Better Than Nicotine

More and More

            John sat at the kitchen table, coffee in one hand, the morning paper in the other. His robe hung loose around his chest, something he normally paid little mind too, but this particular moment, John was very acutely aware of how loose his robe was. Sherlock walked around the corner, barely dressed in his sheet- something not entirely on purpose. Sherlock’s dark curls were still untamable and wild looking, and though completely sexy, Sherlock would’ve tried to reign in those glorious locks. He stumbled a bit, quickly moving to grab the wall. Sherlock leaned against it, and John could still see the crust in his eyes.

            A smile slid across John’s lips before he looked back to his paper. He sat there and pretended the world beyond his kitchen was interesting. He pretended he didn’t noticed Sherlock eyeing him from across the kitchen. John could practically feel the shift in the air, feel Sherlock become aware of his surroundings. The air had quickly gone from slow moving, relaxed, and light to something thick and heated.

            Triumph swelled within John’s exposed chest and he resisted the immense urge to grin like an idiot.

            “Morning,” John greeted, just barely managing to keep himself from croaking with excitement. “Sleep well?”

            Even after their little scene in front of Mrs. Hudson, they had decided to stick to their own rooms for awhile; at least until both decided they could be comfortable with other arrangements. But it had been so much more complicated than that. Sherlock wasn’t used to sharing his bed, nor the idea of it. John, though very used to it, had never been more terrified of the thought. This was Sherlock after all, a man he has known for years, his best friend, his roommate. The last thing John wanted to do was accidently rush things and screw up. John knew he couldn’t live with himself if he screwed this up.

            So waiting was the game, and John thought he was playing it rather well. He flirted with Sherlock a bit more openly, no longer fearing rejection. They went out on dates. One night, John became incredibly drunk and may or may not have accidently groped Sherlock. A very heated moment followed on the couch. Mrs. Hudson walked in. It was horrifying. But, all in all, it felt like they had a real relationship as a couple.

            “I, uh, fine,” Sherlock replied. “I slept fine. You?” his heavy gaze finally reached John’s eyes, passing slowly by John’s smirk.

            “Great,” John replied, giddy and trying desperately to rein it in. He was doing about as well as Sherlock trying to keep the lust from his gaze. In other words, they were both failing. John wanted to jump across the table and run his hands through those rumpled curls as his lips explored Sherlock’s body. Meanwhile, Sherlock looked ready to open that robe all the way and send it sailing across the flat. It was hideous anyways. Sherlock always said he never liked it.

            “Been up long?” Sherlock pried his eyes away from John, looking to everything that wasn’t John. The table, a chair, curtains off in the living room. The ceiling wasn’t John. The ceiling wasn’t nearly as nice looking, nor was it even remotely distracting. It took all Sherlock had to keep his gaze upwards.

            John shrugged, “Long enough to brew some tea. It’s still hot. Did you want a bit?”

            “Please,” Sherlock managed, but as soon as John stood, Sherlock felt his stomach flip. It wasn’t a feeling he should have been accustomed too, but, oh, he was. His stomach had been doing that for years. Every now and then, any time John had been there. Any time John had used the word ‘amazing’ or ‘fantastic’ or ‘brilliant’ in the same sentence as Sherlock’s own name, there it was. A flip of the stomach, an extra beat of the heart.

            John’s robe was short, coming just above the knees, and as he stood, the robe refitted itself to John’s body. It hugged him around the arms, down by his waist, across his chest. John knew he must have been a sight to see because Sherlock’s attention shot straight to him and didn’t leave again. Not as John grabbed Sherlock a mug, or as he poured the tea, or even as he brought the tea to Sherlock.

            Sherlock lifted the mug to his lips without saying thank you, without saying anything and took a drink. It took him all of three seconds to realize his mistake, and John couldn’t help but laugh as Sherlock’s eyes shot wide and he flinched back. Tea spilt everywhere, and John jumped back instantly at the sight of flying liquid.

            “I said it was still hot,” John reminded Sherlock as he laughed his way to a drawer containing dish towels. Sherlock rushed to a table to set the tea down while putting hand to his mouth. It was a vain attempt to keep the tea already in his mouth from joining the rest of the tea on the floor or on his bed sheet. All he ended up doing was dropping the lovely blue sheet to the floor as John turned around.

            “Sher-” John stopped mid-syllable, eyes going wide. He closed his mouth and dragged his gaze up to Sherlock’s eyes-though not before memorizing each line of the other man’s body. He tried to look away, to turn away because that really was the only way John was going to not look at Sherlock. It took a moment, but he finally accomplished his task, but not before turning beet red as if it were him stark naked in their kitchen.

            Behind him, John could hear Sherlock say, “Sorry,” in that deep voice of his, could hear how close he was. The sink wasn’t too far away from where John stood, and really he should’ve known that Sherlock was going to walk over there.

            John turned around, his composure in check, and looked at Sherlock. “I’m not complaining,” he let slip and then quickly coughed as if that would really cover his words. “It’s just, it wasn’t like it, uh, was a bad sight…” John let his words trail off. There was no hope for him. Naked Sherlock fried his brain. There were no congruent thoughts or sentences. Just a bunch of words that sounded a lot like compliments because they were the first things that popped into his head. It was as though some sort of filter were broken inside of John’s head.

            With his words, Sherlock’s heavy gaze swept over John. The heat of it was almost tempting enough to make John look away. Almost. It was as though John could see into that big head of Sherlock’s. He could see all the things that Sherlock was seeing in his mind. For a moment, it was like John had been granted permission to a full view of Sherlock’s so called mind palace. And it was a lot dirtier then what John’s was. There were things John hadn’t even thought of, but, you know, he wasn’t complaining; he was just… observing. Picking out the things he liked. Picking out what he wanted to do first. He really was quite enjoying himself.

            Screw it. Damn his inhibitions! John’s hands were on Sherlock’s chest, pushing him against the counter before pulling him down. Sherlock was rigid at the first touch of their lips, but as soon as the initial shock wore off, Sherlock melted to fit against John’s body perfectly.

            Long fingers brushed through John’s short hair, every follicle feeling alive. His nerves buzzed. Heat rushed beneath his skin, through his veins. Oh God, yes. He wanted more. More of this feeling. More of Sherlock.

            John lost control of the situation and before he realized what was happening, Sherlock was shifting their position so it was John against the counter. A smile slid across his face.

            Sherlock could feel John smile into their kiss and something like pride swelled in his chest. Accomplishment. He caused that smile. He would cause many more too. And by the end of the night, he would cause more than just smiles.