alenturing:

Chef Sherlock is done for the night. His whites are stained with sauces and his hair is all frizzy from the heat. He’s sweaty and tired and what he really needs is a shower. He doesn’t get one. The second he steps through the door to 221B, John is on him, shoving him back against it, burying his nose in Sherlock’s neck and licking. “I love you like this,” he groans, nipping the sensitive skin. Sherlock shimmies out of his trousers and wraps himself around John, arms circling his neck and legs circling his waist, loving the thrill he gets from John supporting him. John presses him tight to the door, crushing him with his warm weight. John’s fingers trail over his skin, up up his thigh, and play with the lace of his panties. He’s nosing Sherlock’s neck,  alternately licking and kissing the pale skin. His hand moves away for just a second to free himself and then he’s rubbing, grinding against Sherlock through his panties, hot flesh against silky lace. Sherlock whines, his hips trying to stutter forward and into the pressure. His fingers clench on the back of John’s neck. When he comes it’s not a rush, but slow and lazy, and with drawn out whimpers. John stops long enough to unwind Sherlock from around him and deposit him, kneeling, on the floor. He strokes himself, keeping one hand in Sherlock’s curls, till he comes with a near silent groan all over Sherlock’s high cheekbones, his long slender neck, his sweat glistened chest. He drops to his knees in front of Sherlock, kissing him, licking up the mess on his face, on his neck, moving back up to share it with him. Sherlock leans into him, content, loving the taste of John in his mouth.