The detective returned in the early hours, ghosting silently through the sleeping flat, pausing in the bedroom doorway. He surveyed the still figure of his lover curled in the top third of the bed, duvet tucked tightly around his body like armour made of cotton and goose down. Sherlock sighed, looking to the streetlight shining through the window, hoping it would give him an answer to the confusing mass of emotions that John was throwing at him on a daily basis, expecting him to understand and respond in some way.
Sherlock understood it wasn't considered good manners to excuse oneself to from polite company to masturbate, so he hadn't said that was what he intended to do. The erection had been a nuisance, interfering with his ability to process the fascinating data on neurotoxin delivery mechanisms that Q had shared with him in the afternoon, so he had done the practical thing and dealt with it. He wasn't hungry; therefore saw no reason to accompany his sibling and their partners to a restaurant, when he could make better use of his time, once relieved, to attempt to build a small delivery system that could be housed in a retractable ballpoint pen. Sexual contact just wasn't a priority activity for him and John knew that, they had talked about it, but now the lack of regular intimacy was suddenly a problem worthy of yelling?
Q had also yelled at him, and that was odd. Q didn't shout. When he was angry or upset Q became quiet, not loud, so bellowing was unusual behaviour for his little brother. He also seemed to be enjoying being cross with Sherlock a bit too much which was definitely strange because upset between them was always distressing for Q right from early childhood. Q would not encourage conflict. He would always back down and let Sherlock win as long as they could part friends, but tonight Q had told him he was insensitive and uncaring and that he was ashamed of him! It was disturbing and perplexing.
With a frustrated sigh, he undressed, sliding into bed beside John. His doctor stirred sleepily. "Sherlock…?"
"Mm. Would you prefer me to sleep elsewhere...?"
"What…? No. Go to sleep."
Sherlock lay wakeful in the darkness for hours.
When John woke Sherlock was already gone from the bed, and from the chill on the sheets he had left some time ago. John sighed, rolling onto his back, stretching out his limbs. His hand trailed down his stomach fluttering over his semi-erect cock, wondering if a morning wank would make him feel less irritable, when there was a discreet cough from the chair by the window.
"Fuck!"
Bond chuckled, and the delectable sound made John two shades harder.
"What are you doing in here?"
"Interrupting, apparently," he smirked. "Sherlock is in the shower so I brought tea."
The sheets pooled at John's waist when he pulled himself to sitting, shoving all the pillows behind his back. Bond indicated the mug on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed, too close, not close enough.
"May I?" He asked, waiting for John's nod before stroking a finger over the scar on his shoulder mapping its landscape, hard ridges, and glacier smooth planes, far more dramatic than it should have been thanks to the limitations of a field hospital over civilian surgery. John wasn't aware he was holding his breath until Bond lowered his head to delicately trail the tip of his tongue over the irregular skin. Abruptly he felt like the room was too small, too hot. He exhaled with such force it became a perilously needy gasp and all the blood remaining in his body rushed south.
"I didn't have the chance to truly appreciate you before," the agent whispered between feather-light kisses, "and regrettably I don't have the time to do so now, but ever since you stepped out of that shower I've been thinking of all the ways I could have you."
John whimpered, flushing with embarrassment at how desperate he must sound. Bloody Sherlock and his non-existent sex drive. Bloody Sherlock who had just opened the bathroom door and would be back in the bedroom in about thirty seconds. Bond sat back with a grin, coolly rising from the bed like nothing had happened, effortlessly sliding back into 'amiable house guest' mode when Sherlock walked in.
"Just comparing battle scars. They make a man wonderfully unique, don't you think? Tea, Sherlock?"
"Yes… Thank you."
John skulked behind his mug, trying to lose the ruffled expression and hide the impressive hard-on Bond had raised. If Sherlock hadn't encountered the agent in their room John may have tried his luck with his lover, but it wouldn't take a man of anywhere near Sherlock's intelligence to put two and two together and come up with the blindingly obvious.
"I don't trust him," Sherlock said scowling at the closed bedroom door.
"Why?"
"He's altogether too smug. And our mother likes him. She always hates our partners, Q's in particular because he's her baby, but she actually likes that Neanderthal!"
"She likes me." Sherlock's expression was eloquent. "Why? What's wrong with me?"
"You're too short. She thinks short men are suspect."
"What? She dislikes me on the grounds of my height? That is bloody ridiculous!" John rolled out of bed, practically snapping to attention in his indignation.
"Quite! There are far more obvious reasons, after all, but Mummy has always been a little odd." Sherlock smirked, looking pointedly at John's groin.
"Oh for god's sake… Yes, Sherlock I have a bloody erection, it happens!"
"Not normally while we're discussing my mother, unless I've missed something…?"
"Well maybe if you paid it some attention once in a while it wouldn't spring up at inopportune moments, like discussing why your mother hates me because I'm not a bloody beanpole like her bloody sons!"
Sherlock snorted back a laugh. John looked down at his cock, still rock hard in spite of the preposterous conversation, and chuckled. He curled his arms around Sherlock's waist; pressing his naked body to Sherlock's towel draped one. He reached for a kiss, and after a tiny hesitation Sherlock tentatively joined with his lips. John's tongue dipped between his lips, drawing his boyfriend deeper and for once Sherlock didn't pull away immediately, allowing John to tug him towards the bed.
"Lestrade is waiting…"
"Greg will wait for you to get there even if it's another hour. And really, I don't think it's going to take that long…"