A/N: Clearly I've been watching too much Grey's Anatomy because those damn elevators are aphrodisiacs. Just some shameless smut right here.
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock.
If there was a measurement of tension in an elevator between a consulting detective and an army doctor, it would practically be akin to suffocation.
Sherlock and John had gotten closer, in more ways than one, having lived together for a few years. The most contact that they would ever have is hugging, whenever Sherlock had a particularly good day with a case. Even then, every accidental brush of fingers when passing food across the table (when it was clear), or any mundane thing like that was like electricity crackling under their skin. Sometimes, not even physical contact could set them off. Sherlock's eyes could penetrate right into John's core, making him feel like he was under a microscope. However, John had a way of looking at Sherlock that made him feel like he was stripped of all his defenses that normally held him together.
There was no catalyst for this turn of events in physical attraction. No particular girl, not even a Woman, which is why it was jarring for both of them.
The usual result was Sherlock taking a lot more cold showers than usual. He was a virgin, but only in the sense that he had never seriously been with someone. Sex didn't alarm him at all; it was just something that he never considered until he started living with John. He had those desires, but he considered them irrelevant to his work. Naturally, he did his best to delete that information. It didn't turn out so well. Sherlock would never admit this until the time came, but he developed a bit of a military kink. Ever since John pulled rank at Baskerville, he couldn't get the vision of John topping him, using that military voice to reduce Sherlock to a whimpering mess, begging for release, out of his head. He often woke up in the middle of the night, his whole body drenched in sweat, his heart pounding like mad, and his legs tangled up beneath sticky sheets. Visions of John wearing nothing but his dog tags danced through his mind, and he went back to sleep with a smirk on his face.
Poor John didn't fare any better. No matter how many dates he went on to squash his desire for his very attractive flatmate, nothing worked. In the shower, he imagined the pouty lips of his past girlfriends sucking his cock dry as their small hands worked their magic. However, those visions always transformed into long, pale, and spidery digits and a mouth that formed a perfect heart as John brought it to orgasm. On the bright side, the water heating bill wasn't terribly high with all the cold showers they were both taking. However, Sherlock banging on the shower door, demanding that John hurry up, didn't help his case.
Currently, they were in a very slow-moving elevator heading up to some apartment conveniently on the top floor of a high class flat complex to investigate a murder. Probably a lover's quarrel, based on what Lestrade told them.
It was dead silent, but never had silence been so deafening.
John could hear his heart in his chest going off like a bass drum that was being beaten relentlessly. Knowing his best friend, he figured that Sherlock could hear it too, based on the look that he fixed John with. It was the same look that he gave him every time he was feeling particularly lewd, which was the equivalent of fucking him on the closest available surface.
Sherlock's whole body was humming with anticipation. He had a keen sense of when the tide would turn. Up until now, his senses had failed him. After every chase, they would prop themselves against the wall in the hallway, trying to catch their breath. It took almost every fiber in Sherlock's body not to jump John right then and there. He had to remind himself that, although Mrs. Hudson would probably be overjoyed that they were together, John probably wouldn't appreciate it. In theory.
"So, got any ideas on how the man murdered his partner?" John was horrible at making small talk in awkward situations like this, but he was getting better. His voice even stopped squeaking.
Sherlock grumbled. "Based on the fact that we're going up to a very high-class apartment, with the scene being the partner's flat, it's obvious that the man came into his partner's flat in a jealous rage, claiming that his partner had been sleeping with the milkman—"
"Hang on, I didn't know that London still had milkmen," John frowned.
"Please John. People who live in flats like these are selective about what they eat, even the most average of things, like drinks," Sherlock replied. "His partner probably wasn't very close with her neighbors, so she only had her partner for company. Whenever the milkman came around, she would start talking to him, and then sooner or later…"
"Go on," John sighed. He sometimes hated how Sherlock paused for dramatic effect.
"The man's alibi is ridiculous, but interesting. He claimed she ran into his knife ten times after he smelled the milkman's cologne all over her."
John snorted. These cases get weirder and weirder.
"Why do you think she was attracted to the milkman?" John asked.
"Oh, I suppose it was something to do with the way that he carried those milk cartons. Those can be particularly heavy, so he had a lot of muscle in his arms. We all know how women are attracted to those superficial things. Milkmen have to be charming too, having to deliver that early in the morning, so there was no way that she could have resisted his advances."
And then the quiet hum of the elevator took over.
John shifted from one foot to the other, obviously uncomfortable with the amount of tension between them. He fiddled with his phone but then put it away, frowning at the bad reception he got in the elevator. He glanced over at Sherlock, who was clacking away on his Blackberry, as usual.
Sherlock was desperately trying to keep himself busy before he did something that would be both immensely pleasurable and mortifying for John if there were cameras (installed by Mycroft most likely) in the elevator to capture it all. His eyes did a quick scan around the enclosed space, looking for any cameras. Excellent, there were none. He put his phone away, shoved his hands in his pockets, and simply looked at John, the message all over his face.
John found the elevator door to be most fascinating, taking note of all the swirls embedded in its surface. It took a couple of minutes before he felt Sherlock's eyes on him. He gulped and then glanced over. Sherlock's pupils were almost blown out, and if that didn't send electricity straight to John's groin, well.
It only took one blink before John was shoved against the side of the elevator with one very randy Sherlock Holmes attached to him. It took another one before he responded to this pleasant turn of events. Immediately, he grabbed Sherlock's head and closed the gap. Years of playing the clarinet made him very skilled with his tongue. Based on Sherlock's moaning, he hadn't lost his skills. Sherlock's grabbed John's arse and pulled him closer to him, with John responding by hopping up and locking his ankles around his waist. For once, John was thankful for his height.
Sherlock's hips drove into the bulge in John's jeans, itching to relieve the delicious pressure building in his lower abdomen. John's head and back slammed into the elevator wall. It should have been painful, but with the way that Sherlock was nipping and licking at his ear and neck, those sensations were obliterated and were replaced with his entire body on fire. He didn't even bother holding in the throaty moan because fuck, this man knew exactly which buttons to push to get him off. He let go of his hold around Sherlock's waist, more than willing to deal out the pleasure. He used one hand to grab Sherlock's arse to reduce the space between them to nothing, and the other to shove his hand down his trousers, already damp with precum. Sherlock let out a guttural moan and let his head fall against the wall, his arms supporting him. His legs threatened to give out from under him.
Bless John's occupation as a doctor, because his hand was working wonders. Just as soon as Sherlock felt like he was going to explode, John pulled back with a wicked grin on his face.
"John Watson, are you trying to kill m—," Sherlock snarled out, but his words got caught in his throat as John popped open his jeans and pulled out his throbbing erection. Without breaking eye contact with him, his eyes almost black, he brought their erections together. They both groaned at the contact. Sherlock rolled through his mind palace because he wasn't even capable of walking through it at this point, trying to recall another time where he felt like he was this incapacitated from pleasure. Nothing came up.
John coated both of their cocks with precum and began rocking his hand and hips in unison. The consulting detective who normally talked a million miles an hour was rendered speechless to a combination of gasps, grunts, and moans escaping those delicious lips, his hips thrusting automatically. Never had John been more aroused to see Sherlock lost in pleasure, prompting him to go faster. He grabbed Sherlock's head again and fucked him deeply with his tongue. Sherlock was panting through the kiss, his hand joining John's, the other sneaking around to cup John's arse, pushing his jeans down towards his thighs. His index finger snuck down to John's entrance, circling gently. John thrusted his hips even faster in response, gasping for air, anticipating penetration.
And Sherlock did not disappoint. He plunged it in, his middle finger joining soon afterwards. They scissored their way in, fondling his prostate. John dragged them against the wall, their lips still connected, desperate to keep that contact because he was so fucking close and Christ, he had dreams about those fingers. They were everything he imagined: long, lithe, and dexterous in the extreme.
"Fuck me Sherlock. Just-," John moaned.
"Obviously," Sherlock grunted out. He shoved his trousers and pants down, gave himself two strokes, and picked up his army doctor. John settled down onto his cock immediately, his head thumping backwards. He was pressed firmly against the wall, Sherlock's hips pounding into him, setting a strong, steady rhythm. John's hips gyrated, determined to find that spot where Sherlock's cock could hit his prostate every time. His shouts signaled success, which Sherlock caught on to, so he found that rhythm to the point that they were both about to collapse from pleasure. However, putting John first was important to Sherlock, so he held him as John came. It took some serious concentration for Sherlock not to drop him as he followed, his vision going white.
They slid down until they were in a tangled, sweaty heap on the floor. Sherlock pulled out of him and kissed him on the forehead. They stood up, checked their clothing, and stood closer in the elevator, their hands brushing together. Eventually, John grabbed his hand and gave it a squeeze, offering him a bright smile. Sherlock returned a lewd smirk and John blushed, but maintained his chipper composure.
The doors finally opened. Lestrade was on the phone, scowling. He yanked his phone away from his ear and punched the end call button. He looked up at the pair of them, a look crossing his eye for a split second.
"Thanks for coming. Anderson isn't pleased that you're here, but then again, we need you, as always," Lestrade said with a sigh.
"Where is she?" Sherlock asked.
"In the kitchen," Lestrade gestured with his phone.
Sherlock nodded and left with a flourish of his black coat.
"What's going on with you two?" Lestrade asked.
"How do you mean?" John already had a feeling of what he was getting at.
"Well, there's just something different about you two. It's like you're glowing or something," he replied, scratching his head.
"Probably the lighting in the elevator." He hoped his answer was good enough.
"Yeah...must be. Unless you an—"
"We're not a couple. He's my best mate!" John squeaked, his face heating up.
"Whatever you say, John."
"I believe you for a second."
A/N: Yes, that was a Chicago reference, for all the readers who have been wondering. You're not just imagining it.