Blood shifts restlessly in his veins: testosterone and frustration and anger boiling away deep in his gut. He’s not going to get in a brawl with Sherlock, though; he isn’t a child.
‘No.’
‘Yes.’
There’s nothing restrained in the second shove. John stumbles back and knocks his shoulder and elbow into the fridge, barely has a chance to regain his footing before Holmes has stalked up to him, braced his hands either side of John’s head and leant down in a manner that emphasises his height advantage.
‘I told you to hit me,’ he snarls.
John doesn’t really know what’s happening outside of the primary diagnosis of frustration; he doesn’t know why they’re doing this now, here, over milk of all things. He doesn’t know why Sherlock has let the anger settle him so firmly in his own skin, rather than dismiss it, or only engage with it as a distraction. He really fucking wants to knee him in the balls though, because he’s sick of dealing with a six foot something two-year-old.
‘Bugger off, Sherlock,’ John says, still refusing eye contact.
The man growls and dips his head to dig it into John’s shoulder, his bad one, like he’s trying to bury himself inside John, or to push the boredom and frustration straight out of his skull. It hurts though and John can’t help the hissing inhale as he grits his teeth.
Sherlock’s response is immediate. Every muscle in his body seems to seize up and he freezes, no longer digging his skull into John’s scar tissue. It’s a moment or two before he lifts his head to look at John, his mad, alien eyes wider and darker than is their norm.
John catches the shift, the step left of anger that they’ve taken, that Sherlock’s adroit mind has whipped the situation about and dragged John in its wake. He keeps his gaze at Sherlock’s chin, though, can’t miss the way he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth when he pushes a thumb sharply into John’s acromioclavicular joint, where they’d spent too long reattaching ligaments. John shudders, watches an echo of it crawl surreptitiously down Sherlock’s spine.
There’s been this, too, you see; boiling away under all this forced intimacy and relentless interaction. It’s been there, and John’s not had sex for months, and he risks a glance up at Sherlock and sees that his own mouth is his current fixation. So John gives it to him: moves quicker than Sherlock can process and react to, fists both his hands in that ridiculous mop of hair and draws their mouths together, hesitates just long enough to gentle the clash of momentum.
One of Sherlock’s hands slides wide, the elbow of his other arm bending to let him meet the angle, and his nose presses sharp against John’s, eyes already closed. He murmurs something content-sounding when John loosens his fists and cradles the back of his head and the curve of his jaw, drags a thumb against the shell of his ear.
It’s like that for the first few moments, tender in a way John hadn’t thought them capable of, jarring in the context of their interactions. Sherlock digs his fingers in at the bottom of John’s ribs, too sharp and careful to tickle, and directs him to the left, where he’s half-shoved half-lifted to the edge of the incongruous bar that frames the left of their kitchenette. It eases the angles of their necks, but that is the only manner in which the kiss softens: Sherlock wrenches John’s thighs apart, insinuates himself between them and bites, hard, at the lip he’d been suckling on, relentlessly exploits the reflexive way John slackens his jaw to gasp or complain or groan.
‘No.’
‘Yes.’
There’s nothing restrained in the second shove. John stumbles back and knocks his shoulder and elbow into the fridge, barely has a chance to regain his footing before Holmes has stalked up to him, braced his hands either side of John’s head and leant down in a manner that emphasises his height advantage.
‘I told you to hit me,’ he snarls.
John doesn’t really know what’s happening outside of the primary diagnosis of frustration; he doesn’t know why they’re doing this now, here, over milk of all things. He doesn’t know why Sherlock has let the anger settle him so firmly in his own skin, rather than dismiss it, or only engage with it as a distraction. He really fucking wants to knee him in the balls though, because he’s sick of dealing with a six foot something two-year-old.
‘Bugger off, Sherlock,’ John says, still refusing eye contact.
The man growls and dips his head to dig it into John’s shoulder, his bad one, like he’s trying to bury himself inside John, or to push the boredom and frustration straight out of his skull. It hurts though and John can’t help the hissing inhale as he grits his teeth.
Sherlock’s response is immediate. Every muscle in his body seems to seize up and he freezes, no longer digging his skull into John’s scar tissue. It’s a moment or two before he lifts his head to look at John, his mad, alien eyes wider and darker than is their norm.
John catches the shift, the step left of anger that they’ve taken, that Sherlock’s adroit mind has whipped the situation about and dragged John in its wake. He keeps his gaze at Sherlock’s chin, though, can’t miss the way he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth when he pushes a thumb sharply into John’s acromioclavicular joint, where they’d spent too long reattaching ligaments. John shudders, watches an echo of it crawl surreptitiously down Sherlock’s spine.
There’s been this, too, you see; boiling away under all this forced intimacy and relentless interaction. It’s been there, and John’s not had sex for months, and he risks a glance up at Sherlock and sees that his own mouth is his current fixation. So John gives it to him: moves quicker than Sherlock can process and react to, fists both his hands in that ridiculous mop of hair and draws their mouths together, hesitates just long enough to gentle the clash of momentum.
One of Sherlock’s hands slides wide, the elbow of his other arm bending to let him meet the angle, and his nose presses sharp against John’s, eyes already closed. He murmurs something content-sounding when John loosens his fists and cradles the back of his head and the curve of his jaw, drags a thumb against the shell of his ear.
It’s like that for the first few moments, tender in a way John hadn’t thought them capable of, jarring in the context of their interactions. Sherlock digs his fingers in at the bottom of John’s ribs, too sharp and careful to tickle, and directs him to the left, where he’s half-shoved half-lifted to the edge of the incongruous bar that frames the left of their kitchenette. It eases the angles of their necks, but that is the only manner in which the kiss softens: Sherlock wrenches John’s thighs apart, insinuates himself between them and bites, hard, at the lip he’d been suckling on, relentlessly exploits the reflexive way John slackens his jaw to gasp or complain or groan.
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