Fic for kedgeree11: Dim Sum
Title: Dim Sum
Recipient: kedgeree11
Author: peg22
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John, Mrs. Hudson
Rating: Mature
Warnings: None
Summary: Following the events in The Study in Pink, Sherlock and John go out for Chinese, Sherlock proves he can indeed predict the fortune cookies, John proves he made an excellent decision to move into 221B, and Mrs. Hudson proves she was right all along.
This is not what I do
It's the wrong kind of place
To be thinking of you
It's the wrong time
For somebody new
It's a small crime
And I've got no excuse
Damien Rice - 9 Crimes
John felt the tension ease out of his shoulders as he sat back against the booth. Sherlock was right. This place was good. Red lanterns, gold mirrors, okay wine, spicy dumplings. This late hour they were the only diners and the lights were low, the staff whispering around them, serving steaming plates of noodles, rice, chicken. It seemed that when Sherlock finally ate, he took it very seriously.
John raised his eyebrows as he watched Sherlock make rather enthusiastic cuts into the Peking duck. “Hungry?”
Sherlock looked up at John and a ghost of a smile crossed his face. “I never eat during a case. I need my brain clear.”
“Yes, but your brain needs your body not to faint out from under it.”
“I can’t have carbohydrates mucking up the synapses.”
John shook his head. “Who can, really?”
Sherlock reached over with his fork and speared a dumpling off John’s plate. John finished his glass of wine and refilled it, holding the bottle out to Sherlock, who nodded. He filled Sherlock’s glass and set the empty bottle on the table. Leaned back against the cushion, sighed.
Sherlock slowed down eventually. Drained his glass of wine and leaned back, crossed his arms, stared at John. John stared back. Marveled how providence or bad luck or even less likely, Mike Bloody Stamford, had tossed him into the path of this hurricane of a man. Who got his kicks out of running all over London, chasing murderers, avoiding police, getting kidnapped. And Harry was worried he wouldn’t find any friends.
“You’re thinking of your sister.”
John sat up straight. “How the hell . . .”
Sherlock looked at the waiter walking by and back to John. “Probably sorting out how you went from invalided war veteran to chasing serial killers in the space of a day.”
“Something like that.” John reached down, pulled his napkin off his lap and tossed it on the table. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“What’s going on in that massive brain of yours?”
“Trying to suss out what the end game is here.”
John raised an eyebrow. “Well, I thought you said you were married to your work . . .”
“No, John, not this end game - the end game.”
“Of course.”
“This end game seems clear.” Sherlock made a circle in the air with his finger.
“Right - wait, what?”
“We’ll argue over who’s going to pick up the cheque, which of course I will because I suggested this place, not to mention you saved my life tonight-“
“Which I wouldn’t have had to do if you had just walked away from that bloody pill.”
Sherlock shrugged. “Yes, no need to rehash.” He held up his hand and signaled the waiter, who was lounging against the bar, half asleep. “And then we’ll walk back to Baker Street and have a nightcap - I’m sure Mrs. Hudson has made up your room - and tomorrow I will begin my search for Moriarty.”
John nodded. He felt a warmth spread across his chest. It sounded so easy. So rational. They would retire to Baker Street and tomorrow it would start all over again - searching out serial killers who may or may not exist. At least there’d be something for him to blog about. Dr. Thompson would be pleased. He looked up to see Sherlock staring at him again.
“Yeah, fine, Sherlock. Fine. I’ve obviously got nothing else to do.”
“Obviously.”
The waiter walked over and placed a tray with the bill and two fortune cookies on the table between them. John reached for it at the same time as Sherlock and their hands collided. Sherlock wrapped his fingers around John’s wrist, and snatched the bill with his other hand. John tried to pull away, but Sherlock held on, his fingers on the inside of John’s wrist, his thumb wrapped around. John looked at Sherlock’s hands. They were large, but delicate. Long fingers, smooth skin . . . he felt his face flush and he looked up to see Sherlock staring at him with an odd look on his face.
He took a breath and decided on humour. “Okay, okay - you can pay.” He tried to smile, but the sensation of Sherlock’s fingers moving lightly over his wrist sucked all the air out of his lungs.
Sherlock opened his mouth, and quickly closed it. Stared into John’s eyes, raised an eyebrow. Kept a tight hold on John’s wrist.
John wondered if it all could be delayed shock. Both men rendered practically catatonic at the same time. He looked back at Sherlock, who was also turning an interesting shade of red. He thought someone should say something.
“Sherlock . . .” John lifted his other hand and placed it on top of Sherlock’s. “We’re never going to get out of here if you don’t let go of my hand.”
Sherlock looked as if he’d been slapped. He dropped John’s hand and blinked twice. He leaned back against the seat, the bill slipping out of his other hand and onto the floor.
“You all right?” John reached across the table, but pulled his hand back at the last minute, instead grabbing a fortune cookie.
Sherlock still said nothing, just stared at a point over John’s head, deep in thought.
“So, come on, let’s have it. What’s in this one?” He held out the fortune cookie. “You said you could predict them. Prove it.”
Sherlock’s eyes lowered, moved to John’s face and finally to the cookie. “My recitation of whatever insipid platitude printed on that paper will prove nothing.”
“Lost your nerve?” John narrowed his eyes. “Too many carbohydrates mucking up your prediction pathways?” He couldn’t tell if it was the wine, or the shooting, or the proximity of those fingers, but he was feeling a bit giddy.
Sherlock frowned. “Are you really a doctor?”
“You’re deflecting. Can you tell me what it says or not?”
“Of course I can. But the better question is - can you?”
“I’m not the one who made the boast.”
“Hardly a boast. A statement of fact. You can ask my brother. I have an eighty-seven percent lifetime success rate.”
John cracked open the cookie. Pulled out the strip of paper, clutched it in his palm. “Means you were wrong what, thirteen percent of the time?”
“Brilliant deduction, John.”
John smiled and leaned in across the table. “I’ll bet you twenty quid you can’t do it.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Money, John? Pathetic. If you want to wager, let’s at least make it worth both our while.”
John’s bravado lost a bit of steam. He flashed on an image of Sherlock bent over him, using those fingers to exact all kinds of rewards . . .
“I bet you a month of housekeeping,” Sherlock said.
“Housekeeping? Shouldn’t that be a bet with Mrs. Hudson?”
“Not our housekeeper, John. Keep up.”
John uncurled his fingers and read the fortune. He smiled and looked back at Sherlock. “Okay, you have a deal. One month of housekeeping. Tell me what this says.”
Sherlock sighed and looked at the ceiling. “You have a flair for adding a fanciful dimension to any story.”
John’s mouth fell open. He looked at the fortune and back to Sherlock. “How did you . . .”
“I take it I was correct?” Sherlock leaned down, picked up the bill, reached for his coat.
“Yes, but how . . . there’s no way . . .”
“There is always a way, John. You just have to observe and all becomes clear.” Sherlock slid out of the booth and wrapped his scarf around his neck.
John sat stunned. Sherlock was right. Every bloody word. You have a flair for adding a fanciful dimension to any story. It must be a trick. Unless Sherlock had every fortune in every Chinese restaurant in London memorized, along with the frequency each one appeared at a table, coupled with the number of cookies served every day at each restaurant, not counting takeaway. He shook his head. No way. Lucky guess. He was starting to believe a part of the brilliance that was Sherlock Holmes was luck. He was a good guesser. Well, maybe that’s what detective work was. Guesses. Deductions. Same as medicine. Listen to a list of symptoms, think about what fits most of them, and make a guess. Then run tests, prescribe medicine, or schedule a surgery to prove the “guess.” Not so different when he thought about it. The jangle of the door opening startled him and he looked up to see the tail end of a coat slip out the door.
He scooted out of the booth, grabbed his jacket and quickly followed, stuffing the remaining fortune cookie in his pocket. He caught up with Sherlock at the door to 221B. Sherlock opened it for him and he stopped at the stairs and turned around.
“Tell me how you did that.”
Sherlock took off his coat, hung it on the hook. “If I tell you, will you still honour the bet?”
“The bet? Oh, yeah, yeah. Housekeeping for a month. Tell me.”
John watched Sherlock unwind his scarf, his hands moving slowly, the silk or cashmere or whatever material caressing his fingers . . . what the hell? He shook his head. Swallowed hard. Tried to think of dusting and hoovering.
Sherlock was staring at him now, his head tilted, like he was trying to figure something out. John wished he would figure it out for the both of them. He backed up until his heels touched the stairs and he climbed backwards up the next step and the next, his eyes never leaving Sherlock.
Sherlock moved forward until he was about a foot away. John had stopped on the second step, fists at his side, breathing through his nose. For the second time that night, he really wished someone would say something.
Sherlock took one more step and when he was six inches from John, he leaned closer. John instinctively leaned back, hitting his heels on the third step. Sherlock grabbed the banister and leaned in more, never taking his eyes off John. John leaned back too far, and felt himself falling. He reached out and grabbed Sherlock’s shoulder to steady himself. He closed his eyes, wondering what the hell was happening, and he felt Sherlock’s arm snake around his waist, his shoulder pushing into him, until John was forced to reach for Sherlock’s other shoulder. He could feel Sherlock breath against his neck and the staircase against his back. Sherlock moved his arm up and cradled the back of John’s neck.
John thought this might just be the hottest thing that anyone had ever done to him. He opened his eyes and Sherlock took his hand off the banister and placed it on John’s chest. He was now pinned to the stairs. He couldn’t move if he wanted to. He didn’t want to. Sherlock smelled like wine and garlic and a combination of cigarettes and some kind of woody soap. He sucked in a breath when he felt Sherlock’s breath against his ear.
“Still want to know how I did it, John?”
The way Sherlock said his name, as if it were spelled with an aww instead of an o, made him hot all over. “Uhh . . .”
Sherlock smiled. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
John’s hand moved from Sherlock’s shoulder to his waist. He tried to think. He couldn’t think. He could only feel Sherlock’s chest against his, his heart racing. Sherlock shifted his leg between John’s. He pulled his head back and looked at John.
“Comfortable?”
John realized he was teasing him, testing him. “Sure. You?” His body was reacting faster than his mind and he arched up into Sherlock. Sherlock smiled and leaned down, his lips brushing against John’s ear. John shuddered, but didn’t say anything. Waited.
“That particular Chinese restaurant uses only two fortunes in its fortune cookies. The one you got and also, ‘Now is the time to try something new,’ which is probably the fortune of the one in your pocket.”
John closed his eyes and willed himself not to pull Sherlock closer. He was being seduced by fortune cookie sayings. Seduced on the stairs of his new flat by a man he barely knew, a man he had already killed for. There were so many things wrong with that sentence, he just gave up and leaned his head back, listening.
“I just deduced the balance of probability.”
“You guessed,” John whispered.
“I never guess.” Sherlock moved his lips from John’s ear to his neck.
“Yes you do . . . Jesus.” John’s head hit the back of the stairs as Sherlock kissed his neck, moving down to his throat. “What . . .are . . .you . . .”
Sherlock lifted his head and looked at John. “You want me to stop?”
John answered by grabbing the back of Sherlock’s neck and pulling him down to his lips. Kissed him hard. Sherlock lost a bit of footing and his weight landed on top of John, who ignored the lack of oxygen and kept kissing. Tasting the wine, pushing his tongue into the heat and the wet. Sherlock moaned and lost his balance again and they slid down the stairs until Sherlock’s knees were on the floor.
Sherlock leaned back and wrapped his hands around John’s ass and pulled him closer. John grabbed both of Sherlock’s shoulders and leaned hard. Sherlock tilted back and John pushed harder and John was suddenly on top of Sherlock, finding his lips again, trying hard to hang on, trying hard to find a reason not to kiss him, trying not to be so chuffed when he couldn’t find even one.
Sherlock was writhing under him now. John’s hand moved down Sherlock’s chest, pulling his shirt from his trousers. Sherlock gasped as John slipped his hand under Sherlock’s shirt, moving up his chest, teasing a nipple. John lifted his head, took a breath and looked at Sherlock, who had his eyes closed, breathing hard. When Sherlock opened his eyes, John raised an eyebrow and said, “Not so married to your work after all?”
Sherlock slipped his hand behind John’s neck and pulled his head toward him. He pressed his lips to John, softer this time, exploring, nudging John’s mouth open, slipping his tongue in. John was almost positive he would either come in his pants or pass out. Either option sounded okay to him.
“Hoo hoo!” A voice startled them and John rolled off Sherlock like he’d been shot at.
Mrs. Hudson rattled her door a few more seconds and finally poked her head out.
“Oh, Sherlock, I thought that was you.” Mrs. Hudson stayed in her doorway, a smile on her face. “You boys are back late.”
Sherlock laid his head back on the floor. His shirt was half up his chest, his legs splayed open, his chest heaving. John had rolled onto his stomach, his head turned away from Mrs. Hudson, hiding his very obvious erection against the floor. Trying to steady his breathing. Praying Sherlock would say something.
“John will be doing the housekeeping this month, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock’s voice was a little wobbly. “And we’ll expect tea in the morning.”
“John, are you okay?” Mrs. Hudson leaned out her door.
“Fine, fine, Mrs. Hudson.” John spoke into the floor, not wanting to look at her.
Sherlock pulled his shirt down, rolled and quickly stood. He ran his hands through his hair and brushed off his trousers. John had no idea how he had the presence of mind.
“We’re just fine, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock walked to the staircase. “John, you coming?”
John snorted. Why yes, Sherlock, I do believe . . . “Yeah, yeah.” John brought his legs up under him and struggled to his feet. He tried not to look at Mrs. Hudson as he shuffled over to the stairs, bumping into Sherlock.
“Goodnight, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said and took the stairs two at a time.
John nodded and followed him.
“Your leg seems better, John.” Mrs. Hudson sang from below them. “Must be Sherlock’s influence.”
Sherlock stopped on the landing and turned back to John. “I believe it was the fortune cookies.” he leaned down and kissed John lightly on the lips. “You will have a long and interesting life.”
“Ah that’s a lovely one, “Mrs. Hudson said as she closed the door.
Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and pulled him against him.
John pushed against his chest, wanting to say something before they just resumed their activity on the landing. “Wait, Sherlock.”
Sherlock stopped. “She’s gone to bed, John.” He dipped and nuzzled John’s neck, reaching down and running his hand down John’s chest, between John’s legs.
John couldn’t think. He knew if what he thought was going to happen, it shouldn’t happen here on the stairs. “Bed . . .” he managed before Sherlock kissed him again.
Sherlock pulled away and looked at him. “Oh.”
John smiled. “Yes. Thought we might get all the way into the flat before we . . . continue.”
Sherlock stared at John for a moment and then nodded. “Right. Good. Continue. Excellent.” He turned suddenly, ran up the stairs and pushed open the door. “Come on, John.”
For the second time that day, John took the stairs two at a time.
Recipient: kedgeree11
Author: peg22
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John, Mrs. Hudson
Rating: Mature
Warnings: None
Summary: Following the events in The Study in Pink, Sherlock and John go out for Chinese, Sherlock proves he can indeed predict the fortune cookies, John proves he made an excellent decision to move into 221B, and Mrs. Hudson proves she was right all along.
This is not what I do
It's the wrong kind of place
To be thinking of you
It's the wrong time
For somebody new
It's a small crime
And I've got no excuse
Damien Rice - 9 Crimes
John felt the tension ease out of his shoulders as he sat back against the booth. Sherlock was right. This place was good. Red lanterns, gold mirrors, okay wine, spicy dumplings. This late hour they were the only diners and the lights were low, the staff whispering around them, serving steaming plates of noodles, rice, chicken. It seemed that when Sherlock finally ate, he took it very seriously.
John raised his eyebrows as he watched Sherlock make rather enthusiastic cuts into the Peking duck. “Hungry?”
Sherlock looked up at John and a ghost of a smile crossed his face. “I never eat during a case. I need my brain clear.”
“Yes, but your brain needs your body not to faint out from under it.”
“I can’t have carbohydrates mucking up the synapses.”
John shook his head. “Who can, really?”
Sherlock reached over with his fork and speared a dumpling off John’s plate. John finished his glass of wine and refilled it, holding the bottle out to Sherlock, who nodded. He filled Sherlock’s glass and set the empty bottle on the table. Leaned back against the cushion, sighed.
Sherlock slowed down eventually. Drained his glass of wine and leaned back, crossed his arms, stared at John. John stared back. Marveled how providence or bad luck or even less likely, Mike Bloody Stamford, had tossed him into the path of this hurricane of a man. Who got his kicks out of running all over London, chasing murderers, avoiding police, getting kidnapped. And Harry was worried he wouldn’t find any friends.
“You’re thinking of your sister.”
John sat up straight. “How the hell . . .”
Sherlock looked at the waiter walking by and back to John. “Probably sorting out how you went from invalided war veteran to chasing serial killers in the space of a day.”
“Something like that.” John reached down, pulled his napkin off his lap and tossed it on the table. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“What’s going on in that massive brain of yours?”
“Trying to suss out what the end game is here.”
John raised an eyebrow. “Well, I thought you said you were married to your work . . .”
“No, John, not this end game - the end game.”
“Of course.”
“This end game seems clear.” Sherlock made a circle in the air with his finger.
“Right - wait, what?”
“We’ll argue over who’s going to pick up the cheque, which of course I will because I suggested this place, not to mention you saved my life tonight-“
“Which I wouldn’t have had to do if you had just walked away from that bloody pill.”
Sherlock shrugged. “Yes, no need to rehash.” He held up his hand and signaled the waiter, who was lounging against the bar, half asleep. “And then we’ll walk back to Baker Street and have a nightcap - I’m sure Mrs. Hudson has made up your room - and tomorrow I will begin my search for Moriarty.”
John nodded. He felt a warmth spread across his chest. It sounded so easy. So rational. They would retire to Baker Street and tomorrow it would start all over again - searching out serial killers who may or may not exist. At least there’d be something for him to blog about. Dr. Thompson would be pleased. He looked up to see Sherlock staring at him again.
“Yeah, fine, Sherlock. Fine. I’ve obviously got nothing else to do.”
“Obviously.”
The waiter walked over and placed a tray with the bill and two fortune cookies on the table between them. John reached for it at the same time as Sherlock and their hands collided. Sherlock wrapped his fingers around John’s wrist, and snatched the bill with his other hand. John tried to pull away, but Sherlock held on, his fingers on the inside of John’s wrist, his thumb wrapped around. John looked at Sherlock’s hands. They were large, but delicate. Long fingers, smooth skin . . . he felt his face flush and he looked up to see Sherlock staring at him with an odd look on his face.
He took a breath and decided on humour. “Okay, okay - you can pay.” He tried to smile, but the sensation of Sherlock’s fingers moving lightly over his wrist sucked all the air out of his lungs.
Sherlock opened his mouth, and quickly closed it. Stared into John’s eyes, raised an eyebrow. Kept a tight hold on John’s wrist.
John wondered if it all could be delayed shock. Both men rendered practically catatonic at the same time. He looked back at Sherlock, who was also turning an interesting shade of red. He thought someone should say something.
“Sherlock . . .” John lifted his other hand and placed it on top of Sherlock’s. “We’re never going to get out of here if you don’t let go of my hand.”
Sherlock looked as if he’d been slapped. He dropped John’s hand and blinked twice. He leaned back against the seat, the bill slipping out of his other hand and onto the floor.
“You all right?” John reached across the table, but pulled his hand back at the last minute, instead grabbing a fortune cookie.
Sherlock still said nothing, just stared at a point over John’s head, deep in thought.
“So, come on, let’s have it. What’s in this one?” He held out the fortune cookie. “You said you could predict them. Prove it.”
Sherlock’s eyes lowered, moved to John’s face and finally to the cookie. “My recitation of whatever insipid platitude printed on that paper will prove nothing.”
“Lost your nerve?” John narrowed his eyes. “Too many carbohydrates mucking up your prediction pathways?” He couldn’t tell if it was the wine, or the shooting, or the proximity of those fingers, but he was feeling a bit giddy.
Sherlock frowned. “Are you really a doctor?”
“You’re deflecting. Can you tell me what it says or not?”
“Of course I can. But the better question is - can you?”
“I’m not the one who made the boast.”
“Hardly a boast. A statement of fact. You can ask my brother. I have an eighty-seven percent lifetime success rate.”
John cracked open the cookie. Pulled out the strip of paper, clutched it in his palm. “Means you were wrong what, thirteen percent of the time?”
“Brilliant deduction, John.”
John smiled and leaned in across the table. “I’ll bet you twenty quid you can’t do it.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Money, John? Pathetic. If you want to wager, let’s at least make it worth both our while.”
John’s bravado lost a bit of steam. He flashed on an image of Sherlock bent over him, using those fingers to exact all kinds of rewards . . .
“I bet you a month of housekeeping,” Sherlock said.
“Housekeeping? Shouldn’t that be a bet with Mrs. Hudson?”
“Not our housekeeper, John. Keep up.”
John uncurled his fingers and read the fortune. He smiled and looked back at Sherlock. “Okay, you have a deal. One month of housekeeping. Tell me what this says.”
Sherlock sighed and looked at the ceiling. “You have a flair for adding a fanciful dimension to any story.”
John’s mouth fell open. He looked at the fortune and back to Sherlock. “How did you . . .”
“I take it I was correct?” Sherlock leaned down, picked up the bill, reached for his coat.
“Yes, but how . . . there’s no way . . .”
“There is always a way, John. You just have to observe and all becomes clear.” Sherlock slid out of the booth and wrapped his scarf around his neck.
John sat stunned. Sherlock was right. Every bloody word. You have a flair for adding a fanciful dimension to any story. It must be a trick. Unless Sherlock had every fortune in every Chinese restaurant in London memorized, along with the frequency each one appeared at a table, coupled with the number of cookies served every day at each restaurant, not counting takeaway. He shook his head. No way. Lucky guess. He was starting to believe a part of the brilliance that was Sherlock Holmes was luck. He was a good guesser. Well, maybe that’s what detective work was. Guesses. Deductions. Same as medicine. Listen to a list of symptoms, think about what fits most of them, and make a guess. Then run tests, prescribe medicine, or schedule a surgery to prove the “guess.” Not so different when he thought about it. The jangle of the door opening startled him and he looked up to see the tail end of a coat slip out the door.
He scooted out of the booth, grabbed his jacket and quickly followed, stuffing the remaining fortune cookie in his pocket. He caught up with Sherlock at the door to 221B. Sherlock opened it for him and he stopped at the stairs and turned around.
“Tell me how you did that.”
Sherlock took off his coat, hung it on the hook. “If I tell you, will you still honour the bet?”
“The bet? Oh, yeah, yeah. Housekeeping for a month. Tell me.”
John watched Sherlock unwind his scarf, his hands moving slowly, the silk or cashmere or whatever material caressing his fingers . . . what the hell? He shook his head. Swallowed hard. Tried to think of dusting and hoovering.
Sherlock was staring at him now, his head tilted, like he was trying to figure something out. John wished he would figure it out for the both of them. He backed up until his heels touched the stairs and he climbed backwards up the next step and the next, his eyes never leaving Sherlock.
Sherlock moved forward until he was about a foot away. John had stopped on the second step, fists at his side, breathing through his nose. For the second time that night, he really wished someone would say something.
Sherlock took one more step and when he was six inches from John, he leaned closer. John instinctively leaned back, hitting his heels on the third step. Sherlock grabbed the banister and leaned in more, never taking his eyes off John. John leaned back too far, and felt himself falling. He reached out and grabbed Sherlock’s shoulder to steady himself. He closed his eyes, wondering what the hell was happening, and he felt Sherlock’s arm snake around his waist, his shoulder pushing into him, until John was forced to reach for Sherlock’s other shoulder. He could feel Sherlock breath against his neck and the staircase against his back. Sherlock moved his arm up and cradled the back of John’s neck.
John thought this might just be the hottest thing that anyone had ever done to him. He opened his eyes and Sherlock took his hand off the banister and placed it on John’s chest. He was now pinned to the stairs. He couldn’t move if he wanted to. He didn’t want to. Sherlock smelled like wine and garlic and a combination of cigarettes and some kind of woody soap. He sucked in a breath when he felt Sherlock’s breath against his ear.
“Still want to know how I did it, John?”
The way Sherlock said his name, as if it were spelled with an aww instead of an o, made him hot all over. “Uhh . . .”
Sherlock smiled. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
John’s hand moved from Sherlock’s shoulder to his waist. He tried to think. He couldn’t think. He could only feel Sherlock’s chest against his, his heart racing. Sherlock shifted his leg between John’s. He pulled his head back and looked at John.
“Comfortable?”
John realized he was teasing him, testing him. “Sure. You?” His body was reacting faster than his mind and he arched up into Sherlock. Sherlock smiled and leaned down, his lips brushing against John’s ear. John shuddered, but didn’t say anything. Waited.
“That particular Chinese restaurant uses only two fortunes in its fortune cookies. The one you got and also, ‘Now is the time to try something new,’ which is probably the fortune of the one in your pocket.”
John closed his eyes and willed himself not to pull Sherlock closer. He was being seduced by fortune cookie sayings. Seduced on the stairs of his new flat by a man he barely knew, a man he had already killed for. There were so many things wrong with that sentence, he just gave up and leaned his head back, listening.
“I just deduced the balance of probability.”
“You guessed,” John whispered.
“I never guess.” Sherlock moved his lips from John’s ear to his neck.
“Yes you do . . . Jesus.” John’s head hit the back of the stairs as Sherlock kissed his neck, moving down to his throat. “What . . .are . . .you . . .”
Sherlock lifted his head and looked at John. “You want me to stop?”
John answered by grabbing the back of Sherlock’s neck and pulling him down to his lips. Kissed him hard. Sherlock lost a bit of footing and his weight landed on top of John, who ignored the lack of oxygen and kept kissing. Tasting the wine, pushing his tongue into the heat and the wet. Sherlock moaned and lost his balance again and they slid down the stairs until Sherlock’s knees were on the floor.
Sherlock leaned back and wrapped his hands around John’s ass and pulled him closer. John grabbed both of Sherlock’s shoulders and leaned hard. Sherlock tilted back and John pushed harder and John was suddenly on top of Sherlock, finding his lips again, trying hard to hang on, trying hard to find a reason not to kiss him, trying not to be so chuffed when he couldn’t find even one.
Sherlock was writhing under him now. John’s hand moved down Sherlock’s chest, pulling his shirt from his trousers. Sherlock gasped as John slipped his hand under Sherlock’s shirt, moving up his chest, teasing a nipple. John lifted his head, took a breath and looked at Sherlock, who had his eyes closed, breathing hard. When Sherlock opened his eyes, John raised an eyebrow and said, “Not so married to your work after all?”
Sherlock slipped his hand behind John’s neck and pulled his head toward him. He pressed his lips to John, softer this time, exploring, nudging John’s mouth open, slipping his tongue in. John was almost positive he would either come in his pants or pass out. Either option sounded okay to him.
“Hoo hoo!” A voice startled them and John rolled off Sherlock like he’d been shot at.
Mrs. Hudson rattled her door a few more seconds and finally poked her head out.
“Oh, Sherlock, I thought that was you.” Mrs. Hudson stayed in her doorway, a smile on her face. “You boys are back late.”
Sherlock laid his head back on the floor. His shirt was half up his chest, his legs splayed open, his chest heaving. John had rolled onto his stomach, his head turned away from Mrs. Hudson, hiding his very obvious erection against the floor. Trying to steady his breathing. Praying Sherlock would say something.
“John will be doing the housekeeping this month, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock’s voice was a little wobbly. “And we’ll expect tea in the morning.”
“John, are you okay?” Mrs. Hudson leaned out her door.
“Fine, fine, Mrs. Hudson.” John spoke into the floor, not wanting to look at her.
Sherlock pulled his shirt down, rolled and quickly stood. He ran his hands through his hair and brushed off his trousers. John had no idea how he had the presence of mind.
“We’re just fine, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock walked to the staircase. “John, you coming?”
John snorted. Why yes, Sherlock, I do believe . . . “Yeah, yeah.” John brought his legs up under him and struggled to his feet. He tried not to look at Mrs. Hudson as he shuffled over to the stairs, bumping into Sherlock.
“Goodnight, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said and took the stairs two at a time.
John nodded and followed him.
“Your leg seems better, John.” Mrs. Hudson sang from below them. “Must be Sherlock’s influence.”
Sherlock stopped on the landing and turned back to John. “I believe it was the fortune cookies.” he leaned down and kissed John lightly on the lips. “You will have a long and interesting life.”
“Ah that’s a lovely one, “Mrs. Hudson said as she closed the door.
Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and pulled him against him.
John pushed against his chest, wanting to say something before they just resumed their activity on the landing. “Wait, Sherlock.”
Sherlock stopped. “She’s gone to bed, John.” He dipped and nuzzled John’s neck, reaching down and running his hand down John’s chest, between John’s legs.
John couldn’t think. He knew if what he thought was going to happen, it shouldn’t happen here on the stairs. “Bed . . .” he managed before Sherlock kissed him again.
Sherlock pulled away and looked at him. “Oh.”
John smiled. “Yes. Thought we might get all the way into the flat before we . . . continue.”
Sherlock stared at John for a moment and then nodded. “Right. Good. Continue. Excellent.” He turned suddenly, ran up the stairs and pushed open the door. “Come on, John.”
For the second time that day, John took the stairs two at a time.