When they walk into the village together, they giggle the whole half-mile, as if this chilly and overcast day were the funniest thing they've ever experienced. The chemists isn't open by the time they get there, so they go into the grocers holding hands. Sherlock fills his hessian bag as he does every morning, only now every piece of fruit is inexplicably funny and the eggs are just a riot.
Standing at the register at the chemists they are sniggering like sixteen year olds buying their first condoms, and John knows that it's obvious by the way they're touching each other and laughing and looking at each other that the teller knows exactly what they're planning on doing with the two bottles of lube that they're buying. He feels obligated to buy something else so he grabs a lip balm and only after it's rung up does it occur to him that that only adds to the impression that they're giving. He wonders if it's a problem in this sleepy little village, that two men are all but shrieking that they're going to go home and shag each other for the rest of the day—don't frighten the horses—but then he thinks that maybe that's just London snobbery as the chemist looks completely nonplussed that they're buying a copious amount of lube at ten o'clock in the morning.
Outside, Sherlock, who knows the town better, yanks John down an alley behind terraced houses, hidden by the high fences on both sides.
"No, Sherlock, no. We can't! Bad enough that we've broadcasted our sex-life to all fourteen people in this town but that we should be charged with public indecency?"
But once out of view, it's John's hands going down Sherlock's trousers to cup Sherlock's bum and pull him closer so they can grind their hips together.
And at that moment, the sky, which had remained clear and sunny for an entire week, gets its revenge by opening up a torrent that drenches them both in seconds and makes the street run deep with water.
There's nothing for it but to dash for home, because they both know that if they try to shelter in the chemists or any other shop until it passes, they're going to be going at it on the floor if the rain doesn't clear fast enough for their desire.
So they run the entire half mile, Sherlock up ahead and John behind as ever, only now they're soaked through, and it's uncomfortable and difficult to run when your erection is wedged down your trousers against your leg. Sherlock has the cottage door unlocked before John gets there, so he can pounce on John as soon as he comes through it, and start to strip off the wet coat, the sodden jumper, the dripping jeans. The organic smell of wet wool is everywhere. Sherlock's relatively dry compared to John because of his long, heavy coat, but water has run all down his back and his curls are plastered to his head and dripping down his neck.
"Sherlock!" John says in his most army voice, "We need to get out of these wet clothes—"
"That's what I'm trying to do!" Sherlock whines.
"—and get warm—"
"That too," Sherlock groans as if the answer should be obvious to John, but John pushes him back.
"I know, I know," he says, looking up into Sherlock's face. "But I need a cup of tea and to catch my breath. Fetch towels, start the fire. It will be ready in just a minute."
Sherlock pouts and grumbles, but heads to the bathroom while John takes the bag into the galley kitchen. He strips out of the jumper, kicks off his shoes and takes off his jeans and sodden socks to spread them on the radiator to dry, so he's dressed in only his t-shirt and pants. He rubs his hair with a kitchen towel and takes several deep breaths, to physically recover from their wild dash, and to both ease back from his lust and to revel in his sense of happiness.
There are broken eggs over everything in the bag, so he rinses off the fruit and the bottles of lube while the kettle comes to a boil. He sets some biscuits on a plate and puts it, a couple of apples with a paring knife, the mugs, and the teapot under a cozy on a tray, and heads out to the main room with its little fireplace.
Meanwhile, Sherlock has stripped, grabbed all the towels in the bathroom and all the blankets, pillows and duvets and dropped them in front of the fire. He's kneeling on the makeshift bed toweling his hair when John comes in.
For a moment they simply stare at each other, breathless with the reality of it. John carefully puts the tea tray down on the overstuffed chair. "Tea." he whispers when he finds that he's gone hoarse.
"None for me, thanks," smiles Sherlock.
"Wasn't a question. Eat a biscuit. I need a cup of tea." But he sinks to the duvet with his mug and reaches out to cup Sherlock's face in his hand. Sherlock turns into it and kisses the palm, moves up to suck on John's fingers. John only manages a few sips before he has to put the mug down to reach for Sherlock and push him down so that John's between Sherlock's legs, pressed into Sherlock's naked body.
"Why not the bedroom?" he murmurs as he leans in to kiss Sherlock's neck and shoulders.
"Warmer here, ah…" Sherlock tilts his head back to reveal more of his neck.
"Idiot," John says but he's nipping along Sherlock's throat when he speaks, so Sherlock ignores it.
"Clothes," commands Sherlock.
John had almost forgotten that he was still wearing his t-shirt and pants, so he sits back onto his calves to pull them off so he can crawl between Sherlock's legs again, now with bare skin touching bare skin. Both of them are already leaking and this remembered sensation is almost enough to send John over the edge.
So he sits back again, ignoring Sherlock's pleading groan, and finds the lube.
"Do you want this?" he asks, and they both know that he's not asking about the sex, about making love to Sherlock, because it's clear that they both want that, but about all of it, the ups and the downs of moving forward and codifying this crazy, unformed thing they have into a solid article. Sherlock gives a minute nod, pulls his legs up and spreads them wider.
The view is amazing. Sherlock, pale skin translucent in the firelight's glow, spread out before him like a piece of fine art, an ethereal saint, a piece of finely carved marble. Sloe eyes, heavy lidded with desire, and rose-pink mouth, panting and open, cock dark and swollen against his stomach. John pours out a generous amount of lube onto his fingers, warms it a bit and slips his fingers between Sherlock's buttocks. When one finger slides inside, Sherlock moans and arches his back, forcing John's finger deeper. John leans down to take Sherlock's penis into his mouth and Sherlock, flooded with the dual stimulus thrashes his head from side to side as he babbles, "John, I'm yours, I'm always yours."
John remembers the last time Sherlock had said those words and flinches, but it doesn't seem that Sherlock remembers, or perhaps he's erasing the memory by saying them again here, an offering instead of a prayer.
Another finger slips in relatively easily. Sherlock's so eager he's willing himself to relax to speed it along. John works in another and slides them in and out for a minute or so until Sherlock commands, "Now, John!" John has to laugh. Sherlock is still Sherlock, impatient and imperious, but John wants it too much to try to assert himself. He removes his fingers and gets himself into position. Desperate with desire and feeling too, he's trembling so badly that Sherlock has to reach down to help him, but then he's home, as close as they can be without climbing into each other's skin. John needs to kiss Sherlock, to close the circle and so he does as he starts moving. Sherlock's purring. There's no other word for it. It's deep in his throat and John can feel the vibration as he slides his tongue around Sherlock's.
John's already so close to coming he can feel it in his teeth, but he wants Sherlock to be there too. He wants them to come together, Sherlock's orgasm setting off his own. So he tries to pull back, recites ribs down the thoracic cage—seven pairs of true, three pairs of false, two pair floating—and runs through the bones of the hand—phalanges, proximal, middle, distal— but neither of those really work, because they simply make him look at the planes of Sherlock's chest, and Sherlock's beautiful hands, so he plunders Sherlock's mouth again and caresses Sherlock's nipples, reaches between them to grip Sherlock's cock and then Sherlock's gasps are speeding up, six-eight time to John's thrusts. John knows a heartbeat before it happens that Sherlock's going to come and he lets himself go as Sherlock clinches around him, coming wet and sticky between them. "I love you," John murmurs into Sherlock's shoulder as he comes down.
Calmed and cleaned up they each have a biscuit and cold tea.
"Put the teapot on the hearth," says Sherlock, "It will warm back up."
"I don't think that Mrs. Hudson's friend will be very happy if we scorch her teapot."
"There are other teapots."
"I could just go boil more water."
"Don't go," Sherlock smiles, that rare and angelic smile, and John can't bear to leave. He puts the teapot on the hearth and curls around Sherlock, Sherlock facing the fire, John pressed up against him.
John remembers that Sherlock has a sensitive back, so he kisses Sherlock's hairline, along the nape of the neck, over the scapula, moving his head down the lumbar vertebrae to the sacral.
"Sacral vertebrae," he murmurs. Anatomy as erotica. It suits them. "Sacred vertebrae."
Sherlock snorts, "Really, John?" but he's already grinding his hips and pushing back into John and soon he's making tiny noises of pleasure.
John's not quite ready, but if Sherlock keeps making those noises, he'll be there soon, so he keeps kissing Sherlock's back, tonguing a small brown mole above Sherlock's left buttock, tracing scars with his fingers and soon he's fully hard.
"Like this?" he whispers.
"Yes."
Sherlock's still open and slick, but John wants to do this all day and all night so he adds a generous amount of lube. He's never really gotten this position to work with women, but he finds it easier with a man and it lets lean in to keep kissing Sherlock's back which makes Sherlock sigh and turn his face into the pillows. John knows he's not going to come, but Sherlock is.
"Touch yourself."
Sherlock slides his hand over his own hard cock and strokes, slowly at first, matching the gentle rhythm that suits the position. Eventually it's too much and he's stroking fast, hand a blur, rolling over the tip until he comes, hips jerking forward so that John has to grab him to keep them together. John wants to stay like this forever, not just because Sherlock tight around him is the most intense pleasure that he's ever felt, but because it's Sherlock coming undone, cool and controlling Sherlock Holmes, coming apart at John's touch.
Too soon he has to pull free but he stays, arms around Sherlock's waist, for a little while longer.
"Tea?" he asks again and they laugh. He wipes himself and then passes the towel to Sherlock before leaning over to take the now hot teapot and pour them both a mug. He slices one of the apples while Sherlock stirs up the fire with the poker and adds some more wood to the embers. The rain has receded to a gentle shower and the wind occasionally gusts water against the windows in an arrhythmic percussion.
They eat, John feeding apple slices and biscuits to Sherlock. "We both need to gain weight. It's going to be pasta, mashed potatoes and oatmeal going forward."
Sherlock makes a face, "All at once?"
John simply swats at him. It feels so good, all of it. The love, the sex and the comfortable companionship that they've always shared.