Maintaining a Personal Life

Chapter Eight

Sometime later, after the novelty of being tangled up on the sofa wore off and the numbness of various limbs set in, Sherlock finally sat up to stretch out his tingling legs. He thought John might have drifted off, but now he felt the other man's eyes following him.

"So," John said quietly, his voice still a little thick with the drowsy lull that had settled over them both. John shifted to stretch out on the sofa, the movement drawing Sherlock's gaze to linger there. John still looked fairly debauched and happily so, with his trousers undone and shoved low on his hips and his bare chest beckoning Sherlock to run his eyes over it.

He'd seen John shirtless before, but only in stolen glances out of the corner of his eye while Sherlock pretended to be unfazed and absorbed in his work. Now he had license to openly stare and he took full advantage, committing every patch of skin to memory from the slight curve of John's stomach that wasn't quite as defined as it used to be, to the starburst of scar tissue over his left shoulder.

"Yeah, I could definitely get used to that," John murmured. Sherlock's eyes reluctantly lifted to John's face, where he watched one corner of the other man's mouth quirk up. "You," John clarified when Sherlock's brow knitted slightly in confusion, "looking at me like that. Like I'm under your bloody microscope."

"Not a problem, then?" Sherlock asked with his mouth flickering upwards in an answering smile.

"God, no." John chuckled, and his hand settled on Sherlock's arm, fingers rubbing absently over the silky material of his robe. "I'll never have to be jealous of your ruddy mould samples again."

"Were you?"

"Daily." John's smile broadened into a grin, dimming the lights in the room by significant wattage. He laughed, just a soft expulsion of air, as he sat up and began tucking himself back in his trousers. "You know," John said as he zipped up his fly again, "I was thinking—"

Sherlock inhaled dramatically, which prompted John to stab a half-hearted glare at him.

"—that you're a knob," John amended, his mouth twisting in a wry smile. "But also about that pesky murder case."

"What about it?" Sherlock frowned at the reminder of what still nagged at him as a resounding failure. For some reason, it didn't bother him nearly as much as it had a mere half hour earlier. His mind was still pleasantly hazy from the most satisfying orgasm he'd experienced in a very long time.

"How you haven't solved it yet."

"Obviously." Sherlock's tone was a little sharp, although it softened by a fraction as he added, "I've been... distracted."

"Really?" John seemed entirely too pleased with himself at being the source of this distraction as he sat back and crossed his arms. "How's that?"

"I am trying." Sherlock felt his frustration with the matter slowly bleed back into him, although it was still considerably muted.

"I know." John's amusement sobered slightly, but there was still a glint in his eye as he added, "You should try a little harder, though." Sherlock barely had time to gather an indignant scowl before John added, "It's just that once I get you into bed properly, I don't plan on letting you out for a while. So you might want to get that sorted first. Yeah-- by tonight, definitely."

"John—" Sherlock began, evenly torn between annoyance and admiration.

"Go on," John said with a slow grin dragging his mouth up and a playful glimmer in his eyes that Sherlock registered as flirtatious. He'd seen that look levelled at enough women to know. To have John flirting with him now, and making no effort to disguise it, made something in Sherlock's chest leap. "Impress a bloke."