The door of 221B blew open with a bang and Sherlock came in at his usual jaunty pace. John was sitting on the loveseat updating his blog.
“Milk! We need milk!” Sherlock exclaimed.
“Bu- I- You’re, you’re suppose to be dead,” John stammered.
“Oh forget that, it was all a ploy.” Sherlock paced in front of the fireplace. “But you’re missing the point. MILK. We need milk, John.”
“You bastard, Sherlock. 1) It’s two in the morning. 2) You come back with no warning after staging your death and you just expect me to roll with it.” John stood up from his place in the loveseat. “And you’re not even concerned about Moriarty, or Lestrade, or even me.”
“Oh John, Moriarty’s dead, who really cares about Lestrade in the first place?” Sherlock paused and turned to focus on John, only John. “And John,” Sherlock started. “You know I care about you.”
John put his arms on Sherlock’s shoulders and used them to prop himself up to plant a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. Leaning into Sherlock’s muscular chest he said, “I know you do.”
“Come on,” Sherlock said in a low, husky voice, taking John’s hand and leading him to the bedroom.
All John could focus on was the spark he felt when he kissed Sherlock or the perfect his hands felt entwined with his; everything else didn’t matter.
Once in the bedroom Sherlock pinned John on the bed. “You know, for someone who was in the army you sure don’t like dominance,” Sherlock grunted.
**Author's note~
Okay this is kinda dumb, the story being, but friends at school liked it and they wanted me to post it so here you go. One of my friends tried to write the end of this but she literally wrote, "Then they kissed, it was a long, passionate kiss, full of life and forgiveness.
They had vigorous sex. The End"
