Work Text:
“We may as well start walking.” John sighed and tugged at his bow-tie, unraveling the knot, and let the sides fall around his neck. Thrown from a fancy M.O.D. fete was not how he imagined the evening would end. But now he stood on the sidewalk, hot and uncomfortable in his close-fitting tuxedo thanks to the oddly warm, humid spring weather.
Sherlock stood at the edge of the curb, one hand thrown out to hail a taxi. “At this time of night? I don't think so,” he said, lips curled in disdain as he glanced over his shoulder at John.
John shook his head. “You'll never get a taxi, Sherlock. It's almost 2 a.m.”
“It's Knightsbridge,” Sherlock said shortly.
“Not even in Knightsbridge,” John retorted. He walked away, leaving Sherlock behind. A few moments later, however, he heard footsteps fast approaching.
“How do you suggest we get back to Baker Street, then? Walk? At this hour? In this?” Sherlock gestured to his own tailored tuxedo. “That's just an invitation for assault or robbery. Do you know the types of unsavoury sorts roaming the streets at this time of night?”
“Other than us, you mean?” John muttered.
Sherlock made a frustrated sound. “Really, John.”
John reached to unbutton his collar. “It's true, isn't it?” He glanced at Sherlock and grinned. “Besides, you're usually first in line when it comes to meeting up with 'unsavoury sorts'.”
The corner of Sherlock's mouth ticked up. “Not if you get there first.”
John chuckled. “It's difficult to get the jump on the brilliant Sherlock Holmes, but I do manage it occasionally, don't I?”
“Very rarely,” Sherlock admitted stiffly, but a smile lurked behind the words. As he stepped sideways to avoid a streetlight post, his elbow brushed John's arm. “Are we really walking all the way home?”
John rolled his eyes. “No, you prat. There's a bus stop just up here.” He nodded in the direction of the intersection ahead. “We can take the N74 back to Baker Street.”
Sherlock stopped abruptly and grabbed John's wrist. “Public transport? You must be joking.”
John shook his wrist free and glared at Sherlock. “Yes, Your Majesty, public transport. It's bloody useful when you've been chucked out in the middle of the night.”
Sherlock looked irritated and then slightly intrigued. “Do you often get thrown out by your lovers in the wee hours?”
“That's not what I—” John scrubbed his hand over his face. “Not what I meant, Sherlock. And what lovers? You of all people should know I've not gotten off with anyone in ages. I'm too bloody busy chasing after you.” John wanted to bite his tongue. That last bit sounded all wrong, and he knew Sherlock wouldn't miss a chance to tease.
Sherlock stepped forward, kept moving closer until John's back hit the smooth iron bars of the gate behind him. He looked somewhat confused, and his eyes searched John's face, moving from John's lips to his eyes to the open neck of his shirt and back. “Why do you follow me, John?”
John swallowed. Might as well tell the truth. He was nothing if not honest, was John Watson. He shrugged. “There's nowhere else I'd rather be.”
Sherlock's eyes flashed. “Because I'm dangerous, and you have a penchant for danger,” he said lowly.
John felt suddenly ridiculous, cornered against a fence in formal wear, so he laughed. “You are such a drama queen.”
“Excuse me?” Sherlock frowned and backed away a bit.
John shook his head. “It's almost endearing. Until it's not. Then it's just fucking annoying.”
“I am not a 'drama queen'.” Sherlock nearly spat the words.
“Yes, you are. West End missed out on a hell of a talent, I'll tell you. If you ever decided you need a career change...”John let the sentence trail off as Sherlock pulled himself up to his full height and leaned in. “Are you trying to intimidate me, Sherlock?” John smirked. “Because you may be taller and faster than me, but I'm stronger.”
Though his breath quickened, Sherlock was silent as he shuffled even closer to John.
John swiped his tongue along his bottom lip. “Really! You remember what happened the last time, don't you?” John glanced around. “What is it about these posh neighborhoods that has you begging for a beating?”
“John.” The look in Sherlock's eyes could only be described as predatory, and John almost giggled at the thought of fighting Sherlock, again, in the middle of the street.
“Don't push me, Sherlock.” John brushed his palm along Sherlock's satiny lapel. “You don't want to ruin your tux. Mycroft wouldn't be happy about that.”
Sherlock trapped John's hand against his chest, squeezing his fingers hard, and dipped his head.
John watched as Sherlock's face moved toward him, kept his eyes open until Sherlock's lips were on his. Sherlock rubbed his mouth against John's before catching John's top lip between his own. John opened his mouth to say Stop, What are you doing?, Sherlock? but Sherlock's tongue swept inside, and John kissed back before he even realized what he was doing. Sherlock pressed closer and tilted his head to deepen the kiss. Then he shifted, and John's leg slid between Sherlock's thighs.
John could feel Sherlock growing hard, and though the sensation made John's blood feel slow and heavy, he started to pull away. He gently pushed on Sherlock's shoulders, and Sherlock raised his head. “I don't kiss blokes,” John said.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “I'm not a bloke,” he said acidly.
“Oh, no?” John moved his thigh against the press of Sherlock's burgeoning erection. “Certain parts of your anatomy might beg to differ.”
Sherlock blinked slowly. “I'm not just any bloke.”
“No, no, you're not.” John sighed and reached to cup Sherlock's jaw, ran his thumb along his angular cheekbone.
It started to rain.
The first drops of water were more like a soft mist, but then the rain came down in earnest, still gentle but soaking. The rain was strangely tepid, like a warm bath gone a bit cool.
Sherlock tipped his head back to glare at the sky, and John watched as water droplets collected on the soft, dark fans of Sherlock's eyelashes. When Sherlock lowered his head to look at John, John used his thumb to catch a raindrop that ran down Sherlock's cheek.
John surged up and grabbed the back of Sherlock's neck with one hand, pulling him down into another kiss. Sherlock rounded his spine and pushed against John, and John let his other hand drift to Sherlock's waist, where he wormed his fingers between Sherlock's shirt and his waistcoat. Sherlock moaned and gripped John's hips, long, slender fingers digging in.
When they finally parted for breath, they were both drenched.
John leaned his head against Sherlock's shoulder. “Let's go home.”
“Faster if we walk?” Sherlock's voice was low and rough.
“No.”
Sherlock released John but grabbed his hand and started toward the intersection “Come on, John, we don't want to miss the next bus.”