On the cab ride over, they sit mostly in silence. Sherlock gives John the tarot card to scrutinize, but he can’t find anything remarkable about it. Mostly, he can’t think about anything except what just happened in the flat. The two of them, sitting there like nothing was out of order, had just been snogging on the floor of the parlour. Sherlock had him pinned down for fuck’s sake. And here they were, decidedly not talking about it.
The crime scene isn’t actually that far away from Baker Street. Considering Moriarty is involved, it isn’t that surprising. Sherlock unfolds himself gracefully from the inside of the cab and John follows close behind. He watches as Sherlock pushes his way past the officers to head straight for the body inside the house. John makes a short detour over to Lestrade.
“Greg,” he says. He extends a handshake.
“John. Thanks for coming.”
“Looks that way.” Lestrade flips open his notebook. ”Jennifer Thompson, that’s the girlfriend, was stabbed repeatedly in the leg and chest. Then her throat was slit.”
John’s leg throbs sympathetically. He rubs it, absently.
“Steve Palmer put a gun in his mouth and blew out the back of his head.”
“Mm. We’ve got some of the family back at the Yard. Trying to figure out why Steve went off the deep end.”
“And you’re sure that Palmer is the one responsible?” John asks.
“It fits. Only one set of prints on the gun and the knife and they seem identical. The lab will confirm, of course.”
“Right, well I’d better…”
“Be my guest.” Lestrade nods and watches John walk slowly up the front steps and into the house where Sherlock is crouched above the body.
He’s holding one of Thompson’s arms in his latex-gloved hand, inspecting some bruising. He lowers it back down to the ground and then looks closely at the horrid gash that stretches across her neck.
“John, I need you.”
A smile creeps on to John’s face involuntarily. He presses his lips together and tries to maintain some sort of professionalism. He kneels down on his good leg next to Sherlock.
“This bruising. Can you tell if it’s post-mortem?”
“I can’t say for certain. I don’t see any inflammation, so that’s a good argument for it being after she died.”
“I hope that this interruption will not take us off the course we were on previously. There are quite a number of things I had planned for this afternoon, none of which involved corpses.”
It’s such a non-sequitur that John barely registers the words before Sherlock is reaching for his face. There are other officers and techs in the room, and although none of them are paying the two men any special attention, John is sure they would notice if the freak and the doctor gave into the throes of passion.
“There’s uh, there’s another body upstairs.” John stands abruptly before Sherlock can resolve his course of action. ”Let’s go.”
John walks to the officer standing at the bottom of the stairs and exchanges a few words. He appeals that Sherlock will cause less collateral damage to the police force if he can inspect the body alone. The officer calls down the techs and promises to give Sherlock twenty minutes, uninterrupted. John nods and thanks him.
“Sherlock,” he calls. ”Upstairs.”
John climbs up ahead of him and spots a room off to the left with broken crime scene tape hanging from the door frame. When Sherlock gets to the top of the stairs, John takes two fistfuls of his jacket and pulls him sharply off to the right.
Before Sherlock can object, John has backed up against a closed door and pulled him down into a deep kiss. He slides one hand into his hair and tugs gently. Sherlock responds with a quiet moan that disappears down John’s throat. Sherlock reaches out and John thinks he is going to wrap his arms around him. Instead, he gropes for the doorknob and turns. Suddenly, it gives behind them and John stumbles backwards into a dark room.
Sherlock is careful to hold him upright as they get inside and shut the door behind them. From what John can make out in the low light, it appears to be a small powder room. Sherlock presses his back against the door and pulls John to him. He tilts his head and captures him in a kiss once more.
John has one arm extended, palm flat against the door, and the other resting on the side of Sherlock’s torso. John can feel the flex of his muscles under his shirt as he breathes in and out and he has the insane desire to just tear off his clothes right here and now to get that much desired skin on skin sensation.
The kissing has turned hungry and irregular, both men struggling to catch their respective breath. John’s hands wander south and in the next moment he is unlatching Sherlock’s belt and working at the fly of his trousers.
“John…” Sherlock exhales his name, but doesn’t make any move to stop him.
John pulls him into another kiss as he slides his hand against the smooth skin of Sherlock’s abdomen, down and under his trousers and pants. He finds Sherlock’s cock straining against the fabric and he grips it firmly.
“Ffffuck….” The words escape Sherlock’s lips and reverberate into John’s mouth. He grins. John releases him for a brief moment to hook his thumbs into Sherlock’s clothing. He pulls down just far enough to free his erection from the binding effects of his pants.
This time, John takes hold of Sherlock’s cock and makes one full stroke from base to tip. At the top, he swivels his hand around so that his palm covers the head. Then he slides back down the base. John feels Sherlock’s grip on his bicep and shoulder tighten significantly.
John figures that they have somewhere between ten and fifteen minutes before someone comes up looking for them. Though he’s had plenty of practice on himself, he’s less confident about his abilities when it comes to someone else’s cock. He looks over quickly at the counter and spots a dispenser of lotion. It’s not ideal, but it will do in a pinch. He releases Sherlock long enough to pump some on to his hand and then grips him again.
John lubricates the length of Sherlock’s cock with several long strokes. Sherlock lets his head fall back against the door and closes his eyes. A low moan escapes from him. John holds the base of his cock firmly with one hand and uses the palm of the other to gently rub the frenulum and coronal ridge.
“Tell me what you like.”
Sherlock lifts his head and looks at John with half-lidded eyes. He seems to try and form a sentence several times, but is far too distracted to articulate his thoughts.
“Better yet,” John says, taking one of Sherlock’s hands by the wrist and pulling it down. ”Show me.”