John practically threw Sherlock into the cab the moment the door was open far enough. He'd taken one last look around for Luis while he was bundling Sherlock out of the club, but Luis appeared to be back at the bar chatting up some other skinny twink and thus wasn't watching. Just as well. John had plans.
"Call Lestrade." He tossed Sherlock his own phone - no chance Sherlock had his own on him, not with those pants so tight you could count the change in his pocket - and slid in the cab behind him. All the way to the middle, crowding into Sherlock's space. Sherlock shivered. He also dialed with surprising obedience while John directed the driver to 221B. The man eyed them in the mirror, but wisely didn't say anything after receiving the full weight of John's glare.
"Sherlock?" Lestrade's voice was faint, but audible from the phone's speaker. "What's wrong? You usually text."
"John insisted I call," Sherlock said. "Luis Alvarez is definitely facilitating the money laundering scheme, but he's not the instigator. Not receiving a big enough piece of the pie to be the mastermind behind it. He's got a partner, male, small hands, blond. Physically the less stronger of the two but an excellent social manipulator. Check Alvarez's living arrangements - his boyfriend spends at least some time at his flat, so there should be some obvious sources of DNA there. Text me when you've got his flat secured and I'll come clean up the mess your forensics techs make of the data collection."
There was a long pause. Then . . . "Sorry," Lestrade said. "I got stuck on the 'John insisted I call' part. Since when have you ever done what you're told?"
John slid his hand down into the back of Sherlock's tight jeans, squeezing one taut globe of his arse. Sherlock straightened immediately but didn't pull away. And fuck, he was wearing absolutely nothing under those jeans at all. Suddenly the cab's speed felt totally inadequate.
"Actually," Sherlock practically gasped, "don't text. I'll call you. Later." He ended the call and dropped the phone to the floor.
"Good choice," John murmured, leaning in close so he could insinuate his hand even further down. "So that's all settled, then?"
Sherlock bit his lip and nodded.
"Case can wait?"
"John . . ."
"I'm going to assume that's a 'yes.'" John moved closer, upper body still touching the back of the seat but hips very definitely pinning Sherlock's to the door of the cab beside him. "Got to say, though, I'm a bit disappointed in you."
Sherlock's head snapped up straight and he frowned. "Oh?"
"Yeah." John massaged Sherlock's arse gently, hinting at the kind of body contact they would have soon. When they were safely back in the flat. "You should have deduced I was bi ages ago, but you didn't."
Sherlock swallowed. "I assumed it was merely confirmation bias."
"You were hoping I'd be attracted to you and therefore refused to accept the blatantly obvious clues that I actually was?"
"I . . . didn't want to risk being wrong."
"It was still a risk." John ghosted his hand up the front of Sherlock's shirt. Thumbed Sherlock's nipple through the holes in the mesh. Sherlock shuddered. "You missed out on all the fantastic sex we could have been having. All this time, Sherlock. Because you doubted your deductions."
Sherlock practically quivered, perfect posture and all, but he didn't comment.
"Oi!" The cab driver jabbed a thumb toward Speedy's, outside the window next to them. "Get out before you make a mess of my seat!"
John slid smoothly out of the seat and paid. Sherlock exited the cab with significantly less than his usual grace. They headed up the stairs to 221B together, mindful of Mrs. Hudson's open door and the sound of the telly spilling from it, but once they got upstairs John snapped the door shut behind them and spun Sherlock around to pin him against it.
"You," John growled, "look so damned fuckable I had a hard time not just charging out on the dance floor and trying out my left hook on your arse-faced suspect. Grinding himself against you like he had the right."
"It was for a case," Sherlock murmured. "I didn't-"
"I know you didn't know." Didn't make John feel any less possessive. "So - in case you're still not sure - you. are. MINE." He jammed both hands into Sherlock's waistband, yanked him by the arse until their cocks were pressed together through the fabric of their jeans. "Should I demonstrate it for you?"
"Yes," Sherlock breathed. "Please, John-"
John rocked once more, twice, practically up on his tiptoes to balance out their height difference. It didn't matter - Sherlock was practically hanging on him now, fingers pressing tightly into the scar tissue on his ruined shoulder. It didn't matter. Sherlock was wide-eyed, breathless, so damn responsive . . . John hooked a toe around the back side of Sherlock's heel and twisted them both into a controlled fall onto the red patterned rug. He landed on top of a very surprised consulting detective and immediately dove down for a punishing kiss.
Sherlock kissed like he pursued serial killers - focused, single-minded, and brilliant. John would have put good money on Sherlock not being able to recall more than the barest details about the money laundering case at the moment, but it didn't matter because Sherlock was pouring all that desperate attention out at him and was the most beautiful damn thing on the planet while doing so. John pulled back slightly, just enough Sherlock could see the determination in his eyes, then levered himself down in a one-armed press-up to invade Sherlock's mouth without letting his weight settle onto Sherlock's body.
And as predicted, Sherlock's whole spine curled as he tried to wrap himself around John, press their cocks together, bury himself in the kiss. The more John took control of Sherlock's mouth, his body, the more Sherlock begged with everything but words for John to claim him, own him.
"Yes," Sherlock panted when John finally allowed him a chance to breathe. "John, please, I-"
"Hands behind your back," John commanded.
Sherlock immediately shut up and jammed his hands under the small of his back. John ducked down to lick and then nibble on Sherlock's nipple, the peak poking slyly through the mesh of the shirt, and Sherlock's entire body jackknifed with desperation. So. Damn. Gorgeous. Sherlock's eyes were wild, his breath loud in the silent flat, and all John wanted to do was to make him come. It probably wouldn't take much - just a hand on his cock, he was already writhing against John's body anyway-
No. John lifted his own hips higher, out of Sherlock's reach. "Listen closely," he growled, pressing his forehead against Sherlock's. "You are going to come when, and only when, I let you. Not a moment before."
Sherlock whimpered and nodded.
"You don't even need me to touch your cock, do you? You're desperate for me. Overwhelmed. I'm pinning you down while barely touching you and yet you can't get away. Care to try?"
". . . No." Sherlock bit his lip again, looking simultaneous young and fragile. John wanted to bite him, mark him, pick him up by the hair and drag him away to somewhere he could lock him up and keep him safe.
He did another half-press-up instead, resting his chest on Sherlock's but keeping his weight on his arm. "So eager," he murmured. "All that brainpower, all that energy, and you're mine."
Sherlock let out a soft breath. "Yes."
"Want me to mark you?" John shoved his free hand in his trousers, yanked his flies open and gave his aching cock a much-needed tug. "Gonna come all over those tight jeans, that fuck-me shirt. Gonna get come on your stomach, your pants." He slid a tiny bit lower, so his mouth was hovering over Sherlock's neck. "Except you're not wearing pants, are you? Your cock is right there for the taking, if I wanted. If I let you touch yourself."
And that whimper snapped the last thread tying John to any rational thought. All that was left was the caveman in his brain, yelling claim, claim claim. John wanked himself furiously, the backs of his fingers just barely brushing the hardness of Sherlock's erection below him. The long line of Sherlock's pale neck was right there, ripe for the taking . . .
John didn't bite, not exactly, but he did use his teeth as he closed his mouth over the warm throb of Sherlock's carotid and sucked. Hard. Sherlock cried out, a primal sound of submission and acceptance, and slammed his hips upward into John's. John could literally feel the spasms of Sherlock's cock as he came in his jeans, rocking against John and moaning with each new wave of pleasure. John got in one more frantic pull and then he was coming too, leaking everywhere, come soaking into the fabric of Sherlock's clothes and mixing with the wet spot already forming there from the inside.
"John." Sherlock's arms tightened around John's shoulders, trapping him in a bear hug of emotional release. John let himself collapse. It felt good, right, to cover Sherlock's body head to toe like this with his own.
They lay there on the floor for several minutes, until the jut of Sherlock's hipbones became too painful to ignore. John rolled off Sherlock and lay beside him in silence.
"That was . . ." Sherlock stared at the ceiling, cleared his throat. "That thing you did. It was . . . good."
John propped himself up one elbow, letting Sherlock see his smirk. "Just good?" he prompted.
"Brilliant. Fantastic. Incredible." Sherlock smiled peacefully and closed his eyes. "Thank you for correcting me, John. This is the best erroneous deduction I've made, ever."