A/N: Hey readers… can we please have a moment to mourn the death of my computer?
At 11:52pm last night, as I was so very nearly finished a drabble which I must say was quite nice, it froze and gave out on me. And has not turned back on since… *weeps softly*
OK... I'm good. Now that the moments over, let me apologize if this chapter is sub-par; I didn't have a lot of time today to replace that lost piece of work from last night… But I'll make it up to you soon!
Also please note I've been on an 'I want to write sexy fics!' bender lately; hope that's alright with all you… I know I'm enjoying it!
Frustration Two – Layers
They entered the flat silently, each taking their turn to send heated looks at the other. Anger was coursing through the veins of the shorter man with the clenched fists; annoyance radiated off the pale skin of the taller man with the rolling eyes.
Both could see the emotions in the other as if they were made of translucent glass. Both knew what was there, and neither could deny the splashing need that mixed into the boiling chagrin, like alcohol and water; you couldn't tell them apart.
Sherlock could see past those clenched fists to the more internalized battle John Watson was fighting. The detective could also tell which side would come out on top and, with that sure knowledge, he took charge.
Grabbing the dark jacket of his friend, the he wrapped long fingers around the lapels before pulling them – him – forward emphatically, mashing their lips together with a hungry growl that sounded hotly animalistic. There was no shock, no question as to why they had ended up in this particular position. The inevitability of it all screamed and wailed like a banshee, warning that their resolve was dying.
The only question in Sherlock's mind was why John insisted upon all these preposterous and disdainfully many layers. The clothing – undershirt, over-shirt, cardigan, jacket, etc. – was only keeping them from feeling that overwhelming comfort of being wrapped in each other. It was frustrating, annoying, vexatious and- oh.
Synonyms became hard to produce when John's lips, teeth and tongue made work of Sherlock's neck and collar-bone. Knees weakened and it became hard to stand, let alone maneuver one's self across a messy flat to the nearest bedroom or flat surface – not to mention simultaneously working to remove another's clothing.
Desperately pulling on the sleeves of the red cardigan, the back of Sherlock's shin collided with the coffee table.
The events after that were a bit foggy to the uncharacteristically surprised detective. He remembered John's sharp intake of breathe, strong hands holding his back through a half-removed cardigan and falling sideways onto the floor instead of backwards onto the aforementioned table.
Suddenly he smiled as he realized the brilliance of what had just transpired.
"Clever, clever John…" Sherlock kissed the man now lying atop of him, looking at his disheveled dress – half-unbuttoned shirt now untucked from unbelted pants, half removed cardigan dragged off his shoulders – and flicked open another button on the grotesquely patterned shirt. "The floor will do nicely…"
Blinking in confusion, John looked down at the detective with the red-tinted cheeks. Really he had just been trying to save the coffee table… but as he closed his eyes, feeling Sherlock tugging at his clothes, he decided not to mention it.
Then he chuckled lovingly as Sherlock began to scold him in that sexily deep voice:
"But really John, these layers are bloody ridiculous."