Part 2 – The Kiss
Three weeks later and John and Sherlock have settled into a sort-of routine – John finds he's doing most of the shopping (and the cooking, and the cleanup, and someone really should hoover, and he bets it'll be him.) Sherlock's pulled John in on another case, that of a rare-plant smuggler that required a few nights of covert surveillance and more running than he's done in six months. He's having the time of his life and is more than happy with how things have worked out so far, even if they haven't had a repeat of their rooftop performance, which really is fine. Wasn't John's first one night stand, and probably won't be his last.
So when John opens the door back in from the shops and finds Sherlock still stretched out on the sofa, a pale crescent of stomach showing where his t-shirt has ridden up, John's pretty unprepared for the flash of lust that strikes.
"You could at least take a shower," he says instead.
"No," Sherlock says petulantly. Oh, it's going to be one of those days. Excellent. John's already noticed that Sherlock gets bloody obnoxious when he's bored, which John finds more attractive than he'd readily admit. He gets bored, too, and finds Sherlock voices all the things John wishes he could say; but his innate sense of the polite, of adult behavior, prevents it.
"Then stop being a lazy bastard and help me with the washing up. You're dealing with whatever you got stuck to that plate." John pulls his jumper over his head and unbuttons his cuffs to fold the sleeves over his elbows, and as he does so, Sherlock executes a slow roll that leaves him on his stomach, chin propped on his folded arms and his bare feet hanging over the arm of the sofa, blue dressing gown twisted around his waist.
"Oh, too good to dirty your pretty hands, is it? I promise I'll get you a manicure, after," John snarks.
Sherlock's eyeroll can practically be felt across the room, so John walks over and stands next to his head, ready to harass him. As he does, Sherlock stretches, tips his hips up, and practically presents his pajama-clad arse. Oh for God's sake. John rubs his fingers over the ridge of his eyebrows.
"So that's what you're on about. You could have just said."
"Didn't really think about it until today," Sherlock says, looking up at John with a half-smile, pleased he'd caught on so quickly, no doubt.
"When you got bored, you mean," John says as he steps to the side and runs a hand over Sherlock's arse, smoothing the fabric over and giving a small squeeze. Oh yes, absolutely perfect. May as well add it to the list of Things John Does in the flat, he thinks wryly.
Sherlock shivers. "Oh, don't be like that. I was busy until now."
John pushes the pants down over Sherlock's hips and pulls them from his feet with a flourish, leaving Sherlock bare from the waist down and giving John a much better view than he had the last time, a quick scrabble in the dark not conducive to languid mapping of someone's body. Sherlock turns over and waits as John unbuttons and unbuckles and sheds his clothes down to the socks, and manhandles the rest of Sherlock's clothes off too, while he's at it.
John presses forward to guide Sherlock onto his back so John can stretch out over his body and give him the long, slow kisses they missed last time around. This may be the last time around, as capricious as Sherlock's moods are, but John will take access to that lovely, long body while he can. Especially when Sherlock grips John's arse and pulls him in so he can wrap his legs around John's waist.
"I don't suppose you have lube around here anywhere," John says while dropping kisses across Sherlock's clavicle.
In response, Sherlock stretches out a long arm digs around in his discarded dressing gown until he finds the pocket and pulls out both condom and lube.
"Pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?" John says, taking both.
Sherlock grins at him. "It was either going to be you or my own hand. I'd rather you. I find you an interesting read, John Watson."
John should be a bit more concerned, probably, that Sherlock's not only using him to scratch an itch, but trying to deduce him, work out his motives and his inclinations. But when John slides a lubed finger into Sherlock's body and strokes his prostate with a knowing touch that makes him arch and groan, John can't really bring himself to dwell on it. John's never been attracted to someone quite like him, and when Sherlock exhales his name, John feels that it's entirely possible he may never be attracted to anyone else ever again.
"Now's fine," Sherlock pants, rolling his hips against John's hand and threading his fingers through John's hair to hold his head while they kiss. John stops for a moment and rolls on the condom, adding more lube. Not one for foreplay, it seems, which is fine. John feels himself getting pretty desperate for the heat of Sherlock's body around him, so he shoves a throw pillow under Sherlock's hips and a hand under one of Sherlock's knees and slides slowly into that gorgeous arse as Sherlock huffs soft breaths into the quiet of the flat.
"All right?" John whispers, holding himself perfectly still, thighs trembling with the effort.
Sherlock nods frantically. "Move, please, I need you to –" Sherlock's pleas drive John forward, make him drop down to his elbows over Sherlock's body so he can kiss him as he starts a long, deep, slow slide that has Sherlock frantic in a matter of minutes, his heels digging into John's arse.
Tension coils in Sherlock's neck, making him throw his head back and arch under every thrust, crying out in sync with the movement of John's cock inside him; cries that get louder and more intense and make John wonder how soundproof the place truly is.
"Shhh!" John says, and kisses him through it as John lifts a bit, balances on one elbow and works his hand in to stroke Sherlock's erection. "Keep it down, the neighbors will call us in."
Sherlock breaks away to choke out a laugh. "Don't care. Let them. Good Christ, hope they do."
John laughs at that, and then watches in wonder as Sherlock's orgasm shatters him to pieces, leaving him shuddering and twitching with aftershocks. The look of bliss on Sherlock's face and tightening of his body sharpens John's arousal, drags him forward from lazy pleasure to hard need in an instant. Sherlock watches with heavy-lidded eyes as John succumbs, lets the pleasure wash over him and bring him off in three deep thrusts.
Sherlock pulls John down to rest against his chest, which John is grateful for as his arm really was starting to give out. They lay together for a moment in the quiet evening, Sherlock drawing lazy circles over John's back.
"Feel better now?" John asks, voice a bit muffled against Sherlock's chest. He wonders just how far Sherlock plans to take this – it's obvious he's been watching John, waiting for the best time to act, and used his boredom as an excuse to satisfy his lust.
"Better, yes. Thank you." He pauses for a moment. "Still bored, though." John snorts as Sherlock suddenly shifts, dropping John into the couch as he slides out from underneath and pulls on his pajama pants. He pads quickly to the kitchen and retrieves his mobile, scrolling through to see any new texts. The look of aggrieved disappointment on his face is so comical that John's barely concealed giggles turn into full out laughs.
Sherlock glares. "I'm taking a shower," he snaps, and spins on his heel to stalk off to the bathroom. But before he closes the door, he pokes his head out. "Do you…would you like to join me? I understand if, well…" And there's that vulnerability again, that tiny little crack in Sherlock's diffidence. John can't resist it, even if he wanted to.
"Of course."
Sherlock beams. "Then we can go harass Lestrade, make him give us the Clippin case. God knows he needs the help."
John can't help but smile in return. It's a good thing he doesn't have a job.
Sherlock's life is starting to sink its claws in, and John's never relished the burn more.