Sherlock One-Shots

Breathless - (Johnlock smut)

Summary: John often finds himself breathless due to the antics of Sherlock Holmes... who's to say that it ends at running after criminals?

Includes Edging, slight overstimulation, bondage, roughness, trans Watson, established relationship.


The rhythmic landing of his feet against the pavement made him feel alive as his adrenaline pumped through his bloodstream, and he found himself chasing Sherlock for the third time that week.

They were on a time-sensitive case, meaning that Sherlock was on a spree of rushing off alone after a lead or a suspect.
This resulted in their current situation; coats whipped behind them and hearts pounded as the duo struggled to keep up with their killer, who had turned out to be one of the victim's family members. Typical.

They rounded a corner, finally slowing to a jog as the killer found himself cornered in the alleyway and sirens could be heard in the distance, the red and blue lights already visibly bouncing off the sides of buildings and shimmering off of windows.

The killer cursed under his breath and attempted to tackle Sherlock to the ground to at least earn himself a small chance of getting away, however, was immediately yanked off and pinned to the ground by John.

"Sherlock; the cuffs." He ordered and held a hand out, missing the intrigued look his lover gave him as he passed him the handcuffs.
John quickly cuffed the man as Lestrade jogged over.

"Christ, Sherlock! Stop rushing off like that! You're going to give me a heart attack one day." He complained as he moved to haul the criminal up off the ground.

"Highly unlikely, detective inspector." The smart-arse replied as casually as he could while he caught his breath, shooting a smirk to John.

The doctor smiled back, chest heaving as Lestrade rolled his eyes and walked away, the killer in tow and grumbling about how being caught was unfair.

The duo followed along, both unable to suppress the grins on their face even though they were trying to as Sherlock hailed a cab to bring them home.
The cab ride was peaceful and consisted of barely suppressed, adrenaline-fulled giggles, intertwined fingers and suggestive glances in the wake of a successfully solved case.

They were still grinning as they entered the flat, and it wasn't a surprise to John when Sherlock pressed him up against the door as soon as it had been closed, pressing his body close as if he had not touched him in ages.

To John, words were not needed to question whether or not it was okay for Sherlock to kiss him, as he was sure the genius could easily deduce it, but he was still met with the towering figure leaning against and above him, lips ghosting his.

"Can I kiss you, John?" Sherlock asked, his smooth baritone voice lowered to a soft whisper as he moved to wrap his arms around his lover's waist, pressing a thigh between John's legs.

The doctor almost shuddered at the way the detective's deep voice could convey such care, managing to only shudder once Sherlock's thigh was pressing between his legs.

"Yes, of course, you can," John responded, humming in content as cupid bow lips pressed against his plump ones, the warmth comforting and completely welcome.

His hand lightly cupped the back of Sherlock's neck, the strands of his dark, curly hair brushing against his hand as he pulled the detective closer by his coat collar.

Sherlock delighted in the soft groan that managed to slip from his lover as he pressed his tongue gently over John's lips.
Dr. Watson let his mouth open in response, a shiver running down his spine as Sherlock pressed his tongue against his, allowing him to savour the taste of him.

Sherlock tasted like the chamomile tea they had this morning, the sugary taste of the raw honey he had added to it still prominent on his tongue and in his saliva.

Watson moved his hands to slip off the detective's coat, smiling into the kiss as the detective removed his arms from his waist to accommodate and let it slide down his shoulders, pooling at their feet.
He allowed his fingers to flutter over the buttons of his lover's dress shirt, undoing the top ones to gain access to his chest and rest his hands on his pectorals.

Sherlock gave a small hum, and John allowed him to remove his hands in favour of slipping off his coat, letting it fall to the ground with the detective's beloved Belstaff; a halo of fabric surrounding them as the heat on the stairwell landing heated with each gasp between barely separated kisses.