Sherlock stomps up the stairs as soon as they are inside. He even throws his beloved coat on the ground. John frowns down at it before stooping to retrieve and hang it properly. Prat.

"There's no need to take out your irritation on your fancy coat." He says before smoothing a wrinkle in the fine wool. It's probably about time to have it dry-cleaned, actually.

Sherlock stands in the middle of the sitting room, hands on his hips, and glares.

John slowly turns. "Tea?"

"No."

John pauses in his retreat. He takes in Sherlock's stance. His face. The tight skin around his eyes and they way glint with anger and... vulnerability. He rigidly stands before John with his chin held high.

"What," Sherlock begins, "in the hell was that back there?"

John sighs and goes to sit in his chair. Aloof and disinterested. If he isn't making a big deal out of something, then Sherlock will get confused and start to question himself. This is, after all, at least going to partially be a relationship argument. And Sherlock always looks to John as the North pointing compass as far as regards those.

"Which part? The bit where I made you come in your trousers like a teenager?" John smirks. He lets his eyes linger on Sherlock's hips. Sherlock narrows his.

"I was referring to several things, actually." He holds up one long finger. "The part where you drug me away before I had all of my information," he adds another finger, "the part where you snuck off to talk to a shirtless man," finger, "or the part where an obviously questionable woman knew who you were in a club you claim to have not known about!"

Sherlock is imperceptibly panting and he jams his hands back upon his hips. His lips are pursed. On paper, okay, that doesn't look so great.

"How often do you go there?" Sherlock asks. His voice is flat and he's blanked his expression.

John sits forward and raises his palms. "No, no, I do not go to that place."

"Then how do you explain knowing two people there, John?"

John blinks. "Coincidence?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes and throws his hands up. "Oh, please."

John rushes to stand. "No, wait. I will admit that was odd." Sherlock glares again. "Really odd, but I only know the one person. The, ah, shirtless man." That really is true.

Sherlock closes the distance between them with a face like thunder. "Yes, the same one you went away with for an extended period of time. Should I be concerned?"

"What- no." Yes. Always. "He's a mate of mine. Well, a former mate of mine. I guess we don't really chat much anymore."

Sherlock's lip almost quivers and he crosses his arms protectively across his chest.

John smiles faintly, opens his postures to seem less threatening, and takes a cautious step forward. "Uni mate," he placates. "I saw him at the bar and thought I might as well question him while you were doing your thing. I figured if he worked there he may know something more than a simple patron, right?" This last bit is definitely true. Though, they certainly hadn't gone to uni together. John's formal education was by a tutor at least a hundred years before Adam was even born. Well, the first time. Granted, he'd recently graduated from Bart's, again, to obtain his current license, but Adam wasn't around then, either. He was probably building the club up and binge drinking off the regulars.

Sherlock's lips purse even tighter and he huddles in on himself. "And that woman? How do you know her? She certainly seemed familiar," he spits.

John struggles to reign in the impulse to roll his eyes. Or grin. Sherlock is jealous. He kind of loves it.

"I don't actually know her. She lied."

Sherlock's eyes grow round with indignation. "You knew her name!"

John frowns and looks off over Sherlock's shoulder. "Yeah, that was surprising."

Sherlock loudly scoffs and begins to pace. "Right. So, she lied, even though she knows you, and you her, but I'm meant to take you seriously?"

John calmly watches him work himself up into a froth. "Yes."

"Why would she lie? How could she?"

"I don't know; she probably does it a lot."

Sherlock halts and looks at John, waiting.

The doctor shrugs. "I know of her. By reputation."

"And what reputation is that?"

At this, John is legitimately thrown. He blinks twice at Sherlock and watches a light pink suffuse the man's cheeks. "You couldn't tell?"

Sherlock fidgets on his feet. His fingers twist in his silk shirt.

"Really?" John asks. "I thought it was pretty obvious."

Sherlock swallows and his eyes dart back and forth as if re-scanning his memory for details. John feels a bit guilty now at how wrong-footed Sherlock had been that he hadn't noticed the data clearly before them. Either that, or that creature did something to befuddle him.

"She's a dominatrix," he finally says.

Sherlock's head snaps up. His eyes widen a fraction before his mouth, and John realises too late that he probably could've worded that more delicately. It also confirms his suspicions that Irene messed with him and only John is allowed to do that. There will be words had.

"How in the fuck do you know that?!"

John is taken aback, leastwise because Sherlock rarely swears this consistently. "Um, well, the latex for starters," he mumbles. "That and... she's pretty well-known in certain circles for that sort of– "

"Are you fucking her?" Sherlock yells. His skin has paled and he looks frightened. As if it cost him quite a lot just to ask such a thing, and John is, again, genuinely surprised. Sherlock's chest is heaving and his eyes have the faintest sheen glossing them and John does not like that one bit. Though, he's now found his out of this conversation, and he hates himself just a bit for it, too, but Sherlock is getting entirely too worked up much too quickly. Immediately, he crosses to the man and grips his arms.

"Sherlock, no. Stop that now."

Sherlock's eyes bore into John's and the body beneath his hands is tense and quivers with energy. He smells bloody fantastic. John observes his long, pale throat swallowing, can see the whites of Sherlock's eyes flash like a skittish colt. He can almost see Sherlock's self-defense mode about to fully engage which is something he will not allow. They have made too much progress for John to let Sherlock throw this away just because he's confused. Dimly, it's interesting to note that Sherlock's fear has manifested as his fear of John's fidelity. His fear that one day John will leave him. Which is the very last thing John will ever do.

John crushes his beloved to his chest. He threads a hand through Sherlock's curls and kisses his temple, his cheek. "No, no, no, sweetheart. There is only you." He pulls back to look down at him. "Do you understand? I would never do that to you. How could you even think I could?"

After a moment, Sherlock smashes his face into John's neck and wraps his long arms in a death grip around his waist. "I'm... I'm confused."

John laughs. "Yes, I'd say so." Sherlock tenses again, but John presses more kisses into his hair. Gently rocks them where they stand. "How much did you drink?" he teases. Sherlock rubs his face on John's shoulder. John pokes again at Sherlock's insecurity. "You know I would never be unfaithful. I know you're new to relationships, but you've got to learn to trust me, Sherlock."

Sherlock squeezes his arms around John's back.

"Is that it? That you... you don't trust me?"

"No," Sherlock says, lips moving against his shoulder. "I... I do."

John kisses his temple. "Right. Good." And before Sherlock can bring up Irene again, John does. "I suppose it makes a bit of sense, really."

"What does?" Sherlock's muffled voice asks.

"That she would be there. It was Adam who told me about her in the first place. That must be where they met."

Sherlock pulls back, expression vaguely skeptical.

John shrugs but keeps his hands on Sherlock's arms. Anchoring him while he half spins his story. It is true that Adam warned John about Irene being there tonight. And John really hadn't ever met her before. Knew of her as a new coven-mate, yes, but they had never physically met.

"Apparently," John goes on, "she's very selective about her, uh, clientele. Requires pictures for approval before even allowing an initial meeting. The snob." He grins as if sharing a joke but Sherlock keeps waiting for him to make everything better again.

"But, you said you didn't... she said you'd met."

"She fibbed. Though, I'm betting she's seen my photo before. And you did say my name when I pulled her claws off of you." John arches a look at him, then again focuses on a spot over Sherlock's shoulder in thought. He knows enough about what Irene does to do a little of his own truth stretching.

"Adam recommended me as a possible client, once. A few years ago now. Out of curiosity, I looked her up online. She has a website and everything," he smirks. Sherlock opens his mouth with a frown, but John cuts him off. "And I told Adam then, as much as I mean it now, that I am not interested. Why she remembered me, I have no idea." He cocks his head. "Though, maybe the blog. A lot of people read it, you know."

She really does have a website. He looked at it once when her name was being kicked around for inclusion in the coven, but he otherwise really doesn't know how she recognised him. Unless he's the last of her new coven-mates to meet, so by default, as a vampire with territory here, it would have to be him. Or, hell, maybe she has checked up on him, considering how ambitious she is.

John rubs his hands up and down Sherlock's arms, and concentrates on that thought. "I really haven't met her before. There is nothing between us, and frankly, I didn't even know who she was at first. All I knew was that some harlot had her paws all over you, and it made my blood boil."

He tugs Sherlock close and mouths his words against Sherlock's ear. "I don't like it when others touch you. And I got a bit overwhelmed. Needed you." He slowly slides a hand down to Sherlock's hip. "You didn't seem to complain about it at the time."

Sherlock swallows and John feels his Adam's apple bob in his throat.

"Now," he lips at Sherlock's ear, "enough of this. I'm sorry," he kisses the lobe, "that I prematurely... ended your clue hunt," he huffs. "But I am yours. And you are mine. And that's all that matters."

There is still residual tension in his detective's body, which means he's not fully decided yet.

He cups Sherlock's jaw and directs his gaze to his own. "Look at me."

Sherlock does, though hesitantly.

"Am I lying?"

Pale, blue eyes track back and forth against deep blue, and the vulnerability swirled with hope is both beautiful and heartbreaking.

Sherlock shivers against him, and John can tell he's immediately accepted this because he plasters himself to John and again buries his face in his neck. John holds him and debates as to whether Sherlock is up for another shattering orgasm before bed. If he gets a third in, the man will drop off to sleep immediately after. Which is good. Because John needs to feed. And in the morning, John will wake him with strong, sweet coffee and french toast with honey, because Sherlock will never, ever turn that down, so John uses it sparingly so that it's still a treat.

Sherlock's hot breath rolls across his neck, and John closes his eyes. Yep, he decides. He'll just have to be. Besides, he's owed his own orgasm.

"Now then," John whispers, trailing a hand down his back and gripping a handful of arse. "I think you ought to go into our room." He kisses Sherlock's jaw. "Take off all of your clothes." He squeezes his waist. "And wait for me to come fuck you."

Sherlock's breath hitches. He mumbles something and ducks his head.

"What was that?"

Sherlock turns his head so that his mouth is clear. "I said, you're insatiable."

John smiles into the room beyond, and nuzzles the side of Sherlock's head. "You have no idea."

Sherlock smirks and leans in to kiss him when his phone pings in his pocket. The back of John's neck prickles and he thinks that maybe their plans have just been derailed. In front him, Sherlock tenses, but reaches into his pocket. John watches his face, watches his expression morph from curious, to excited, and then settle on apologetic.

"There's been another one, hasn't there?" John breathes against his jaw. He squeezes his arms tightly around Sherlock's waist.

Sherlock nods against him, scrolling through the message. "Only just, apparently. If we leave now, we might beat Lestrade." His eyes dart to John's in question.

John feels anger bubble up in his gut. He's going to find this arsehole and take pleasure in ripping him a new one. But, he needs to make a call first. John presses a kiss to Sherlock's neck, already feeling his lover's burgeoning interest withdraw. "Go on, then," he says. I'm just going to go change." He eyes Sherlock's leather trousers and smirks. "As should you."

Sherlock grins and makes to leave, then pauses. He quickly spins, wrapping his arms around a surprised John, and kisses him once. His mouth works quietly for a moment before, as if debating on what to say until he simply sighs. "Rain check?" he breathes.

"Mmm, definitely."

In the cab, John places a possessive hand high on Sherlock's thigh. For all the man notices, because his nose is practically buried in the screen of his mobile while he waits for more information from Lestrade. When the cab pulls up, John grabs a fold of Sherlock's coat to physically restrain him from running off. Sherlock frowns sharply back at him but John keeps hold until they've paid for the cab.

"John," Sherlock quietly scolds, and then leads them towards the few milling police outside the entrance to the building. John stays plastered to his side.

They are directed up to the second floor, but John would've known that anyway. His nostrils flare at the scent of the Other, and of recent blood. Very recent. Surprisingly recent.

"How were the police alerted to this one?" he asks.

Sherlock pushes past a crying neighbour, taking in her splotched face and then striding into the open apartment. "Neighbour," he mutters.

John lingers at the door, subtly swiping his hand over the handle, and then following Sherlock. He inhales deeply and focuses on sharpening his hearing just in case. He doesn't detect any nearby suggestions of the killer, but the cloying scent of the vampire's weird, personal markers are in abundance. John wrinkles his nose.

They enter the bedroom to find the victim is again naked, spread out, with a painfully ragged bite wound at her femoral artery. He glances at her face and his lips thin with anger. She's so young. Barely twenty if he had to guess. His hands flex into fists and he bites his tongue.

Swallowing back his anger, he passes one more eye over the scene, then leaves the room to discreetly scent the flat. The pair entered, aroused, from the front door, obviously. The scent lingers against the back of the sofa and John runs his fingers lightly over a spot. The Other would've overpowered her, overwhelmed her. John can pick up traces of alcohol, too, so it's likely she was inebriated, which he would've used to his advantage. John shakes his head.

He catches a signature farther off towards the small kitchen, and he follows. There is a large window that sits just slightly off-kilter in its sash above the sink. Given how meticulous the rest of the space is, it's a red flag. Well, that and the smell. John leans in and inhales deeply, catching the Other's scent strongly against the wood. That's odd. He really must've been in a hurry if he exited out the bloody window. An idea hits John, and he quickly rushes to Sherlock. He's still examining the room and doesn't appear to have touched the body yet. Good.

"Yes?"

John gestures with a jerk of his chin towards the location. "I think the killer went out the kitchen window." Sherlock nods and glances down to the screen of his mobile again. His thumbs tap furiously and he mumbles something about her Facebook account, and his head snaps up. "Wait. The window?"

John nods and steps aside as Sherlock rushes past him, leaving John alone with the body. Knowing he only has a moment, he springs into action. John digs out the pocket knife he thought to bring along to this one and quickly, though gently, stabs the blade tip through the wound, doing his best to cover the teeth marks Sherlock would've otherwise seen. It was already a bit messy, and these marks will obviously be post-mortem, but it's something different and inconsistent with the previous wound. It'll be enough to throw Sherlock is the point. He frowns while he works, then when satisfied, folds the blade closed, uses the inside of his cuff to wipe away the smear of blood at the edge of the wound, and pockets the knife. He stands and keeps frowning down at the girl just as Sherlock swoops back in, raving about a timeline.

"He was pressed, John. Almost caught. He messed up and most certainly left through the window. If we're lucky there will be fibres." He sidles up next to John and looks down at him with dark eyes. John meets his gaze squarely. "Good eye, doctor," his voice rumbles. He might still be cross with John from earlier, but the man is physically incapable of ignoring John when he's being extra clever.

John smiles and briefly runs the back of his fingers lightly over his groin. "I do okay, sometimes."

Sherlock smirks, then spins away to critically examine the scene once more given this new information, before focusing on the girl on the floor. His eyes dart from point to point, voicing various deductions as he goes, and John peripherally registers the sound of Lestrade speaking outside the room. He dutifully hovers near Sherlock, patiently clasps his hands behind his back, and when he moves, so does his shadow. John's eyes automatically dart toward the movement, and he notices three droplets of blood that sit, barely seen, approximately two feet from the girl's hip, staining the ivory carpet. John arches a brow. This kid really was in a hurry. John purses his lips. A newborn growing even more careless isn't a good sign. The sooner he can take care of him, the better. He'll need to drop Sherlock soon so he can do his own investigating. Make his own little house call before this gets out of control.

On the floor, Sherlock has gone still, and he makes a kind of indignant squawk before frantically reaching into his coat pocket for the mini-glass. John watches quietly. "That... not right," Sherlock insists. He pokes and prods at the modified wound, and his head tilts left and right like a confused dog. He sits back on his haunches and stares.

"What's not right?"

"This. The wound, it's..." he groans and leans forward for another look. "He did something different. Why did he mutilate her further? Why would he do that?"

Lestrade takes that moment to enter, snapping gloves and nodding to John. "Tell me you've got something. It'd be nice to wrap this up quickly. Some of the guys are getting jumpy."

Sherlock stares warily down at the victim, frowning. Lestrade waits, and when Sherlock doesn't answer him, throws a questioning glance to John, who shrugs.

"No idea, mate. He's the genius, I'm just the eye candy."

Lestrade grins, and when Sherlock begins berating the dead girl on the floor, John quietly slides out the room and down the hall. He pulls out his phone and sends a text to Adam. While he waits for a reply he keeps one eye on the people mulling in and out of the girl's flat just in case. When Adam responds, John sends an affirmative, pockets his mobile and returns. Sherlock is snapping at a tech about the fibres likely stuck in the windowsill, and John raises his hand to rub at his forehead. He makes a small sound of discomfort, wincing purposefully, which Sherlock notices, giving the tech the chance to scurry away and do his bidding. Sherlock quirks an eye at John, and John smiles self-deprecatingly. Sherlock arches the brow further.

"Headache," John says. He rubs at his temples. "I haven't eaten in a while, I guess."

Sherlock groans and rolls his eyes. "That's all?" John frowns. Sherlock sighs. "Fine. You may as well go get something, then. I'll be here a while."

"You sure?"

Sherlock flaps his hand at him.

"Should I get you something?" Sherlock scoffs loudly and returns to the victim's bedroom. John shakes his head and waves a weary goodbye to Lestrade and leaves.

In the cab on the way to Bayswater, address in his phone, John steels himself for a possible confrontation. He's not going to go in unless he's certain this kid is still out. He'll wait for Adam before physically launching any kind of attack. While John's sure he could take him, a newborn in a full-on bloodlust is a formidable force, and John would rather have the backup. For now, he wants information and to leave a message of his own.

Also, he really is starving. Won't hurt to stop by the club later to update Adam and have a little late-night snack before Sherlock gets home. He checks his watch and swallows a groan. Just gone one in the morning. Lovely.

The cab drops him off just outside the block of flats Adam had mentioned, and he takes a breath. There's an underlying scent of his quarry at the entrance, and John skims over the panel at the door, looking for the kid's name. It's scrawled in pencil, and John can just hear Sherlock's smug voice in his mind, before he shoulders open the, shockingly, unlocked door. He takes an ancient lift up to the fourth floor and slowly pads down a filthy carpeted hallway. Outside the door with the number indicated on the panel, John pauses and listens. Inhales. He's pretty sure there's no one home, so he checks the hall once more before jimmying open the lock and walking right in.

Inside, his lip curls at the meagre sitting room. The place is a complete tip, and the scents of dozens of people and their offensive odours linger faintly in the upholstery and drapes. It's probably a new residence for him, not meant to be permanent, and God only knows the kind of people who came and went before him. John walks carefully through the room, taking note of the lack of personal possessions. He decides to tackle the kitchen before the bedroom. There are no dishes in the sink, no indication of food on the counters. He holds his breath and dares to open the fridge. There's a half-full bottle of cheap wine and nothing else. Not even blood packs. John shakes his head and closes the fridge.

He backtracks and moves towards what looks to be the small bedroom to find a double mattress with rumpled sheets. A small IKEA table littered with expired tube passes and a few pound coins sits along one wall, and a shelf with a few shirts and trousers line another. It's just as sparse in here, and John's nose wrinkles at the concentration of his odd scent. His skin tingles and his heart rate picks up. It's against his nature to be in another's territory univited, and it's putting him on edge.

He moves toward the bed and sniffs. Other than smelling like it should probably be washed, the scent of the girl he recently murdered isn't apparent, so it's likely he hasn't been home yet. John closes the distance and picks up a pillow. He makes sure to rub his hands all over it as a nice little extra 'fuck you,' before moving on to the loo.

Inside, he finds the regular accoutrements of a young man on the prowl. Some kind of trendy shampoo he hasn't heard of, shaving cream, razor, toothbrush, etc. No other identifying objects are lying about, so he leaves and stands in the depressing sitting room and thinks. The moment this kid gets to the building, he's going to smell John. When he walks into his flat, he's going to really smell him, and it'll probably set him off. It's a horrible breach of etiquette to enter another vampire's personal home without express permission. Of course, it's likely he doesn't know anything about the rules of etiquette for their kind, but his natural instinct will at least inform him that something is not on. John smirks. Good. His own personal scent is particularly strong, virile. Old. He'll know immediately that this is a warning.

But, does he just want to leave an anonymous warning, or should he be more explicit. He's not been impressed with his intelligence yet, so he doesn't really think leaving a note telling him to firmly fuck off out of town will necessarily work. And now that his personal signature is all over the flat, John risks being stalked, and thus risks Sherlock.

On the other hand, if this kid does get scared and decides to leave, well, that's one less thing John has to hide from Sherlock. He really hasn't killed since the cabbie, and prior to that it'd been a long time. He's the soul of self-control these days. The frenzied, hungry days of his youth are long since gone. John sighs and taps at the notepad he keeps in the breast pocket of his utility jacket. Oh, fuck it. Might as well be explicit. Give him the chance. John tears a sheet off and scrawls a very specific, "I know what you're doing and if you don't get the fuck out of my city there will be consequences" kind of deal, and leaves it on the side table by the front door.

There. If he ends up not heeding John's advice, well, he really will have no one to blame but himself. And if he tries anything monumentally stupid, John will take pleasure in ripping his throat out with his teeth. And, on the very slim chance that Thomas questions him about anything, he can say he gave the kid a warning which went unheeded. No one can fault him a thing. John's mouth salivates at the thought of a challenge, and abruptly, his stomach rumbles. Plus, it's about time to scoot before the kid comes back.

He locks the door again, and exits just as easily as he entered. He strides out to the high street and catches a cab for Adam's before it can close. When he arrives, the same bouncer as before unhooks the red velvet stanchion rope as soon as he sees him. Hunger thrumming through his too-low veins, John barely takes in any of the last, desperate hangers on in the remaining crowd, for fear of absconding with one. He approaches the bar and tells the same youth from earlier to fetch Adam again, and when the bare-chested vampire arrives, John gives him a quick update. His old friend growls at the news of the murder and promises his assistance if needed. He also grins at the idea of leaving a note.

"Quaint, John."

It is a matter of minutes before John is introduced to the friendly Julie, who smiles and nods when Adam takes her hand and places it in John's. They are led to a private room upstairs, away from the thrum of the club, and John stares into her green eyes until hers go glassy and she tilts her head in invitation. He brushes his thumb over the pulse in her neck, leans in for an appreciative sniff, and gently sinks his fangs into her soft flesh. She sighs and melts against him, obviously at ease and familiar with the process. It's been a while since John has gone through this sort of process, and is used to having to charm his prey a bit longer. He forgot how easy it is in a place like this.

John wraps a supportive arm around her waist, and places a firm hand at her jaw to maintain the angle. He groans as her blood fills his mouth, and flows hotly down his throat. She's not one of those fantastic AB neg donors he'd sampled earlier, but she's a lovely, smooth A pos, which is just fine for what he needs right now. John swallows mouthful after mouthful, and when a tentative hand slides down his chest, John has the presence of mind to gently stop her advance. Not removing his mouth, he firmly places the hand safely at his shoulder, where it stays until he's drunk his fill. The moment he feels the itch of hunger has retreat, he immediately pulls back and seals the wounds.

Julie has slumped against him during the feeding, and now sleepily smiles up at him. John gently lays her back against the plush chaise they sit upon, and she curls up to rest, otherwise completely unbothered. John stretches, rubs his belly with satisfaction, and quietly closes the door behind him. Brilliant.

"You were right," he says as he's leaving with a little more bounce in his step. Her blood warms him from inside, and he feels the energy pulsing through him with a tingle.

Adam smirks. "I only pick the best." He rounds the end of the bar intending to see John out. "Do you need any packs before you leave?"

John thinks of his hidden stock at home, but he's got enough for a few days if he is unable to hunt. "I'm good, thanks."

Adam leads him out of the club, scents him again in goodbye, and John asks the cab driver to stop outside a chippy a few blocks from Baker Street. John hangs around just long enough to let the greasy scent of oil and fried fish seep into the fabric of his clothes before he heads home. Sherlock, bless him, requires a few extra steps to stay ahead of him, but he's worth it.

As he walks, he enjoys the sensation of a pleasantly full stomach and ponders the newborn. When he enters the flat, it's obvious Sherlock hasn't returned, so John sets about with a mug of tea and readies the flat for bedtime. He turns off lamps, stows random things left on the counter, unplugs the coffee machine. He very carefully brushes his teeth.

John is in his comfy jimjams, nearly dozing where he's propped against the pillows in their bed when Sherlock texts an hour later to let him know he's on his way home. With a groan, John putters to the kitchen and flips the kettle on to make Sherlock his own cup of tea. He taps a finger against his lips and decides not to dose it with anything tonight, though he does use the special blend of Camomile that always seems to make Sherlock drowsy. He stirs a slice of lemon in it to disguise this fact, because if Sherlock realises that's what he's been given, he'll dump it out and insist that he needs to stay awake to think about the case. Which John would rather he not do.

So it is, when Sherlock finally enters, muttering about inconsistencies, John meets him at the door, shushes him with a rather fantastic snog against it, and then places the mug of tea in his hands before he can protest.

"Drink," he says, nuzzling under Sherlock's jaw. The detective does so, blinking a little dazedly. John smiles against his skin and kisses his way down his throat, lingering briefly on the faint marks his hand left earlier in the night. Sherlock hums his approval of the tea while John slips the coat off his shoulders and hangs it on its hook.

He rubs his hands down Sherlock's sides, resting at his hips. "Don't suppose you want to pick up where we left off before we left, do you?" It's gone half three at that point, but he's still buzzing from his late dinner, and frankly, he could go for it.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and turns away to boot up his laptop. John sighs but follows after to drop a kiss atop his fluffy curls.

"I'm for bed, then. Don't stay up too long."

Sherlock vaguely nods, and John notes that it only takes forty minutes before Sherlock is yawning and shuffling into their room and dropping onto the bed behind him. Forgiven then. John smiles into the dark, wraps his fingers over the wrists that snake around his waist, and huddles back into the warmth of him. A cold nose nuzzles under John's ear and Sherlock sniffs.

"Fish and chips again?"

John's heart pulses with fondness.

"If you don't watch that I'm going to have to start monitoring your cholesterol intake."

It's the sweetest, most unexpected thing John could hear from his detective. It's a declaration.

"I know my limits, thank you. I'm a doctor, remember?"

A/N: Wow. That was an unfortunately long break between chapters. Every time I have to write them arguing, I notice it more often than not blocks me up. I don't like confrontation. :/ Sorry, though.

Sex next time.

And thank you (as ever!) for your amazing comments!