The walk back to 221B was brisk and unnervingly silent.
It may have been the alcohol quickly burning it's way out of his system, but his heart was pounding in his ears.
Sherlock was home, and was upset that he wasn't.
But Sherlock had made it clear that he didn't want to see him.
Hadn't he?
The doctor shrugged, fumbling to shove the key into the lock.
The door swung open, revealing the pitch black of the stairs, only faintly illuminated by the street lamp glowing through the closed curtain.
John rubbed his face lightly, shutting the door before carefully maneuvering up the steps.
He made it to their door, before taking a fortifying breath and stepping over the threshold.
The first thing that struck him was how still it was.
There was a complete absence of sound.
No humming electronics.
No rumbling of air in the vents.
No clinking of palettes against beakers, orglass slides against a microscope.
Everything was still.
Except-
John tossed his coat onto the hook quickly, toeing off his shoes before turning to face the room.
His mouth fell open.
Everything was awash in the soft light of dozens of tea lights, enough to strike a note of fear for the fire hazard of it all.
Even Sherlock's prize skull had a candle in his mouth, the light glowing through his eyes.
John didn't know weather to burst out laughing, or run for his life.
The display went far past anything that he could ever had imagined from his Sherlock Holmes.
It was so uncharacteristic, in fact, that the doctor stepped back out of the room, counted to ten, and stepped back in.
Nope.
Everything is real.
"Sherlock?"
John called, he was dismayed to find that his voice squeaked.
Quite literally.
"'m in here, John."
The doctor frowned.
He was in the living room?
The doctor stepped gingerly into the center of the room, his gaze scanning until it came to rest on the couch.
And the oatmeal colored bundle sitting there.
Specifically, Sherlock, his legs tucked into John's favor even jumper, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees.
His chin was resting on the divit between his knees, creating the image of a head on a cream colored pedestal.
For the second time in as many moments, John didn't know which emotions to display.
Confusion worked.
"Sherlock, are you alright? What happened? Why are you in my jumper? Did the power go off? Sherlock?"
The detective's shoulders were shaking now, his face buried in his knees.
"Oh god, Sherlock."
The doctor flopped onto the couch gently resting his hand on the detective's shoulder.
He looked up, his eyes red with tears, but his lips pulled into an unmistakable grin.
He was laughing.
"John."
A pause.
"Your shirt John."
The doctor leaned back, glancing down at his shirt once more.
"What? Is it too tight? I mean, you are a good size smaller than-"
Sherlock's grin was widening steadily, once more unnerving the doctor.
"I was laughing at the idiotic pun, or rather the fact that I actually wore that on several occasions. Now that you mention it though, it is rather tight."
The detective openly admired the view.
"Yes well."
Sherlock shifted on the couch turning so he was no longer side by side with the doctor, the jumper riding up to expose his bare ankles.
John glanced down at them, and then back at the detective, his brow furrowing.
"Sherlock."
"Yes John?"
"Are you wearing any pants?"
"No."
John nodded.
"M'kay."
There was a moment where neither man looked at each other simply attempting to maintain their composure. One glace between them and they lost all control. John's high pitched giggles were underscored by Sherlock's low rumble.
"God. What are we doing here Sherlock?"
The detective frowned.
"What do you mean?"
The doctor sighed leaning back.
"I mean, what are we doing here. In our flat. Surrounded by candles. You're half naked."
The detective stretched his legs out then, splaying them across his blogger's lap.
"And I'm pretty sure you were royally pissed at me a few hours ago. I mean pissed enough that you climbed out of your fucking window."
Sherlock hung his head, covering his face with his hands lest he burst out laughing again.
"I didn't go out the window John."
The doctor leaned back, his eyebrows raised in surprise.
"What? I searched your room, you weren't there."
The detective glanced up,still barely suppressing a grin.
"I was under the bed."
John stopped, his mind processing the new information.
"Under the bed. Right."
Another pause.
"So you heard everything I said then."
John gestured around the room.
"Is this what this is then? Hell what is this anyway?"
The detective wrung his hands nervously, though his voice remained calm.
"An apology. I may have overreacted. I've read that gestures like this go a long way towards making up a wrong doing to ones lover."
The doctor ran his fingers over the sensitive flesh on the back of Sherlock's ankles.
"You do realize that I was never upset. Well, with you at any rate. More with myself for not being as quick on the uptake as I should have been. I know that this is new for you."
He felt the detective tense, and moved his hands to rubbing his feet, calming him.
"Would you like to know why I was so jealous?"
Sherlock said after a moment.
John paused, and then shrugged, indifferent.
"If I had to guess it's about an earlier comment on my leaving you. Which isn't going to happen, by the way."
The detective's nose crinkled as the doctor found a particular sensitive spot between his toes.
"I wouldn't blame you if you did, you know."
John smiled, a warm, genuine smile.
"I know. Still isn't going to happen."
Sherlock shrugged,the singular item of clothing riding dangerously high on his hips.
"It might."
John licked his lip as his gaze caught the extra few centimeters of exposed flesh.
"Sherlock, we can either talk circles around this point. Or-and I'm partial to this plan- we can try out a few of the things I picked up today."
The detectives eyes widened at the forward comment, and then narrowed in suspicion.
"That's a surprisingly big jump there Doctor Watson."
The doctor sighed, hanging his head, before swing Sherlock's legs from his lap. In one swift move he was straddling the detective's thighs, the suddenness of the movement startling him.
"I'm choked full of surprises."
The detective smirked, his fingers splaying over the cotton that was pulled tight across his blogger's chest.
"You know, you look great in my shirts. I may need you to wear them more often."
John smirked, stooping down and ghosting a warm breath over the detective's cheek.
"I was thinking the same thing, though right now I'd settle for you in nothing, if that's alright."
Sherlock nodded, his lips turning to be closer to John's, his body instinctively rising.
John sat back up, pulling the detective after him and divesting him of the offending jumper.
He gazed down at the now naked Sherlock, and was more than a little surprised to faint traces of cum already streaking his stomach and thighs.
"Sherlock?"
A rosy blush covered the detective.
"I've been waiting for you to get home sine you left. It didn't help that I knew you were going to be wearing my shirt. Honestly John, despite my analytical exterior, I have a dangerously creative mind."
The doctor was stuck between painfully aroused and absolutely flattered by the detective's statement.
"You thought of, me, and-"
"Yes."
The two men stared at each other for a moment, before Sherlock rolled his eyes and grabbed John through his jeans.
The doctor gasped.
"Really. I've already came four times by myself today. Please don't make me do it a fifth."
That was far more input than the doctor could rationally handle. He descended, one hand weaving into Sherlock's curls holding him in place wile the other tweaked the detective's nipple.
Their moths collided, teeth and tongue and raw, hungry need.
Far to messy to be artful, but the sheer pleasure of heat, of friction, made up for the total absence of finesse.
Sherlock's hand was pinned between the doctor and himself, yet still firmly within grasping range of his blogger's crotch.
He fumbled with the fly working loose the buttons and quickly tugging down the worn zipper.
He really should be more thankful for John's favorite old pair of jeans.
His hands fund the soft red cotton of John's pants once more, and the doctor hissed into his mouth, rubbing his clothed crotch dangerously close to Sherlock's uncovered one.
"Bed now."
John managed, earning a throaty chuckle from the detective.
"No need."
Sheetrock's other hand, the one that had been pinned to the edge of the couch, dug between the couch cushions and pulled up the sleek, red pump bottle that had previously been in the pocket of the detective's dressing gown.
John grinned, moving down to nip at the graceful neck beneath him.
"You really were planning this weren't you."
A sharp gasp filled the air as the hand that had been teasing Sherlock's nipple grazed his cock in passing.
"Yes. Hours John. I've waited hours. Didn't even touch this stuff either. saved..Oh fuck do that again...saved it for you."
John blushed, the sincerity of the statement not lessened by the interruptions.
"Well then."
He moved up and brushed his lips against the Shell of the detective's ear.
"Let's not keep you waiting any long then."
John sat up, tugging the too-tight shirt over his head before awkwardly wriggling out of the rest of his clothes.
He snatched the bottle from Sherlock, opening the bottle and pumping a small dollop into his palm.
He was surprised by the thickness of it, but spread it over his hands none the less.
He moved to touch Sherlock, to relieve some strain, but the detective simply grabbed his hand, placing the doctor's forefinger to his lips.
A tentative tongue flicked over the digit, before drawing it in.
John moaned as Sherlock's tongue wrapped around his finger, the warmth and sensation sinful.
The detective released him with a loud pop, and ran his tongue over his lips thoughtfully.
"Cherry. Very sweet."
The doctor rolled his eyes, before scooting to the end of the couch, Sherlock's legs wrapped around him loosely, his feet dangling over the edge.
He rubbed his hand gently over Sherlock's erection, before trailing the lube coated fingers down to his entrance.
Sherlock tensed as he felt the presence of John's hand at his entrance, but his expression smoothed as the warm gel was spread around the ring of muscle.
"We don't have to do this you know."
Sherlock simply rolled his eyes, his own hand stroking himself leisurely.
"I've spent myself four times imagining this. Do you honestly think that I don't want it?"
John had to admit.
He had a point.
With a deep breath to steady his own rattled nerves, the doctor slowly coaxed the tip of a finger in, earning a bitten off whimper from Sherlock.
"Are you-"
John paused, afraid for is partner.
"Keep going."
The detective rasped.
Slowly, gently, one finger was seated, gently plying open the soft tissue and earning a series of inhuman moans from the detective.
John added the second finger with an equal amount of care, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's features.
Always watching for any signs that it was too much, too fast.
He saw Sherlock's hand speeding it's pace, attempting to rush him to completion.
With the precision of a doctor, John brushed Sherlock's prostate, earning him a stomach clenching moan.
"Fuck. Do that again."
John did, and watched as Sherlock squirmed.
"You really are beautiful.
The doctor murmured absently, gently working in a third finger, his other hand stroking the detective's hips gently.
"Don't talk."
Sherlock rasped, his voice reduced to gravel.
"Now."
He whispered, and John obliged, leaning back and slicking himself up.
Sherlock shakily flopped over, his hands placed flat against the couch , his ass in the air.
Open.
Inviting.
John pressed a gentle kiss to the opening, surprising both himself and the detective.
The animalistic growl he earned promised that that would be another avenue to explore, but later.
Now all he could focus on was Sherlock.
The doctor sat up on his knees, the whole of the situation so erotic, that it drowned out that ever-insistent voice in the back of his head that said it was so wrong.
He lined himself u with the entrance, fingers gently smoothing circles into Sherlock's hips as he slid in.
Sherlock hissed against the slight burn and the sudden fullness, tears springing to his eyes.
It was everything that his logical brain had said it would be.
But as John seated himself fully, and let his body adjust to the sensation, the pleasure such fullness gave him was incomprehensible.
He bucked his his against the doctor, who-himself-was struggling to cope with the tight heat surrounding him.
He moved, agonizingly slow for both of them, but necessary.
Until, that is, the ever impatient Sherlock took it upon himself to shove back onto the doctor.
The both gasped, each man seeing white, right on the edge. John didn't want this to be over.
Not so soon.
He stopped. pulling nearly completely out. holding Sherlock, regaining himself, before continuing.
His pace grew in time with the whimpers and moans spouting from the detective.
He reached around and stroked Sherlock, chest to back in white heat.
Three strokes to Sherlock's prostate, and the man came, his back arching against the pressure of John, his muscles spamming around him, milking John through his own orgasm.
Neither man shouted as they came, the at its self stealing the breath from them.
They collapsed like that. Sherlock in a heap with a barely conscious John atop him.
John managed to pull himself out and snag the blanket from the top of the couch, draping it over them before he fell into the embrace of slumber.