"How did this happen?" John laughs, both surprised and a little nervous about how comfortable the naked body next to his feels. "How did we end up here?"
"Well," Sherlock says, a hand possessively on John's bare hip, "It began with you walking into my lab at St. Bart's, with your psychosomatic limp and useless cane and heaps of information to be had."
"Heaps of information?" John repeats. "To be had?"
Sherlock ignores him. "and I just knew I couldn't let you get away. You were the most interesting person I'd met, and I had to keep you—to learn everything about you." He squeezes John's hip appreciatively, and John squirms a little.
"And have you?" he asks, one hand fussing about in Sherlock's hair.
"Not even a dent," Sherlock says with a smirk, "but this little activity yielded some progress, indeed."
"Glad I could assist your research," John says.
Sherlock shifts his weight, pushing down on John's hip.
It hurts, but not in a way that makes him want it to stop. A good pain. God, being with Sherlock was making him borderline masochist.
Then, suddenly, Sherlock is on his knees beside John—who's flat on the bed—and towering over him. The sheet, which had just been at their waists, slips and falls away from Sherlock. "Up for some more?" Sherlock teases, his baritone voice deep, sultry, and ever so inviting.
John, suddenly emblazoned with unexpected confidence, pulls Sherlock down on top of him in a rough, passionate kiss.
When they break for air, Sherlock gasps, "I'll take that as a 'yes'."
"You'd better," John adds before pulling him in for another.
A/N: SMUT. With a capital erry-thang. (That was weird.) Short, but I like. Review, Forrest, review!