Title: Exceptions
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John
Genre: …uh what the hell, smut?
Ratings/Warnings: R, for sexytiems.
Summary: Perhaps it's because it's Sherlock, because Sherlock has always been the exception in John's mind. Johnlock, PWP.
Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC adaptation of Sherlock.
Notes: This is me attempting to get more graphic than what I've been doing recently so yeah. Tell me if I'm failing.

Exceptions

The instant the door slams shut John has Sherlock pressed against the wall of the downstairs landing, fingernails scraping along the textured wallpaper as his mouth crashes onto Sherlock's. His eyes close; his nose bumps a bit against Sherlock's cheek as the detective leans back, humming contentedly into John's mouth.

Sherlock tastes of nicotine and danger and it sends sparks of pleasure and passion tingling down John's spine because right now all he needs is that danger; all he feels are the thrills and the adrenaline coursing through him more potently than the chase before. One hand grips one of Sherlock's lapels. The other hand wanders into his dark curls.

Sherlock's the first to break away, gasping for air as he looks at John from underneath his dark lashes, pupils dilated with arousal. John's a bit floored at that, though – he'd thought Sherlock was asexual, or at the very least unlikely to be turned on by someone as layman and commonplace as John Hamish Watson. But apparently not. Sherlock is looking at John as if he'd like to devour him whole, and John wonders why he likes it so much.

Perhaps it's because it's Sherlock, because Sherlock has always been the exception in John's mind. He's just about as straight as they come, unless the bloke propositioning happens to be his infuriatingly beautiful flatmate. And that infuriatingly beautiful flatmate is now watching John curiously, as if trying to deduce his next move.

"Mrs. Hudson might walk in," John says quietly.

Sherlock leads the way up the stairs and John vaguely wonders why his gaze is slipping down to get a good eyeful of the detective's backside. It's a nice one, though, so he can't complain.

Once ensconced on the second floor, in their sitting room, John reaches out and unwinds the scarf from Sherlock's neck, leaning up to kiss the exposed skin. Sherlock's eyes flutter; he's practically purring at the touch. Emboldened, John's fingers slip down to undo Sherlock's coat.

Soon they're down to shirt and trousers and Sherlock is sitting heavily on the sofa; John's straddling him and kissing him hard, almost bruising. Sherlock's fingers trace a line down John's jawbone, to the topmost button of John's checked shirt. They break apart for air, and Sherlock begins to undo the buttons.

"Is this what you want?" John asks, just to make sure.

"Mm," Sherlock replies, nodding as he pushes the shirt off John's shoulders and gestures for John to lift his arms so he could lift the tank top underneath over his head, leaving John's chest and that ugly scar on his shoulder bare for Sherlock's perusal. But Sherlock doesn't grimace at the sight; he takes it in with keen Glasz eyes and probes it gently with his fingers.

"You took it out by yourself," he whispers quietly, respectfully, reverently. John smiles, expression pained, but Sherlock lips curve into a smile as he presses a kiss to the scarred tissue; his fingers trail down the muscles of John's arm.

After a moment, John refocuses on getting rid of Sherlock's shirt, that infernal purple shirt that's so damned tight – but then again, a majority of Sherlock's shirts seem ridiculously tight for him – so his fingers reach out and fumble with the buttons. He's never fully understood just how hard it was to undress someone when they're trailing their fingers down his body until now, because Sherlock is sending goosebumps down his spine.

Sherlock's fingers hook in the waistline of John's jeans just as he undoes the last button, and with a moan his hands go limp because Sherlock is now undoing the belt, undoing the fly and zip, undoing John as his fingers inch down into unfamiliar territory. He leans up, presses himself close, moans into Sherlock's ear. Sherlock hums.

"Shirt off, Holmes," John gasps as Sherlock's hands move to get John's jeans off his bum. "It's not fair otherwise."

"Who says I ever cared about fair?" scoffs Sherlock, but he obliges, shrugging out of his shirt as John bucks against him. "Trousers off, Watson," he mimics, voice a low, sensual growl against the shell of John's ear. John shivers, but he obliges, too.

When he gets Sherlock's trousers off he can see a tent in the detective's boxers. It sends red-hot excitement coursing through his veins, excitement that should have scared him with its very nature but instead now only makes him want more, more of Sherlock and his touches and gazes and – oh god, his own pants are getting a bit too tight.

"Need help?" Sherlock asks with a devilish smirk, but he doesn't wait for an answer to make his move.

"Sherlock!" John snaps, almost indignant but it's fine, because Sherlock is doing the same and Christ he wants him so bad that it's getting a bit hard to think.

John's lips find Sherlock's again; his hands reach down and press their lengths together and Sherlock groans against John's mouth, breath huffy and warm and so familiarly Sherlock. John's thoughts are muddling together; he's started to move against Sherlock with a jerk of his hips and Sherlock arches to meet him, all bony hips and torso but it's enough, it's Sherlock, it's the exception.

He moves faster against Sherlock, needing more and more friction between their bodies as his lips stray from Sherlock's, as his tongue travels a heated path down those gorgeous cheekbones, along that delectable jawline, down that tempting expanse of neck and Sherlock groans again into the room, uttering John's name only at a low whisper below. John presses him hard against the sofa, arms braced on both sides of him as he bites lightly at the juncture between neck and collar – and then harder, a bit more pressure. Sherlock cries his name at that. John smirks against the detective's collarbone.

"Faster," Sherlock growls as John leans up to kiss him again. His hands skim along John's sides, briefly brushing against his hips. "Faster!" And John obliges him because he needs it too, needs more of the spark they're trying to make, needs more of Sherlock moaning his name, needs more of the friction to bring him over the edge. He speeds up his thrusting, matching Sherlock's arches, rhythm to counter-rhythm as the pleasure mounts and his mind fogs over even more than before and Sherlock groans inarticulately but John silences him with another bruising kiss – he's close now, he's so very close to the edge and Sherlock seems to be nearing it, too – could his mind be just as pleasurably blank as John's? – Sherlock's hips buck wildly and John muffles his cries with Sherlock's mouth as he comes. Sherlock follows soon after.

John breaks the kiss but follows with a softer, chaster one, sighing against Sherlock's lips. He kisses Sherlock's nose, mirroring Sherlock's smile, meets Sherlock's gaze. Still pressing his body against the other's, John takes the sides of Sherlock's face and gazes long and hard into his eyes, because he's sure that if he looks hard enough, he'll be able to see Sherlock's thoughts in there.

"Well?" Sherlock asks after a moment, still trying to catch his breath. John kisses him again with eyes open, watching his eyes flutter open and shut weakly, lashes trembling like butterfly wings – oh, it's all so beautiful in his mind, Sherlock's so beautiful and John wonders when he began to wax lyrical.

But it's fine, because Sherlock is the exception to everything in John's life.