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A.N. Prompt is Glad-to-be-alive Sex. I can only say sorry, but today I wasn't exactly in the mood. Rant at me if you find this off-putting.
God bless idiots
They face another bomb a mere week later having finally declared their feelings for one another. Again, it doesn't explode. Not for lack of trying – there was no off-switch this time, and they really thought they were done for. But the people who built it aren't Moriarty, nor professionals, clearly.
The Yard will take it apart and see what went wrong (well, right) but right now there's no calling Greg or thinking about hunting down the bloody idiots who put it together. There's only John's lips already on his own (that's how they want to die. Problem?) and deep, bone sagging relief. They slid to the floor, lips locked together.
"We're alive," John utters in amazement, once the breathlessness forces them to come up for air. Sherlock doesn't even scold him for stating the obvious. He only tries to recapture John's lips.
"Home," his lover declares, "before we defile a crime scene," then he willingly gives in the detective's ardent kiss.
Defiling a crime scene sounds actually very good, but they lack the necessities, so Sherlock only locks it up in the fantasy room and they go back home.
They won't ever be able to forget a cabbie's existence, so instead of losing himself in more kisses as they'd like, they simply sit plastered to one another, hands entwined, the other's weight and heat enough of a reminder that they've survived tonight too for now.
At home, it's more heated kisses right on the inside of the door, rutting against one another just to feel him there, warm and solid and alive. A broken moan, and John orders, groaning, "Home. Bed." If Mrs. Hudson comes to greet them, things will be beyond awkward. Facing the stairs as some sort of four-legged creature is a bit of a challenge, but neither is willing to give up contact. They're too greedy for each other to break apart, hands roving and clutching at every step.
And then it's finally the flat, home and safe and nothing can stop them anymore. They've won, they're surprisingly alive, they love each other, and these three heady feelings mix inextricably in a single, all powerful urge to touch and taste and fuck.
They never make it to the bed. There's a wall, and lube under the sofa, where it rolled yesterday, and that's more than enough. There's not the usual sweetness, or careful teasing – they're too keyed up for that. Just clothes shed in a hurry, needy whines and broken moans. It's very soon and yet too long before Sherlock can finally have John inside him, where he should be. Neither of them will last long, but it's not a concern for now. They come screaming each other's name, and that's all they needed. After, they slid to the floor, again, and laugh, high on oxytocine and serotonine.
Later, thinking back on the events of the evening, John will remark, "We need to stop almost dying. Someone might get it right next time."
Sherlock only makes a vague noise. Now it's not the moment to point out how much they both literally love it. With the consequences it now has, it's more likely that he'll be more eager for life or death situations than ever.
