John knew he had forgotten the milk. He didn't need anyone to tell him, because he had realised about two minutes after he had arrived at the flat. He had everything but the bleeding milk. He knew there'd be hell to pay if he didn't nip down to the shops later and get it, but he'd be buggered if he was going back now. He was tired.

"Hello!" he shouted, nudging the door open with his hip. "I'm back!"

He dropped the shopping in a somewhat unceremonious pile in the kitchen and walked through to the living room. His laptop was still on the coffee table, mercifully untouched. Something that couldn't be assured in John's experience.

He sat down with a satisfied grunt and pulled it onto his lap, skimming down the page. He frowned. "What the..." He scrolled up to the previous page. "What the- Hey!"

"What the hell are you screaming about?"

John glared at his roommate. His hair was a mess, and he was wearing a dressing gown, despite it being almost one in the afternoon. John could see quite plainly that there was nothing underneath.

"You've been doing it again," John said through gritted teeth. "Messing around with my bloody memoirs."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and fell heavily onto the sofa beside him. "Your memory is crap."

"It is not!" John insisted. "You keep sticking things in that didn't even happen. And you don't even remember half the names of the people involved."

"Unimportant details," Sherlock said with a yawn, lying back in his seat.

"Cover yourself up, will you," John said, snatching his laptop away.

Sherlock smirked sideways at him. "Or what? You'll smack me one?"

He wiggled his toes in John's face.

"Right," John said, pushing the laptop onto the coffee smartly. He crawled over Sherlock, shoving a knee roughly between his legs.

Sherlock looked up at him with glittering eyes.

"This is my book," he said sternly. "My memoir. It's supposed to be about what I remember, not you. So if you're bored, go and find yourself some poor, dead sod to gloat over."

Sherlock's smirk widened. "I love it when you're domineering." He wrapped his bare legs around John's waist.

"You..." John rolled his eyes. "You're hopeless."

"Mmm," Sherlock said, pulling him down to kiss his cheek, his jaw and his chin. "And you're boring. I'm bored. Oh so very bored. Write your trite, little school thing later."

John tilted his head reluctantly as Sherlock's warm lips reached his neck. "Sherlock..."

"Don't "Sherlock" me," Sherlock said into his skin, sending a cascade of shivers and goosebumps down him. "Come on. Let's see if you can manage any of those moves from high school, you old man." His voice was low and vibrating with lust.

John sighed. "Fine. Fine, you win. One very, very quick shag." He looked at him fiercely. "And then I'm working."

Sherlock grinned. John knelt upright and hastily tore off his jumper and t-shirt.

"So eager," Sherlock quipped. "It's like you're seventeen again. All that nostalgia is rubbing off on you."

"Oh, shut up," John said, kissing him.

And for once, Sherlock did.