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The latest text he’d received from Sherlock was at the scene of a homicide. John wondered if there should be rules about not texting when a corpse was in the room.
Can’t concentrate when you bend over dead bodies like that.-SH
John didn’t respond. He hoped Sherlock would deduce why and not pout about it later.
A time or two, John would even earn the same reaction from Sherlock:
Do you think your brother reads these? Can he even do that? -JW
Sherlock, stopped texting for a full day after that one.
As much as they tried to keep their fingers off their phones, and minds off each other, they always resumed their torrid affair.
I want you to gasp my name. -SH
I already do.-JW
And he did. A lot.
Just hearing my text alert gets me hard.- JW
Pavlov would be horrified, but I am profoundly turned on by that.-SH
Sometimes the texts were just simple little declarations.
You are my favorite part of the day. -JW
I can’t imagine my life without you. -SH
You'll never have to. -JW
It made them smile wistfully in taxis, or on the tube, or just before breakfast when they were still sleep rumpled and dreamy.
I want to wake up with you in my arms. -JW
Not going to happen. I’d never let you sleep. -SH
Sometimes, John wondered just how much the texts affected Sherlock. He knew that he strained to keep own composure, but Sherlock was just so damned aloof. He wanted proof. He wanted hard evidence. He wanted more than what he had heard through the bedroom door those weeks ago. He wanted more than these text messages could give him... and he had no idea how to get it.
If I got on my knees right now, would you let me blow you?-JW
Yes.-SH
One word. Just one little fucking word, and John was salivating. He got up from his bed and took the steps to their den as casually as his sudden erection would let him. One at a time, Johnny boy, don’t seem too eager. He turned the corner to find Sherlock leaning back in his chair, legs blown wide in invitation.
John stopped dead in his tracks.
“Problem, John?” Sherlock asked, dusky and smug with one eyebrow raised.
“Ah... ahem... ah, no... just... tea...” He mumbled with a jerky pointing of his thumb over one shoulder and retreated into the kitchen.
Hm. Pity. -SH
Oh, shut up. -JW
Sherlock chuckled and turned back to his computer. John smiled and made them both tea.
There were times when they wouldn’t text for days on end. Sometimes Sherlock would compose on his violin or work tirelessly on some new experiment and it simply wouldn’t occur to him to send lascivious prose to his flatmate; and sometimes it was John who would be writing his blog or too tired after too many restless nights to be bothered.
But it always came back to...
Remind me why we shouldn’t fuck each other raw right here and now.- SH
I’m fairly sure Angelo’s has a policy against that kind of thing. Unfortunately.- JW
They had both been sending text messages while their food got steadily colder.
I bet you’re achingly hard right now. -SH
You tell me. - JW
He’d said it for a laugh, not thinking for a second that Sherlock would take him up on it. ...but then a very slender, very long, and very bony foot started inching up John’s calf. His eyes opened wide, and he stared at Sherlock. Sherlock was pointedly looking down at his phone. His fingers unmoving on the screen.
He moved his foot higher. His toes were gently wiggling against the inside of John’s knee, causing the diminutive man to nearly pant in wanting.
His lightning fast fingers typed out a message on his phone.
Shall I continue? -SH
The smirk on his face was abominable.
Oh God, yes. - JW
John typed shakily with glazed eyes fixed on the mobile’s screen.
The socked foot was slowly trailing up his inner thigh when Angelo appeared at the table. His gruff voice always struck John as being oddly quiet for a man of his stature, but when the man leaned behind John to gently ask, “How is it tonight, boys?” it seemed to boom across the entire restaurant, and John nearly launched himself out of his seat.
“What?! Nothing!”
“Oi, keep it down,” Angelo continued in his whispered, dusky voice. “Only thought I’d check since you haven’t touched your food is all. S’alright, mate,” he said, and clapped John on the shoulder.
“Thank you, Angelo,” Sherlock smiled from behind his hand and pinched John’s thigh with his toes.
“Yes!” John shrieked and slammed his thighs shut, holding Sherlock’s foot tightly between them and cleared his throat, “I mean yes... thank you.”
He waited until the confused Angelo was well away before setting the rogue foot free.
So much for romance...-SH
Sherlock snaked himself away from John with a lingering drag down his leg.
Oh, you tease.-JW
Says the man who nearly blew me.-SH
Touch me. -JW
Fucking auto correct, I meant touche.-JW
...too bad.-SH
The untouched food was packed into foam boxes. The untouched John left the restaurant blushing.
Neither man would claim their flat was tidy, but it was a ludicrously long time before John finally pitched the Angelo’s leftovers in the bin. He had kept it like a naughty souvenir.