He felt Sherlock's long fingers press against his cheek. There was a long pause, every second the air itself weighing down him until finally Sherlock murmured, 'I never thought love could hurt so much.'
'Well usually the relationships aren't as mess up as ours. Actually, they usually are. Only their issues don't involve torture, kidnapping and impending death by a psychotic vengeful mad man.'
'He's not psychotic. He's actually rather intelligent.'
'The two come hand in hand don't they? You're a perfect example,' John muttered, wrapping his own hand around the one on his cheek. Stepping closer he looked up to Sherlock as he snaked his hand up and around the back of his neck. Pulling him down their breaths communed in the small gap left between them.
'I'm not sure if I should be flattered or insulted,' Sherlock breathed as he enveloped John with his arms, one closed tightly around his waist and the other hand resting on the back of his head.
'Both,' John mumbled, his entire body buzzing and his lips tingling with the heat of Sherlock's breath rolling over them. 'You're doing really well by the way.'
He moved his head closer and then back again, tempting John without even realising it. 'With what?'
'The whole relationship thing, at least the more instinctual, animalistic parts.'
'John,' Sherlock murmured.
'Yes?'
'I need you,' he purred.
John forgot how to breathe.
'Now,' he panted, tugging John with him to the sofa and shoving him down onto it. He climbed on top of him and drowned him in a kiss. Their bodies pushed against each other as the heat burned through their clothes. Sherlock fumbled with John's belt buckle in a hopeless attempt to remove it. John chuckled into his mouth and Sherlock pulled back.
'Would you like some help with that?'
'It's not supposed to be a funny experience,' Sherlock told him with furrowed brows.
'It can be, if you make it funny.'
'We'll see if you're still laughing when I'm done,' he threatened with a glint in his eyes as he descended upon John once again. His hands pushed up beneath his shirt, and they burned wherever they pressed against John's all ready hot skin. He could feel the warmth pooling in his groin and John moaned into the kiss, running his hand through Sherlock's silk soft hair. The sensation of the cool, dark brown strands caressing his skin as his fingers glided through them heightened the ecstasy.
Sherlock nipped at John's bottom lip before leaving a trail of butterfly kisses along his jaw bone, neck and then collar bone. His tender exploration of John's bare skin stopped when noise blared. The ringing continued to batter against their eardrums. He sighed and dropped his head into John's shoulder.
'I should probably get that,' he mumbled into the cloth of his shirt, the vibrations of his voice mesmerising.
'They'll call again if it's an emergency,' John surmised with hope. He never wanted Sherlock to stop.
'Ring tone. It's Mycroft. He never calls for something menial. Usually earth-shatteringly important." The disdain hung on every word. 'Don't move.'
He pushed himself up, the movement causing their hips to rub against one another and a wave of pleasure mocked John as Sherlock left.
His lithe movements as he padded to his mobile made John even more wanton.
'What is it Mycroft?'
His eyes which had been hazy with lust turned sharp and calculating. John pushed himself up onto his elbows, watching Sherlock listen to whatever was being said. Sherlock's expression grew tighter and his frown deepened with every second that passed.
'What time?' he asked into the phone. 'How many, Mycroft?'
John's own eyebrows pushed together when he saw Sherlock's mouth twitch, and his eyes glitter.
'None,' he said to Mycroft, his tone ecstatic. 'Of course, aren't you?'
He finally gave up hope that their . . . intimacy would continue that night so John sat up properly, swinging his legs over to rest on the floor.
Sherlock nodded. 'See you then.'
He pulled the phone away and ended the call, placing it back on the table. John looked at him expectedly, waiting for an explanation.
'A series of assassinations of four high government officials. All killed the same way, all at the same time, and all integral members of the British Parliament.'
'Why were you acting so happy then?' he asked with horror.
'I can only keep up the charade of concern for so long, John. The cases Lestrade was offering were plain, simple, boring. This one,' he breathed out in admiration, 'it's a masterpiece of ingenuity.'
'You're serious?'
'It's never been done before, John. Doesn't that make you the least bit exited?'
'Not really. Four people are dead, Sherlock.'
'People die all the time, you don't seem brokenhearted over their deaths. What's four more in the scheme of things?'
John covered his face with his hands. 'Useless,' he grumbled with defeat.
'What is?'
'Me trying to get you to feel an ounce of remorse for the deaths we investigate.'
'It won't make me do my job any better, will it? If anything it will only hinder me, so there's no space for it in my mind.'
'Like there was no space for the solar system?'
'Exactly.' He warned John with his eyes not to bring up the fact that it was indeed needed on one case. 'We'll be picked up tomorrow at eight to go to the Palace of Westminster. More specifically the House of Lords.'
'What?'
'One of the four was the Secretary of State for Defence,' he informed, the words themselves buzzing with exited energy.
'And Mycroft has asked you to investigate it?'
'My talents aren't unknown, John. Yours are rather commendable as well, and Mycroft knows it.'
'Thanks,' he said, dazed. An assassination of such a high profile person? It didn't bode well for anyone, and the magnitude of the situation had either blown past Sherlock entirely or he knew it and wasn't taking it as seriously as he should. 'The other three?'
'The House of Commons, but their cases are being analysed by others,' he answered, nose crinkling at the mention of others.
'Why not you? Why work on just one of the murders when they're clearly all connected?'
'Time. Lack of it. Even though my brother has full trust in my capabilities, they aren't fully appreciated by the people he works for. They're the ones who are looking into the assassinations, and the fact that I've been allowed to get involved is sensible, yes, but also extremely flattering. Given their reputation, anyway.'
'Aren't they supposedly secret? The people Mycroft works for. I mean, you once said he is the British Government, so whoever has power of him . . . well they must be downright important, and kept under wraps.'
'Not to me, they're not,' he stated. 'Don't tell them that though. It's grounds for indefinite imprisonment or being shipped off to Timbucktu.'
'Of course I won't,' John said softly, processing the situation. 'So, I take we're not going to, uh . . .'
'What?'
He cleared his throat. 'Continue?'
Sherlock smirked and moved over to him. Leaning down so his lips brushed against John's ear he whispered, 'As much as I'd love to, the last experience left me . . . rather spent. I doubt I'd be able to do it again and get up early enough for the meeting arranged at the House of Lords tomorrow. You're welcome to sleep in my room, though. If you want.'
A blush bloomed like flowers across John's cheek. 'I, uh-'
'Come along, John. Sleeping in the same bed is part of a relationship, isn't it?'
'Only really after, you know,' he stuttered while being pulled up to his feet by Sherlock's guiding hand.
'Does it have to be?'
'Obviously not,' he began, flustered.
'Then there's no objection? You can grab pyjamas from your room if you like. Personally, I don't mind,' he said, and his deep voice lulled John. Sherlock lead John to his bedroom, closing the door behind them. The next second he was unbuttoning his shirt and letting it slip down past his shoulders to drop to the floor. John felt the pressure in his trousers as nature pushed against restraints. He cursed himself and turned around with embarrassment.
'You don't have to sleep here if you don't want to, John,' he told him, noticing John's action.
'I - I think I'll just sleep in my room,' he concluded. He wanted it, and biology gave him away, but emotionally he knew things weren't quite right.
'Good night then, John,' Sherlock said curtly, and the courteous words stung John. Distancing the two of them with common, everyday, mannerism. Before he left he spun around and kissed the sociopath. Soft, loving and drowning. He hoped it conveyed what he couldn't say. How he wanted what they had, but that things needed to be fixed first.
'Good night, Sherlock,' he rasped when he pulled away. The briefest eye contact made his heart melt and John headed for his room immediately. The image of Sherlock's perfectly sculpted marble chest, dark curls, the taste of his lips, all of it followed him and haunted him that night. One fact gave him comfort in the torture though. Had he stayed, sleeping would have been second on the agenda. Sherlock was the one who needed rest, and so John was giving it to him. However, a small voice stole any solace with it's disquieting words. What if that was just an act? What if he didn't want to become physical, as before, for a reason other than the expectation of weariness?