BBCSH 'Domestic'

Author; tigersilver

Pairing: S/J

Word Count: 3300

Rating: R

Warnings/Summary: There's a terrible problem with John's armchair and Sherlock is, naturally, the one to blame. Fluff and schmoop, established relationship, post-All the Trauma, Mrs Hudson's got married ones, too.

"You great twat," John exclaimed grimly, leaping up almost soon as he'd sat down with his second cuppa, albeit gingerly and only very nearly spilling his scalding tea. He glared; it had a close thing, there. "You've gone and left something vilely tacky all over my chair!"

John's resident twat merely 'hmm'd', eyes blank and unfocussed, trained sightlessly upon the far wall and not on his fulminating flatmate. In fact, it was eerily similar to many another morning in the recently restored 221B Baker Street addy.

"Which, now that I think about it, Sherlock," John gritted, his knuckles tightening about the handle of his mug, "is exactly to be expected from you and I don't know why I even bother, some days, when you always, always—"

"Bah," his flatmate interjected smartly. "You're at it again; tiresome. Tell me, do you get off on it, this constant carping? Dull."

"No, honestly," John scowled, stepping carefully about the jutting edge of the low table and installing his bum with a quite decided thump upon the relatively clean cushion nearest Sherlock's perch. "I do not. That would be you, Mister Holmes, always up for a fuss-and-bother. I like a quiet morning, myself. And, by 'quiet morning', I mean a morning in which I don't need change my trousers almost the minute I've put them on me. Nor waste my breath shouting at you to at least be considerate enough to clean up the cock up you've made of my chair. My chair, Sherlock. Mine."

"Wrong. Give me that," Sherlock ordered, calming removing John's mug from John's hand and sipping incautiously at it.

"Hah!" John snorted quietly, waiting for it.

"Cheer—thwip! Argh, John! Ah! You've burnt me!" Sherlock hissed, wincing dramatically, instantly pulling the tea away from his pursed reddened lips and painful tongue. The barest tip of it peeped out for a second; he withdrew it and clamped his jaw shut with an emphatic snap, working his jaw in obvious discomfort and bending a very leery eye towards his expectant partner.

"What?" John chirped, as innocent as a fluffy wee lamb. He cocked his chin at his fellow and licked his own lips, brows raised in a questioning manner. "Problem?"

"Why no milk, John?" the patently abused detective demanded, twisting fully about so as to confront the good doctor. His mobile face expressed a deep consternation. "Are you actively trying to punish me? Already?"

"Wrong!" John snorted, rolling his eyes and leaning across to deftly relieve the other man of the disputed mug. "Give it here to me, ta, and don't help yourself to what's mine in the future."

"Unkind!" the detective sniffed disdainfully. "I thought you were above all that, the petty vengeance. Queen and Country, John—Queen and Countyry!"

"No, Sherlock," John said insistently. "That was in no way deliberate; you did to yourself, remember? And, though it serves you right, wanker, you're still completely in the wrong." John eyed with disfavor the lowered level of his beverage and scrunched up his lips to send a cooling puff over the brim of it.

"How so?"

"I'm not the truly vindictive one out of the two of us, either, Sherlock, and you know it. Case in point—my chair." He settled back against the squabs with a pointed air of satisfaction, cupping both hands protectively about his mug. "That was downright petty of you. I had told you to wipe it down, after. And then told you."

"Hah! Hardly!" Sherlock huffed. "I recall nothing of the sort." Contrarily, he also lounged back, shifting his arse on the cushions and squirming to close the decreasing gap between the two men. "We, as you may remember," he said, with a jab of a forefinger to John's breast. "Were actually rudely interrupted in the midst and I—I simply never had a moment to deal with it after, although of course I intended to."

"Bull!" John scoffed, venturing a sip. "Complete malarkey. Pull the other."

"Oh, no, please! Let's approach this rationally, shall we? It is hardly my fault. That was you, all you, John Watson. Your bodily fluids, ergo your problem, not mine." Sherlock flipped a careless hand out, gesturing towards the egregiously besmirched armchair. Several long smears of a flakey, sticky pale substance decorated its back and bottom cushion, one spatter even begriming the Union Jack pillow.

"Jesus!" John muttered under his breath. "Not just me, you liar!"

"Definitely you, John. You swallowed mine, correct? Besides, Mrs Hudson will clean it as soon as she notices. So I don't see what you're so manky about. Or why you waste your precious breath," the detective added, with a supremely irritating arch of a single brow, "minging at me. It wasn't as if I left it deliberately. Disorder in the heart of the home is the very nemesis of the universe. Or did you want to cause some sort of time-space fracture?"

Satsified he'd reduced John to a state of speechless gaping, Sherlock moved inexorably closer to his flatmate, a large hand tentatively stretching out towards the half-full mug of tea. "Ah…please? I am parched, John." To prove it, he made puppy-dog eyes at his flatmate, causing John to choke.

"Hah! Get off me, you and your bloody fractured universe," John replied evenly enough when he'd caught his breath, sticking out an elbow to fend off the very definitely snuggly and grabby detective. "As if you know anything about those! One Hawking book does not a competent cosmologist make!"

"John!"

"Stop looking so wounded, Sherlock! It doesn't suit you! And don't try to defend yourself. It was your jizz as well as mine on that chair, my chair, cheers, and therefore your job to sponge it up after, no matter how late you came in last night—oh, and thanks so very much for that, the not-texting me, arsehole; fuck knows why I bother to worry over you—and furthermore?" John thundered on, firmly removing the mug to a non-reachable space, "furthermore, no matter how knackered you claimed you were then, you still seemed perfectly capable of shagging me into the mattress, despite it! No, Sherlock Holmes, you still can't seriously claim you're free of blame! Because I do blame you, the very soul of all my constant aggro!"

"Hmm," Sherlock purred, thoughtfully employing the hand he'd used to essentially flip off the matter of his flatmate's soiled seat in order to assess the visibly altering condition of the groin area of that same pissed off flatmate. "Blame and agro, is it? And then you dare claim I get off on it? Do tell, John. Evidence seems to be against you."

"What?" Startled, John glanced down his front, noting the suddenly very interested bulge at level of his own flies. "Shit, Sherlock! Seriously?" he cried, eyes gone wide as he examined his other John, the Thomas one, dressed neatly to the left and clearly massively erect. "Well, fuck me, that's torn it!" The mug of tea tilted precariously in his lax grip.

"No," the detective grinned, reclaiming it, gulping down a generous mouthful and setting it aside, accurately locating the last clear area available on the cluttered coffee table to place it without so much as a passing glance. "It hasn't, not yet, not if you'll consent to me taking the matter in hand, dearest. In a manner of…speaking. Or—maybe tongues? Yes! That's it!"

He thrust his long nimble fingers into the fray and had the doctor's denims and pants most the way down two nicely muscled and straining thighs in seconds.

"Oh! You bastard, you perfect punning bastard!" Flushing damply across neck and forehead as he shifted his torso and arse about obligingly, John began to laugh; firstly a little volley of his usual stifled squeaky giggles and then a bit more loudly, a rolling belly-laugh, despite the fist he clutched to his lips in a vain attempt to swallow it back. He watched avidly as the detective wrestled valiantly with a glut of unyielding fabric. "My. God, Sherlock! Stop, please, please just stop? Ri—dic—ulous! You're! You. Are. Murdering me, here—that tickles! That's—that's just—crim—criminal!"

"Nope," Sherlock informed him gleefully. "Wrong again, John Hamish Watson-Holmes. There is, in fact, in no way a single criminal nor illegal aspect to this exceptionally brilliant act—" He bobbed his ruffled head down for the merest instant, dropping a smear of kiss to John's foreskin. "We are about to engage in. Speaking of, are you ready? I certainly am."

"Gah! Okay—okay, okay, okay, hold your fucking horses!" John gulped and sank rather bonelessly back against the cushions, silently indicating that he was, in fact, just as his significantly smug other slithered to his knees right before him.

"Horses?" Sherlock pulled off to ask. "What horses, John. What have equines to do with it? Are you quite alright?"

"I'm fine, just fine," John said hastily, blushing madly, throwing his hands up in a gesture of defeat. "And no, you're right, no, sorry, of course not," he squawked, the words interspersed between random harsh inhalations and tiny groans of a fast-building appreciation. ""Sher—Sherlock! We're—married, riii-ah? Ahaha! Nothing—but noth—anngh!—wrong—about this!"

"Ungh," Sherlock nodded agreeably, his mouth pleasantly full. "Mmmnnh—meh!"

A motion which sent sparks of pleasure thrilling up his good doctor's spinal column; John groaned as his quite decidedly sneaky but very magnanimous lover's magnificent tongue performed that spiraling-twisting action he so adored. Excepting, he noticed, there was an impediment to his providing ample access, a situation that required resolution instantly, if not soonest.

"Here! Let me—let me just? Just…please," John gasped fiercely, jabbing his fingers into Sherlock's hair and tugging, not quite gently, seeking to stop the assault on his privates for a brief moment. "Go at it, if you're going. But first let me—let me!"

"Ngh," Sherlock mouthed approvingly about the head of his current oral fixation when John finally dove fully into the spirit of the business and frantically shoved his rumpled pants and trousers off completely, kicking his be-socked heels up in the air after freeing them and plumping his sweating knees conveniently to either side of the detective's not-so-artfully mussed curls. "Mmmm, yes, I will do, ta," he said, drawing off fully only long enough to say so. "Carrying on, John! Excelsior!"

And Sherlock did do, pale eyes glittering lambent fire under cover of tangled lashes. His flatmate sighed and have himself over to it, resigned. However…

"You—do—know, Sh-Sherlock?" John, stubborn to the last drop, managed a few more coherent words after another few moments of rather sloppily executed but desperately enthusiastic mouth-to-penis engagement. "That I—that this—it won't….ah, yessss! Right there—right fucking there! Oh my god, more please!"

"Hmm?" Sherlock, contrarily, abruptly halted. A freshet of cool air promptly engulfed John's member as all the welcomed wet warmth left it.

"Ack!"

"Won't what?"

Startled, John's eyes popped open to meet the accusing gaze of his scowling flatmate.

"Won't do what, John? Is there a problem? And why? Why would there be a problem when I am only right in the midst of actually making you happy, John? John? What's the matter with that, I ask you? Eh?"

"Oh, for shitting Jesus Christ on a fucking pogo stick, Sherlock," John sighed, his abandoned prick waving forlornly about in the horridly lengthening gap between it and the detective's frowning lips. "Only you would stop there. And no, there's no problem, not really, and certainly not anything that matters. There's nothing wrong, okay? No, what I meant was—ah! All I meant was…"

"Yes?" Subtly, the detective's shoulders relaxed, an easing that allowing John's still slick cock to come to rest jauntily against his chin. "You meant…what, exactly? John? Stop being so confusing; it's throwing me off my game."

"Sherlock," John smiled fondly, reaching out a calloused hand to cup at the pugnaciously set chin of Sherlock's, lovely in its state of almost-pouting stubbornness and stubble. "'Your game', is it? You wanker. We're not a game, not in the least." He blinked, all at once introspective. "Although if we are? It's a great one. Let's keep playing, yeah?"

"I'm not," Sherlock protested instantly, "a wanker. Don't call me that. Not to you."

"Of course you're not, excepting you are, really. Not that I really mind it. Mostly."

"John—"

"No, shut it. While I can hardly believe we're actually having a domestic in the middle of a shag, Sherlock, but hey? Here we are, right? Only you, dear—and only me. I suppose I should've expected it. Mrs Hudson will be so pleased."

"John! Hardly a domestic!"

"Nope, nope, nope, love; just shut it for half a tick, will you?" The doctor patted at Sherlock's cheek ever so kindly. "All I meant was to tell you you're not to think you're off the hook over the state of my chair, idiot. And probably you won't be over the eventual state of our couch, either, at least in a few minutes time. If I'm not mistaken in my deductions—which I'm not, cheers. Mistaken, that is. Carry on, then. Full sails ahead, Cap'n Holmes. Make a mess of me, please. And everything else."

"I…John."

John laid back obligingly enough again but the detective merely furrowed his forehead at him, eyes flickering over John's relaxed pose and the beginnings of the perspiration stain already evident on the aging leather of the cushions. He arrowed a look to his flatmate's armchair, the cushion and the cooling tea, already leaving a brown ring on the table. He examined John's prick, flagging but willing, and the voluminous amount of saliva he'd left, flattening down his flatmate's pubes.

"Oi, and your point? You do have one, correct?" Sherlock prompted, impatiently dismissing all the minutia of past-and-present intercourse. His accompanying lunge forward to stare deeply into his blatantly amused lover's eyes nearly ended with him having a glob of drying pre-ejaculate shoved up one flaring nostril. Shaking his head regally, he ignored it as the neural bomb at last went 'boom!' in the basement of his Mind Palace, revealing the entire pattern laid out before him in dazzling simple array. "John. Oh!"

Sherlock put it together, what his landlady had been babbling on and on about recently. "Ah, eureka, John! I have it!"

"Now you've got it, love. Good boy!" John grinned widely as the detective's assessing stare dialed down a few notches, taking on a gleam of warmth and slyly shared humour as to their situation vis-à-vis the endangered upholstery.

"..Oh. Oh," Sherlock murmured, wryly, one corner of his mouth twisting up. "I see."

"Right, well. And you observe, too—isn't that lovely? Doesn't mean I want you to stop or anything," John chuckled merrily, patting a palm on the abused divan. "Just…don't be any more of an idiot, idiot, than you really must, silly bugger. The damage is done, isn't it? By all means, please—continue."

"…Ah. So it is. Right, then, as you wish," Sherlock winked jauntily at the good doctor from above a very broad and salacious show of teeth. "Matie."

"…planned, really…"

"Mmh?"

"Completely thought out, from start to finish, John. And you do realize, don't you?" Sherlock muttered desultorily a rather longer little while after, but also very softly as it was directed straight into the doctor's one ear, positioned as Sherlock was, draped almost over the languid form of his partner, effectively squashing John flat. "Mrs Hudson advised me, amongst others. That the very epitomes of working relationships contain a soupcon of friction, now and again. Grit on the cogs, sufficient to engender a viable spark, if you will, in order to keep those home fires alit and burning bright?"

"Mmm, wha—?"

"—and that I was really only aiming to please you, my dearest John, by providing you yet another starting point, minor as it is, so that we may continue on peacefully with our peculiar but vastly effective version of domestic bliss?"

"What—pardon? Sherlock? What're you on about?" John 'mmph'd' sleepily and heaved himself about just a tad, positioning himself so as to blearily peer up into the pleased stare of the rampant detective poised above him. Sherlock tightened the various grips he had on John's collarbone and hip in response, opening grinning. "Buggerall. You mean you left that mess congealing on my chair on purpose? And now you've made this one," he jerked his chin to indicate the soiled leather sofa, "when we have ourselves an actual bed, a workable bed, with bloody sheets that can be bloody laundered? Have you no common sense? What the fucking fuck, William Sherlock Scott Watson-Holmes!"

"Shh, John." Sherlock silenced his squinty-eyed partner with a blistering fast but potent snog…and a quite fond smirk, of the 'aren't I dashing?' sort. "There you go again, starting hares and hailstorms, and whilst I'm sure you know I would do anything for you, beloved, anything at all—even go so far as to embroil myself in a tedious little domestic over a few minor stains on the furniture—you also probably need a little breather, after that lot of exertion. For you know how you love those, get off on them, really. Mrs Hudson always says they're the cornerstone of a solid foundation, domestics—vents the stale air or something like; I don't know. Doesn't matter, but I could really hardly refuse any single opportunity to make you happy when it presents itself, especially as that one did. That is one of my new responsibilities, is it not? Or—"

"What, really, Sherlock?" Aghast and with jaw slack, John goggled. "You're serious? Mrs Hudson is going to have herself a shit conniption—just as am I, right this moment!"

Sherlock looked instantly taken aback; he tensed, his generous lips tucking in on themselves as he bit them. "Oh? Or…is it. Is it I have…have I not gotten it properly, John? Should I—perhaps I should be going about it…differently? John? John."

"Oh, go—oh, you! Come here!" Hapless, John burst out into a great gasp of laughter, even as his vision misted over, sympathetic tears springing up at the sight of Sherlock's. They may've been faux but John clutched the detective to him anyway, as though a gale force wind might come tearing along any moment, seeking to rip them apart. And then snogged him like mad, casting a slew of nipping little kisses culminating in one final enormous smacking smooch. "You barmy bugger—of all things to even think of—oh, Sherlock, Sherlock!" John babbled affectionately, when he was able. He embraced his flatmate all the more ferociously, till Sherlock grunted.

"Joh—John?" Sherlock said, sounding vaguely alarmed but burrowing his nose into John's ear all the same. "You—I? Was that…that was…what, precisely?"

"Hey?" John asked, releasing him just enough to take a knowing gander at the detective's expression. "That was nothing, Sherlock—just a storm in a teacup, that's all. You did fine—were fine. All's well—oi! You all right there? You look a little squiffy, yet."

The detective blinked rapidly, licking at his stinging lips and the gloss of his partner's saliva decorating his chin. He swiped at it with the back of one hand, eyes abruptly downcast, and then clasped John's hip again immediately. "Um. Yes? Er, um…good?"

"Good-oh," John nodded once, sharply, satisfied. "Then, forgiven."

End (Fluff Storm)