Sherlock and John stumbled into 221B like drunkards, their ties hanging loosely and askew around their necks, shirts untucked, and John's fingernails digging into Sherlock's hipbones as he pressed him up against the door.
Sherlock's breaths came short. He could feel a flush beginning to pulse upon his cheekbones, a fact to which John was very blissfully oblivious as he trawled Sherlock's jawline with his tongue. The flat was shrouded in the darkest hour, but Sherlock could smell the passion on his breath and the hot scent that transpired from his pores.
"John," he groaned breathlessly, leaning his head back as the doctor nipped at his neck.
The nips turned into kisses, and Sherlock's knees began to crumple. John's strong arms caught him by his thighs, and he lifted him up slowly, hands slowly inching up his tight trousers. The dark-haired detective leaned his head back, exposing his throat, where John kissed him next.
This was bliss unparalleled. The rush of giddy endorphins was like a riptide, pulling him helplessly in directionless currents. John. His husband. It was strange to think, despite its undeniable truth. He wondered briefly whether he should turn the lights on, but the thought was quickly banished as his tie was ripped off and thrown aside and his shirt buttons were deftly undone.
They stumbled away from the door, and now tripped over each other's feet as they fell into the flat and onto the sofa. Sherlock grinned under John's bodyweight, and rotated his hips so that John slowly began to slide off. John burst into fits of laughter as he hit the floor, colliding with the coffee table on his way down.
"Sherlock!" he hissed once his laughter had subsided. "What the hell was that for?"
"You're heavy," he murmured in reply. Then he rolled off the sofa onto John and kissed his lips gently. "I'm heavy too."
"You're crushing me! Gerroff!" John snorted, trying and failing to push Sherlock back onto the sofa.
"I think I'm quite comfortable here, actually," the detective smirked.
"Really?" John grimaced. "Cause this has got to be the most uncomfortable place to lie down on Earth."
"I disagree. Anywhere I get to lie down on top of you is most comfortable."
"Lemme up, Sherlo –" He was cut off as Sherlock's hand gripped John's upper thigh as he attempted to balance himself. Instead of words, a soft whine escaped John's lips, almost inaudibly.
Sherlock himself froze at this sound, and his eyes met John's like a rabbit's in headlights. John stared back, unable to respond as a blush crept up his neck to redden his ears. He could see Sherlock beginning to back off, his brilliant but virginal mind averse to the suggestion of sex. But then a switch flicked behind his eyes and instead he leaned back down to kiss John again, but this time the kiss was deeper, more passionate. It was rough and desperate, and John was completely at its mercy. Then Sherlock pulled himself up onto his knees, dragging John up with him by his tie. John's throat was so thick with arousal that he couldn't even choke out the other man's name.
The table screeched as it shifted to the side to make room to accommodate the embracing lovers. "Shall we go upstairs?" John whispered tentatively as he observed Sherlock's dilated pupils. They were so wide they made his eyes look entirely black.
"As always, John Watson, you have the best ideas."