John solves a crime and Sherlock finds this indescribably attractive. Naturally, this leads to making out over a corpse. John tries hard to be moral, and doesn't quite suceed.
Sherlock/ John, 1676 words
Another day, another horrendously brutal murder in some rotting building in London that Sherlock has taken his usual perverse interest in.
Not even just Sherlock, this time – Mycroft had managed to beat the detective (and the police, and possibly even the first witness) to the scene, watching the investigation with his typical pensive don't-be-childish-Sherlock expression.
For public enemy number one (actually 65, according to the older Holmes, but that doesn't have the same ring, does it?), collapsing in this dirty corner of Soho probably hadn't been the way he expected to go. Especially since he had made it out of the even dirtier corners of Iraq to come here. Suspected murdered – probably because of the 'public enemy' bit – but Sherlock is called anyway because Mycroft (he who is Sherlock²) is apparently too lazy to do it himself.
Sherlock had just declared 'poisoning' – the obvious answer, given that he had a distinct yellow tinge to his skin – and was about to happily skip off to bury himself in one of his handbooks on natural toxins when John took the opportunity to lean closer, eyes caught by the row of stitches spanning the man's abdomen under his sweat-soaked shirt.
Sherlock hmph'd dismissively, following the tracks around the body with restless eyes. 'He was in a warzone, John. Things happen. Mycroft confirmed he had been shot in Iraq and lived to tell the tale, obviously.'
'How did – no, nevermind. Look. This stitches are clumsy as anything. No surgeon, even one in medical school, would never be this messy.'
'Warzone. Lack of trained doctors – you would know.'
'He stitched these himself.' He was right, he knew it. He felt more than saw Sherlock moving to crouch opposite him, following his gaze.
'How did you come to that conclusion?'
'Messy, for a start. Terribly hard to stitch yourself, painful too. And see how close together they get once he can't see them – when they're under his stomach towards his hip he can't see them properly anymore and he's just guessing where to put them.' John can't make deductions all the time, but sometimes he's happy to do them just right. 'So he did them himself, without a mirror.'
John moved to press a finger down on the skin, pushing past the rigor mortis to feel at something deeper down, and nodded to himself. He looked up and found Sherlock's pale gaze fixed unerringly on him, and suddenly realised that they had suddenly swapped positions – he was making conclusions and expecting Sherlock to follow his stream of thought.
'There's something lodged in there. The remains of the bullet probably, caught in the top of his hipbone. He must have thought it was safer to leave it in there than remove it, which is true to most gunshot wounds but bullets lodged in bone are very likely to cause problems as they decompose.' John shrugged, 'Organ failure caused by lead poisoning. Pure and simple. Caused his kidneys to fail, hence the yellow skin. Couldn't exactly walk into a hospital, could he?'
Sherlock is still staring. John squares his shoulders, feeling like Sherlock is about to go 'ah, but' and rip his solid hypothesis to shreds. But he doesn't.
'What? Listen, if you're just annoyed that I worked it out-'
If there is a good way to be interrupted, being so because Sherlock Holmes is kissing you is definitely one of them. Usually Sherlock kisses the way he does everything – controlled, thoughtful, measuring and testing and following the evidence and cues John's body throws at him. Not now. It's sloppy and intent and there are hands grabbing at his shirt and the skin underneath like Sherlock needs him to know something. His mouth is warm and thin, and it's not exactly chaste, but John can't properly enjoy it because again the usual state of affairs has reasserted itself and he is utterly bewildered.
Sherlock pulls back, his eyes – usually some indeterminate shade between completely translucent and pale green – are dilated, and it's dangerously beautiful to watch dark pupils swallow the colour from his irises.
'You. You are magnificent.'
But Sherlock is kissing him again, mouth trailing down his cheek to bite at his neck just under his jaw, groaning at some pleasure John has caused him without knowing it. There's a hand fisted in his shirt, and another locked around the back of his head, and John can only stay there, confused and aroused by the fact that Sherlock seems to have gone completely insane. It's almost enough to distract him.
'Sherlock-' There's a lazy humming purr of acknowledgement – that definitely does not make him shiver, thankyouverymuch. Sherlock doesn't care much for propriety, and John has long since learned that if he doesn't care for it for both of them they will end up in prison even more frequently than they do normally.
'There's a dead body on the floor. Lead poisoning, remember?'
'I know.' The smile he's given is un-Sherlock, broad and silly and so outright adoring he's compelled to hesitantly smile back in the face of that hypernova brilliance being reflected at him. Until he feels hands creeping where hands do not belong at a crime scene. He tries to jerk back but the hand on his neck – Sherlock's taken his gloves off, his long fingers pressing down on his C7 vertebra in a touch that it strangely intimate – holds him in place. Fortunate, really – John has no intention of falling on his arse, even if it means that Sherlock will stop molesting him over a dead body.
Make-out session over a dead body. This is so wrong.
'You-' He chokes back a gasp. 'If he comes back and finding us making out over a dead body, he'll-'
'Have all his suspicions about us confirmed, no doubt.'
He what. It's possibly the greatest moodkiller ever to rear its head in a good moment. The overprotective older brother with a surveillance fetish. Oh god, he hadn't been watching them had he?
While he's working his way to a panic attack over the various ways Mycroft will have him killed, Sherlock has pulled both of them to their feet, stepped over poor Mister Adin, and is pushing him back towards the wall, that intent look that accompanies complicated experiments unfurling on his face like semaphore.
The brick scrapes on the back of his neck and catches at his clothes like little hands, and his shoulder injury has apparently decided to remind him that it is still there and that he will be made to regret this in the morning.
There's a breath of air through the window – it's a mild day, for London, but the chill feels like somebody breathing down his neck. John slides his arms underneath Sherlock's greatcoat, searching for the warmth beating underneath cool wool. Sherlock's breath rustles in his ear, as if he would happily stop breathing if he could so he could focus every inch of his quicksilver mind on this mystery in front of him.
John kisses him for it – he can't not.
Think of the body, John. Decomposing. Think of the fact that half of the Met police including Lestrade and Donovan are in the next room. Don't think at all about Sherlock wanting to have sex with you because you said something intelligent.
'You.' Sherlock's eyes glow with their own internal light, like miniature stars. 'John Watson, are incredible. I knew there might be something particular about you, and now I'm certain.'
John groans deeply, finally letting Sherlock press him fully against the wall, callused hands diving under his comfortable jumper. The position isn't comfortable at all – his skin rasps across the wall and at this proximity their height difference is extrapolated. But they slide and fit together – familiar and visceral. Sherlock crowds fully into the doctor's space, mouth scraping across his with a pressure so sharply wonderful it aches. John tries not to whine like a girl at the cold fingertips on his ribs, and rut against the long thigh pushed between his legs, but it's difficult. He takes breaths that splinter in his throat as Sherlock's hands move, and tries not to think about why he has chosen to love this person out of all the people in the world – this one singularly impossible creature.
Because thinking it would imply that he ever had a choice in the matter.
Their clothing isn't doing much to stop Sherlock from trying to have his way with him right this minute but John can hear movement from the next room over the beat of their hearts where Sherlock's thumb is pressed over his jugular pulse, the hand looped around his neck like it has always belonged there. And he's fairly sure Sherlock heard it, and just doesn't care.
'Sherlock.' He pushes at the bony shoulders. 'Home. Now.'
'Home?' Sherlock looks up at him with that vague, distracted look that usually means he's high on something, either a case or the patches. Or John Watson, as seems to be the case now.
'Home.' He waits, watches that steel trap mind slowly tick over the implications, like fitting the last few pieces into an almost complete puzzle. Home = bed = John not being cranky in the morning when his leg locks up from an awkward position. Home means warmth and comfort and less chance of being caught by the police in a compromising position in the middle of a crime scene.
Sherlock nods slowly, but John can feel the body under his hands thrumming with energy. A spring wound too tightly. 'Home.' His smile shines like phosphorescence in his still night-dark eyes.
'So, not angry about being shown up then?'
Sherlock laughs, messy and ravaged and utterly delighted in a way John doesn't think he'll ever get tired of. 'Are you joking? This is going on the website.'
'What? No it is not. Sherlock? Sherlock!'