Sherlock is standing in the sitting room, staring out the left-side window, when John comes home. He wraps his thick, sturdy arms around Sherlock's narrow waist from behind, stretching up slightly to bury his face in the side of Sherlock's throat. He inhales deeply for a moment, just taking his lover in.
"You were with her again today, weren't you?" he murmurs. The words seem accusatory, but his tone is quiet, fond. "I can smell her here, on your neck."
He reaches around and clasps Sherlock's hand between his own, bringing it round to examine the skin, raw and red on his fingertips.
"I may not be the world's only consulting detective, but I can see how you touched her, made her moan." The doctor nuzzles the words into his lover's palm before letting his hand drop. Sherlock hums in assent.
"Did the neighbours hear you, love? Did they bang on the walls when you made her wail, drew out those noises as only you know how?"
Sherlock shivers slightly, leaning back to rest against John, still not agreeing, but not denying.
"Show me, you gorgeous creature. Show me exactly what you did to her while I was away."
Sherlock bends and stands back up, one hand wrapped carefully around the neck of his violin, the other gently cradling his bow.