This fic is #notdead. :) Thanks for your patience, everyone!
Sherlock stands abruptly as though afraid someone might expect him to hold hands with Sarah as well. He mutters something about "air" and "biscuits" and bolts out of the room, the dressing gown a sail of blue behind him as he bounds down the steps. Soon, the sounds of Mrs. Hudson fussing and cooing and Sherlock pretending to hate it float up the stairs.
"There will never be a shred of privacy here, you know that," John says.
Their hands still linked, Sarah rises and pulls John up. "Couldn't care less."
Sliding her arm around his waist, Sarah walks beside John up to his room. With the door closed behind them, they fold into each other, without words, without hesitation, all eager kisses and encouraging moans.
Clothes dot the floor in a crooked path to the bed, and they stand together, naked, hands sliding to rest along curves.
Sarah looks at him. "What do you want?"
He raises an eyebrow and glances down at himself. He meets her eyes. "Oh, I dunno. I thought we could chat about the weather or something."
A smile tugs at his lips and she giggles at him.
"No," she says, landing a soft slap on his arse, and his grin widens. "I mean, tell me what you want."
He sobers, and his eyes run over her face. "You."
Her skin tingles at the greedy look he gives her, but she won't be derailed. "Yes, of course," she answers, aligning her lower body to his, feeling the heated press of him against her. "But-"
She looks up at him through fluttering lashes, her eyes dark.
"-how do you want me?"
Flummoxed, he squints at her. She slides a hand up between them, places it at the back of John's neck. She brings him down for a kiss, then puts her lips to his ear.
"For instance, a slow and languorous seduction?" she asks, her other hand trailing in a teasing line down his back. Her palm stops on his arse. "Or-" Her fingers grip firmly and propel him forward to meet her own thrust. "-a proper fuck, hard and fast?" she growls into his ear.
John whimpers and his fingers dig into the skin of her hips. "Jesus. Everything. All of it," he pants against her shoulder.
Stepping away, she separates their bodies, giving him distance to see her. He's breathing hard, the dizziness of arousal already blooming over his face, through his body. She watches his eyes move over her, feels them like a caress over her belly, her breasts, her throat. When he meets her gaze, blue on blue, she tells him.
"Ask for what you want. Say it. I want to give it to you."
She waits.
Emotions flicker over his features-uncertainty, desire, and a shyness that surprises her and makes his cheeks rosy.
She watches him unravel and remembers the words she told him in his office-you deserve to have what you want-and she sees him remembering, too.
"I didn't . . ." He turns away a moment to look at his feet. When he looks up again, his hands are clenched. "I didn't think I could have you . . . "
She waits.
". . . I didn't think I could have both of you." His words are so quiet.
She steps in to wrap around him and he catches her.
"You can. You can," she says, her own voice roughened as well. "You do."
She sniffs and pulls back in the circle of his arms to look up at him, his eyes shining in the darkness. "You were so sure it had to be either/or," she says, shaking her head. "But it's both-you have us both."
He huffs out a laugh, but it's not mirth, it's relief, unbelieving relief, and she reaches up with her lips to kiss the trail of wetness on his cheek. "This is what happens sometimes when you ask for what you want, what you deserve," she says.
Sarah waits until John's eyes are on hers.
"You get it."
After, after breaths are caught and lazy kisses given, Sarah sits up, reaches for John's checked shirt where it lies on the floor.
John groans in protest as she slides her arms into the sleeves and fastens the buttons along the front. She pushes his boxers into his hand.
"You'll thank me later," is Sarah's only explanation. He's bemused, but pulls them on, and she wriggles back into her own underpants.
Padding over to the door, she opens it a crack and then returns to bed, rolling John onto his back and snuggling her body up along his left side under the blanket. She sees him glance at the doorway and look back at her sharply.
"You don't think-"
"I most certainly do."
John looks to the doorway and back to her again, a question in his eyes.
"It's fine," she says, and she gives him a quick kiss before settling, her head tucked in the crook of his neck.
When Sherlock comes, he doesn't bother trying to be quiet. Sarah hears his footsteps coming up from Mrs. Hudson's, hears him hesitate a half-second before continuing up to John's room. He pushes the door open gently enough, but then walks over quickly, as though afraid he might change his mind. He flops on the bed and wiggles under the blanket until he's lying prone, face mashed into the pillow near John's head, one arm resting across John's belly. He closes his eyes, looking as if ready to drift off into sleep in his rightful place at John's side.
Sarah presses her lips together hard to suppress her smile, but John grins at them both by turns.
"Stop smiling," Sherlock mumbles into the pillow. "It's annoying."
Notes: Gracious thanks to my dear Jude for beta services extraordinaire. Not too much left, dear readers; maybe two more chapters?