May Your Heart Purr Like A Bumblebee [BBC Sherlock - Johnlock]

Chapter 7

“Was it asphyxiation, John?” Sherlock asks, kneeling between the body and the nearby brick wall. It’s the day after John gave him the news, and Sherlock looks worse for wear, despite having slept. John knows he probably doesn’t look his best himself, as he lay awake most of the night worrying about Sherlock. Now he’s tired, and it’s stupidly cold out, and he’s got his fingers on a dead body; he keeps thinking wistfully of his bed, where none of that would be true.

Despite all of that, he’s glad they were summoned to a crime scene. It’s kept Sherlock busy.

John finishes his examination. “Yes.” He stands, strips off the latex gloves, and shoves his hands in his coat pockets. “You spotted her prosthetic leg, right?”

“Obviously.” Sherlock nods dismissively and stands.

Lestrade frowns, looks at her leg. “What, really? So --” but Sherlock cuts him off with an impatient gesture.

Sherlock paces. “Ah. Ah, yes.” Then he stops, giving a little jump of excitement. “And that’s why the kneecaps! Of course!” he says triumphantly. Before John can ask whether and how he has just wrapped up multiple murders at once, Sherlock turns to him and says, “John, show me your wristwatch.”

John obediently takes his hand out of his pocket and holds out his left wrist. “And your other hand as well.” John holds out his right arm, too, wondering how this is relevant.

Sherlock grabs both of John’s wrists and shoves him back against the brick wall, barely a meter from the victim’s body. He pins John’s hands above his head, leans down, and kisses him.

John is suddenly much more alert, much less cold, and much more confused. He gasps against Sherlock’s mouth and wonders whether this is actually pertinent to the case at all. Then he forgets that train of thought entirely, forgets to think, feels only Sherlock’s mouth and body pressing up against his own.

It is a very different kiss from any before, rough and strange. Ferocity and insistence against his mouth; stubble against his cheeks. Teeth seize his lower lip and bite almost to the point of pain. It is an overwhelming mix of sensation. John groans into Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock leans back for a moment, eyeing him appreciatively, predatorily. John freezes as he recalls once more where he is and who is watching. His eyes dart past Sherlock to where Lestrade and Donovan are staring in amazement.

“Um. Is this for the case?” John remembers to ask, finally.

Sherlock looks impatient. “No, John. The case is over. Try to keep up.”

“Right.” John starts trying to yank his wrists free. Not that he doesn’t want to do this -- oh, God, does he want to do this -- but he doesn’t particularly want to do this right here, with an audience.

Sherlock leans in against him and growls into his ear. “Stay.”

John stays.

Sherlock runs one hand down John’s jaw, neck, the top of his collarbone. As he does, his eyes roam John’s face, taking in every minute response. John has never felt so observed. (He wishes he were not being observed by quite so many people, actually -- he does his best to block the others out, which is easier than one might expect, as Sherlock is rather good at occupying a great deal of his attention.) Being the subject of Sherlock’s gaze is a bit uncomfortable and wonderful, all at once.

Finally, Sherlock leans in once more, nips his ear near the upper edge -- scapha, a long buried remnant of med school whispers unhelpfully -- until his breath goes ragged, then releases him.

John stumbles away from the wall, tugging his jacket down over the conspicuous bulge in his pants. He envies Sherlock his long coat.

The Met are not even pretending not to be watching. One of the blood spatter experts is handing Donovan a 50 pound note. She looks stunned, despite apparently having made a sizeable bet on this. (Perhaps she wasn’t expecting them to snog at an actual crime scene, though knowing her opinions of Sherlock, John isn’t sure why she’d be surprised.) Anderson now stands beside her, mouth literally hanging open.