After a long and tiresome day, Sherlock and I go back to Baker Street. Exhausted, sweaty, filthy, stinky, and absolutely tired. Well, I don't think there is anyone who could actually stay fresh and clean after running around London, chasing a stubborn criminal, and inevitably rolling over random dark (and dirty) places. That's where those blokes usually hide. Hm.
I took off my coat as we reached the sitting room. Sherlock did the same. Although he stripped off most of his clothing, throwing them off carelessly on the couch and left nothing but his pants on.
I gaped.
Wow.
It was a sight to behold. A sight to really ogle, but I really didn't have the chance to perv on my boyfriend when he immediately stepped into the kitchen. Lots of rattling and clinking happened, then the click of the stove being turned on.
Ah, he's making tea.
I smiled and stepped towards the couch, picking up Sherlock's clothes. It was wet with sweat, but it doesn't stink. It still smelled good and very Sherlock-ish.
"Sherlock," I called.
A hmm loud enough for me to hear was his response.
"I'm going to go and take a shower, then sleep. How about you?"
There was a loud disapproving groan, then Sherlock's head popped out of the kitchen's doorway.
"Tea?" he asked.
I smiled, "Nah. I'm okay. I just need a warm bath. I'm also very tired and I really want to go to sleep."
A loud disapproving groan again, then Sherlock grimaced.
I chuckled, "What was that for?"
Sherlock didn't answer. Instead, he gestured for me to go to him, with puppy eyes and a pout that he was trying to hide.
When I was inches away, he emerged from the kitchen and stood in front of me. Chest exposed, (those hair he had on them were magnificent), pants, well, yes, exposed, too.
I crossed my arms, and smiled. "You called me here, I'm assuming it's important."
Sherlock nodded and took a step towards me, invading my personal space. "Damn right, it is important."
He put his hands on either side of my face and cupped it. His hands warm and nice against my skin. He brought me closer, I smirked. Damn right, it is very important.
A pair of lips started brushing against mine. Sherlock was already kissing me, his eyes squeezed shut. It's a deep, hungry, passionate but chaste kiss on the lips. No tongue. Just mouth on mouth. I almost chuckled at the way my brain described it.
It was that kind of kiss but it was full of emotion.
Hm. I guess that's Sherlock Holmes, a simple action can become totally meaningful when he's the one doing it.
He pulled back moments later, hands still cupping my face, He looked me in the eye. Passion, desire, want, need, love. It was what I saw.
I smiled fondly at him and caressed his face with my free hand. He leaned in to the touch, closing his eyes and even kissing my palm.
"Sherlock, you okay?" I asked.
He opened his eyes, emotions ten times stronger and visible. My heart raced frantically as he looked straight into my eyes.
"Sherlock?"
He sighed, shook his head and looked down.
"Is that a 'No, John. I am not okay'? Or 'John, please stop talking, you sound so stupid'?" I asked, now a little bit worried. Why would a man - who just chased a criminal, captured a criminal and put the criminal to jail - look so troubled and worried? Hm.
