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Creeping up the stairs, John studies the bouquet in his arms. The florist had been incredibly confused by his selection and the price had been a bit high, but he knows the look on Sherlock's face when he figures out why John chose these particular flowers will be worth the effort.
When John gets to the landing and peers into the kitchen the bouquet falls to the wayside, completely forgotten. Sherlock is leaning over the counter, back to the door. He's wearing a fitted white button-down with narrow grey pinstripes, one John appreciates very much. But much more distracting, he's wearing jeans. It's not that Sherlock never wears jeans, but it's still enough of a rarity to be noteworthy.
Sherlock wears his jeans in very much the same way he wears all his other clothes - with a strangely careless, effortless grace. It helps that the jeans are tailored just like most of his trousers, almost to the point of being too tight. The indigo denim clings to the lush curves of his arse, the brass rivets framing it like particularly emphatic punctuation.
John realises he's staring and groans, shifting his hips to accommodate the stirring in his own jeans. How is it that even after all these years, just watching Sherlock bent over a table can still have this effect on him?
The noise that escapes his throat must get Sherlock's attention, because he turns abruptly. He casts an appraising glance over John, obviously taking in the bouquet, the flush of his cheeks, the fact that he's half-hard already. A slow smirk creeps across Sherlock's face.
"Ahhh, the lurid reproductive systems of various plants, John? For Valentine's Day? How predictable."
John's ready for this though. He pulls his eyes away from the dark denim clinging to Sherlock's hips, the brass zip tantalisingly highlighting Sherlock's crotch. He looks up and grins, holding the bouquet out.
"Look carefully, you great arse." He takes a step forward, straightening his shoulders and crowding Sherlock just enough to force him to lean against the counter. John may not be the tallest man in the flat, but years of military service have made him acutely aware of the power of dominant stature. He holds the bouquet up for Sherlock with one hand, looping his fingers of his other hand through the belt loops of Sherlock's jeans.
Sherlock stares for a moment before an indistinct but pleased noise escapes his lips. "Belladonna, oleander, casablanca lilies. They're all incredibly poisonous! Brilliant."
John raises an eyebrow, grinning lasciviously at Sherlock. "You didn't think I'd be so mundane as to get you a dozen roses, did you?"
"I'd hoped not. But..." Sherlock reaches down into the bouquet, pulling one of the anthers off a lily, spreading saffron-yellow pollen across the petals and his fingertips. He looks as though he wants to ask a question but is unsure of how John will react.
"Yes, Sherlock, you can cut them up. Dissect them, burn them, experiment. They're yours."
The ensuing grin on Sherlock's face is utterly disarming, and between the grin and the bloody jeans, John finds himself unable to restrain his urges any longer. He tosses the bouquet onto the kitchen table and wraps one arm around Sherlock's waist, the other cradling the back of his neck. He pulls Sherlock tightly against him and leans in for a kiss. Their lips slide together comfortably, with the practiced ease of longtime lovers.
John feels Sherlock's fingers gripping at his jumper, and he lets his own hand drift down Sherlock's back, over the swell of his arse. He cups Sherlock's rear end, sensitised fingers trailing over the rough denim fabric. Sherlock lets out a low moan and John slips his tongue out and between Sherlock's parted lips.
Leading with his hips, John pushes Sherlock harder against the counter. He feels his own prick thickening completely and pressing into Sherlock's abdomen; he luxuriates in the contact, rocking his pelvis slightly. Sherlock hikes one leg, wrapping it around John's legs and pulling them even closer together. John feels Sherlock's erection trapped behind the rough flies of his jeans, and the sensation of the rough fabric rubbing against him makes him groan.
They're both kissing fiercely, hands grabbing at clothes and hips rocking back and forth in a thoroughly pleasant fight for dominance. John's tongue curls forcefully against Sherlock's, nearly fucking his mouth, and he feels Sherlock relaxing against him, slowly losing the battle of wills. Spurred on, John slides his fingers through Sherlock's hair, tugging gently on the loose curls. Something about how Sherlock's arse had looked bent over the table earlier has filled John with an overwhelming need to throw Sherlock onto the bed and possess him thoroughly. Sherlock seems to understand, giving up any pretense of taking charge and going pliant in John's arms.
John breaks the kiss with a guttural groan. He runs his chin - replete with two-day stubble - across Sherlock's cheek and traces his lips across his ear. "Bedroom. Now." The words are barely a whisper, but there's steel behind them and Sherlock's fingers dig reflexively into John's back in response.
They break apart and John takes a moment to appreciate the picture of Sherlock leaning against the counter to steady himself, already on his way to looking thoroughly debauched before they've even begun. His pupils are wide under heavy eyelids, his cheeks and throat are blotchy and flushed, and most thrilling to John, the outline of his cock, straining against the dark denim fabric. Smirking, John nods at Sherlock and marches into the bedroom without so much as a second glance at him.
When Sherlock stumbles into the room, John's waiting for him. He pulls Sherlock into his arms and catches his lips in another bruising kiss while guiding him to the bed. He pushes Sherlock - gently but forcefully - onto his back, his legs still hanging off the mattress. Feet planted firmly on the floor, John pulls his jumper and vest over his head, tossing them onto the floor.
"Shirt off." He nods at Sherlock, who scrambles to obey. His eyes are wide, his fingers clumsy with eager lust, and John revels in watching him come apart like this. He manages to get the buttons undone and shrugs out of the shirt and starts undoing his jeans. A low, guttural growl reverberates in John's throat. "No. Those are my job."
He steps into the hollow formed by Sherlock's long thighs and yanks the button open. He tugs the zipper down with more force than necessary, and is rewarded with a whiny whimper and a buck of Sherlock's hips. John hooks his thumbs into the elastic of Sherlock's pants, gripping them along with the waistband of the jeans, and pulls them both down, exposing the flat expanse of Sherlock's abdomen, his prominent hip bones, and most glorious, his flushed, engorged penis. He's rock hard, the foreskin fully retracted and the head glistening with pre-come. At any other time John would eagerly take Sherlock into his mouth, but right now he needs to bury himself inside Sherlock, to own him.
"Turn over." His voice is harsh and abrupt, barking one command after another. Sherlock obeys eagerly, rolling onto his stomach and crawling up onto the bed, his knees hobbled by the jeans. John unzips his own jeans and lets them fall - stepping out of them, along with his pants - as he moves closer to the edge of the bed, closer to Sherlock.
Sherlock, clever man that he is, has already found the bottle of lubricant in the bedside table and tossed it down to the end of the bed. John grabs it and slicks up his fingers, sliding them down the cleft of Sherlock's remarkable arse. As his fingers glide over the puckered bud of Sherlock's arsehole, the muscle relaxes and the tip of his finger slips in, encountering virtually no resistance.
Tentatively, John slides his finger in completely, groaning to himself as it sinks in with ease. Curious, he eases another finger alongside it. They've been lovers for long enough that Sherlock generally doesn't need too much preparation, but this is particularly noteworthy. He scissors his fingers, spreading them open.
"Christ, Sherlock. You're so loose already."
The response from the head of the bed is an impossibly smug grunt, far too self-satisfied for a man currently pinned to the bed. John groans and thrusts three fingers smoothly and steadily into Sherlock.
"You prepared yourself earlier, didn't you?"
Before he has time to formulate a snarky reply, John rubs the pads of his fingers over the nub of Sherlock's prostate. The retort dies on his tongue, swallowed by a whimper. The noise kicks John's reptile brain into overdrive. He pulls his fingers out of Sherlock, staring transfixed as the muscle twitches and stays wide for a moment, an open invitation. He pours more lubricant into his hand and coats his cock liberally, biting his lip in an attempt to prevent stroking himself to completion right then and there.
Impatient, goaded by the needy keening from Sherlock, John lines himself up and slowly urges his hips forward, until his cock is fully buried in Sherlock's arse. It's warm and slick and tight and perfect. It takes everything he's got not to just pound furiously until he comes, but he manages to still himself. John leans forward, draping himself across the long expanse of Sherlock's back. He wraps one hand around Sherlock's waist, taking his hot, slippery cock in hand.
John grazes his teeth across the pale flesh where Sherlock's shoulder meets his neck, sucking what will become a livid bruise in a few hours. Sherlock hisses and bucks his hips, and John loses what little control he had over himself. He starts thrusting his hips roughly, timing each thrust with a stroke of his hand down the length of Sherlock's cock.
He knows he's not going to last, so he grits his teeth and gives in. He rolls his thumb over the head of Sherlock's cock with each stroke, coaxing him closer and closer. John thrusts deeper and leans over Sherlock's shoulder, lips at his ear for one last command.
"Come, Sherlock. Come for me."
John feels Sherlock's climax before he hears it - the ripple down Sherlock's back, the sudden tightening of all his muscles around John's throbbing cock, the spasming in his hand, followed by the hot flood of Sherlock's release. Sherlock shouts loudly enough that John's certain Mrs. Hudson will be complaining about it later.
Releasing Sherlock's sensitive prick, John digs his hands into Sherlock's hips and grinds furiously, pistoning into him. The orgasm hits him like a brick wall, a sudden lack of oxygen as his vision goes grey. It's violent and quick, all the more intense for it. He buries himself to the hilt, gasping and groaning as his cock twitches, spurting deep within Sherlock.
As he comes back down to earth, John pulls out with a full-body shudder. He falls onto the bed next to Sherlock, arms and legs splayed in all directions. There's come drying along the inside of his thigh and sweat pooling in his navel, and he finds he doesn't care one iota. He glances over to see Sherlock, completely nude and entirely composed now, folding the jeans neatly and draping them over the back of a chair.
"You did that on purpose, didn't you?" John pants out, chuckling.
"Did what?" Sherlock's face is the practiced picture of perfect innocence. John rolls his eyes.
"The jeans. You knew what they did to me. That was your warped idea of a Valentine's Day gift."
Sherlock smirks. "Well, the last time I wore them I did get rather spectacularly shagged. I merely needed to test the theory that the jeans were somehow involved. Today seemed like a good day to try."
Groaning, John tosses a pillow in Sherlock's general direction. "Berk."
"Mm, John. I love you too."