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Sherlock accidently knocked John as he was making coffee this morning. In the midst of his morning rush, Sherlock’s arm just happened to brush along John’s as he was buttering his toast. It wasn’t intentional, Sherlock thought, but the look John exchanged with Sherlock gave him the most electric feel. John huffed and smiled and wandered off with toast in hand.
Sherlock soon after thought nothing of it.
Eventually the small knocks and bumps escalated into an intentional rhythm. Sometimes, John would even reach over Sherlock to get something he didn’t need, just so he could feel Sherlock’s warm skin beneath his shirt. Sherlock would often reciprocate and they would smile at each other.
But one day, when Sherlock was arriving home from doing to two’s shopping, he stood at the front door; finding himself unable to enter. It was unlocked, but there was a thought stopping him. He had come to the conclusion that he did indeed have a small thing for John; and it seemed mutual. But Sherlock had become aware that he, nor John, were doing anything about it but teasing. He felt as though the time called for something to happen; but when and where and how and if. Oh, how Sherlock craved for more than a small glimpse of what could be; a burning hunger for the unknown.
After much thought, Sherlock proceeded to open the door; scheming about the epiphany he had encountered. He knew that something needed to be done, and sometime soon.
He wandered up the stairs and placed the bags of groceries on the table. The flat was awful quiet, and Sherlock presumed within the time he had gone shopping, John had gone out. He began to nonchalantly take each item and order, label and put it in its assigned place. One by one, each item found its home.
After sitting, waiting and pacing, eager for John’s arrival, Sherlock found himself gathering kitchen utensils from the places they hid and he assembled a weaponry of John’s favourite foods. But the majority of the foods that sat on the bench were just things Sherlock guessed he liked. He was not much of a cook either, John did that. John was the domestic god in the flat.
Toast.
Toast.
John liked toast.
With Jam.
Immediately after this minor and embarrassingly forgetful realisation came back to him, Sherlock began to re-place the items he had fished out. Admittedly, and quite obviously, Sherlock was a tiny bit accustomed to ordering his kitchen (but this trait did not live outside of the kitchen). Merely out of respect to John, he thought it his duty to do at least one thing in the house that required him restrain from being violent or frustrating. So Sherlock did what he knew best; ordering.
Finally, the toast popped up from the toaster and Sherlock fumbled around to get it onto the breadboard. He began to spread peanut butter onto the crust when a familiar voice sounded behind him.
“Sherlock Holmes, making food.” John smiled, leaning against the door frame wearing that white top that hugged his waist ever so tightly. Sherlock turned and reciprocated the smile.
“What a friendly sight.”
Immediately, something strange came over Sherlock, almost an urge to impress. He picked up the buttery knife and ran his tongue up it teasingly as he watched the sheer shocked expression John bore on his face. Sherlock grinned and pretended nothing happened as he placed the knife back down.
“Tasty.”
The word rolled off Sherlock’s tongue tauntingly. Suddenly, John rushed forward, his hands wrapping around Sherlock’s hips and pushing him against the bench. John began a persistent outburst on Sherlock’s lips; searching this much wanted mouth with his own. The two bucked and ground on each other and their hips moved in a delicious cycle. Sherlock broke their kiss and began to pepper John’s neck with small nips and pecks. John groaned and lifted Sherlock up onto the bench, and thrusted fervently into him; their cocks rubbing together through the material of their pants. John undid a few buttons on his shirt. The heat in the air was static.
Sherlock’s bravado was stunning, as he ran his lips along John’s collar bones and back up his neck. John had known Sherlock to be cocky in normal situations, but never had he pictured him to be bold when it came to romance. John’s thrusts match Sherlock’s kiss and John found himself drawing patterns on Sherlock’s back with his fingertips. Sherlock had always liked John’s long, slender fingers. The way they could point and pose and curl and tip was absolutely spectacular to Sherlock and he oft found himself dreaming of what such extended fingers could do to him.
“Not enough…” John wines; running his knuckles over Sherlock’s now ever apparent bulge.
“I’ve got you.” Sherlock whispers between kisses, before leading John backwards and sliding off the bench. Sherlock sunk to his knees and looked up at John.
“I’ve been waiting a long time for this, John. You have no idea how much I have wanted this.”
“Oh god, Sherlock, me too.”