DISCLAIMER: I have no affiliation whatsoever with Moffat, Gattis, or Arthur Conan Doyle, to whom all the credit for this universe belongs. Aside from the fun I had writing it, I have not and will not profit from this story in any way.

ALSO, (can I say this here?) I'm on sale to benefit AO3. And please check out the real talent and bid because it's a good cause!

Her sofa is an utter monstrosity, a crime against good taste. It is also a veritable behemoth—there's simply no other word for it—and it dwarfs not only all the other pieces of furniture (which can't be called companion pieces, for what could rival it in its musty, imposing horror?) but also the room that holds it. It boggles the mind to imagine why someone would have worked to create such a thing, much less to divine the rationale behind its purchase, or the method by which it was carried up the narrow stairwell to this cramped flat.

As he investigates the scene, it's all Sherlock can do to manoeuvre around its patterned, overweening bulk without tripping over Lestrade or any of the Yarders. Yet the sofa may actually have done him a bit of a favour; it is such a dedicated nuisance, an almost malevolent obstacle that no one has been able to get close enough to the evidence to make a mess of it, and so he has the rare chance to work at a scene that remains untouched.

But for all of that, the sofa barely registers in Sherlock's memory except for what it can tell him about its ill-fated owner (almost nothing that the walls and carpet of this shabby flat aren't already screaming at him) and what evidence it might be hiding. He drops to his knees to get a good look underneath and his troubles are rewarded with a lungful of dust—dust! Sherlock is always ready to sing the praises of invaluable, eloquent dust, but this particular deposit has long been left undisturbed, and there is nothing new to be learned here, nothing to contradict the theory that he's already forming.

He rises to his feet with a cough, brushing the dust his trousers, and begins to recite to Lestrade everything he knows, everything they've missed. Like always, Lestrade has a pen cap pinched between his lips (today, held perfectly askew like the cigarette of a leading man in an old film), though he never bothers to write anything down, just nods along with Sherlock, filing the information away. His mind is acquisitive and he holds tight to the leads he is given, even if he sometimes has to be led to them. When Sherlock is done, Lestrade tucks his notepad, unused and blank, away into the pocket of his shirt (new, and expensive, washed only once; a gift from the wife, probably an apology—the PE teacher again).

And that might have been the end of it; Sherlock might never have thought of that sofa again. He turns to leave, making a wide circuit around the faded paisley giant, and John follows, and just like that, they might never have come back. After all, what reason is there? It's only because Lestrade calls something after them—and not some chit-chatting pleasantry that can be ignored, but a puzzle, a "but-what-about-the"—and Sherlock has no choice but to turn and answer.

When he does turn, he sees and his words die on his lips. He can only gape as that familiar rush of realisation settles upon him, robbing him of his breath as the scene and the players around him fall away and crop up anew before his eyes. John is standing beside the sofa and the enormous, thrusting height of its backrest stretches until it nearly lines up with his ribs—John is not a tall man—and it doesn't even take any calculation; the angles, the weight, the lines of their muscles, it is all as clear to Sherlock as if it were already true. A current of hot white electricity travels languidly up his spine, and he stiffens in place, nearly gasping for breath, eyes blinking blindly.

"Well?" Lestrade is asking him impatiently. "What is it, then? What have you figured out?"

John senses something amiss, something different to Sherlock's usual crime scene persona, and is looking at him with quiet concern—the kind he would never voice where Donovan could hear. He needn't bother opening his mouth; his words may as well be etched upon his face. But you've already done it, his lined forehead puzzles. Why would you make the epiphany face when it's already solved? You said this wasn't even a six.

His eyes meet Sherlock's and his lips purse and it's as good as mouthing You okay?— better even, because only Sherlock can know it—and Sherlock gives him a barely perceptible nod. John crosses his arms over his chest and shifts his worries to the back burner, refusing still to give them up entirely. The tendons in his neck stand out. Sherlock has to ask Lestrade to repeat the question.

But they get out of there soon enough and into a cab, and once the block of flats has safely receded behind them, John finally turns to Sherlock and asks, "So what was all that, then?"

Of course it will have to wait, Sherlock thinks as the streets pass by around them. So soon after their investigation, it would be totally unthinkable—not just disturbing a crime scene but defiling it utterly, trampling upon evidence worse than Anderson at his most ignorant. And even putting his reverence for the Work aside, there could be dire consequences if they were caught out. Not that they would be—he was Sherlock Holmes, after all—but it's an excessive risk and one that doesn't strictly need to be run... especially considering that failing to wait would essentially mean admitting a lack of control, giving in to the base demands of his body, which he knew to be nothing more than transport.

"Look, Sherlock, just tell me that you're all right. Can you do that much?" John demands. (Absently, Sherlock detects an edge of annoyance to his voice. John knows that Sherlock is perfectly fine, knows Sherlock can hear him but is choosing to tune him out, and yet he insists on asking anyway. John is doing this to give himself an excuse to be frustrated, to reinforce their roles, to remind himself that he can stand to be ignored interminably, that he is good and kind, that he will stand by Sherlock through anything.)

Nine days should be enough, though. If Sherlock is correct about how the crime played out (and he almost certainly is), they should be able to piece together enough evidence for Lestrade by the following night, or the morning after at the latest. If the husband is particularly clever (and he almost certainly is not), he may be able to evade the police for a few days, but if the credit card statements left on the table are at all indicative of his capacity for foresight and impulse control, they'll be on him in no time at all.

A week is a little too short; there is still a chance that the husband's attorney (and of course he'll hire one, no matter how undeniable his guilt—this is a man who does not back down) will be poking around, fruitlessly searching for that one piece of vindicating evidence that simply does not exist, likely cursing his client all the while. After ten or eleven days, Sherlock could be sure he'll have given up and convinced Mr Chen to plead guilty as he stands no chance of acquittal, but at that point, the landlord (late 50's, a widower himself and a heavy smoker—Mayfairs) will have called cleaners in to get the flat rented out again, and it will all be too late. Nine days, then. Sherlock can wait. He's sure of it.

John exhales loudly through his nose and let his hand drop, palm striking the seat with a half-hearted smacking sound. Sherlock stares at the reflection of the streetlamps in the cab windows, stares through them, fixing every detail of that future scene in stark relief—the garish pattern, the corded muscle, the sweat beading on the nape of John's neck—and allows himself to savour these images for a few short seconds before banishing the distractions to focus on the case at hand.

And so it ends up being another cab (this one smelling of kebab and cheap cologne) that they're in when John, settling himself into the seat, wrinkles his nose as Sherlock gives the destination. "Why there?" he asks, knowing—surely knowing—that Sherlock won't answer him.

Sherlock is usually incredulous to discover that John doesn't know these things, but this time, it's not really his fault. The destination Sherlock's given is a busy intersection where they could be going for any reason at all, and it's located several streets away from the block of flats, several minutes walk from the sofa. And even if Sherlock was careless enough to ask the cabbie to take them directly there, there have been other cases in the interim, so there is no guarantee that John hasn't forgotten. After all, the puzzle was rather cut and dry, and John didn't fixate on any particular... detail, as Sherlock had.

"There's no case on, and you said we weren't going for dinner," John muses, speaking more to himself than to Sherlock. "And we wouldn't go all the way out there just to eat, anyway." Normally, Sherlock would be able to sit more casually, allow their knees to bump, his thigh to jostle against John's—not at all abnormal for two friends in a cab. But his joints feel tight and hot, and his spine holds his body rigidly upright, fixing his eyes straight ahead. His fingers twitch on the seat beside them and he gathers them into his lap, tries to still them. Soon enough, John gives up on chatting and plays with his mobile for the rest of the ride.

He raises an eyebrow when Sherlock pays the cabbie, but doesn't offer any comment beyond his thanks. Outside, he quickly falls into step at Sherlock's side, matching his stride effortlessly, instinctually. Sherlock can feel how alert—how aware—John is in that moment, observing the environment, observing him, trying to pick up clues and adapt, slip into whatever role Sherlock might need of him.

Sherlock likes that. He likes this evidence that John has learned to see, really see, and that John can apply the skills he learned on the battlefield to the streets of London. He likes that John is willing to follow him, even without knowing where or why. The year he spent working alone is something that Sherlock usually avoids pondering, but because of it, because of that year he was without John, there are things that he knows now, and he thinks he'd rather know than not know. That's always been his policy—Sherlock Holmes has no patience for deception of any kind—but it is doubly true here. While they're waiting at a crosswalk, he reaches for John's hand, and John looks surprised but pleased when Sherlock's fingers lace through his.

"Not a case, then," he says, grinning, and Sherlock smiles back despite his nerves, despite the lives wires running through his body. John squeezes his hand.

Sherlock seeks out a completely backwards route, turning them in almost concentric circles around their destination. He tells himself he's doing it to cover their tracks but suspects it's at least partly to calm his own nerves, to stall for time until he feels prepared. He can feel John noticing their roundabout progress but neither of them says anything about it.

When they finally arrive, they emerge from the small alley just behind the block of flats, and John turns to him. "Mrs Chen's?" he asks. "The bludgeoning? But we—"

Sherlock moves to cut John off, almost swooping down at him, imposing himself into John's space. He grabs John's coat in clenched fists and finds that he's glaring down into John's face. John doesn't flinch, doesn't startle or pull back; his eyes are clear and calm as he stares back up at Sherlock, daring him to act.

Sherlock's planned out his line but he isn't sure he'll be able to find his voice, and when he does, it comes out as a low rasp. "I'm going to fuck you in her flat," he says, almost growling, and he feels his cheeks flush red. John goes perfectly still in his grasp, and for a split second, his face is puzzled, but then there's a shift so obvious that even though the streetlight above them is burned out, Sherlock can almost hear John's eyes go dark. It is a fantastic sound.

John lets out a breath—a somewhat shaky one, trying to hide the adrenaline suddenly coursing through his veins, trying even though Sherlock can practically feel the force of it thrumming below his fingertips. "Right, then," he says calmly, and he licks his bottom lip. "Let's get on with it, shall we?"

They've yet to change the front lock combination (absurd considering that one of the former residents, safely imprisoned or no, is a criminal as good as convicted) so they have no trouble getting in. There's a young woman in the lobby carrying shopping bags (Tesco's; single and desperately so, forehead always on the verge of breaking out, thanks to a diet of cup noodles and meat pies) and waiting for the lift. So that makes Sherlock and John someone's dinner guests, then. A little late, maybe, but not at all unheard of.

The lift dingsand the woman gets in, reaches up to push the button for one of the higher floors (looks like eight but Sherlock can't be sure) and as they file in behind her, John turns back to Sherlock and asks, "What did they say, four or...?"

"Five," Sherlock asserts. "Their door number—it was your birthday, remember?"

John chuckles. "That's right," he says (his acting has gotten better, Sherlock notes), and he hits the button and the doors close.

The lift is slower than Sherlock remembers, and the air inside it seems to be humming. His fingers won't stop twitching in the pockets of his coat. The hair on the back of his neck is standing up, and he thanks the universe for his height, for the inability of normal people to notice anything at all.

The woman holds the "Open Door" button as they alight (a small town girl, then, and relatively new to London judging by her plain, sensible footwear). They're actually on the floor directly below the Chen's empty flat; they can't afford the attention it would draw to go straight there—sure to be remembered, that—but the staircase is just to the left and as soon as the lift closes, John pushes open the heavy fire door.

No alarm sounds; so far, so good. The stairwell is poorly lit, but John doesn't falter or lean on the handrail as he climbs. Sherlock lags a step behind, staring at the backs of his strong thighs. On the landing, the halfway point, Sherlock overtakes John on his longer legs, and then he doesn't really think about what he's doing; he just gives over to instinct and backs John against the wall and crushes the breath out of him with his mouth and his tongue and his need.

It's not a graceful kiss—it's dark in the stairwell, and Sherlock has surprised John mid-stride, so their foreheads almost knock together and John's breath catches against Sherlock's lips with a shocked sound. Sherlock's actually having a bit of trouble getting his breath himself (more than can be attributed to half a flight of stairs, anyway) and so he soon tries to pull away, but then John's hands are scrabbling at the collar of his shirt, pulling him back, pulling him down, and his lips are on Sherlock's neck for a moment and Sherlock's jaw, and then Sherlock is breathing harshly through his nose as John kisses him almost hard enough to leave bruises.

And how fantastic it is to have someone who doesn't flinch from his harsh edges, who arches up to meet his kiss and never laughs or calls him freak—whose fingers twitch when someone mocks him and itch whenever they aren't clutching a double handful of his ass, pinning their hips together. Sherlock feels himself groan, and his lips part, and there's John's tongue sliding along and then past the line of his teeth and John's chest warm and solid against him, heart beating out a tattoo against Sherlock's ribs.

Sherlock has a taste for danger, they both do (and how unbelievably lucky he's been to find someone just as mad as he), but it's never quite seemed to transfer to this context. Even G-rated displays of affection he prefers to keep private, having been taught from an early age just what kind of trouble such a weakness can invite. And although more recent experiences have presented conflicting theories ("Rubbish," whispered John, fingers tracing careful patterns on Sherlock's ulna as they knelt to study a chalk outline) and some very compelling evidence (John's lips on his neck in a darkened theatre, breath shallow and hot in his ear) a lifetime of behaviour is not easily unlearned, and these lessons have yet to really take root. Butapparently this is just the right degree of hidden, the right mix of risk and security because there's a sharpened edge to Sherlock's need, and his every sense feels heightened as he tries (with little success) to keep his wits about him enough to monitor their surroundings.

John must feel it too, or feel Sherlock feeling it, because even though he's the one up against the wall, he's somehow gotten one of Sherlock's long legs on either side of his, and his hips are rocking up and up, and it's all rushing at Sherlock so fast that he's starting to forget what exactly they're here to do, why exactly it has to be here—or, more accurately, approximately half a storey above their current position. And he can't forget it, not even with the heat of John's body against his, because it's already been nine days since the investigation and if John keeps this up, he's going to come in his pants right here and that's not good because they don't have any more time, they can't come back here for another go because of cleaners and realtors and—

He grabs a handful of John's jacket, but John seems to take that as positive feedback (which, to be fair, it usually is—Sherlock has been known to lose control of his hands somewhat when it's good, particularly when John folds him at the knees and his tongue begins creeping up the back of Sherlock's thigh) and it only makes him pull Sherlock closer, tilt his head to kiss him deeper, more thoroughly.

But this is important, they have a reason to be here and Sherlock is not going to forget it, so he gathers his focus and he bites down on John's tongue—hard enough to hurt but not hard enough to bleed (though, now that the thought has crossed his mind, that's an interesting possibility for another day).

John takes a sharp breath in through his nose and disengages for a second, which is enough time for Sherlock to compose himself, at least partially, and take action. He collects his right hand from where it has been hiking up the hem of John's shirt, investigating the familiar warmth of the skin underneath, and lifts it to press his palm to John's forehead, pinning his head back against the wall to establish his control. He ignores the relentless, babbling demands of his body, and stares down at John pointedly, feeling the heaving of his lungs in his chest.

"Ouch," John says indignantly, and he's talking about the bite, not his head, which is good because Sherlock has the urge to tug at his hair a little, work his long fingers into sandy blonde and pull until John hisses.

"You..." says Sherlock, stumbling through his words as if his lips had no memory of ever doing this before, "I needed..." His mind races, but it gets him nowhere. Even if all his molecules weren't currently swirling into tingling spirals concentrated wherever John was touching him, the fact remains that Sherlock is, first and foremost, a brain and sometimes he can't get around that. Sometimes the words he needs are for things he should have deleted, things he shouldn't want, shouldn't even need at all, much less need this badly, this consumingly, and that's why sometimes, like now, the words stop and he grits his teeth and just implores John to understand.

"Well, why didn't you just...?" John begins, and then Sherlock gets to watch his face do something fantastic as he

recalls (that sometimes Sherlock simply doesn't have the words, that he can't "just say so"),

frets (that he has been toeing some boundary he shouldn't have),

observes (the wire-taut trembling of Sherlock's limbs, the wild darkness of his eyes)

concludes (that Sherlock is about to come in his pants); and

gloats (knowing himself to be the cause).

"Oh," says John. The corners of his mouth turn upwards in a smirk but the smile that's in his eyes is a softer one.

"We have got to work on your vocabulary," he chides, and Sherlock drops his hand and gives John a look that feels petulant, that he knows for sure is petulant, but John just grins and traces a swath of electricity across Sherlock's palm with his thumb. "Come on," he says, and while John is often the one who follows, Sherlock would chase the spark in those eyes anywhere, so he lets John take his hand, and two sets of footsteps pound up the last few stairs.

And if John would just quit crouching behind him, mouth on his neck and hands wrapped around his waist and sliding up his thighs, Sherlock could get the lock picked much faster (after all, it's impossible to compete with the criminal element without mastering at least a few good tricks for oneself). Or alternatively, John could choose to keep all of that up and have this whole thing finished in no time at all, but he has to choose one because their goals seem to be at odds. Only then, just as Sherlock's about to give in and let his hips buck greedily up into John's hands, he hears that click, almost like the sound of something shattering, and he feels a little shiver of want as John's hands leave off and John stands up over him to open the door.

And once they're inside it escalates; with them, it has a tendency to do that (and John says it's not like that with other people but why would it be—when are the two of them ever like other people?), and so in what feels like no time at all, Sherlock's got John's trousers open and has negotiated them down around his ankles and over his trainers, and even though John resists being picked up or manhandled, objects to any implication that he is a lesser man because of his stature, he's letting Sherlock bend him face down over the sofa and hunch over him to match up the lengths of their bodies. Sherlock's trying to work that first finger, work John open and responsive but his hands won't stop trembling because he's thought about this so much and he has to rest his forehead beside John's spine (resenting all the while the fabric of his jacket) to take in a series of deep, shaky breaths.

This would be easier, probably, if John wasn't already so hungry, so eager that first contact makes his jaw go slack and all his breath go out of him in a rushing sigh. Sherlock counts the prongs of John's vertebrae, memorising the curve of his neck and watching it destroyed as the slightest push deeper drops John's head helplessly forward. And though there are times when John is gentle with Sherlock (intolerably, infuriatingly gentle even, until the point where neither of them can stand it anymore), John does not stand for being coddled and he is not prepared to wait. He's already impatient, already urging Sherlock onward, and his left arm almost gives out with the twist of Sherlock's second finger, but he manages to steady himself, cracking an elbow and digging his fingernails into the cushions.

They don't do this nearly enough, or not this exactly, anyway. Sherlock fumbles the small bottle of lubricant as he pops the cap back on but catches it easily in his left palm and stores it away in the pocket of his coat. It's just that John's eyes are on him all the time, and John is so open that Sherlock can read his desire in the curve of a lip or a flare of his nostrils (or the way his eyes go suddenly dark and he murmurs "Brilliant," or "Amazing," and beneath his coat, beneath the London streetlights, Sherlock shivers to know what he really means), and the weight of this constant awareness makes his clothes itch and his neck flush hot, and he stammers and falls silent to know that he's in John's head as much as John has worked his way into his, wriggling into the fissures of his brain and etching them wider and deeper and unrecognisable. It's that it's always too easy for Sherlock to give into this feeling, to crave the weight of this knowledge as the real, physical weight of John's body on his, to let himself be changed and reduced to instinct and reaction. It's that John's attention, his devotion—beautifully, entirely undeserved—are only two of the thousands of things with which his brain incessantly insists on engaging, and so sometimes Sherlock likes to let John crawl inside his body as he has his mind and eclipse every other sensation in the world.

That's why Sherlock rarely ever does this, which is too bad, really. It's actually a crying fucking shame, because John was built for this, John must have been made for this, or at least with this firmly in mind. John knows his body, has faith in his strength (Sherlock remembers seeing this for the first time, marvelling as John cast his cane aside to leap without hesitation from rooftop to rooftop), and he is accustomed to pushing his physical limits. He's done it under the hot desert sun and on top of cold, unforgiving London pavement, and now, atop the scratchy fabric of this art deco monstrosity, he has begun to push back against the insistent press of Sherlock's cock with a strangled sort of gasp, and Sherlock knows from experience that he is going to shake himself apart until his lungs burn and his muscles ache and he is going to fight the limits of his stamina and his control until they're both collapsed in a tangled heap.

Except this time, he's not going to be able to, and that's the beauty of this, because how much leverage can John get to push back when he's already on his tiptoes? Or when, as Sherlock begins to move, an enthusiastic thrust puts John en pointe and has him gripping the back of the sofa like a rock climber? And there's an image for the books: all compact muscle and ruthless utility, a small tanned body clinging doggedly to an immense face of rock, hanging on by his fingernails miles above the world.

That's not the image that brought them here, though, the one that's been playing in Sherlock's head and around the edges of his consciousness for the last nine days, making him punctuate his Bolero with lurid arpeggios until it's virtually unrecognisable and John asks him, pinching the bridge of his nose, if he couldn't maybe play something less jumpy. No, Sherlock's come here for something he can't quite ask for—something too odd and embarrassing to put into words, and so he knows that if he wants it, in the end, he just has to take it.

Drawing himself up straight, Sherlock gets a hand on either one of John's hips and John stills, because as much as he likes to keep control, he knows his way around the bedroom more than well enough to understand the benefits of taking direction. But Sherlock feels the need to hide what he's planning, so he grips John's hips tightly and at the same time rocks in an upward arc aimed to make John see stars, distract him from the fact that his feet are coming up off the floor, his toes peeling away from the carpet as gracefully as a bandage, and his body bending in the middle so that Sherlock can drape him like an afghan over the back of that monstrous piece of furniture.

John stutters out a groan as Sherlock moves him, moves inside him, but it's not a protest; any offense his conscious mind might have been inclined to take at being laid out like this doesn't stand a chance against the onslaught of sensation. His mouth falls open as he gasps in a breath, and then his whole body lets it out, adjusting. His feet kick briefly, fighting for leverage. He reaches an arm out to either side and tries to grip the flat top of the backrest, but it's too broad for the fingers of one hand, so all he can do is sag over the sofa and try to breathe through it, try to keep control.

Sherlock can feel sweat on his brow, heat deep in his belly coiling tight. John tries to move back against him and can't—he just groans and writhes, pinned in place—and it's glorious, better even than Sherlock imagined. John's coat rasps against the fabric of the sofa, and maybe they should have taken more clothing off because the heat is stifling and it's only getting hotter, but it's glorious to see the beads of sweat prickling at John's hairline just like he had envisioned. And the pale crescent of skin that he can make out through the shadows of the empty flat feels to Sherlock like a locked room where two identical twins are lying dead, like geographic coordinates scratched into the stem of a cut lily, a fantastic puzzle with endless possibility—how to get John Watson to remember how to lose himself, to forget and lose himself, to give over entirely and feel all of this the way that Sherlock does:

splayed open, pinned, pinioned, safe and overwhelmed, overpowered and lost, immobilised and blessedly finite, drunk and drowning in the lack of power, and entirely human and real and—

He's not going to be able to hold back any longer, not with the helpless noises and spasms he's dragging from John, not with John gasping out his name in broken fragments like the shimmering pieces of a shattered mirror, and the agonised hiss as Sherlock works his arm around John's hips to take him in his hand is both a relief and a stinging burn. Forward, however, is a direction that John can move, and their rhythm stutters for a moment as his hips twitch jerkily frontward like a wind-up toy, held fast between Sherlock's cock and his hand, and he lets out a low, broken sound.

"God, Sherlock," John says, and his voice is hoarse.

Sherlock wants to speak up, give John some warning of the blinding pressure choking him and driving his hips, but he's too far gone, and his voice catches in his throat and his eyes squeeze shut, all his senses shutting themselves off for more of this one thing, more of this sensation, more of John. And his head falls slack against John's shoulder and he feels himself gasp, his body moving without his permission now, moving towards something that threatens to eclipse his consciousness entirely, and oh, John...

When Sherlock opens his eyes again, he's sprawled across John's back. They're both soaked with sweat, and Sherlock's knees have melted and are about to give up on him. He groans and turns sideways, sinking to the floor to rest against that back of that bloody fucking sofa.

There's a hand on the back of his head, gentle in his hair, and then John is on the ground beside him.

"Don't put your head there," he says. He blinks and gives a harsh sigh. "Or, don't put your head anywhere. Jesus..."

Sherlock snorts and John slumps into his shoulder like a marionette, breathing deep and steady. For lack of any undefiled surface, he rests his head against John's temple. This sometimes makes John complain, asking why he should have to deal with the mess of long hair when he's smart enough to keep his own regulation short, but Sherlock knows that he secretly likes it, knows that if John weren't so exhausted, so well-fucked, he would be tangling his fingers in Sherlock's curls, pulling him closer for another kiss. Even now, Sherlock can feel John smelling him, taking in a deep lungful from the top of his head and sighing contentedly out.

"Jesus," says John again, this time appreciatively, almost mildly.

Sherlock knows what's coming next, and he wants to explain, he needs to explain before John gets a chance to ask. Because he knows John will be curious—this encounter has deviated significantly from their normal pattern—and, little as Sherlock cares for what's considered normal, he has to acknowledge that dragging one's lover to the scene of a domestic homicide and, with no explanation, fucking him standing up against an absolute atrocity of a sofa, is bound to invite some questions.

"That's... that's what it feels like. What I feel like." Sherlock's words are coming sporadically, all awkward pauses and rapid-fire bursts of consonants. "With you."

John doesn't move at first, and he is very quiet, but Sherlock can almost hear him thinking, processing, maybe fretting a little, and so he knows has to be clearer.

"Like I can't... move." Too many words that just won't amalgamate neatly; no one idea to express the feeling. "But in a good way," he's quick to add, sensing John's frown.

"Ah," says John, gears whirring. And then, "Ah, that." And he's smiling now, which is good— Sherlock can feel the stretch of John's risorius against his own cheek—but what's even better is that John sees, that Sherlock is understood, and to no great shock, which means that this too is in line with what John's been telling him all along: these things you're feeling are human, Sherlock, they're normal, and they can be so good.

"Remember what I said about your vocabulary?" John asks, shifting to slip an arm around Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock doesn't respond because of course he remembers. "Any time it gives you trouble, feel free to uh... do that." His hand is warm on Sherlock's shoulder. "Any time," John repeats. "Just do that."

Sherlock sighs and leans into John's neck, presses a chaste kiss to his steadying pulse, a line of wet, lazy kisses further up, where he suddenly tastes something that is not sweat. He goes very still.

John breathes in sharply. "I've put my head right in it," he says. "I have, haven't I?"

They both already know the answer, and it's not going to make John feel any better to hear it spoken aloud, so Sherlock just goes back to kissing his neck, and John buries his face in Sherlock's sweaty curls and tries not to laugh too loud because technically, this is still a crime scene, and they hardly need to give people anything else to talk about.

NOTES:

・I know that John's birthday is in March. I don't know if Sherlock does, though.

・Sometimes I have trouble finishing things (this fic, for example, was started before Valentine's Day), and so I've started posting excerpts to my tumblr to set a pace, if you're interested.

・Um, it's weird writing smut because you read it over and wonder a lot of things about yourself. And it can also be good because maybe it can help you work out your own quirks. But it's also weird because then you hit spellcheck and publish it and strangers read it...

I probably shouldn't think too hard about it. Anyway, please let me know your thoughts, good or bad!