Chapter Text
The girl was...incidental, at best. John had chatted her up at a bar he didn't usually frequent, and he had brought her home to Baker Street, and Sherlock had come home to find them both part naked in the sitting room.
"Finally," said John, pulling his mouth away from the girl's breasts (34, usually wears Marks and Spencer, nicer underwear tonight, clearly wanted to get laid, likes what John's been doing). "I thought you'd never get here."
"I can leave again if you like." Sherlock looked at the two of them, levelly. Naked bodies didn't faze him, not after all he'd seen on a slab, and John walked around in just a towel after a shower sometimes. John was also more than a little sensitive about his flatmate being around when he brought his dates home - he usually shagged them elsewhere, or waited for Sherlock to be out of town.
At least naked bodies weren't supposed to faze him.
"Don't." John let go of the girl (vaguely remembers her name, won't mention it just in case he gets it wrong) and approached Sherlock, not bothering to do anything about his state of dishabille. He licked his lips, and reached out to touch the detective's face, his fingers tracing the detective's jawline.
Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, to protest (girl watching, expecting something, covering herself, though out of a cultural habit more than modesty), and John moved his hand so that he could run his thumb over Sherlock's bottom lip, the tip of his finger just inside the moistness of his flatmate's mouth.
"Fucking sexy mouth you've got," said John, repeating the motion. "I don't think I ever told you. I don't know if anyone has."
Involuntarily -- at least he was sure that it was involuntary, what else could it be? -- Sherlock partially closed his mouth on John's finger, felt his tongue meet the pad of the doctor's thumb.
Then, quite abruptly, John pulled his hand away, and leaned in to give Sherlock a quick, messy kiss on the mouth. The detective pulled away a fraction of a second too late.
John laughed, low and dirty. "You've never even been kissed, have you? Not properly at any rate."
"That's none of your business!" Too brittle, too fast. Sherlock knew it the moment the words left his lips. He took a breath to steady himself. "Not in a while, at any rate."
"Let's take care of that then."
The doctor pulled Sherlock down by his coat lapels, and put his lips on his, pushing his tongue deep into his flatmate's mouth, coaxing him to participate.
Hormones, thought Sherlock desperately, as, God (who may or may not exist but it was useful to have something to blame) help him, he responded, moving his mouth to meet John's, flicking his own tongue against the one shoving roughly into his oral cavity. Just fucking hormones.
"God, Sherlock, you have no idea how long I've been wanting to do that," said John when he finally pulled out of the kiss. "And she almost took that from me, that Irene Adler." His hands went under Sherlock's coat and jacket, feeling the detective through his shirt. "You're mine," he whispered into Sherlock's ear, and his voice started a vicious white heat coiling at the bottom of the detective's stomach.
There were a number of things that Sherlock was prepared to admit at this point. For one thing, he had been entertaining similar thoughts about John, had, in fact, been waking up in the middle of the night, soaked in sweat from decidedly less than chaste dreams of his blogger (his), had been wondering what it would be like...
For another, and only because he didn't think he could hide it for much longer, especially at this proximity, he very badly wanted to find out what it would be like right now. (Chemicals, he reminded himself. Too late, said his hormone-ridden brain.)
"Virgin, is that what Moriarty calls you?" John ran his hands up Sherlock's ribs, pinched his nipple through the silk of his shirt, making the detective gasp. "Let me take care of that. That is," he said, abruptly pulling away, and, just for a moment, sounding like the ordinary, everyday John Watson, "if you'll let me."
"Yes." It came out as a sigh, needy and pleading and expectant all at once. Some part of Sherlock, some remaining, fenced-off, rational portion of his besotted mind, was shocked that he had it in him to make that kind of noise.
John's lips curved into a slow smile, and he kissed Sherlock again, on the corner of his mouth. "Bedroom," he said, taking Sherlock by the wrist, and beckoning to the girl.