Oneshot inspired by:
"I bet when Sherlock's buttons pop off John sews them back on. :')" "After thoroughly enjoying the absence of material over certain areas of Sherlock, of course."
As John came down the stairs and stepped into the doorway to the sitting room, he heard Sherlock curse and saw him toss down his violin on the armchair, his hands fiddling with something in front of him. Sherlock's back was turned to John, as he had been standing in his usual position in front of the window playing his violin.
"Sherlock, is everything alright?" John moved toward the taller man, who was grumbling under his breath.
"Everything's fine," Sherlock said with a bitter tone, stepping away from John and continuing to fiddle. John furrowed his brow and walked up to Sherlock, reaching out to place a hand on his shoulder.
"Arg!" Sherlock whirled around, startling John and causing him to take a few steps back, as he grabbed the sides of his shirt and pulled them together. He was wearing his purple button-up, the one John always felt a bit mesmerized by.
However, it appeared that at the moment, Sherlock's shirt was not staying buttoned.
Sherlock strode past John, heading to his bedroom, muttering about "ridiculous", "had this for years", "bloody breathing".
John gaped at Sherlock's back as he turned the corner into his room, and stood still for a moment trying to process what had just happened.
Yes, John, it's about the shirt, good observation, John thought to himself, rolling his eyes.
It's not staying buttoned, John turned on his heel and looked at the floor, raising his eyebrows in realization as he noticed the errant buttons, small fragments of thread poking out of their holes, scattered all over the wooden floor.
John cleared his throat and picked one up.
No buttons, John thought.
The shirt won't fit.
The shirt is no longer covering him, John blinked and pursed his lips.
He looked at the button, and then towards Sherlock's room, and then dropped the button and managed a calm but quick pace over to the bedroom.
As he reached the doorway, he saw Sherlock flinging shirts onto the bed, rummaging through his wardrobe.
Sherlock finally reached the bottom of the wardrobe and swore.
"AGAIN?" he yelled and threw a hanger at the wall.
His shirt was hanging on his body loosely, revealing plenty of pale, smooth skin.
John's eyes widened.
Sherlock turned to John and looked slightly embarrassed. Just as he went to pick up the hanger, John grabbed him by the collar and pulled him into a firm kiss.
John began trailing kisses down Sherlock's neck and when he reached his clavicle, he muttered in between his kissing and sucking at Sherlock's skin.
"First," kiss, "you taunt me", suck, "every bloody day," bite, "with your stupid face", nip, "and your goddamned cheekbones".
Sherlock was gasping and gripping John's arms.
"Then," suck, "you go and put," bite, "that fucking shirt on," kiss, "and what do you expect from me? Hm?" nip, "think I'll just let it go?" bite, "You have to be," kiss, "goddamned joking," nip, "if you think I can take this any longer," suck, "when your shirt goes and does this," bite, then John grabs the shirt and rips it off Sherlock, finally bringing his hands up to Sherlock's chest and latching onto one of Sherlock's nipples with his mouth.
"God," John lets go and breathes out on Sherlock's skin, "you'll be the fucking death of me, you git."
Sherlock, mouth hanging open, eyes blown, finally tries to focus on John. He gulps and blinks, before imploring the army doctor.
"Are you raging mad? Don't stop!" He wraps a hand around the nape of John's neck and mashes his lips onto John's, clumsily fingering the buttons of John's shirt, gliding his hand up and down John's chest when he finally gets most of it exposed.
John lets out a muffled mmph, and seizes Sherlock by the waist, tossing him down on top of the shirts on his bed. He crawls on top of Sherlock, his shirt tickling Sherlock's stomache, and proceeds to thoroughly inspect every inch of Sherlock's chest with his lips. Sherlock clutches the bed and arches, squeezing his eyes shut.
Then, the kissing stops, and he feels nimble fingers undoing his belt and tossing it aside. Sherlock's eyes fly open as he is lifted by the hips and feels less and less fabric covering his body. He freezes when John sucks on his thigh, moving upward.
John looks up and sees Sherlock staring at the ceiling, and smirks. He moves up to him and holds his face in his hands.
"Gorgeous bastard," he mutters, before latching onto Sherlock's mouth and forcing his tongue in, painting lines along Sherlock's lips and the tip of his tongue. Sherlock closes his eyes again and grunts, his hands moving of their own accord to John's arse, squeezing. This elicits a satisfatory response from John.
"Right," John says, sternly, and leans over to take off his own trousers. "Still too much on."
Sherlock lies back and rubs a hand over his face before being utterly distracted by a very naked John.
Oh, and there goes Sherlock's pants.
John sits between Sherlock's legs, returning to his earlier activity of admiring Sherlock's torso. He licks at Sherlock's nipples and tweaks one, hearing what may have in fact been a whimper from the detective.
Leave it to John Watson to reduce the man to a quivering heap.
John continued, kissing and sucking up and down the middle of Sherlock's chest, feeling the slim but toned body with his hands. This bastard, John thought, thinks he can hide this from me.
John bites at Sherlock's clavicle again, pulling back slightly to observe a rather attractive set of bruises already forming.
John reaches down and grasps Sherlock's length in his hand while continuing to nip up and down his upper body. His mouth found the dip between Sherlock's arm and his chest, the soft skin right before his underarms, and he kissed this area more gently. Sherlock's head had lolled to the side and he was now breathing out incoherent sounds.
"Mmfuckk," Sherlock twitched and his hand yet again flew to John's arse. John certainly didn't protest. He continued with his kissing, trailing endless paths all over Sherlock's porcelain skin, his hand expertly working the head of Sherlock's cock. John was mid-suck when he felt the hand on his arse move elsewhere.
John struggled to focus on a delicate balance between harsh sucks and gentle nips at Sherlock's reddening skin, as long fingers pulled firmly on him. His tongue darted out to lick a line from Sherlock's navel to his throat, Sherlock squirming underneath him.
But, God, did Sherlock taste, and feel, so good.
Though in the moment John was far too distracted by kiss, pull, nip, gasp, he would later remember the hint of cologne, the aftertaste of tea breathed out from Sherlock's lips, and an overwhelming smell of Sherlock, something that John would never find a good enough word with which to describe.
But that was okay.
John attempted to keep up a steady pace on Sherlock's cock, resorting to quick, firm strokes in his own lust-filled state. Sherlock was doing something incredibly obscene with the base of John's cock and his balls, that sent quick jolts up John's spine and made him weak at the knees.
"Shitting fuck, oh," John said through clenched teeth, resting his forehead on Sherlock's shoulder as he tried to will himself to re-focus on the nipping. He did manage to hit a particular sensitive spot on the underside of Sherlock's cock, which awarded him an, "Oh, Jesus Christ, John."
So there they lay, panting out each other's names, John still worshipping the smooth skin that belonged to the man pinned underneath him, Sherlock arching slightly, exposing a really, really bloody frustrating amount of his neck.
"Bugger," John said as he took advantage and bit, mouthing languidly around Sherlock's Adam's apple. Sherlock let out a strangled moan.
John felt a tightening deep inside, and knew he was close. He sensed Sherlock was, too, so he pulled gently and slowly along his cock, only to then add a quick, almost painfully sudden upwards stroke, his whole hand wrapped around Sherlock. He moved his mouth to Sherlock's and stifled his shouts as Sherlock came, digging his heels into the bed and gripping with one hand at the sheets. Sherlock's grip tightened around John's cock on a particularly forceful stroke, causing John to shudder out his own orgasm, moaning and whimpering into Sherlock's mouth.
Once the aftershocks had subsided, and John had flopped down beside Sherlock, he rested a hand in the dip of Sherlock's chest.
"Bloody, bloody hell." John panted into Sherlock's neck.
"Indeed," Sherlock said as he stared, completely out of focus, at the wall. Then, he felt lips on his ear.
"I'll have to sew those buttons back on for you," John whispered.
Sherlock turned to face John, who was looking at him with narrowed eyes and a slight smile.
"I gather you like that shirt," Sherlock said, the corner of his lip curling.
"Oh," John propped himself up on his elbow and drew his gaze up and down Sherlock's body, "you had better fucking believe it." He grabbed the purple, frustratingly sexy shirt off the floor and put it on himself.
Sherlock's eyes widened and he swore, pulling John down into a searing kiss.
"Get it?" John chuckled against Sherlock's soft lips.
John sat on the edge of the bed, Sherlock snoring beside him, and carefully poked a needle through purple fabric and a button hole, grinning to himself.