"Frosty wind made moan"
'Consider this pay back,' Sherlock breathes into John's neck, fingers stroking down the curve of John's ear and across his collar bone. They're curled together on the sofa in the family room, watching the fire while the wind whistles round the house. Violet is sewing next to the hearth and Mycroft is in the armchair opposite, Hamish tucked into the crook of his arm as he reads aloud what sounds, to John's very distracted ears, like Shakespeare.
'Your mother is right there,' John hisses, shifting restlessly as Sherlock's fingers move across his t-shirt covered chest. His own fingers begin to trail slowly up Sherlock's inner thigh. 'Have you no shame?'
'Shame is overrated,' Sherlock retorts but his voice is deeply husky and his chest is hitching as he fights for control.
John smiles, murmurs 'well, in that case' turns his head and licks Sherlock's neck, just as his fingers reach the top of Sherlock's thigh and brush ….
Sherlock can't stifle his moan at the touch and both Violet and Mycroft's heads snap round, much to John's amusement.
'It's really getting up,' he says before adding, in response to Mycroft's horrified look, 'the wind, I mean.'
To Sherlock he murmurs, 'I reckon it'll be positively howling soon.'
Sherlock gasps, presses his face against John's shoulder and mutters, 'bed, now, you utter bastard.'