Sherlock tosses the darkened phone on the table as John rips off his t-shirt and sheds his pajama bottoms. John grabs Sherlock's head for a forceful kiss that carries them backwards and John then peels Sherlock's shirt from his thin shoulders just before he shoves him against the wall.
John's gone from flaccid to rigid in about 1.4 seconds and by the feel of it, so has Sherlock. Sherlock's clutching John's head as they continue to kiss passionately and John's reaching around to cup Sherlock's buttocks. He manages to break free for a moment to whisper, "Lube?"
"Second drawer down. Don't grab the glue."
John fumbles in the drawer trying to keep touching Sherlock, finds the lube and slicks it over his cock one handed. He shivers from the touch of his own hand and he knows this isn't going to last long, but Sherlock's mouth is open, pupils blown, eyes glazed and he thinks he won't be alone. Sherlock's hips are tilted forward, one knee bent, the other is lifted to wrap around John's waist. He pushes in as gradually as he can and Sherlock grimaces slightly."
"Alright?" John asks, worried.
"Perfect," whispers Sherlock and he pushes his hips into John's to drive him in deeper.
John manages to work his slickened hand between where they're pressed tightly together and stroke Sherlock's penis as he thrusts so that he's all but pushing Sherlock's cock up into his hand.
"Oh," Sherlock moans, eyes shut, head rolling from side to side, "Oh, oh, oh, oh," on John's thrusts, and then he's curling into John's shoulder as he comes with a drawn out, breathy "ahhhh."
John holds him steady for a moment before resuming his thrusts which are becoming faster, less controlled. He looks up at Sherlock whose head is thrown back against the wall, nearly pristine white neck arched, luxurious mouth forming a perfect O of pleasure and it undoes him. He comes with a strangled cry, hips jerking two or three times before he stills, head pressed into Sherlock's chest.
They're so slick and sticky together that they might as well have used the glue and John thinks how embarrassing that would have been to explain. It makes him giggle with repressed tension as he gently pulls free to fetch a tea towel. John leans against the table still giggling and then sees the slightly puzzled and hurt look on Sherlock's face.
He nods towards the phone. "That was the sexiest, most romantic thing you've ever done. In fact, I think that that might be the sexiest, most romantic thing that anyone has ever done in the history of the world. I love you, you mad fool."
And Sherlock smiles then, the genuine full smile that reaches his eyes, not the little sideways acquisitive smirk for when he has a new case or puzzle, and not the fake v-shaped smile he uses to manipulate people or the snarky one where he's just scored a cheap point. John thinks he could write a monograph on the range of Sherlock's facial expressions, what they mean and how he uses them. But John has only ever seen this smile directed at himself, and it says 'I love you and treasure you' more than words ever could."
John reaches out to take Sherlock's hand, "Breakfast or bed?"
"Breakfast in bed?" says Sherlock hopefully.
"Alright, go on. I'll join you there," because John knows that he's used up his daily miracle when Sherlock turned off his phone. Helping to make breakfast would signal the apocalypse.
So he playfully slaps Sherlock's arse to send him on his way and turns to start the kettle and make some toast.