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“I was thinking about a couple of days ago—at Baskervilles—you pulling rank,” Sherlock says, with great portent, as he pulls John closer.
“Oh yes?” John cocks his head, smiling, and then leans in to press another kiss against Sherlock's mouth. Steadily, they're making their way to bed. “Is that what this is all about?” He nudges his thigh between Sherlock's legs and against the half-hardness there.
“I think that has rather more to do with your tongue in my mouth,” Sherlock pitched his voice low, “and your open dressing gown.” He uses one finger to circle the nipple that's been partially visible, distracting him for long minutes.
“Fair enough.” John can't be close enough to Sherlock. He smells like chemicals and burnt things and soap. “Bed?”
“Is that an order?” Sherlock smirks.
“Oh, stop it.” With a laugh, John steps away to lead them further on.
“Yes sir, Captain, sir.” Sherlock's voice dips in ridiculous seriousness, and he flourishes a salute. Then he darts off to the bedroom, just ahead of the swat John aimed for his behind.
Afterward, spent, breath caught, cleaned up, John says, “I liked that.”
“You usually do.” Sherlock is sticking a third round patch to his arm, the craving for a post-sex smoke thwarting his concentration. “Isn't that what I'm to gather by all the grunting?”
“No—well, yes, but I meant earlier, when you called me Captain.” John tucks his hands behind his head and looks over at Sherlock, waiting with no small amount of anxiousness for the moment the man deduces it to be a sign of some deep-buried kinkiness that not even John knew about.
Instead, Sherlock looks contemplative for a moment. “Yes, I thought so,” he says, finally. He lays down next to John, looking at him. “Shall I do that more often, Captain Watson?”
It's not a joke this time. Not a hint of sarcasm or mockery hangs on Sherlock's words, and the full impact of the name spreads through John's chest like a warm security. He realizes he's smiling. “Might be nice.”
it's one of those things that, on the morning, might not have happened at all save for the warmth John still felt lingering. They get up and go about their day, John off to surgery and Sherlock pacing over the current case.
They are busy men, after all.
In fact, it doesn't come up again until nearly a week later, when they're on the trail of the final clue. Sherlock is in full fugue and when he finally comes upon it and all the pieces fall into place he shouts, “captain, over here, I've found it!”
John is at his side before he fully realizes what drew him there. Unfortunately, Lestrade also appears.
“Captain?” he echoes, brow furrowed, mouth ready to smile.
“Oh leave it alone, Inspector, there are rather more important matters at hand right now.” Sherlock's tone is scathingly derisive. He waves a paint chip with a partial shoeprint embeddded in it. “We have our man!”
There's almost always case sex. John doesn't even mean to call it that but it was impossible not to. Victory sex. We are so bloody smart sex. Just as it was impossible to resist the adrenaline rush that drove them, victory after victory, through the flat kissing and undressing, relieved enough to just be in the door, falling into bed in a heap with their socks still on.
This time it's the kind of fuck where John almost loses his mind a little bit. He's dripping sweat and caught blissfully in the longest buildup to orgasm he's ever experienced, getting miles closer with each thrust, but still miles away. Beneath him, Sherlock looks like he's in a similar state, skin gone all luminous with sweat and blood, red mouth open and pale eyes alight.
“God,” John swears emphatically, or maybe by now he is actually praying. “Fuck, Sherlock.” A thought flashes in his mind and he groans. “Tell me. Say it.”
Sherlock doesn't need to ask—of course he doesn't—just spreads his thighs wider, works his hips faster and gasps, “Ah, yes, Captain--”
Maybe there's more, maybe not. John doesn't know; he's too busy coming and coming and coming in a long, excruciating clench that steals his breath and makes his head spin.
He gains awareness, slowly, to the sight of Sherlock still lying under him, clenched around him, stroking himself with increasing speed. Sherlock's breath loses its rhythm and when he comes it's with harsh, desperate gasps, belly shuddering, hips jerking on mindless impulse. The tight flutter around John's softening cock is just over the edge of too much and he pulls out with an exhausted wince, still unable to take his eyes off Sherlock.
They lie melted into the bedclothes for long, sweaty moments. At length, Sherlock fumbles one hand under the mattress to pull out a crushed pack of cigarettes and a small lighter.
John stares. “I thought I looked under there.”
“You did. You just didn't look closely enough.” Sherlock lights up with a deep suck, holding the smoke in until he can't, letting it out with a decadent sigh. “I'd say that went exceptionally well.”
“Huh?” John agrees, but it's a very odd thing to say about sex.
“I mean about the case.” Sherlock takes another deep drag, eyes shut.
“Oh. Yes.” John would say more, but he has to yawn. He has to turn off the bedside lamp. He's incredibly tired, and Sherlock may even be falling asleep with the smoke still between his lips.
“Put that out,” John murmurs into his pillow. There's one last breath of smoke in the darkness before the quiet crush of ash in the ashtray and Sherlock saying, “yes, Captain.”