It’s cold in the flat, especially when it’s the middle of winter and the fire burned out hours ago. Far too cold for John to be standing stark naked in the middle of the darkened sitting room with a fully-clothed detective’s lips against his jaw. Sherlock trails open-mouthed kisses up his jaw, behind his ear, down his neck. Each kiss leaves behind a small wet patch that cools rapidly in the wintry air, and soon John is shivering, not just in anticipation.
Suddenly Sherlock disappears entirely, and John finds himself missing even the slight warmth of that clothed body against his own. He promised to keep his eyes closed, so he doesn’t look but still knows that Sherlock hasn’t gone far. John can hear him moving somewhere near the door. There’s a soft rustle of fabric and Sherlock’s footsteps coming nearer again. John jumps a little when Sherlock takes his left hand and presses it against cool, smooth fabric. The fabric slides against John’s fingers, around his hand, past his wrist, and up toward his elbow. It’s a sleeve, John’s brain helpfully supplies. He feels Sherlock step behind him as he guides the sleeve up his arm and then pulls his right arm gently back and into the other sleeve. Sherlock presses the coat the rest of the way up so that its weight settles fully on John’s shoulders. The lower hem hits far too low against the back of his calves, and the sleeves fall past his own hands. His coat. This is HIS coat.
John feels Sherlock pace back around to his front and knows that sharp-eyed gaze is raking over him. John’s hands move slowly, pushing out of the overlong sleeves and sliding upward against the dark wool. His fingers grasp the lapels tightly, pausing for a moment to make sure Sherlock knows what he’s going to do before he does it. He cocks one eyebrow. Then all at once he flips the collar up with an audible pop. Sherlock growls, and John finds himself drowning in six feet of lanky detective.
There are heated kisses, hands on skin, mouths everywhere, more growls, whines, moans, whispered “mine”s. John comes with Sherlock’s name on his lips and the heady scent of his flatmate, his partner, his lover filling his nostrils where he breathes it in from the open collar of the Belstaff pressed against his cheek.
GLORIOUS.
devoursjohnlock
