A/N:

I'm still alive! :)

This is a shorter, somewhat fluffy chapter since I've been MIA lately. I have been working on my Sherlock and the Huntsman story and this one ended up on hiatus. It seemed like a good place to leave it a while, with the boys somewhat happily in bed and content to remain that way for the time being. I have a good chunk of the next chapter done (I've said that before, lies, all lies!) as it was going to be part of this chapter, but the break seemed natural so I thought I'd post this part early since the next section needs a bit of work yet.

Enjoy!

John flipped Sherlock onto his back and made himself comfortable half-atop his husband. He insinuated one leg between Sherlock's and came into contact with Sherlock's growing appreciation for the abrupt change in position. Sherlock kissed him energetically in return, lifting his head off the pillow to increase the agility of his movements. When his head dropped dramatically back to the bed, John took the opportunity to move his lips down that elegant white neck. Sherlock groaned, but it was not the sort of groan John wanted to wring from his husband.

Then John heard the timid knock. Sherlock must have heard the footsteps approaching the door. John mused that he was so kiss drunk that if Sherlock hadn't ceased his participation, their room could have been infiltrated with a peloton of French soldiers before he took notice.

"What is it, Matthews?" Sherlock shouted in an obviously exasperated tone. He wrapped his arms around John, forbidding his attempt at retreat. John grinned at the shiver that trickled down his spine as those long, lean arms tugged him close and resumed the warm, wet kisses under Sherlock's jaw.

The footman's voice was most apologetic as he cleared his throat and relayed his message through the door.

"Mr. Holmes, I was informed that any message from Mr. Lestrade superseded everything, even… sleep."

"Read it to me," Sherlock barked. John could feel Sherlock was no longer responding to his ministrations, so he shifted off him even though Sherlock hadn't really let him go. John soothed his husband's disgruntlement with a few gentle kisses on his shoulder before rolling to his back and stretching his leg. He knew that despite what they'd been in the middle of, Sherlock would be keen to resume his investigations. It would be prudent to prepare for that eventuality.

Lestrade's terse note informed Sherlock that the body which had been hooked up to the machine in the warehouse had been removed to the morgue and Anderson was unwilling to examine it even in the most cursory manner. He indicated that if Sherlock, and perhaps even John, were willing to continue to assist, Lestrade may be able to accompany them to the cell holding the supposedly-resurrected driver for the purpose of interrogation. Matthews stated that the word interrogation had been underlined twice.

"Honestly, if only the man could control his temper, we wouldn't have wasted the afternoon."

John paused with his hands gripping his thigh to pull his bad leg close to his chest. "Wasted?"

"In terms of the speed of the investigation, yes, John. I do not mean it to reflect upon your performance. Our carnal interaction was quite gratifying, if one must waste an afternoon." John interpreted this as he should not be insulted and continued to flex his leg to warm up the tight muscles. Sherlock's eyes flickered over his naked, contorted body.

"Shall I send a reply?" Matthews' voice was hesitant.

"Unnecessary, as we shall be there forthwith." But Sherlock did not seem anxious to rise; in fact, he shifted closer to John and curled his long fingers around John's upraised thigh.

"I thought we were dressing and heading to St. Bart's." John couldn't help but smile. The warm feeling of arousal had lingered even through Matthews' interruption.

"We have time. Lestrade cannot proceed without me." Sherlock ducked around so that he was positioned between John's legs, the scarred one resting now on his shoulder. John's slightly receding erection returned with force as Sherlock looked up at him while wetting his lips.

"Matthews is waiting at the door," John reminded Sherlock, flushing.

"So?" Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at John before taking the head of John's prick into his hot mouth. His glib tongue proved well-suited towards the intimate act, managing to swirl and undulate against all the most sensitive areas. John felt the gasps were thrust out of his mouth by the intense spikes of pleasure coursing through him. John tried to hold back, should have been able to since he'd climaxed so recently, but the sight of Sherlock's dark, tousled head bobbing between his legs was the most overwhelming display he'd ever witnessed. John was incapable, even, of closing his eyes or looking away. It wasn't long before that skilled mouth had him spilling vehemently and without warning like an untried youth. Sherlock didn't seem surprised; perhaps he'd discerned the warning signs as he swallowed without faltering or coughing.

John sank back into the bed, unaware of how the pleasurable tension had tightly clenched his muscles until release made them go lax. His mind buzzed, pleasantly empty, until Sherlock hastily removed himself from the bed and began to reassemble his clothing.

"You don't need release?"

It was apparent that Sherlock was still half-hard as he tucked himself away into his drawers.

"I am not a slave to my physical needs, John. Now, would you rather stay abed or attend Lestrade at Bart's? It has been a taxing day for you, so I shall understand…"

"Wait, Sherlock." John struggled to sit and collect his thoughts. Wasn't this precisely what he'd refused earlier in their sitting room, a one-sided performance that soothed his physical needs but left him shivering with Sherlock's chill? "Was this just your effort to not 'neglect me carnally'?"

Sherlock pulled his billowy shirt over his head but seemed perplexed as to how to tuck all that material smoothly into his trousers. He didn't answer.

John shifted, dangling his legs over the edge of the bed. He tugged Sherlock to him by the tail of his shirt.

"You don't ever have to pleasure me, Sherlock. I don't want you to think that. Yes, there is little I'd rather do than spend the evening and night in bed with you, learning how to make you moan and gasp, making you limp and languid and then hot and desperate yet again. But I will understand if we are interrupted and you need to away in haste. I understand that your investigations are important to you, and what is important to you is important to me."

Sherlock was making a point not to look John in the eye. John did not force him to, but did stroke Sherlock's cheek with his thumb.

"It felt amazing, Sherlock; I want you to know that. But I also want you to know that you do not owe that to me."

"I know, John," Sherlock finally replied. His shy tone and pink ears made it very clear that this was new information, however, and John felt an ache in his chest over that. "I did want to taste you, though. You didn't allow me to do so before."

"I won't be such an idiot again, Sherlock, you can be certain of that." John winked and tugged his husband a little closer. "Now kiss me and I'll help you tuck in your shirt."

"I haven't rinsed my mouth."

"I don't care."

Sherlock leaned towards his husband to press his closed lips against John's, but John drew him into a languid kiss that had them both thinking, Sod Lestrade for a few minutes.