"John. What is this?" Sherlock demanded. John took a sip of his tea and looked up at the detective. He was staring in surprise at the piano John had had delivered earlier that day while the detective was out harassing Lestrade.
"It's a piano, Sherlock, I thought that much was obvious," John replied with a small smirk, pleased to have confused his flatmate. Sherlock turned to face John, his deducing face slipping as a tinge of befuddlement crept in.
Sherlock was standing too close, as usual, but John refused to move and give the man the satisfaction of having made John uncomfortable. After a moment Sherlock spoke. "I was unaware you played." His voice sounded… strange. John couldn't quite place a name to the emotion; he was still too surprised that the voice held an emotion beyond annoyance, boredom, or general smarminess.
"My mum made me take lessons, and I'm still pretty good. My parents were going to retire her, just send her to the dump," John said quietly, breaking eye contact to run a hand across the keys, not hard enough to make them play, but enough to bring back memories of afternoons spent studying the music and evenings spent playing simply for fun.
Sherlock gave a curt nod and disappeared to his room. John gave a small sigh, but ignored the detective's idiosyncrasies as he set his tea aside and slid in behind the piano. His fingers flexed uncertainly for a moment above the keys before they settled on the ivory and began to play.
The piano's age was immediately apparent, and it needed a bit of tuning, but with some coaxing John was able to pry some music out of it. He started small, basic primary pieces that had been among the first he'd learned as a child. Then he built on it, his fingers dancing across the keys, bringing out pieces he didn't even know he'd recalled until suddenly they were there, pouring out of his fingertips and into the air.
Suddenly a new sound slid in around his own notes, weaving in and out and complimenting John's piano perfectly. He didn't look up from the keys; instead he simply let back on the music a bit to allow Sherlock's violin more room to soar. It was clear who the better musician was, but then again, there were few things that Sherlock did that he wasn't the best at. Sherlock led him to the end of the piece, and when John finished he turned to watch as Sherlock pulled the last note out of his violin. The doctor smiled gently. He would've said something, but words didn't seem to be worth it. The music had left him empty and… longing somehow.
He cleared his throat awkwardly, making to stand from the piano bench. Sherlock's hand caught his shoulder, pushing him back down to the bench. Somehow the violin had been laid carefully aside as Sherlock settled gracefully next to John on the bench. One of the detective's arms slid casually around John's waist, and John couldn't seem to bring up the willpower to move away like he normally would have.
"Here," Sherlock said, placing one hand on the keys. "Show me what to do." John paused for a moment. Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, wanted John Watson to show him how to play piano.
John nodded, and began to move his left hand, showing Sherlock a simple tune that would work in any key. Sherlock mimicked him, his fingers moving much more quickly and smoothly over the keys than John's had at first. "Not quite like that, here, curl your fingers more," John corrected, placing his hand over Sherlock's to force his fingers into the right positions. He tried to disguise how his breath wanted to catch, and instead focused on molding Sherlock's hand into place.
Sherlock's free hand settled against John's hip, and John just put it down to his flatmate's inability to sense boundaries. Or at least he tried to. His heartbeats picked up significantly though, despite his best efforts. Sherlock noticed, of course he noticed, the man saw everything, but he said nothing. John played a new melody with his right hand, and felt Sherlock's fingers stir under his as the detective followed the motions. Abruptly Sherlock tore his hand out from under John's. John looked over at him in surprise as Sherlock stood up, annoyance clear on every feature.
"John, must you always be so dense?" he half-shouted, eyes and face holding something wild and dangerous and ever so slightly intoxicating. John stood as well, his temper sparking in response to Sherlock's.
"What on earth are you talking about?" John demanded. He worked not to lean in towards the detective; somehow Sherlock became even more attractive than usual when he was frustrated. There was something intrinsic to Sherlock that drew John like a magnet, regardless of John's protests. Eventually he'd given up on them, at least in private, and allowed himself to admire his flatmate without the immediate sexuality crisis. Now it was simply… part of his day. Wake up, make tea, admire Sherlock, drink tea, go to work, laugh at Sherlock's ambiguous texts, go home, admire Sherlock a bit more, and go to bed.
"What do you think? Honestly, John, you're impossible! I follow your ridiculous house rules, I try not to irritate you, I don't know what else I can do to make things more obvious!" Sherlock was really shouting now, fury etched on the planes and angles of his face. He'd never looked more stunning, and John had never been more stunned.
"Wh- you- huh?" John stammered, officially and completely lost. Sherlock strode forward again, into John's space and closer. He grabbed John's shoulders and pulled them together with a snap and pressing their lips together. John gasped and stiffened for a moment in surprise, but as Sherlock's hand pressed to the small of his back he relaxed and let the consulting detective has his way. As he always did.
"John," Sherlock hissed, pulling back from John's mouth to trail kisses along his throat and down towards the doctor's collarbone. "I swear, you'll drive me mad one day."
Under any other circumstance John would have been embarrassed at the small gasping sounds he made when Sherlock nipped at his collarbone. He could feel Sherlock grin against his skin, and it lit every nerve on fire. "Sherlock," John gasped out when the man began sliding John's jumper up and over his head.
Sherlock hummed his response against John's skin. "What are we- are we-" John couldn't finish the sentence, couldn't finish the thought because he was too busy trying to undo the ridiculous buttons on Sherlock's shirt. Finally the last button popped and John shoved the sleeves away from Sherlock's shoulders, pressing sloppy kisses against the warm skin there. Sherlock gave a very un-composed sigh and a light shudder ran through John at the sound. A moment later, John's shirt was gone as well and they were pressed together, chest to chest, and John could feel Sherlock's heart beating out a ragged tattoo against his own. If he weren't already hard as a rock, that would have done it.
The detective pushed John back until he was falling over the arm of the couch, scrambling to pull Sherlock down with him, pulling him down and luxuriating in the feeling of Sherlock's skin against his own. "God, Sherlock…" John murmured, pressing a heated kiss against the man's lips. Sherlock moaned –moaned- and damn it if that sound didn't resonant through John's entire body.
"John- my John," Sherlock whispered, his hands swiftly undoing and taking off John's trousers. John immediately set to work removing Sherlock's belt and trousers and- surprise of surprises, no pants. Sherlock slid John's pants off and John hissed at the sudden contact between the two of them, hard against hard. Sherlock's fingers trailed a path of fire down John's back until it reached the cleft of his ass. There, they paused, circling the very bottom of his spine, driving John absolutely spare.
His fingers slid lower, spreading John out and tracing his entrance lightly. John could hear Sherlock's other hand fumbling for something, and his unspoken question was answered when John immediately recognized the cold chill of lube as Sherlock slid a finger inside him. His hips bucked as a second and then a third finger joined the first, then they crooked perfectly and- God John couldn't breath.
Their breath came fast, chests heaving against each other as their erections pressed together and John's mind went completely blank for a moment. When he next returned to reality, Sherlock was pushing into him with a quick, sharp movement and John completely gave up on remaining composed.
"Sherlock," he shouted, his fingers digging in to the other man's shoulders. Sherlock groaned again, pulling nearly entirely out before slamming back in, and repeating the motion until they were both delirious. Sherlock came first with a shout, and John a moment later, both of them crying out the other's name loud enough that they would most likely have complaints the next morning.
John's heart slammed in his chest as he and Sherlock carefully cleaned up and leaned back again on the couch, wrapped in each other's arms. His mind trickled back slowly, until the strangeness of the entire evening fell into place.
"Sherlock," he began, toying absently with Sherlock's fingers. The consulting detective made a small sound, acknowledging John. "What exactly… well, what does all this mean?" He hated to ask, hated that there was a part of him, small as it was, that thought that perhaps this was just one big experiment.
The detective read his mind, as always, and gave him a soothing smile and pressed a kiss to John's forehead. "I think it means that I have a… 'thing' for pianists named John Watson," Sherlock answered, his eyes heating slowly as he held the doctor's gaze.
"I'll be certain to keep my eye out for any, then," John replied, leaning in and letting his eyes slip shut as he brushed his lips gently against Sherlock's.
Sherlock grinned gently, deepening the kiss before pulling back slightly, just enough that he could speak but still so near their lips brushed with each word. "I'm fairly certain there's only one for me."