Work Text:
Sherlock/John, post-Reichenbach - requested by Rebecca
Sherlock had been back for two months when it first happened. Well, when it happened again. It had certainly happened many times before St. Bart’s. Three years (and an engagement) later, John had been unsure of where things stood. Should he have said something? Was Sherlock expecting things to be like they had just been before? If so, how was John expected to just pick things back up after all this time?
They were just finishing up a case (Sherlock had decided to not just confront but also insult the serial killer, who had then proceeded to chase them through the west side of London until Lestrade showed up for the arrest). John could hear his heart beating in his chest, a thump thump that sounded in his ears. His breath was short and his legs ached. But John could feel the smile on his own face and hear Sherlock laughing next to him. John glanced at him, his gaze falling on those high cheekbones and those pink lips.
Then John grabbed Sherlock’s hand and pulled him down a nearby alley, not even bothering about the crowd of police officers not 200 feet away. Sherlock let out a startled shout, but let himself be dragged. As soon as they were out of sight, John fisted the lapels of Sherlock’s overcoat and pushed him against the wall. He looked into the other man’s wide blue-green eyes and kissed him, pressing his lips hurriedly, biting at the bottom lip. He felt Sherlock’s chest rise and fall more rapidly beneath his hands as he wrapped his arms around John and pulled him against himself more tightly.
John felt a tight knot of tension that he hadn’t known he’d been carrying relax as Sherlock pressed into the kiss more insistently. He teased the Sherlock’s bottom lip with his tongue. He felt Sherlock’s fingers tangle in his hair and tug. John groaned at the slight pain and loosened his grip on Sherlock’s coat.
For a moment, John considered breaking away (God, had it really been three years since he’d kissed those lips?) to bite along Sherlock’s exposed neckline; he couldn’t seem to find the strength to do it. He slid his hands down Sherlock’s stomach, slipped them inside the open coat, and ran his fingers over the leather belt buckle. He quickly undid the belt then, after some fumbling, the button on his trousers. John could feel Sherlock’s cock straining against the fabric of his pants, and he palmed it through the cloth before slipping his hand under elastic waistband.
Sherlock broke the kiss and let out a moan. John watched as the man’s strait-faced composure broke. His lips twitched, mouth lay open and slack, hips bucking forward. John wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s cock, rubbed his thumb over the slit at top. Sherlock was leaking all over his palm. John could feel his hot breath against his cheek, coming in harsher, stuttering. John twisted his wrist, stroked all the way from the bottom up.
Sherlock groaned. He was whispering something under his breath, but between the gasps and occasional grunts, John could barely understand it. He picked up his pace and watched as Sherlock threw his head back and his eyes rolled. John continued to grip Sherlock’s cock as the world’s only consulting detective lost control and proceeded to fuck into John’s fist with abandon.