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Goaltending at the opposite end of the rink from the locker room entrance means John is the last player to leave the ice after morning practice. He leans a little on his stick as he steps up onto the rubber floor of the underbelly of the arena; Coach Lestrade had him doing butterfly slide drills for what seemed like a year and his legs are aching. There’s a zamboni parked near the door, ready to resurface the ice for the next team to practice, and John slouches against it for a second to take off his mask and gloves.
Suddenly, a slender figure dressed all in black appears and plucks the gear from his hands, tossing it gently to the floor. John grins as Sherlock crowds in close to him, dipping his head for a kiss. John expects it to be quick and sweet, the ‘good morning’ they didn’t get today as John had practice absurdly early and Sherlock was still sleeping after a late rehearsal the night before. However, Sherlock deepens the kiss, licking into John’s mouth and making him moan a little as Sherlock’s gorgeous fingers slide through the hair at his nape
They pull apart to breathe, and Sherlock ducks his face into the side of John’s neck and licks at the salty skin there, making John close his eyes and drop his head back against the zamboni, slipping one hand into Sherlock’s soft curls while trying to pull him closer with the other. Sherlock obliges, pushing a thigh between John’s and unfortunately pressing too hard against the ugly bruise on his inner right one (the Canadian left wing had one hell of a slap shot and nasty aim). John sucks in a harsh breath and pushes Sherlock away slightly; Sherlock looks confused for a moment, but then glances down and makes that face, the one he makes when he realizes he’s missed something and hates himself for it. He makes to move away, but John keeps him close and just shifts him more to the left a bit. Sherlock’s eyes search his face to make sure he’s ok, and John gives him a smile. It’s not the first puck that’s ever gotten past his pads, and it won’t be the last. Better there than in the net, anyway. He tugs on Sherlock’s neck to bring their foreheads together.
"Good morning," John says, "What time do you have to be at practice?"
"Six minutes ago," answers Sherlock, without looking at any sort of timekeeping device. "I missed you."
Something warm curls in John’s stomach at Sherlock’s words. “Me too,” he answers quietly, then pushes gently at Sherlock’s shoulder. “Go. Matching gold medals, remember?”
Sherlock nods and moves away, but before he can go too far, John reaches up and kisses his cheek. “Come find me at lunch, though. I feel like I’ll be missing you desperately by then.” He winks in a way that he knows Sherlock wants to hate but can’t resist.
And sure enough, Sherlock rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning as he heads back around the zamboni and out of sight.