John Watson was doing what he thought he would never do. Hold hands with Sherlock Holmes. Unable to keep the grin off of his face, John turned his head to the side so that Sherlock wouldn't get too smug.
Then he remembered the huge love bite Sherlock had given him. John's grin dropped and a scowl replaced it. He turned his head and glared at Sherlock, who was looking in the opposite direction from him. He opened his mouth to yell at Sherlock, but the consulting detective sighed heavily and looked directly into John's eyes. "OK, so I bit you. And gave you a huge love bite. Who cares?" Sherlock groaned.
John was just about to tell Sherlock exactly 'who cares', but, once again, Sherlock cut him off before he could start. He leaned down to whisper in John's ear, his hot breath sending shivers of pleasure through John's being. "Besides, we both know you enjoyed it," he whispered.
John face flushed from embarassment, and Shelock, obviously enjoying John's embarassment, started nibbling lightly on the good doctor's ear.
"Sh-Sherlock!" He yelped, pushing Sherlock away and ripping his hand free, anger pulsing through him, but not all that much anger.
Just enough for him to ignore Sherlock's disappointed look and stride ahead of him.
John tilted his chin up and let the biting cold London wind cool his heated face. He looked up at the stars, twinkily merrily above, oblivious to everything. John smiled, feeling a sense of calm wash through him.
The stars had always seemed to calm John down. Even in the midst of war in Afghanistan. Maybe it was because they never changed. You could count on them to be there every night, silently watching and not knowing what was happening down on Earth.
After several long minutes, John's temper had completely cooled. He glanced back at Sherlock with a peaceful smile. The consulting detective was deep in thought, and didn;t notice when John slowed his pace until Sherlock had caught up with him.
John silently thanked Sherlock for staying back and let John cool off without Sherlock interfering.
John slowed his pace again so that Sherlock was now walking in front of him and John could admire his fabulous backside.
A sleek, black car crawled along beside John. He groaned. "Oh, for gods sake, Mycroft!" He swore.
The window rolled down to reveal 'Anthea'. She was texting, like always, and didn't look up from her screen as she announced," Mycroft would like to see you."
"Well, you can tell Mycroft that now isn't a good time! Tell him he can come visit tomorrow if it is so important, but I sure as hell ain't going to see him now!" He snapped.
Anthea looked up, shocked, but nodded. The window rolled up and the car zoomed away.
As John scrubbed his hands against his face furiously, he reflected that he needed a shave. It was too damn late for this...
All he wanted to do was have a nice cup of tea, read his book with Sherlock nearby, take a nice relaxing shower and go to bed. Nodding, John grinned.
When they reached the door to their apartment, Sherlock turned to face John, taking off his scarf. Sherlock leant down and wrapped it around John's neck, covering the love bite that was clearly visible. John smiled, whispered a soft, "thanks," and pressed a light, teasing kiss on Sherlock's lips.
Sherlock shuddered and John's grin widened. He glanced at Sherlock's neck and saw the wound that the bastard had made on Sherlock's perfect skin.
Anger rolled through him. Mostly at himself. If he hadn't have been dreaming, he could have prevented this. If he had been paying attention, he could have saved Sherlock from being hurt at all. Sure, John had disinfected the wound (you never knew whether the weapons were clean or not with suspects) and stitched it up, but it still made John's vision go fuzzy with anger.
He took a deep breath and entered the flat, Sherlock just a step behind him. "Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock called out in his strong barionette voice. "We're back! We will be upstairs if you need anything!"
And so, they climbed the 17 stairs to their own private space. As soon as the door opened, John made a bee-line for the kitchen while Sherlock took off his coat and shoes.
"Tea?" John called as he automatically got out two cups.
"Yes, please John," Sherlock answered, then a flop sounded and John guessed that Sherlock had fallen backwards onto the couch.
Several minutes later, John brought out the two steaming mugs of tea. He placed Sherlock's on the coffee table and his on the table near the end of the couch. John roamed around until he found his book, then went back over to the couch. Now he faced a dilema. Lift Sherlock's head and place it on his place so he could sit near Sherlock, or sit on the armchair and be alone and cold.
Shrugging, John lifted Sherlock's head, sat on the couch and placed his head on his lap. He took a sip of his tea, then opened his book.
John sooned realised that when he wasn't drinking his tea, his free hand would run through Sherlock's black curls. John looked down at him and smiled.
Sherlock's eyes were closed, a small smile on his lips. His curls were everywhere, making him look even sexier (to John anyway). His feet dangled off the end of the couch, his long limbs making the couch look short. Sherlock suddenly turned on his side, his hands coming up to rest on John's legs.
Smiling, as Sherlock gripped him like a child would a favourite teddy, John was struck by a bolt of, dare he say it, love? Putting down his book, John swept some curls out of the detective's face and placed a gentle kiss on his temple.
Sherlock appeared to be genuinely asleep. Frowning, John pondered on what he should do. He could leave Sherlock here to sleep and get him a blanket and pillow, or he could try and drag Sherlock into the detective's room, or he could wake Sherlock up.
Contemplating for a few minutes, John decided to just leave Sherlock there. Gently easing Sherlock off of him, Sherlock groaned, his eyes fluttering open. "Sorry, Sherlock, I was just off to bed. I didn't want to disturb you. But, now that you're up, why don't you go sleep in bed instead of that uncomfortabel couch?" John said, smiling.
Sherlock blinked a few times, then stood wordlessly. He walked sluggishly over to John and gave him a sloppy kiss, murmuring, "night," before trudging off.
Shaking his head with a smile, John suddenly wondered what Sherlock would be like drunk...
John stepped out of the bathroom, feeling refreshed and ready for bed. After brushing his teeth, John was satisfied with himself. He had a pair of black sleeping boxers on and shook his wet hair as he stepped into his bedroom, ready to sleep until the morning.
He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the tall figure lying on his bed. Blinking in confusion, John shut the door behind him and walked over to the bed. Confirming his suspicions, John slid under the covers and snuggled close to the man. "Sherlock?" he whispered, "what are you doing here?"
Sherlock turned his head to face him, eyes bleary. "You said to go to bed. So I did. You never specified WHICH bed I should go to, just that I should go to bed." He mumbled, yawning.
John thought it over for a moment before deciding that it didn't matter. Sherlock reached out his arms and brought John close in an embrace. He rested his head in front of John's their noses touching softly.
Without opening his eyes, Sherlock murmured,"you got new toothpaste."
John chuckled sleepily and pressed his lips against Sherlock's. Sherlock made a sort of moaning noise in the back of his throat. John gently licked Sherlock's lower lip, asking for entrance.
He was immediately granted as Sherlock opened his mouth, and their tongues tangled. One of John's hand crept up and tangled in Sherlock's hair, the other grabbing Sherlock's and twining their fingers together.
John pulled back and yawned, followed by Sherlock. They fell asleep like that, their hands entwined, one of John's hands in Sherlocks curls and their legs tangled together.
It would be when John woke up that he realised that Sherlock was only wearing his boxers as well.