John is late.
Sherlock rubs his face vigorously for a few seconds and sighs with frustration. He needs caffeine. Or rather, his brain needs it to function properly after five hours and forty six minutes of wasting valuable time for such a dull occupation as sleeping.
Sleeping is boring. BORING.
The detective sighs again, louder this time, glancing at his wrist watch every few seconds, his ears listening to any sounds of John coming back from the store on the other side of the road. Usually it took the doctor ten minutes and eleven seconds (more or less) to reach the shop, buy the groceries and get back home. Usually, by the time Sherlock finally emerged from his bedroom his coffee was waiting for him on his desk. Usually, at this hour John was sitting at the kitchen table, reading a morning paper and eating breakfast at the same time. But today is not an usual day and Sherlock Holmes doesn't like that. Not. One. Bit.
Mainly because John is bloody late.
Holmes gets up from his lying position on the sofa he occupied for the last six minutes and twenty four seconds and starts pacing the floor, running his hands through the unruly mop of curly black hair. His brain needs stimulation! Puzzles, riddles, anything at all to occupy his thoughts. Because lately all he can think of is John Watson.
With nothing to distract him, Sherlock caught himself staring at the good doctor a few times, his eyes wandering from his short, thick grayish hair down to his deep, ocean blue eyes and nose that Holmes could only describe as cute (a word he despised with his whole being). Then the detective's eyes moved down again to stop at John's mouth, and Sherlock could not understand why he stared so much at Watson's lips. They weren't special by any means - thin and pale pink, like everyone else's. And yet, the sight of John licking his lips unconsciously while reading his morning paper sent a shiver running down Sherlock's back.
It isn't normal and Sherlock is quite aware of it. As far as he can remember, no one ever affected him in that way, not even when he was still in school.
He jumps, startled, when the front door open and close loudly. He knows it takes around thirteen seconds for John to climb the stairs, so he sits in his favorite armchair, fingers pressed tightly together, his eyes drilling two small holes in the door.
Twelve seconds later, the sound of John's footsteps stops and the door handle goes down. Before John can even take one step into the room, Sherlock jumps up from his seat and rushes forward to grab a bag of groceries from Watson's hand. Startled, John moves out of the way and with a surprised cry he falls on his back, wincing in pain as Sherlock's thin body collides with his. He groans, more in aggravation than actual discomfort.
"What on earth are you doing?" he snaps, looking up at Sherlock. He blinks quickly a few times, seeing the detective's face so close to his. Holmes ignores his question and opens the bag lying beside them.
"Aha!" he shouts, taking out a jar of coffee and opens it quickly, inhaling the scent of the auburn powder. He sighs with satisfaction and closes his eyes with delight.
"Coffee, Watson" he says quietly and finally looks down at the doctor. The ocean blue eyes stare at him with some kind of an emotion he can't quite name. John shakes his head a little and glares at Sherlock.
Watson rolls his eyes and lies back, shaking his head again, this time in resignation.
Sherlock's body moves slightly, pinning John to the floor even more. Holmes leans forward, his lips almost touching the shell of doctor's ear.
"You were late. Now you have to pay" he whispers. John laughs loudly, but his body shivers at the sound of Sherlock's deep voice so close to his ear. He turns his head to the left, his nose almost colliding with other man's cheek.
"Come on, get off. Who else will make your damn coffee, huh?" he murmurs back, holding back a laugh when Holmes immediately springs back to his feet, still holding his precious jar and dramatically walks to the kitchen.
"Do try to keep up, Watson!"
John winces and stands up, picking up the groceries that fell to the floor when Holmes attacked him. Really, that man was impossible!
"I'm going!" he shouts back, annoyed. " I'm not your maid, Holmes!"
He can hear Sherlock chuckling in the kitchen and he smiles. Every time he makes the detective laugh or smile, his insides make a little dance of pleasure.
John makes his way to the kitchen, taking careful steps to avoid any unexpected "experiments" that Sherlock might have left on the floor.
A few minutes later of constant questions "Is it done yet?", Sherlock sits in his armchair sipping a hot coffee from the biggest mug they could find in the kitchen, purring contentedly like a cat. John lies on the sofa, one hand hanging loosely on one side, the other one tucked comfortably under his head. His eyes are glued to the TV screen except these little moments when they move to glance at the detective.
Sherlock looks at the mug with awe, like a child looking at his Christmas presents and John can't control a chuckle that escapes his throat. Holmes' eyes immediately move from the cup to the doctor, searching, deducting. John looks away, blushes slightly and clears his throat, feeling Sherlock's gaze burning the skin on his neck.
John sighs. Of course Sherlock is bored. No case for three days now and Watson begins to wonder how long will he have to wait for Sherlock to blow up the whole house during some kind of experiment.
"Yes, I heard you the first time" says the doctor patiently and turns off the TV with a sigh.
John snorts loudly.
"Are you telling me you don't know, Sherlock?
Holmes smiles and shrugs, lifting the mug to his lips. John watches him swallow the hot brew and clears his throat again, awkwardly.
He can't believe he wants Sherlock Holmes. It's unreal! Sherlock Holmes, the most annoying, weird, insensitive person he ever met. And yet the most brilliant, beautiful, stunningly intelligent creature he ever had the pleasure to know.
And John knows Sherlock. Knows him like no one else. He knows when Sherlock is content or disturbed, angry or collected, bored or...
But he is a man, god damn it, and Watson is not gay! He likes... boobs and all the rest. Then why? Why Sherlock Holmes?
John glances at the detective again and jumps, seeing his face so close to his again. Sherlock must have abandon his comfortable armchair and sneak up on Watson while he was contemplating his desires for the other man.
And then Holmes' lips are touching his very softly, gray eyes open, watching is reaction. Watson freezes. Sherlock's lips are hot and delicate against his, and John can't conceal a moan. He buries his fingers in the unruly mop of black curly hair and opens his mouth slightly, inviting, hungry for more Sherlock, more kisses, more everything...
Holmes pulls back slightly, his eyes still open and looking at John with a mixture surprise, confusion and lust.
"Good God" says Watson, trying to slow down his racing heart. Sherlock laughs, a little nervously, and John's stomach twists at the sound.
"Just Sherlock" he replies. The doctor notices with satisfaction that he sounds a little out of breath as well.
"What will we do now?" he asks carefully, his arms still holding Holmes close. The taller man looks at him in silence, his eyes glued to Watson's face like he's trying to memorize every freckle and wrinkle.
"I... I'm not very good with people"
John laughs then, resting his forehead against Sherlock's,
"Oh, really? I haven't noticed" he replies, smiling widely. Holmes moves a little, his taller body covering John's completely. Watson sighs in contentment as warm arms embrace him and draw him even closer. Sherlock rubs his cheek against doctor's, clearly enjoying the feeling of a stubble on his shaved one.
"Does that mean you'll make coffee for me every morning?"
John laughs again and continues to laugh when Sherlock lips attack his face and neck with little nips and kisses.
"Yes" he says finally, out of breath "it does".