Work Text:
Sherlock and John were never ones for public displays of affection. In fact, the Yarders were quite certain that no one had ever seen the couple even holding hands.
They shared little glances and smiles at crime scenes when one of them was being brilliant(Sherlock) and the other was being ridiculously proud of said person(John).
They eye-fucked each other while they thought the other wasn’t looking.
They shared little lingering touches whilst passing things to each other.
But, the Yarders thought, they’d done all that even before they (finally) got together officially.
They all remembered the time, a year ago now, that Sherlock was leaning over a corpse and a chain had swung out from underneath his collar. On the chain was a silver ring that looked a lot like a promise ring. So Lestrade had approached the consulting detective and asked him about it, genuinely curious.
“Yes, Lestrade, it is a promise ring,” Sherlock had answered, his gaze solely on the corpse infront of him.
“Who from?” continued Lestrade, hoping John had finally confessed his feelings to Sherlock. They’d all been waiting for them to get their shit together since they’d met but the two liked to take their own sweet time doing anything and everything.
“From me, of course,” replied John, walking over to stand by Sherlock and peer at the odd pattern across the woman’s cheeks. “Internal bleeding?”
Sherlock rubbed at the marks and they came away on his gloved finger, “Felt tip pens.”
Neither man had noticed that Greg had been stunned into silence, his expression one of stone. He couldn’t decide whether he wanted to hug them both, jump up and down with joy or do both at the same time.
Instead he choked out, “How long for?”
John’s brow furrowed, “I’m sorry?”
“How long have you two been together?” repeated Greg
“Oh,” John’s expression softened “5 months and counting.” He smiled at Sherlock who in turn- HOLD THE FUCKING PRESSES- smiled back.
Greg Lestrade had been pretty sure that it was Christmas and his birthday and someone had forgotten to tell him.
*
But today…today was different. Those two had waltzed into the crime scene (not literally but they’d come pretty damn close) and been all over each other since.
The Yarders had witnessed several monumental moments in less than an hour. For example;
- John had pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead.
- To his lips.
- To his hair.
- Sherlock had smacked John on the arm and giggled.
- Sherlock had kissed John languidly on the cheek and murmured in his ear in the loudest whisper ever recorded, “Later.”
Greg was struggling to pull his jaw up from the ground and Sally Donovan was discreetly taking a video of the couple.
“Gavin, this is silly. Why did you call us here? This case is barely a 3! This woman was blind, has been since she was 5 years old; bike accident. She fell off and landed in a pile of prickly weeds judging by the size of the small scars around her eyes and her knees. All that happened here is that she tripped on the carpet and landed backwards on the floor where there was a nail sticking out of the loose floorboard next to her. That’s it. Hardly a hard case to crack,” said Sherlock after spending thirty minutes at the scene.
“30 minutess on a case that’s barely a 3, Sherlock?” Lestrade grinned “Slipping, are we?”
Sherlock glowered at the DI, before he smirked, looking over at John.
“You could say I was a little…distracted,” he muttered, eyes dragging over John’s body. “Let’s go, John! Baker Street beckons!”
With that, Sherlock Holmes grabbed his boyfriend’s hand and led him out of the building and into the rare London sunshine.
“We’ve been very touchy-feely today, Sherlock,” chuckled John
“Can’t say I mind,” said Sherlock, swinging their joined hands. “I especially like this. I like your hand in mine.”
John smiled, “Me too, love.”
They were walking towards Baker Street, a mere 5 minute distance from the crime scene, when John pressed closer to Sherlock, his whole body wrapping itself into Sherlock’s side. Both of them sought each other out at times, craving bodily contact in any form but Sherlock was very well aware that what John was doing was a clear invitation.
“You promised me you’d ravage me later, Sherlock,” murmured John, head tilted up so Sherlock could hear him but none of the passersby could. “As far as I’m concerned, ‘later’ starts as soon as we get inside the flat.”
Sherlock could feel the blood in his body heading south at John’s words. Apparently, he wasn’t as fucked out as he’d led Sherlock to believe he was from their adventurous night the evening before. Well, Sherlock would just have to fix that, wouldn’t he?
The 5-minute walk became a 2-minute-41-second walk as they speed-walked home, hoping to shed their clothes and get to the main event as fast as possible.
Declining Mrs. Hudson’s invitation for scones and tea with Sherlock yelling out an apology to their lovely landlady, “Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, no time! I’m about to worship John’s body with my own!”
The old woman chuckled and walked back into her kitchen, reminiscing her own years of excitability and fun.
Meanwhile, John and Sherlock had made quick work of removing their clothes and were kissing furiously.
Soft lips muffled loud groans and lustful moans, John’s tongue teasing Sherlock’s into play. Not that it required much coaxing; Sherlock’s tongue was a frisky little thing.
John guided Sherlock gently to his chair where he gladly allowed John to straddle him, their cocks trapped between their torsos, both aching for relief that neither was willing to let the other have. Sherlock grappled for the lube packets he kept under the couch cushion for this specific reason. As he slicked up his fingers, John growled at him.
“Just lube up your cock, you twat. I’m still plenty prepped from last night, you insistent tease!”
Sherlock chuckled against John’s lips, his fingers transferring the lube to his aching cock, smearing the lube with the precome that had collected at the tip.
He helped John left himself off his lips and guided his prick to John’s hole. Sherlock smeared at some lube onto the entrance and just for good measure, squeezed the rest of the lube onto his cock and fingers, pumping 2 finger into John effortlessly making the smaller man hiss with pleasure at the sensation over taking his body. Satisfied, Sherlock again guided his cock and allowed John to sink onto it. The tight heat that engulfed him was definitely not something he’d ever get used to and neither was the way John could gyrate his hips. Bellydancers had nothing on the way his John could move those hips.
John had been adjusting but he’s apparently either found his footing or was too far gone to care because he lifted off of Sherlock’s prick and sank back down to the hilt.
“John-gosh-ungh-faster, love,” panted Sherlock, his mind abandoning him and leaving him a blathering mess as John rode him faster and harder, changing his angle trying to find John’s prostate.
He knew he’d found it when John got extremely vocal, demanding “Again, again, again – damn it, Sherlock-”
John’s words fell away as Sherlock relentlessly pounded into him, his hips moving upwards to meet John’s downward thrusts. John rested his head in the crook of Sherlock’s neck, breath coming in hard pants as Sherlock’s hand wrapped around his leaking prick as well.
“Sherlock, oh gosh, I’m close, babe,” moaned John, his appreciation for every flick of Sherlock’s wrist on his cock and every deep thrust overflowing and voiced by his increasingly loud and incoherent moans.
Sherlock was adamant to make John come first but it was hard, so so hard because John felt so fucking good and he’d been teasing him all day and damn it, he’d really lucked out with John and for that, he’d be thankful everyday.
“Sherlock, I’m-I’m coming!”
Sherlock pulled back, wanting to see John as he came. His expression was so relaxed, so blissed out, so gorgeous. Lips pink, hair tousled, eyes bright. And suddenly, he was coming too, filling John up as they both rode out their orgasms.
Gingerly, Sherlock pulled out of John. Tired and spent John who had the most gorgeous smile on his face as Sherlock lifted him and carried him to their bedroom.
After Sherlock had cleaned them both up with a wet flannel and they’d snuggled into bed, John whispered, half-asleep, “I think you should hold my hand more often.”
Smiling, Sherlock pressed a kiss to the doctor’s forehead, “I think so too. After all, I do like the feel of your hand in mine.”