Sherlock and I headed straight for our usual table. As soon as we were seated, Angelo appeared to hand us menus and pour us both a glass of wine.
After telling Angelo our order - basil and Parmesan fettuccine for me and wild mushroom risotto for Sherlock - we were finally able to relax.
Lestrade had called us in three days ago to help his team with a triple homicide case.
Thankfully, Sherlock was able to identify the killer that afternoon. If the case had taken any longer, I would have had to come up with some way to get food into Sherlock. Fortunately, Sherlock figured out the murderer's location from a gum wrapper and a shirt button.
Of course, no case is complete without a chase across the city.
After giving Lestrade the identity and location of the killer, Sherlock took off in a cab before the DI's team left the office, almost leaving me behind in his haste.
The killer, a man named Lucas, predictably tried to flee. His escape was thwarted when Sherlock and I cornered him two blocks away from his flat.
With a promise to Lestrade to stop by the Yard in the morning to help with the paperwork, Sherlock and I were able to leave the scene and walk the few blocks it took to get to Angelo's.
"Any dessert for my favorite couple?" Angelo asked as he removed the empty plates from our table.
"No, not tonight," Sherlock said.
Considering the fact that he had been throwing heated glances my way all through dinner, I figured that he had planned an evening at home that I would enjoy far more than Angelo's tiramisu.
Angelo walked away before I could ask for the bill - he still wouldn't hear of us paying at his restaurant. Still, I left a few quid on the table before we left.
The cab ride home felt like an eternity. Sherlock sat on the opposite side of the cab from me, staring out of his window at the city passing by as I looked out of my own window.
When the cab pulled up outside of 221 Baker Street, Sherlock barely paused to pass the cabbie a few notes before he was pressed up behind me, his breath brushing the back of my neck as I tried to get the key in the lock.
Finally, the knob turned under my hand and we were racing up the seventeen steps to our flat. As soon as we were through the door, Sherlock was stripping me of my jacket, pushing up my beige jumper, and attacking the buttons on my shirt, popping one off in his rush.
Before I could even unwind his scarf and get him out of his coat, he was undoing the button of my jeans and pulling the zip down.
By the time I finally divested him of his ridiculously sexy purple shirt, Sherlock had me standing completely naked in front of him. Together, we went to work on his trousers and pants, pulling them down to his knees.
I sank to my knees and pulled off his shoes and socks, ridding him of his trousers and pants as well, placing them with the rest of our clothes, which were piled on the floor next to us.
His cock was half-hard already, and I couldn't resist licking him from base to tip, once, before I stood up again.
"John," he moaned, voice made even deeper by his arousal.
His elegant hands slid across my cheek to cup the back of my head. He pulled me forward, into a kiss full of nipping teeth and dueling tongues.
We stumbled our way up the stairs, into the bedroom that used to be mine but was now ours.
He guided me to the bed, pushing my chest gently so I landed on my back on the mattress. He retrieved the lube from the bedside table before joining me on our bed.
He slicked three of his fingers and trailed them down my body, over my cock, and past my perineum. When he finally reached my entrance, he circled his fingers there teasingly before finally slipping his middle finger inside.
A second finger followed soon after, and he spent several minutes scissoring his fingers to further stretch me.
"Sherlock," I panted. "Stop teasing me and get on with it already."
A third finger swiftly joined the other two already inside me.
"Do you want my cock, John? Do you want to feel me, filling you up with my cock?"
A needy moan was all the response I could give.
"What was that? I didn't quite catch that. Can you repeat that?"
His fingers brushed my prostate and it took me a moment to remember what I was going to say.
"Please, Sherlock," I begged. "Fuck me already."
"I'll always give you what you want, John."
He removed his fingers, slicked up his cock, and the head finally breached my body. He slid in all the way in one smooth thrust, and I could feel his balls resting against my arse.
He leaned forward, supporting himself on his elbows, and brought our mouths together in a heated kiss.
My arms circled his shoulders, and I raked my blunt fingernails down his back as a particularly forceful thrust hit my prostate.
I gripped his arse and urged him to go faster. As he got closer to orgasm, he reached one of his hands down to grip my erection, pumping my cock in time with his thrusts.
He came first, releasing into me. Three more strokes, with a twist at the end, have me crying out as my own orgasm washed over me seconds later.
He collapsed on top of me and I ran my fingers through his curls as he pressed kisses to the side of my neck between heaving breaths.
He eventually slipped out of me, and walked to the bathroom, returning moments later with a warm, damp cloth. He cleaned our stomachs and chests of my come before throwing the used cloth off to the side.
We settled beneath the sheets and fell asleep with our limbs tangled together, getting as much rest as possible before Lestrade calls us in to work on a new case.