"John… we don't have a fireplace."
"Sherlock, shut up, it's what the prompt says!"
"Love… is that a fireplace on your laptop?" John asked, looking at the screen while Sherlock curled up with his back against the sofa and his legs tucked beneath him.
"Don't ask questions, John, just sit down." Sherlock patted the space next to him. John smiled, dragging a blanket off his own chair while he walked over and sat by Sherlock, slipping an arm around his partner's shoulders as the other hand draped the blanket over them both.
John pressed his lips against the top of the detective's head where it rested on his chest. Sherlock tilted his head up, bringing their lips together slowly. So that was his game, with the fireplace. John had to give him credit; it was creative. Cleverly, the detective deepened the kiss, parting his lips and bringing his tongue out to capture John's. With a small note of shock from Sherlock, John pulled the man into his lap in one smooth movement. The detective relaxed quickly, though, shifting his legs to straddle the doctor. They pressed closer together, a moan coming from one of them, but John couldn't tell which, didn't care which; all he cared about was getting closer to Sherlock right now.
"Come here," he murmured, as if they could get any closer together. Sherlock's fingers trailed over his chest and arms, finally teasing the edge of his jumper. With a sudden flash of motion, Sherlock pulled back and peeled the jumper and undershirt off. John, not to be outdone, unbuttoned Sherlock's ridiculously tight shirt, nearly popping the buttons off but managing to remove it with minimum damage.
He ran his hands down the man's chest, marveling to himself that he could do it, that they were together and he was allowed –encouraged if Sherlock's breathy gasps were to be believed- to touch him. John could hold him like this, could bring him close and taste his skin, and Sherlock's fingers would flutter over his chest and shoulders, scraping and pawing to pull them closer together.
"Oh, John," Sherlock gasped a moment later when John ran his teeth lightly over the place where the detective's neck met his shoulder. He repeated the motion again, putting more pressure, but not quite enough to mark just yet. Sherlock arched into him, pressing until there wasn't a millimeter of space between them. John wrapped his arms even tighter around his detective, never wanting to let him go.
He leaned up and made the kiss fiercer, trying to say with his lips what he couldn't put into words. Sherlock seemed to understand, responding to and returning the passion. The detective nipped gently at John's lip, making him gasp and pull back just a bit to look into Sherlock's eyes.
"Mine." The word was whispered, so soft and tender John thought for a moment he might have imagined it, but the look on Sherlock's face confirmed it. John surged up again, capturing Sherlock's lips with his.
"Yours," he agreed in a brief second their lips were free. It occurred to him just how strange this entire relationship was; how basic rules to relationships said this shouldn't work. Sherlock was mad, and he hardly bothered to connect with people. John was lucky, special and Sherlock had let him in. He'd never felt more amazing or amazed. For one evening, everything was perfect.