Johnlock One-shots

Johnlock in the Kitchen

"John!"

John Watson slides into the cluttered kitchen on stockinged feet. "Yes, love?"

"John," Sherlock says, his curly head buried behind the door of a cabinet, "do you know where the parsley is?"

"It should be right above you. What do you need it for?" 

Sherlock removes his head from the cabinet, parsley in hand, and gives John a 'what the hell do you think?' look. "I'm making dinner. Don't worry, I've cleaned the living spaces of my projects. I've even sanitized them."

John gasps. "The great Sherlock Holmes, the only Consulting Detective in all of England, is making pasta? Well, I'll be damned!"

"Don't be so tart, John. We all need to eat." Sherlock rolls his eyes and turns to the boiling pot of water on the stove.

John chuckles and pulls a chair out from the table to take a seat. He rests his chin on his fist as he watches Sherlock bumble around the kitchen, somehow still graceful. He could stare at that man forever.

Sherlock turns to John, a sarcastic eyebrow raised. "Have I got chemicals on my face, or are you just brain dead?" 

John snorts. "Only enjoying the view." John can see a blush creep up Sherlock's face before the other man quickly turns away to hide it. John smirks and sees his opportunity. Deciding to take it, he quietly slides out of his chair and comes up behind Sherlock to rest his hands on the taller man's hips.

Sherlock startles before leaning into John's warm touch. "Would you like bread with the pasta, John?" John only grunts behind him.

John can't focus on Sherlock's words. They flew through his ears and left before he could process them. All he can see is the soft, pale plane of Sherlock's neck. He watches as the muscles beneath the beautiful man's neck shift as he turns to look at John. John tenses his hand against Sherlock's hips and leans in to kiss that smooth patch of skin.

Sherlock drops the wooden spoon he's holding, and, with a moan, sinks further into John. John reaches around to turn off the stove, never breaking contact with Sherlock's neck. He has other plans for tonight, and right now, dinner is not on the menu.

John suckles and bites at Sherlock's neck until the taller man is writhing beneath him. Finally, Sherlock turns and connects his lips to John's. John can taste the mint of Sherlock's toothpaste on his tongue. A recent brushing. Sherlock must have seen this coming. With another moan, Sherlock presses John against the kitchen wall. John buries his hands in the tangled jungle of Sherlock's hair and tugs lightly.

"Oh, God. Sherlock, I-" John tries to speak but is silenced by Sherlock's tongue roving its way into his mouth. It is John's turn to moan as he unravels. He reaches a hand back down to Sherlock's waist until he finds the belt buckle and is met with a smile against his lips.

"The bedroom it is, then," Sherlock mumbles.