Written for likeanelephantfootprint, based on the prompt "Something domestic at 221B", submitted for johnlockchallenges Valentine's Day gift exchange.
Now the old reliable flat at 221 Baker Street had seen some plenty strange things, though none as strange as its two inhabitants, that's for sure.
It all started on a seemingly ordinary evening, bordering on the wee hours of the morning, as a certain consulting detective paced around the living area restlessly, his eyes darting to the clock on the wall every five seconds or so.
He really ought to have something better to do. After all, Sherlock Holmes was a grown man. He had a job that he loved, an overall dangerous and thrilling life, and a brain that has yet to be outmatched. Clearly childish whims such as this were beyond him…
…Alright, so maybe that wasn't exactly true. Sherlock was many things—a thinker, a chemist, a musician, but above all he was also a man deep into theatrics, much as he'd like to deny the fact. He knew he had the tendency to burst into unexpected fits of whatever persona he wished to assume at any moment's notice.
Other people find it annoying. But really, though, it was one of his many, many gifts.
Sherlock heard the sound of John's footprints coming up the seventeen steps to the front door of the flat. The steadiness, the amount of pressure on the steps, how one foot pounded much more loudly than the other one—there was no doubt that it was John Watson approaching. He had spent many days mapping out the ex army doctor's foot patterns, and was confident that he could discern them even amongst a heavy crowd.
That, of course, was purely for convenience. John was his partner, so it would be sensible and not to mention pertinent that Sherlock be able to scope him out in any situation. For the sake of his job, of catching criminals, of course and not for personal reasons at all.
But there was something off about his footsteps this time. They sounded a bit less coordinated, missing the beat that John usually assumed on normal days of climbing up the stairs.
There was some struggle with opening the door. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at this.
The door opened, revealing a red-faced John. He had told Sherlock that he'd be going out with Stamford and Lestrade earlier in the day. Sherlock had readily predicted that it would end with a crying fest down at the local pub, and as usual he was not incorrect about his assumptions.
The detective walked towards John, who kicked the door shut and wobbled lightly when his sense of balance left him. Placing arms on his shoulders to steady him, Sherlock looked into his hazy eyes and wrinkled his nose when it was met with the stench of alcohol.
"Sh'lock… ngrrrghhh…" John mumbled incoherently, more of his breath fanning on Sherlock's face. He was directed to sit on the couch, the detective plopping down beside him.
"You're drunk."
"No shit, Sherlock."
Sherlock was not in the mood to play caretaker, so instead of trying to get John into more comfortable clothing and tucking him into bed like he knew a decent friend would do, he leaned back on the sofa and propped his legs up on John's lap, wanting to converse with the man. After all, this was the first time he'd seen John drunk. It had been two weeks since his last case and he'd been growing increasingly bored. The thought that he'd be able to learn new things, and new things about John for that matter, enticed and excited him at the same time.
He decided to start off with an innocent question. "How much have you had to drink?"
John, who had been lazily staring at the wallpaper, snapped his head towards Sherlock. "Two, I think. Maybe three…" he said, holding up six fingers.
"Let me rephrase the question, then: How much have you had to drink prior to reaching such inebriated states that you are unable to count your drinks anymore?"
John shot him a confused look, head tilting to the side and mouth slightly agape. Sherlock thought the motion extremely endearing.
"I… honestly don't know," John replied. "God, I hope you're not mad, Sherlock."
The detective shook his head, a small smile on his face. "Quite the contrary, actually. It suits you."
A small frown formed on John's face. "I don't know whether to take that as a compliment or an insult. But then again, you are Sherlock Holmes and you always do this."
"Do I now?"
"Yup!" John stood up suddenly, Sherlock's legs on his lap jostled over the edge of the sofa, taking him aback. "You always, always belittle me. Then you surprise me by following it up with a flattering comment. I never quite know what to make of you."
Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Drunk John certainly can be quite the dramatist. "Sit back down, John. You know full well that standing up would not do well for you."
"You don't tell me what to do, Sherlock Holmes!" John yelled, followed by a loud hiccup. He jabbed a finger at the detective, who stared at it cross-eyed. "And if I knew your full name, that woulda sounded much more threatening."
"Please, John. At present you are about as threatening as Anderson on a Monday morning. Now stop being such a drama queen and sit down."
John stared at him, a strange look in his eyes, but he acquiesced. "I don't even know why I keep following you around when I'm obviously not as needed."
Sherlock leaned towards him, placing a gentle hand on the side of his face. John stared back at him, wearing an expression so full of longing that Sherlock could not mistake it for anything else. He smiled slightly, bringing their foreheads together. When he spoke, John closed his eyes at the sensation of his breath fanning across his lips.
"As usual, John, you fail to see what is right before you. You are invaluable to me, John Watson."
"Just bloody kiss me, you git," John muttered.
At this, the spell that seemed to have been between the two of them broke. Sherlock dropped his hand and leaned away. He was once again reminded of the situation, that he was secretly in love with John and should therefore respect him even when he just drunkenly confessed his feelings for him, and that John Watson was drunk as a goat and probably would remember nothing of this the next day.
So instead of facing his feelings like a man ought to, he opted for the safer statement: "I thought you said you weren't gay."
John shrugged. "Bisexual maybe." He yawned. "Well, if you ain't gonna kiss me, might as well get to bed." He stood up from his seat, muttered a hasty good night, and headed upstairs to his room as if nothing remarkable at all had taken place.
But something did happen. Because in the few minutes that drunk John had been in the presence of the world's only consulting detective, he had managed to pluck strings in the said man he never even knew existed.
-O-
John woke up to broad daylight slamming on his face and he wanted to scream bloody murder.
Take it like a man, Watson. It's not like this is the first time you've woken up with a raging hangover.
He still had to go to work. After all, Sherlock hasn't had a case in weeks and someone had to pay the bills around the house.
Groggily and with great effort, he managed to get to his feet and pounded down to the kitchen.
The smell of pancakes and butter hit him, nearly causing his eyes to bug out of their sockets. He squinted, trying to set his sights on the kitchen. Sherlock was… cooking?
"Rise and shine, gorgeous!" Sherlock said cheerfully, setting a plate of pancakes on the table. John groaned. He was obviously mocking him. The git had nothing better to do than emphasise on John's dumb moments.
He padded down the stairs and sat down on a dining chair. Well, at least the pancakes looked edible. He dug in, humming happily at the sweet buttery taste.
Sherlock approached him, setting down some painkillers on the table, next to a glass of water. He sat down across John, not eating anything, only observing.
"Well you're being exceptionally nice to me today. What brought this on?" John asked through his mouthful of pancakes.
There was no mistaking the cunning smile that made its way on the detective's face.
"I have found an intriguing situation that I think would be worth my time and deductive prowess," Sherlock replied. "After all, it has been a while since my last noteworthy experiment and this one seems to be very promising."
There was a certain devilish undertone to his manner of speaking, and John was wary for a second. He finished his pancakes and gave a shrug. "Good for you then, mate. I gotta get to work. And for god's sake, stay away from the microwave!" He stood up and started towards the bathroom.
When John finished showering and was just about ready to go, he was surprised to see Sherlock standing by the front door, preventing him from leaving.
"What now, Sherlock? And can you make it quick? Sarah will be perfectly pissed when she finds out I'm late because of my mad flatmate again."
"John, I believe I have told you about a new experiment I'll be conducting."
"Well, I don't know any of the specifics, but yeah, I suppose you have."
"What I did not tell you, however, is that my experiment is a rather precarious one. Probably the most challenging and important of my entire career."
"That's nice. Now I really have to go—"
"And it all rests entirely on you."
John froze, not sure where he was going with this. "Err… what?"
The mocking smile was back on Sherlock's face. He placed his palms on John's shoulders, switching their positions and backing him up against the front door.
"I understand now that you are bisexual, John."
"I wouldn't go around assuming people's sexual orientations if I were you. A bit not good, Sherlock."
"Ah, but I am not assuming. And besides, if I were then it would have about a ninety-eight percent chance of being correct. But you did tell me as much last night."
John faltered under his penetrating gaze. "Oh god. What else did I say last night?"
Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly. "If you cannot remember, then I shall do my best to remind you in the most intriguing way possible."
"What do you mean?"
At this, he leaned closer to the shorter man. John had his back pressed fully against the door now, trying his best to meld with it. He couldn't take the look that the detective was giving him, all hunched over his form and looking just about ready to devour him.
He also looked completely, earth-shatteringly drop-dead gorgeous.
"My experiment, dear." The endearment caused a wave of shivers down his spine. His eyes closed of their own accord as the detective's lips came dangerously close to his ear. "I'm going to make you fall in love with me, John Watson."
John opened his eyes, palms braced on Sherlock's chest and pushing him away. He felt his face heating up as he tried to gather what the hell just occurred. "I-I, err, that's um… nice, Sherlock. But I—ah, have to go." He grabbed his bag and made his way towards the front door, tripping over his feet in the process. Sherlock observed him, amusement clearly etched on his face as John walked out the door and hastily slammed it shut.
Yes. This experiment looked to be very promising indeed.
-O-
Sherlock paced around the living area again, phone pressed against his ear. When John picked up on the other end of the line, he sighed in relief.
"Oh thank god, John. You were taking ages to pick up the phone!"
"Sherlock! What the bloody fuck are you calling me for? I'm at work!"
"Isn't this what people usually do when they are trying to woo someone?"
"For god's sake, Sherlock, you are not trying to woo me!"
"I sincerely hope you have not forgotten the agenda of my latest experiment."
"Sherlock, if this is your idea of a joke, I swear I will literally—"
"You know full well that I am not one to fool around."
"But… I don't understand."
"I have told you that this experiment is very life-changing for me, and it rests entirely on your response, and I meant that fully."
"Come on, Sherlock. You've told me a thousand times how ordinary I was. I hardly think I'm intriguing enough to be your test subject of all things!"
"Nonsense. I find you extremely interesting."
"…What?"
"I believe I stated that in a very precise manner and I have no intention of repeating it."
"…"
"John, say something."
"…"
"John."
"You've gone mad. You've been without a case for too long and now you're mad as a hatter. I always knew this day would come, I just didn't expect it'd be this soon! I—"
"Say something decently intelligent, that is. I can't have you spouting all of this nonsense!"
"Alright, you want intelligent? How about this, then: When I come home, I swear to god I will murder you and mangle your corpse so hard you'd wish you could see it for yourself the way you study the corpses from Bart's!"
*BEEP*
"Hello? Hello? John! John, you get back on your phone this instant!"
Alright. So far, his experiment wasn't going as well as he thought it would.
Sherlock threw his phone at the wall, hitting squarely the spray-painted yellow smiley face on it as it smashed into pieces. He whipped his robe around his body dramatically and sat down on the sofa, hugging his knees to his chest as he steepled his fingers under his chin in his signature thinking pose.
Ah, of course.
Time to commence trial two of his experiment. And he knew just how he was going to do it.
This time, there was definitely no room for error.
-O-
Lucky for Sherlock, John was not in the mood to disfigure his corpse when he came home that night. He just looked extremely exhausted. He made brief greetings and went up to his room, leaving Sherlock alone for the rest of the night to plan out the rest of his experiment.
And so the next day, he made John breakfast again. Though he found that he did it not because it was part of his plan, but solely because John seemed to like it the day before. He decided to do it more often, if only to make John happy.
He tried not to annoy John, which for him was an extremely difficult task. But Sherlock could be immeasurably dedicated when need be, and he managed to spend the whole breakfast period without pissing John off.
John, on the other hand, was just happy that everything seemed to be back to normal again. He could not handle the embarrassment that the previous day brought about. It had been too much.
But of course, with a flatmate as strange as Sherlock Holmes, he probably should have expected that his previous assumptions would soon be proven wrong.
It was raining outside, and John knew he better have a decent coat on before heading out, for simply his jumper would not suffice. He had been trying to remember where he had last placed his coat when he heard Sherlock clearing his throat.
Sherlock was looking at him hopefully, an expression that John had never seen on him before. He had John's dark brown coat in his hands.
John stepped closer to him, smiling. "Thanks. I was looking for that."
"It's not a problem at all, John."
John held out a hand to take the coat, but Sherlock immediately took it out of his reach.
"Turn around."
And he did. And he was surprised to feel warmth rising steadily up his arms as Sherlock gently put the coat on him. He could distinguish the heat of Sherlock's fingers even through the layers of clothing he had on and wished to feel them on his skin.
A deep, sonorous chuckle came from the detective's lips. He stepped in front of John and backed him up against the front door, much in the same position they were in the day before.
And John did not mind one bit.
Sherlock leaned in close, their noses touching. John found that he could not move even if he wanted to.
Sherlock's eyes were mesmerising, and they were currently boring into his with an intensity that made his knees quiver. He was smiling down on John, his Cupid's bow lips looking very delectable, mere centimetres away from his own.
John shut his eyes in desperation. The torture was too much. It was too, too much, and he knew that Sherlock only meant all of this as a joke, but he couldn't find it in himself to step away. So he merely closed his eyes and feared for what will happen next.
A pair of soft, warm lips closed in on his own just when he thought everything would end. His eyes shot open, and he saw that Sherlock had his closed, a look of deep concentration on his face. His lips moved softly, gently, only testing the waters to see how he would be received, but it was enough to send wave after wave of sensations all over his body.
Sherlock pulled away, a soft smacking sound erupting from between their parted lips. John was breathless.
"What on earth was that for?!" John implored.
Sherlock smiled slyly. "Happy Valentine's day, dear."
And of course, that was when Sherlock chose to open the door and push John out of the flat.
John remembered going to work thinking that the world could end right then and there and he still wouldn't have noticed.
-O-
Sherlock Holmes, for the umpteenth time that week, walked restlessly around the 221B flat. He positioned and repositioned the chairs around. He made sure that the curtains were closed so he could muffle out the noise and pollution of the London air as much as possible. He even packed up some of his experiments—at least, the ones that John found more disturbing. Like the fried eyeballs on the petri dish, for example.
He took a look at the overall scene. This will do.
John arrived at the door at the precise moment he thought he would. Sherlock stalked off towards him, immediately guiding him out of his coat and throwing it to the side.
"Sherlock, wha—"
"No time for talking. I've got something planned."
"Something planned? Look, I'm not in the mood to—"
"Just let me, please?" Sherlock asked softly, sincerely. John stared at him in confusion, and the detective took this as a chance to lean in and plant a quick kiss to his cheek. "Welcome home, by the way."
John turned beet red and refused to look Sherlock in the eye. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"
He took in the sight of the flat. Nothing seemed to be out of place, except that it was maybe a bit cleaner than usual. Did Sherlock tidy up the place while he was gone?
His eyes fell on the man himself, dressed impeccably in one of those suits that probably cost his whole month's salary, and that purple button down that over the months had become John's favorite. It brought out the smooth expanse of his skin and the vivacity of his mesmerising grey eyes.
It was not fair that he got to be this attractive all the time. It simply wasn't.
"I just told you that I planned something, did I not?" Sherlock said in reply.
"No, I mean, what's this? What's all this about? You suddenly coming on to me, telling me you want me and starting to seduce me with… with all this!" He gestured his hands to their surroundings. "I don't know what to expect! Next thing I know, you'll wake me up in the middle of the night and put a collar on me or something. What exactly are you trying to accomplish?"
Sherlock took a few steps away, clasping his hands behind his back. His expression was unreadable as he spoke. "Now, John. First off, I promise there will be no collars—unless you're into that sort of thing, then perhaps I can make a few arrangements…"
"Oi! Sherlock!"
"While we're at it, John, will you kindly enumerate to me what types of sexual activities you prefer? I mean, I'm pretty sure I already have most of them down to pat, but I do like to be precise. Also, are you willing to try new things? This would be indispensable knowledge for—"
"Ah, Sherlock? You said you had something planned?" John interrupted, more to change the subject than anything else. The man was grilling him under his stare right in the middle of their living room. Still, he was wary of what Sherlock had in store for them that night. If the idea was Sherlock's, it usually wasn't a good one.
Sherlock stepped back and gestured to the couch. "It's nothing elaborate as you might expect. Just a simple night in with some Chinese takeaway."
John laughed softly and took off his shoes. He walked towards the sofa, still not quite sure what he was about to get into. "Really? You know most people would cook dinner for the person they're 'trying to woo'," he said jokingly.
"Ah, but you said so yourself. I am not trying to woo you." He walked to the back of the sofa, bending down to place his lips on John's ear and talking in the most seductive of tones. "You, John Watson, are already mine."
The doctor could not resist the shivers that went through him, and he gulped nervously at what he thought Sherlock might be capable of doing to him.
Sherlock walked away, only to come back with the Chinese takeaway in his hands. He handed one to John and plopped down next to him.
"But luring purposes aside, this was the most practical solution that I could think of," Sherlock spoke through a bite of his food.
"Really? And why is that?" John braced himself for yet another round of his amazing deductions.
"You might think me socially inept, John, but I am not stupid. I know what normal couples do for their dates—" John blushed at the term, "—However, I knew that I simply would not cook dinner for you. I am not that person at all and nothing that even you could do could persuade me otherwise, so home-cooked meals were out of the equation. I know that some couples prefer their first date to be somewhat reminiscent of their first meeting, so naturally I would be directed to how we ate Chinese food after our first case, though speaking by that definition, Angelo's would have been a possibility, but we just ate there last week. So the next logical conclusion to come to was to take you out, but there was another thing I have almost forgotten to factor: the rain. It's been pouring non stop for days. I notice you've been getting the sniffles, what more with the rest of the proletarian population? As evidenced by the state of your exhaustion by the time you got home from work, you've been getting twice as many patients as usual and would not have been up to going out all the way to get food when you can simply eat here. Ergo, there can only be one solution that bridges all those premises: Chinese takeaway at home."
John stared at him blankly, then smiled. "Not as impressive as your other deductions, but I appreciate the sentiment."
Sherlock scoffed. "Sentiment. How I loathe the term."
"Try to deny it, but it's true, Sherlock. You're just as human as the rest of us."
"Somehow I find that hard to believe. You always think the best of me, John."
John faced him, daring to lean closer as he placed a soft hand behind his ear. Sherlock appeared to have been taken aback by this sudden action, and he was frozen on the spot.
"Well, it is one of my many gifts," John whispered. He smiled nervously at the detective before placing an affectionate kiss on the tip of his nose.
John did not miss the slight blush that spread over his cheeks when he pulled back.
God, there were so many things about Sherlock that drove him nuts. And he'd taken a lot of crap his whole life, he figured why not seize the moment?
And if Sherlock randomly decided to drop him like a hot potato one day, then there would be no harm done, right?
Wrong, John's conscience spoke up. You fancy him. You're absolutely head over heels for him. If he takes you and leaves you, you'd be completely destroyed and you know it.
John did not know when he became such a pathetic man, to let his whole life revolve around one person. But the world never did work out for him in ways he expected it to, and he learned that taking risks and being more adventurous with the way he lived helped him to better understand why.
They finished eating their dinner with companionable silence. To be honest, aside from the newfound electric tension between the two of them, the night had gone on not so differently from all their other nights spent together. John was relieved by that.
And Sherlock finished his food. John was absolutely elated with that.
"I'll go put these in the sink," John announced, picking up their plates, boxes, and utensils. The moment he stood up, though, arms snaked around his waist, trying to pull him back down.
"Sherlock! What in the name of—"
"Joooooooohn," he drawled out the name in his usual exaggerated monotone. "If you leave, I'll be ever so bored, John!"
"I'll only be gone for eight seconds! Stop acting like a drama queen."
"But, John." He felt the side of Sherlock's head rest against the small of his back, the arms on his waist tightening. It was nearly impossible for him to move now. "Stay!"
"Sherlock, you're being ridiculous." John stood firmly before quickly manoeuvring his way out of Sherlock's gangly arms. The detective's groans were heard all the way from the kitchen. John rolled his eyes.
He walked back to the living room to see a sulking Sherlock. "See? Eight seconds." He was cut off by the sound of his phone. "Oh, hang on a sec."
It was a text message. He opened it, read the text briefly and typed out a quick reply before turning off the phone and placing it on the end table.
"Who was that?" Sherlock asked suspiciously.
"Just a text from Sarah. Nothing important."
The detective leapt off the sofa with feline-like grace as he bounded towards John, his grey eyes squinted and perusing. "What did she say to you?" he said menacingly.
John took a few steps back, only to have the space compensated by Sherlock stepping forward. Their eyes locked in a heated gaze, John found himself struggling to get the words out of his mouth.
"It-It's nothing. I told you it wasn't anything important."
"I find it very sexy when you lie to me, John, though I would advise you not to do it a lot."
"I—ack!" John's back hit the wall with a thud. He glanced left and right, trying to find another way out when Sherlock's arms came up to the sides of his head, caging him under his soul-seeking gaze.
"Now, be honest with me, John. What did she say to you?" Sherlock whispered, though his speech did not lack the certain allure that his rich baritone brought, and it was getting increasingly hard for John to resist him when he was getting more aroused with every minute.
"What is it with you always backing me off into walls and doors?"
Sherlock gave an amused smile. His lips hovered over John's, teasing. They were right there, his for the taking, but he knew that if he gave into them, he would be surrendering what was left of him to this mad flatmate of his.
And did he want that, after all?
God, yes.
He closed his eyes, so as not to feel as intimidated. "Look at me, John." He opened them again, finding that at this point, he knew there was no resistance left in him anymore.
Sherlock won, as he always did. But not in the way he thought he did.
No, John thought. Sherlock won a long time ago.
And so, John talked, releasing the words all in one breath. "She asked if I wanted to have dinner with her tonight and I said no."
Sherlock growled deeply. His lips skimmed over John's jawline, moving down to the column of his throat. He nuzzled into John's neck, letting out a deep sigh. "And why is that?"
"I was a bit—" John let out a gasp when he felt teeth sinking into the skin of his neck, "—preoccupied."
His hands found their way to Sherlock's thick locks, tugging on them so they would be face to face again. Sherlock complied.
"And rightly so, John Watson." He inserted a leg between John's thighs. John let out a soft whimper. "And I intend to keep it that way."
"You bloody well should, you mad bastard," John let out breathlessly, making Sherlock chuckle.
John closed his eyes, revelling in the sensations that only Sherlock could ignite in him. An act of surrender. An act of trust.
Sherlock leant down and licked along his bottom lip before plunging in completely to taste what was so uniquely John. He knew it was a taste that he would never tire of. John's tongue met his just as strongly, their mouths moving together with the exact same pace, the exact same rhythm, as if they'd done this a million times before. And it certainly did feel like that.
With Sherlock, nothing ever was and everything was new at the same time.
Sherlock pressed closer to him, applying just the right amount of pressure on his crotch. John thrust down eagerly, moaning softly at the heated friction forming between them.
In one swift, aggressive move, Sherlock placed his hands on John's hips and snapped their crotches together. His mouth left John's when he let out a loud moan.
John, greatly encouraged by this, snaked a hand in between their bodies. He palmed Sherlock roughly through his trousers. Deciding that he didn't want to be coy, he undid Sherlock's belt and dove straight inside his pants.
He wrapped a hand around Sherlock's cock, making the detective buck into his touch. His strokes were firm, but merciless. He wanted to see what Sherlock was like completely undone.
But unfortunately, that was not the plan Sherlock had in mind.
He grabbed John's wrist and pulled it out of his trousers. "All in good time, Dr. Watson. Right now, I've something I want to try."
"Dr. Watson, huh?" John said, panting. "I quite like that, actually."
"Take it slow. I have all the time in the world to figure out your many kinks. Or would you rather I call you 'Captain'?"
John rested his head on the wall, trying to gather his wits, but he could form no response. Sherlock raised a teasing eyebrow at his lack of a remark. "Oh shut up and bloody blow me already!"
"Tsk. Bossy now, are are?" Sherlock replied. "You always find ways to surprise me, even after all this time."
And Sherlock got down on his knees.
John sucked in a huge breath, his hands braced on the detective's shoulders. He had no idea what he'd just gotten himself into, but he knew he had no urge to stop.
Sherlock undid his belt with skilled fingers. He pushed his trousers and pants down past John's knees. John's cock sprang up fully erect and leaking. Sherlock stared at it with a curious gaze, as if it were some specimen he'd set himself out to observe. He moved mechanically, almost as if he were following a set of predetermined steps and it was just so utterly Sherlock that John found himself unable to handle the anticipation. Sherlock placed a hand on his cock, making a couple of light strokes and John whimpered at the teasing touches. He next brought his hand down John's entire length, gathering the the pre-come in between his fingers.
He withdrew his hand, flexing his fingers, watching as strings of John's come stretched out between them. The sight made him smile and he slowly licked his fingers one by one.
John groaned impatiently. "You're a sick, sick bastard. You just love torturing me, don't you?"
Instead of responding, Sherlock pressed his slicked fingers against John's hole.
"FUCK!" John jolted against the wall, his knees nearly collapsing. "Sherlock, I swear to god if you don't do something, I will ri—ahhhh…"
The detective interrupted his outburst by taking him fully in his mouth. John's hands flew instantly to Sherlock's curls, making sure he stayed there.
"Oh… Oh, bloody… Fuck, Sherlock… Don't stop…"
John made a light thrust into Sherlock's mouth and pulled back out, the heat and the sensations almost killing him. It had been too long since he'd been given head by a man, and to have it from Sherlock Holmes, of all people.
He tangled his fingers in Sherlock's hair, making him moan. The sound reverberated down the length of John's cock, and it all became too much for him to bear. The hard wall against his back was the only thing keeping him upright as Sherlock sucked him in greedily and mercilessly.
Sherlock pulled back so that his lips enclosed only John's tip and made swirling motions with his tongue. This earned a loud groan from John. He pushed at his hold on Sherlock's hair, trying to bring back the pleasurable warmth that his mouth could provide. Feeling the detective's resistance, he brought in upon himself to thrust back into him instead.
Sherlock was clearly taken aback by this, but he did not back off. He resumed his ministrations with more fervour, now fully intent on sending John over the edge. This wasn't an issue of contest or power play, this was simply him wanting more than anything to make John happy.
Never had he done such a selfless act before in his life. And this brought him to wonder up to what lengths he would go to just to ensure John's happiness.
Anything. He would do anything.
"Sherlock, I—I, ah, I'm gonna…"
He barely even got to finish his warning before he was coming in Sherlock's mouth with a long, breathy moan. Sherlock swallowed what he could, before pulling out completely and kissing John on the lips.
John found that the taste of himself on Sherlock's lips was the closest he'd get to heaven in his entire life.
They pulled back, both panting and trying to catch their breaths.
"Well," Sherlock remarked. "That was… illuminating."
John's eyes widened as a sudden realisation hit him. "Oh god. We just had sex in our living room!"
"Come on, John. You've always been attracted to danger. Don't pretend you didn't enjoy it," Sherlock said with a smirk.
John blushed, his hands coming up to cover his face. "I am never going to be able to look at this wall the same way again!"
"Don't be ridiculous. At this point, the wall is the least of your worries," Sherlock replied, pointing down at the carpeted floor, now partly soiled with John's cum. John stared at it with complete horror.
"What the hell are we going to tell Mrs. Hudson?!"
"Once again, you fail to see reason, John Watson." Sherlock placed a soft kiss behind his ear. "We tell her nothing. Knowing her, she probably thinks this has been going on for months now."
"I'm gonna die."
"Happy Valentine's day, dear," Sherlock said cheekily.