The dusk finds 221B Baker Street in languid peace, a striking contrast to what has been before, and will be on another day.
John's laptop resides on a side table, while the man's lap is decidedly occupied by Sherlock's head, and Sherlock watches keenly, mesmerized, as John's mouth moves, when he reads out loud his latest blog entry.
Mischievously, Sherlock complains about the fantastical twist John gives to the writing instead of sticking to the facts and deductions.
"Would you shut up and just listen?"
"I thought you wanted my input."
"I didn't. I just wanted you to listen."
"But it's not correct. Why would you inflict such grievous lies upon the world?"
"Trifles," John murmurs, palming Sherlock's chin and glaring at him sternly to drive the point home… Although Sherlock grinning back at him and taking John's hand to his lips may soften John's look slightly. "Giving the thing a bit of colour isn't exactly lying."
"It might as well be," Sherlock nips John's thumb between his teeth, and stares up at John innocently, the blogger pursing his mouth shut, gathering himself.
"There is nothing so important as trifles."
"Oh, give it a rest already, or I'll have to shut you up myself."
Sherlock focuses on John's fingers, sampling the salt on John's skin with a lick up his palm. "I'm merely suggesting-"
But that's as far as he gets before he's pushed and lifted, tackled and pinned to the sofa, John's lips pressed tightly against Sherlock's, his tongue begging for entrance.
After Sherlock obtains his presence of mind and stops smirking into the kiss, allowing himself to fully enjoy the taste of his lover, John parts, his breath short and ragged, pushing his hips forth as Sherlock throws one impossibly long leg over John's thigh.