DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock. If I owned Sherlock, and by default Benedict Cumberbatch, I would not be in my bedroom writing fan fiction. I would be in my bedroom doing other, more interesting things.
Helping Hand – 250 words
"But she's needs help!" John announced, and Sherlock growled
"No way, she can't stay here!"
"Why not!"
"Do you really want an answer to that?" the detective scoffed, and he saw John's eyes darken with anger, and paced towards the man. Kissing him hard, pushing him into the sofa, straddling his lap before John could fight back... there was nothing tender in their motions, every action a battle for dominance.
John's fingers were tight on Sherlock's hips as though he might push the man onto the floor, but Sherlock's fingers were just as tight, one gripping the left shoulder, the other gripped a handful of hair, angling John's head and kissing roughly.
As soon as John groaned, and surrendered, letting his hands slide up Sherlock's body instead of gripping, the consulting detective let John's hair slide through his fingers, and he delved into his lovers trousers, finding the man already hard.
A pillow fell, rubbing Johns cheek and the shifting kept the thing batting at his face, so John simply grabbed it to keep it still, and groaned loudly into Sherlock's mouth when long fingers wrapped around his length, dragging along him in quick motions that had John writhing beneath his lover, crying loudly.
Once he came back to himself, and he could think, the only thought that passed through his mind was that Sherlock was right. He stared at the 'pillow' he held and watched the kitten begin licking his knuckles.
There's no way she could stay; Sherlock smirked.