard intake as John reacted by shoving hard and deep.
"God," John groaned, his face contorted. Sherlock arched his back, moaning. The same reaction accompanied and Sherlock couldn't stop the intake of breath. Good.
Releasing his hold on the vocal aspect of the pleasure, Sherlock grew loud. Thankfully, John replied in kind as well as with his hips. Before long, the men were lost within the thrusting motions of John's hips, the smooth, pleasurable feel as John caressed Sherlock's chest.
Digging nails into Sherlock's chest, John started going harder, gaining a very satisfying look from Sherlock. The tightness of Sherlock's ass was made all the more pleasurable when the man moaned, or even made a face. Seeing emotion on the otherwise emotionless face, and knowing he put it there, gave John almost more pleasure than the sex. And the sex was rather glorious.
He felt himself get closer to that damnable edge far too fast. He attempted to slow but Sherlock wiggled, his thighs tightening each time John pushed forward making John buck. John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's member, a noise he'd never heard tore through Sherlock's throat and he threw his head back, moaning John's name for the first time. That did it.
John went as hard and fast as he could. His fingers felt slick with pre-cum, his hand flying up and down Sherlock hard length. In moments, he felt the orgasm peak and his movement stutter, the overwhelming pleasure whitening his vision. He heard himself strangle Sherlock's name out, barely audible. Seemingly far off, he heard Sherlock peak as well with a strangled version of his name, the length wrapped in John's hand shuddered and wetness soaked his fingers.
Sherlock helped John ease onto his back, having pulled out. The two men breathed heavily beside each other in the dark bedroom. The light from hallway created enough for them to see one another clearly.
"It was the woman, wasn't it? What she said." John asked calmly as his breathing lowered enough to allow full sentences. Sherlock eyed John, both knowing exactly what he meant.
"I assume so, yes."
"You're a right arse, waiting until now." This gained an eyebrow twitch from Sherlock. "Don't play that, Sherlock. I'm married man."
"I am well aware. I was there, if you recall."
"I bloody well do recall." John raised himself up on his elbows but Sherlock stayed put. "Been waiting years for you to get it through your thick skull."
"You what?"
"For a smart man, you're quiet an idiot."
"John, I assure you, I don't mean anything by this."
"Shut it. I may not be as perceptive as you but I can put what the woman said and how you just treated me together. Sherlock, Marry knows."
Stunned, Sherlock shot to a sitting position.
"She knows we just had sex? How?"
"Not that we just had sex," John remarked calmly, rising slowly to face Sherlock. "She told me even before the wedding that she knew you loved me. I just didn't believe her. She's dropped hints like bombs that it's okay if we..." Sherlock put a hand on John's face and John stopped speaking immediately. Sherlock removed his hand just as fast.
"Marry thinks I love you?"
"Don't be daft. Don't act like it either. I can tell when the person I'm having sex with is more than just enjoying it. How long have you worked this stupid situation out in your head?"
"Years." John was thrilled Sherlock wasn't playing his I-had-no-idea card. It didn't suit the man.
"You're such a twat." John spat as he pushed Sherlock down and straddled his hips. The ease in which this was accomplished more than a little drove John's point home. "Marry told me threesomes aren't allowed but this is okay."
"She saw this before us?"
"I gather so."
"Why doesn't she come to crime scenes with me rather than you? She seems capable."
John gave a steady glare to Sherlock until the detective smiled.
"Right, yeah, I'll kill you." John murmured as he bent his head down to receive another kiss.