DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock. If I owned Sherlock, and by default Benedict Cumberbatch, I would not be in my bedroom writing fan fiction. I would be in my bedroom doing other, more interesting things.

Don't Ever Get To Thinking You're Replaceable – 499 words

Sherlock was already suspicious the moment he opened the door to 221B. The flat was spotless, cleaned, the information he'd asked John to find was neatly laid on the kitchen table, and Sherlock knew John was absolutely furious about something. The problem was, Sherlock, consulting detective, didn't have a clue what that 'something' might be.
It wasn't difficult to work out, however, when he suddenly got pinned against the kitchen door by an ex-arm Captain, and growled at in a voice that screamed of jealousy
"Have fun running interview's, Sherlock?"
"John, you-"
"You send me off to find, useless pieces of paper, but you were already all over her by the time I got to the cab!"
Just like that, Sherlock was as angry as John, at the lack of trust, at the stupidity his lover was showing, and he attempted to shove the man off him, only to find his wrist held firmly as he thrown unceremoniously into the kitchen table, sprawling across it and finding John's solid, comforting weight, pressing him into the table.
"You let her ki-iss you" John's voice broke, even as it lost it's venom and Sherlock realised exactly what was bothering the man, but it only flamed his anger
"Of course, I did!" he pushed off the table, throwing John back and spinning to pin John to the wall, "I was playing a part you imbecile!"
John threw a punch, but Sherlock was expecting it, and spun them round, slamming his lover into the kitchen cabinets, and slamming his lips to John's, determined to make John see just how ridiculous he was being. Teeth were used, and they both tasted blood, and suddenly there was desperation threaded through their motions.
Neither became gentle, and every movement was a battle, vicious, nails and teeth and pinching fingers and fistfuls of hair. Clothes were torn apart and ripped from bodies, and Sherlock lifted John onto the counter, stepping between the man's legs before John could aim an accurate kick.
Even as their bodies and mouths battled, Sherlock was using oil to prepare, and slid swiftly into John, and they both stilled for a heart beat, maybe longer, their furious panting the only sounds. Attacking became clinging, and the nails John had dug into Sherlock's back dragged down, raising red welt along alabaster skin and forcing Sherlock to arch his back, and hiss deliciously.
They both began moving, just as frantically as before, almost viciously fucking, and yet still loving in equal measure.
"You know what my job entails..."
"I warned you I was jealous..."
"I needed answers, it meant nothing..."
"You didn't even wait, it hurt..."
Their growled and hissed conversation, drew tears, and more blood, but eventually John let loose and sharp whimper of pleasured pain, and bit Sherlock's long neck hard, bruising the skin, drawing blood, and dragging a powerful shuddering orgasm from his partner.
"I'm yours, Sherlock" John promised, whispered, once he'd smoothed the wound with his tongue, "and you're mine".