Tight

Day 15: In a Different Clothing Style

A/N- Sorry about my absence! I've been really busy lately. If you follow Saving Me, that'll be updated real soon!

I'm leaving for Florida for a week on Friday, so don't expect any updates.

ALSO- My Tumblr is 4geekgirl2. I'll post my statuses on my stories if you follow me!

John awoke at around 3 in the morning, and instead of feeling the warmth of Sherlock surrounding him, there was no one else in bed with him. Drowsily, he reached over to feel the spot he should've been in- it was cool. He had been absent a while. A small amount of panic rose in John's chest, his illogical mind jumping to horrible conclusions. He was sure the detective was still in the flat and alive, but just to make sure...

He was getting out of bed when a roll of thunder rumbled, startling him. No wonder he woke up so abruptly and randomly. And that also explained why Sherlock was gone. He must've woken up earlier.

John shuffled into the sitting room where Sherlock was (thankfully) sitting on the couch, on John's laptop instead of his own. As usual.

"There you are." he mumbled, and dropped into the empty space beside him. Sherlock didn't speak, focused on the computer screen.

He was watching the interrogation again.

"Why are you watching this?" John inquired. Sherlock sighed. "The thunder woke me up, and then I started thinking too much to fall back asleep."

"Thinking about the case?"

Sherlock paused before answering. "Somewhat, yes." The video ended, and Sherlock sighed with frustration before restarting it. John eyed the screen with confusion. "Sherlock? How many times have you watched the video?"

"This would be my tenth." John looked at him, blue eyes full of worry and curiosity. "Why?"

Sherlock sighed again and nearly slammed the laptop shut, ducking his head to ruffle his hair in frustration before looking back to John. "What you did...was...it was good." The blonde was taken aback, but he grinned tiredly at him. "It's no problem, Sherlock."

"No. It is a problem." He stood and began pacing. John's grin slid off his face. "What?"

"John, when you found out I was missing, you were prepared to do anything within your power to find me. You nearly shot a man to get information, even with Lestrade and the rest of the yard watching you. You disobeyed them. You punched the fanboy as soon as he called me a 'faggot.' I should give you more gratitude than a mere, 'that was good.' You deserve more than that, John. I feel like there's so much I'm not giving you..."

"Oh. I see where this is going." John reached out for him, grabbed his hand and pulled him gently back down onto the couch. "Sherlock...look. I understand how you feel. You don't even have say it. I know you're thankful. Yes, I would love to hear it, but I understand if you don't say it. And with the sex, which I'm aware that you were implying, you don't have to be the...erm. Receiver, if you don't want to. I understand you aren't comfortable with it. I just don't know why. And you don't even have to tell me. It's all fine."

Sherlock stared blankly at him for a moment. Then, "John...I love you."

Smiling, John planted a sweet and tender kiss on Sherlock's mouth, pulling away only a few moments after Sherlock responded. "I love you too. Now, care to come back to bed?" He jumped at the sudden roar of thunder, and then chuckled uneasily. "Well. Maybe not." Sherlock fell onto his back and pulled John down with him. "You don't like thunder because it used to give you flashbacks from the war." John cuddled deeper into Sherlock, suddenly exhausted. "Yeah. Leave it to you to know that."

Sherlock hesitantly stroked John's hair, remembering how much he liked it when John did the same for him. It knocked him right out, and Sherlock laid there thinking until about seven, when he received a text from Lestrade.

Got a case. Interested?

John came home from the store to find Sherlock adjusting his skin-tight jeans in the mirror- they were grey, with an expensive looking design on the back pockets, tucked into dark purple high-top Converse. Along with that was his violet dress shirt, the first two buttons undone for a view of his pale chest.

"Sherlock?" John questioned with furrowed eyebrows. Sherlock turned around sharply. "John! We have a case!" John nodded, disappearing into the kitchen to put up his items. "I see that. Now, what are you wearing?"

"We're going to a Russian gay bar."

John nearly dropped the milk jug in surprise. He placed it in the fridge slowly before appearing in the kitchen entryway. Sherlock smirked at his bewildered expression. "I'll explain it on the way. Mycroft is providing us transportation so we need to be ready in half an hour. Your outfit is on your bed."

"Sherlock, you're still injured."

"I'll live."

John sighed, finished his task, and then headed to his room to get ready. There was no use of arguing with "Case Sherlock."

He stared at himself in his own mirror. His jeans, much like Sherlock, were skin-tight and about two-sizes too small, but a dark emerald, tucked into his worn-down brown army boots that he hadn't touched in years. He fiddled with his dog tags, hanging in front of his grey V-neck- and also tight- shirt. Sherlock certainly did know how to pick an outfit. However strange. With a deep sigh, he stepped out of his room. "Am I supposed to not be able to breathe?" Sherlock rolled his eyes, which were otherwise glued to his phone. "You'll function just fine." He then glanced up at John and he almost dropped his phone. He looked absolutely sexy in the tight clothing, especially the jeans. Or maybe the shirt. He couldn't decide between his arse and his biceps.

"I dunno, Sherlock." John mumbled, uncertain. He looked over to him, and then grinned. "You're blushing." Sherlock grumbled quietly to himself, averting his attention from his boyfriend. Suddenly, John was leaning over him, arms braced on either side of his head. "I would sit on your lap, but I don't think I could get back up. You look absolutely gorgeous yourself, you know." His voice was low and husky and Sherlock was already turned on immensely. He grasped the dog tags and pulled John in for a sloppy, heated kiss. Biting John's lower lip, he pulled back to plant more kisses and bites along his jaw and neck. "God, Sherlock..." John moaned, gasping as the back of his thighs were grasped by his long, nimble fingers and he was forced to straddle his lap. He moaned even louder when Sherlock grasped his arse, and he fumbled for the buttons on his shirt, capturing his lips in a heated kiss once again.

Suddenly, Sherlock's phone chimed rather loudly and repetitively. John broke away, and Sherlock picked it up and answered with a normal and causal tone, as if he hadn't just been on the verge of sex. "Hello?" Glancing at John out of the corner of his eye, he grasped John's butt again with his free hand. John hissed out his name angrily. Sherlock smirked. "Yes, Mycroft. We'll be out in a moment. Oh, of course we'll behave. I'm not a teenager."

Even John heard Mycroft's reply.

"But you do have the hormones of one at the moment." John snickered and Sherlock scowled, ordering his brother to "piss off" before hanging up with rage. John rolled his eyes with a grin. "He's right, you know." Sherlock shrugged. "Can you blame me? I mean...look at you." He ducked his face back into the crook of his neck and sucked on it. John pulled away with some effort and stood carefully. "Thanks, but we should leave." He sounded choked. Sherlock sighed and stood, buttoning his shirt back up. As they walked out, Sherlock said, "We should at least ruin the back of the car."

"No, Sherlock."

"Jaaawn..."

"Sherlock, no!"