#sherlockxjohn

The wind howled against the sides of the flat; rattled along the edges of the living room windows and whipped leaves and debris through the streets. Inside 221B, a fire crackled below the dusty mantle, but despite the cheerful light, it did little to warm the chilled space with its cold, hard wood floors.

The living room was silent; empty of sound and occupants. Down the hallway, soft voices, speaking in warm murmurs, slipped from beneath a closed door. Inside, Sherlock and John huddled beneath the comforter on Sherlock’s bed, glasses of whiskey in hand, their faces gently flushed.

“Sherlock!” John groaned; his voice was very slightly slurred by the effects of strong liquor. “Stop putting your damn feet on me—they’re like ice!” He wiggled in the bed, shifting away. He was nearly successful when a long arm wrapped around his shoulders and yanked him back, a head of dark curls pushing into the dip between his neck and shoulder.

“If you weren’t so warm, I wouldn’t do it.” Sherlock quipped from his resting spot. “Not my fault.”

John rolled his eyes, but there was a faintly pleased glint to his face. “Seems like nothing is ever your fault.” He replied, lifting his arm and letting the detective worm his way closer: despite his aloofness, Sherlock seemed to enjoy cuddling, often wrapping himself around John like a curly-haired snake.

“Correct.” Sherlock hummed, finishing his drink. Placing the empty glass on the bedside table, he pressed himself back against John. They sat together like that, naked beneath the covers, and he relished the feeling of Sherlock’s warm skin against his. Except for those damn cold feet. John winced, gritting his teeth as Sherlock pressed his frigid toes against John’s leg.

“Bloody hell,” John gasped, pushing at Sherlock with his hands. “Why are your feet so damn cold?” Sherlock shrugged beside him, a malicious smile spreading across his face.

“All the blood goes to my brain, John.” He smirked. “My feet don’t solve cases.”

“Well, they certainly solved this one.” John muttered, jabbing at the other man’s side. To his surprise, a low giggle erupted from Sherlock’s lips, and he jerked away. They stared at one another, John’s eyes wide with surprise. The detective watched him warily.

“Sherlock…” John began, his words slow and thoughtful. “Are you—ticklish?”

“I most certainly am not.” Sherlock huffed, but his eyes darted away, and his face appeared redder than the alcohol could explain.

John grinned, a slow, almost predatory expression on his intrigued face. His own head swam with the whiskey, and he set the glass aside to face Sherlock fully. The other man was already leaning away from him, half out from under the covers, eyes narrowed.

“John…” he warned, holding up a hand. “I am not ticklish.” His voice was insistent, but, as he stepped off the bed, John still advanced after him, that same predator-like look on his face.

When Sherlock made to flee the room, John lunged, locking his arms around Sherlock’s waist and bringing them both to the ground. As they fell, John shot forward, grabbing the back of Sherlock’s head so his hand hit the wall instead of the back of Sherlock’s skull.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at the man sprawled across his chest. “Impressive reflexes, Watson.” He noted, and John smirked.

“I was a soldier.” He quipped. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Going to use that one often, are we?”

“Oh, you bet. Hey—” John grabbed at Sherlock as the detective tried to wiggle away. Pinning the tall man between his thighs, knees on either side of his waist, he planted his hands on the floor, bracketing Sherlock’s head. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Sherlock scowled up at him, faint trepidation ticking along the edge of his jaw. “Look here, John—” he began, then jackknifed as John twiddled his fingers swiftly over Sherlock’s ribs. An absurd burst of giggling laughter slipped from the detective’s full lips and John snorted in shock, his eyes squeezing shut in glee.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock,” he wheezed, shaking his head. “How did I miss this?”

“Very droll, John.” Sherlock snapped, wiggling beneath the other man and finding himself held securely in place. He slumped into a pout, glaring up at John. “Come now, you’ve had your fun. Now get off.” He kneaded his hands insistently against John’s bare chest, frowning when the other man captured them, leaning down to brush his lips over the arch of the detective’s cheekbone.

“Mmm, but I already ‘got off’, remember?” John breathed, and his thighs gently squeezed where they pinned the other man to the floor. Sherlock shivered and lifted his head to bring their lips together, sinking into the long, heavy kiss as his eyes slid shut. John’s tongue danced with his, delicate, deliciously wet contact.

When their mouths parted, Sherlock lay limply beneath John, face flushed and eyes dark. “Does that mean you’re not up for a round two?” The detective asked, his voice husky and rough.

“Maybe,” John hummed, leaning back and smirking down at him. “But first…” the smirk grew into a malicious grin, and he descended upon the other man, twitching fingers moving over Sherlock’s chest, sides and lower stomach. John laughed helplessly as Sherlock snorted and wiggled beneath him.

“John,” He gasped, slapping uselessly at the other man’s hands “Stop.”

John finally sat back, a satisfied look on his smug face. “I knew you were ticklish.” He triumphantly announced, flicking Sherlock’s side when the detective petulantly rolled his eyes.