I warned you!
Sherlock struggled against the eager mouth so keen to take possession of his own but John’s hands held him firm, curled around his cheeks with a strength even Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t have given him credit for.
He was pressed against the sofa with John straddled across his thighs, pinning him down. His hands were free though, but instead of pushing the doctor away they had fisted in his shirt and hauled him closer. He was so close Sherlock had to tilt his head back to kiss him, urgent, closed mouthed kisses that his brain had certainly not authorised; though they were very efficient at keeping contact even as he wrestled John out his shirt to run his hands over the hard planes of John’s battle-firmed chest.
His clever fingers sought the scar spread across his shoulder, traced round where the stitches- rushed and imperfect - had marred the perfect circle of the bullet hole. John gasped into his mouth, his fingers freezing half way through releasing Sherlock from his own shirt, and it was obvious Sherlock had found a weak spot. Further investigations with his tongue yielded a moan from its owner and Sherlock wondered if this was what the authors meant when they described someone melting under another’s hands.