“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.

Lestrade clears his throat, finally. “Um, I still don’t understand --”

“Arrest the woman’s solicitor.” Sherlock says, still watching John hungrily.

“But why --”

Sherlock cuts him off. “I’ll explain tomorrow.”

John stares -- he’s never known him to miss an opportunity to show off his deductive skills.

“But --” Lestrade tries again.

“We’re busy. Need to go home. Now,” Sherlock says firmly. “You’ll find ample contraband in his basement to justify the arrest.”

Lestrade gives up. “Right.”

“Come, John.” Dazed, John follows.

“Anderson, you look like a fish,” Sherlock tells him as they walk past. “It’s even less flattering than your usual look.” Anderson doesn’t even shut his mouth -- just keeps watching them with a blank fishy stare. Sherlock and John giggle.

John realizes that crime scenes are going be be very awkward for quite some time.

He really doesn’t care.

* * *

During the cab ride home, John’s brain has time to start working again. And it occurs to him that they should really talk. Because that was -- what was that? -- that was simultaneously everything he wanted and a bit worrisome. Because, just, why? What did it mean? Why now? Does Sherlock really want... did he mean it?

John licks his lips, but doesn’t voice any of these thoughts. Instead, he lets Sherlock explain the case to him -- both the cases, connected through a mad trail of embezzlement, lust, and artificial body parts. Sherlock is perfectly happy to trace the path through the grisly clues to the solution, now that they are on their way to 221B. John murmurs, “Fantastic,” and the cabbie eyes them as if considering whether he will escape alive if he tries to toss them out, and everything is perfectly normal for a few minutes.

Then they are home, and as Sherlock pays the driver, he gives John a look so full of intent that John forgets how to breathe for a moment. And oh, yes, they really should talk about this. But instead, they are dashing up the stairs to their flat, shoving against each other and the door, a mess of mouths and arms and unfastening buttons and ow door handle and stumbling backwards into the apartment and --

“Hi, Harry,” John says, a bit breathless, his jacket hanging halfway off his body. He divides his energy between blushing and wishing he had a camera to capture the comical look of surprise on her face.

“Leave,” Sherlock tells her with an insincere smile. “We need the sofa. For sex.”

John tries to die of embarrassment, but fails. Harry gives him a delighted grin and two thumbs up. “All right, Little Brother!” John puts his face in his hands and hates everyone.

“Good thing I’m moving in a few days,” Harry calls out over her shoulder as she heads out the door. “But try not to get the sofa too gross in the meantime. I’ll be back later. Much later.” The door slams shut behind her.

Sherlock takes her place on the sofa, looks at John expectantly.

“Did you have to say that to my sister?” John asks.

“It seemed the most efficient way to ensure she left the flat.”

“We do have bedrooms, you know. We could use one of them.”

“Yes, but I thought you would be distracted by her presence if she remained. And I want your undivided attention.”

John can’t decide if that’s sweet or selfish or both. But he’s admittedly much happier with his sister gone, even if the means were questionable. He lets Sherlock catch his hand and pull him to the sofa, onto his lap.

“Sherlock,” John murmurs into his neck, after accidentally kissing him for a couple minutes. Sherlock’s kisses are so intense that John has stopped doubting that he really means it. But still... “We ought to talk about this.”

It’s going to be hard to concentrate, though, with Sherlock’s erection pressing into him. But there’s still so much he doesn’t know, and what he does know worries him. He means to ask questions, or to at least tell him, I’ve done this before, you know, if this is because of the adrenaline surge of victory, still racing through you. Or if it’s to blot out death, well, I’ve done that, too. First times in such circumstances can make for awkward next mornings, so they really should talk about it. He starts to stand up so he can clear his head and do the right thing.

“John,” says Sherlock, catching his arm, “stay.” There's a touch of pleading in his voice. He pulls John’s mouth back to his own. John stays.

* * *

It’s hours later, and they’ve gone more rounds than John can remember managing since uni. They’re lying in a sticky, naked, confirmed bisexual pile on Sherlock’s bed, where they migrated at some point.

“That. Was amazing,” John mumbles, conscious that it’s not the most original of compliments.

“I’m not done with you,” Sherlock murmurs back.

John takes a moment to respond. "Christ. Haven’t you heard of a refractory period?”

“No.”

John sighs. “Well, give me at least a few. I'm not seventeen anymore, you know. Maybe a quick kip, first."

"Boring."

John rolls his eyes.

* * *

Later.

Sleepily: “How did you know?”

“How did I know you wanted me to shove you against a wall and snog you?”

“Yeah.”

“It was rather obvious.” Sherlock starts nuzzling his neck lazily.

“Yeah, I guess. Wait, when did you know?”

Sherlock speaks intermittently, between kisses along his jaw. “Three weeks ago I suspected a change, when you lost your ability to track the content of my speech.”

John wakes up a bit more at that. “...Three weeks ago?”

“That was when I started forming and testing hypotheses.”

“Testing?”

Sherlock has his teeth on John’s ear again. “Primarily by speaking and touching you in various fashions and observing your response.” He bites and John gasps.

“Christ, why didn’t you stop me sooner?” John asks, squirming. He could have saved substantial embarrassment. Sherlock doesn’t answer, except with his teeth. “Why today?” John persists.

“Shush,” Sherlock growls.

“It was because you solved the case,” John says through clenched teeth. “Wasn’t it?” No answer. “This is the first time we’ve had no unsolved cases? In weeks?”

“Correct,” Sherlock confirms, finally. “Now quiet. I want to put your mouth to other uses.”

“Oh, God, Sherlock. Again?”