Author: tigersilver
Fandom: BBCSH
Pairing: S/J
Rating: NC-17
WC: 2,300
Warnings: Fluff, to rot your back teeth, sorry, but not sorry at all, as it's Christmas.

BBCSH 'Three Times, Lucky'

Once:

"Kiss me."

"What?"

"Kiss me! You fool, there they are, right before us. They won't see if you kiss me."

"Excuse me, Sher—"

"Well, you're not punching me again, so kiss me. Please, John."

A huffing sigh, long suffering, a little crease to that forehead, and a twitch to those lips. The doctor rolls his blue eyes in a speaking manner and goes up on tippy-toes. A quick flick of his gaze over Sherlock's jaw and nose has him angling his head precisely twenty-three degrees to the left. One cool hand cups Sherlock's jaw for a blink and then falls away. There's lips following that, though, pressed slow and sweet, and then the hint of a tongue, damp. Sherlock's mouth opens under them; his breath catches. That tongue slides right on through with grace and surety and they are kissing, most definitely, most convincingly, each other. Two hands come to rest confidingly on the flaps of Sherlock's great coat lapels. His own fall very naturally to John's waist, tightening upon the strip of worn leather belt to be found there, one pinky finger twining round a fabric loop.

It's exactly two minutes thirty seven of sensual delight. Then it stops.

"Right," John says, a little breathlessly, backing off by several paces and blinking slowly. "That's it, then. Did it work, because I don't see a soul around. Not a soul, Sherlock."

Sherlock opens his eyes to stare down at John. Funny; he'd not even realized he'd shut them.

"Yes," he replies, levelly enough. "It worked. Of course you didn't see—I'm the taller one, am I not. But. That aside, thank you, John. Effective."

"Sure, whatever." John's impassive shoulder is already in motion; the man's spinning on a heel to move farther off and away. "Er? Shall we, then? Taxi, I think, at this ghastly hour."

Twice:

"Kiss me?"

"What? Not again, Sherl—"

"No, really. It's important to blend in, John. Surely even you can see—"

"Oh, stuff it," John scowls at him, flapping a hand. "Fine, good, certainly. Lean down, then, you great git. I'm not looking ridiculous if I don't have to."

"Oh, and put your hands upon my back, John," Sherlock adds, bending his neck towards John's upraised face, and doing exactly that to John, that awkward hugging thing. "Embrace me. Make it seem convincing, this time at lea—mmph!"

It's quite convincing. John lets loose all the passion a small man can contain, if he's ex-Army, that is, and is John Watson: more than capable of taking on nearly any circumstances thrust upon him, including a sudden snog for the sake of verisimilitude. He kisses as if Sherlock's the single most important man in the universe, as if he will literally expire if their lips aren't in constant contact, and it's clear he is skilled in the art of the tongue as he is skilled in his surgery. Sherlock's body goes instantly taut, all over, from shank to shin to scalp. His prick stirs behind the thin fabric of his trousers and thinner silk of his pants, and he thrusts his hips roughly at John's pressing pelvic span, groaning.

One minute.

Their tongues slip and thrust, wet and hot, and there's the nip of sharp teeth on his lower lip now and again, the swipe of a broad curling muscle. His gums sing, or so his bewildered fancy tells Sherlock they must be. He's vibrating, all over, his entire focus zeroing in on this wondrous man in his arms, this—this! This doctor, this blogger, this warm and amazing human being Sherlock's somehow managed to lay hold of, to snag and cling to.

Two minutes.

John's hands are just as active, not lying limp and tacit upon the outer layers of Sherlock's winter kit, this time 'round. Instead, they're seeking everywhere across the detective's back and stooped shoulders, up along the length of his swallowing throat and into his tumbled hair, even to caressing his buzzing ears. The fingertips are simultaneously both hard and gentle, as John's mouth is, gaping wide against Sherlock's, mated perfectly.

It's three minutes twenty one of perfection of the flesh and all senses, going off like a bloody nuclear bomb between them, fully comparable in impact and intensity. Sherlock's knees buckle slightly. Every lick, every slurping sound, the excess of saliva shared between them, the gasping inhales and exhales? Brilliant! The ripple of straining skin and limbs under clothing, desiring as much tactile sensation as can be garnered—and the unrelenting connection of lip-lip, tongue-tongue, incisor scrape, nose bump, and even eyelashes; oh, all of that taken together is a bliss of the body. The smell of rut, the dulcet gasps and small moans, the feel of John plastered down the front of Sherlock, nearly climbing up upon him—Sherlock is taken quite over by the distinct sensation of falling.

Odd, that. He'd never realized the descriptor was so literal!

"Well!" This time the doctor is absolutely, undeniably breathless. He steps back a pace slowly and his arms drop. Tucks both hands away in his jacket pockets for a second, licks wet swollen lips, and stares Sherlock up and down, head tilted slightly like a curious bird, apparently checking for matching reaction. Sherlock has definitely reacted: his cock is a pulsing bulge in his bespoke suit, both nipples press insistently against the constriction of silk shirting, he's wild-eyed and panting.

"Hmm, ah," John murmurs quietly, heedful of the crowd on their periphery. "Yes, I should say that would do it nicely, wouldn't you? For your blasted 'blending'. Now—may we leave, Sherlock? Don't know about you, but I had plans for this evening."

"John!"

"Hm?"

The man's already resettling stray bits of clothing, wiping Sherlock's spit off his lips with the back of a hand, and two more steps gone away. He glances behind him, sandy brows raised in question.

"John, that was," Sherlock pauses for a moment, just to swallow. "John." Bolts after John at a leaping pace to catch up, match their steps. "That— was good, thanks. Very….good." He swallows again, glancing down at the clues he provides himself. A blind man could spot them. "Yes. Decidedly."

"Well," John shrugs, not even glancing. "I should hope so, mate. Had plenty of practise, haven't I?"

Thrice:

"Right, Sherlock, er, ah? Ahem! Sherlock!" John's gaze is very blue, almost black with pupil. "I think you—aha! Er…I think you ought to kiss me. Now, if you please. Would be good. Right…about…now."

Sneakily, Sherlock hadn't asked for permission; he'd simply swooped. Hands at the ready. Belt undone, flies open, denims and cotton shorts ripped down John's dimpled hips in a flash. John up against the wall, his hair catching on the rough mortar, his eyes wide and shocked, and his prick engulfed in Sherlock's mouth in a lean moment.

It is a case and he's solved it already. Sherlock's heart is dancing madly in his chest. But that's not why, though he won't hesitate to employ the excuse of adrenaline. If he must, he will, after, but he sincerely hopes he won't need to.

Three minutes forty nine.

John Watson's a trooper, a Stoic and a gentleman; he can last and last, apparently—military staying power and a nice clean finish. The last traces of an anxiously anticipated and more than welcome flood of seminal fluid nearly gag Sherlock as he's swallowing it down and coughing lightly, tucking up John's spent damp dick simultaneously as he rises up and up from his elegant crouch. He's just been down on the one knee, balanced, positioned at precisely the proper angle to pin John's arse to the wall by latchkey grip on both bared buttocks and poke his curious nose into the blond fur of sweat-damp pubes. That was then, this is now, though. "Sherlock!" he hears, but he doesn't reply. Instead, John's neatly put away and his jeans are hauled up again in a blink of an eye, a fiddle of shaky fingers. Sherlock's got him zipped and almost buckled up tight, nearly hidden away again, even as he's still sucking stray blond hairs from between his teeth and gulping hard for precious oxygen—as is the doctor, fresh recipient of a surprise blow job. Very much a surprise, fucking cheers. Fresh, too.

Better even than an ashtray.

Never let it be said Sherlock is unaware of innuendo.

"Really, Sherlock!" The doctor's voice sounds a bit wonky. Strained? "You really, reallyshould. Now, mate. Saying that now is a brilliant time to ki—gack!"

John tastes of John, overlaid by yet more John, which is utterly exquisite. Sherlock simply cannot get enough of it. So he has some more, as it's right there for the taking. He loses track of little things, unimportant things, such as saggy pants. Surroundings. Flashing lights and sirens nearby. Detectives, other; not him, so not worth the time of day. John, however? Worth any time of day, all the day long.

"Ohh! Kay! Th—errhumph!"

Good! This particular tactic is proving successful. Sherlock grins his shite-eating grin, which nobody sees as they're both occupied with the kissing, but John can evidentlyfeel, because he giggles.

Through his nose. Snorting. It's…it's positively adorable. A snuffling John with rubbery legs is a handsome armful, and Sherlock allows to himself that he is most best pleased. He's unmanned the soldier and befuddled the surgeon and rendered speechless the blogger and he just has himself a lovely lot of raw John. Amiable, agreeable John. Exactly what he wanted, from the start.

Three times. Lucky? No. Never say 'lucky', so much, as nearly always 'correct'.

"Sherlock! Jo-John!" Lestrade is overwhelmingly appalled, stumbling upon them just one narrow stinking alleyway down from his fresh crime scene. Bugger! "For god's sake, take it back to the flat, will you? Or I'm arresting you both on counts of—"

"Can you—? John!" Sherlock's head whips 'round as he scans, seeking a ready exit. Beside him, the doctor abruptly belts up—literally—and tenses. "There!"

"Let's! God, yes—go!"

"Got them, Chief," Sally inserts snidely, neatly handcuffing their flailing wrists together. She must've been lurking in Lestrade's shadow, and come up from the other side. Sherlock shakes his head over it. Very little gets past him, normally, but he was just a—he was just a little distracted, yes. He forgives himself, instantly. Could happen to anyone, really. "Eh! Not so fast on your feet right now, are you lads? Right, into the car, Freak and Freakier. You know we've got it all on film, every filthy minute, so don't even bother. You can't do that in public, you know that. Against the law. Off you go, now."

"Oh, shit—oh shit, Sherlock!" John sends him searing glare, rattling his end of the cuffs. He hustles along, hauling up his denims by the flapping belt buckle as he goes and nearly tripping, flustered. "Now see what you've—"

Well…nearly always. To his chagrin, Sherlock had unwisely only allowed the five minutes. Or…possibly he should have chosen a different alley, farther off, but no matter. Mission accomplished. Plan, executed.

"Sherlock! Sherlock."

"Oh, shut it, John," he mutters, striding along and examining the cuffs; they'll be off in less than a minute with an old fashioned hat pin—one of which he has, naturally, in his one pocket. Next intersection and they'll be bolting for it, hell for leather. Not even a mile from home! "It's not like it'll stick, any of it."

"You don't know that!"

221B. Where there are other walls to be had, and one with a smiley face on it—so appropriate. Also a sofa. Just the proper size for two grown men.

"Yes." Sherlock employs his shit-eating grin again, on a much less agreeable Watson. "Yes, I do."

"No! You don't, Sherlock! This is serious—could be serious, I mean."

"Meh."

Lucky, was it? Hah! He still had himself an older brother. An older brother who's a bit overprotective. He's already texting the fat git as he un-deletes the horrible facts of both birth order and blasted nosy sibling types from his back-brain. Sends it off, closes out his mobile, and promptly re-deletes it all. Much as he can, at least. Nothing like keeping the mind clean and clear of extraneous details. Sherlock would really rather focus on John right now. John, whom he's just had parts of in his mouth. John, who is hissing like one of those huge cockroaches. Madagascar, was it?

"Sherlock, don't you dare ignore me! We're in a spot of trouble here and it's all your fault! How do we get out of this, may I just ask? How? That was dead to rights!"

"Tch!" he clucks and ducks his chin low enough to mutter in John's ear as the glowering Sergeant bundles them into a nearby panda. "Oi! Watch it there, cretin!" He stops to snap at some other unhelpful uniformed minion, one who was nearly shutting the hem of his coat in the door. "Charge you for that—more than your pension is worth!"

"But—but!"

"No, John—think! CCTV, yes? Who owns it?" He clicks his finger and thumb, nearly disguising the snick of his half of the cuffs falling open. "Should be already wiped. No evidence, no crime, just hearsay. Tsk!" Sherlock shakes his head, ever so dolefully, though he doesn't doubt the little twitch to his upper lip gives him away. "And all they really saw was a damned fine snog, eh?" He finds he's in a remarkably spritely mood, despite the rude interruption. "False arrest, isn't it? Can't arrest a bloke for kissing another bloke these days, can they. Oh, my, what is the Yard coming to? Shocking. Hmm, and I daresay the good Inspector won't like having to reprimand his too-eager Sergeant, later." He glances out the window, ascertaining their location. "Next intersection, I think. Saved us cab fare, that woman has. Civil of her, really. I'll make certain to mention it, thank her for the ride home."

"Oh. Oh, right. Good-oh," John nods, all amiability restored in a flash. A deft twist of pin frees Sherlock's faithful doctor; he grins, primed for action. "Do that. Ready when you are, then."

Sherlock can't help the grin, he just can't. Or the chuckle, rich and deep.

"Yes, aren't you always? I'm a bit more than merely lucky, I think."

Later? Later, he discovers he is.

Fin