Y/N, much to the joy of every single one of Sherlock's inexperienced nerve cells, tipped her head down to brush his lips with hers, hot humid breath tickling like a feather being stroked too-lightly over his skin. It filled his core with helpless agitation as he realised she was messing with him again, holding back what he so desperately craved behind a wicked smirk. He made a pitiful noise, his neck straining to try to reach what he wanted and failing, getting a smug giggle.
Sherlock would be angry about the sheer amount of power she holds had he not been, in some strange thrill-of-the-chase kind of way, enjoying what she was doing. Physical pleasure seemed to be a lot about suspense, he'd noted. Waiting for bursts of sensation, for waves of satisfaction, winding your partner's body tighter and tighter with need before heeding it's wishes, releasing that built-up energy in one explosive fireworks display of firing synapses. The more built up energy, the larger and more powerful the wave of answering ecstasy. Sherlock's body, although still so innocent, clearly wants those types of release more than it's ever wanted the satisfaction of solving a case, of catching any criminal. Just this one kiss, these mere few seconds of staring pleadingly up into his girlfriend's eyes while she strategically withholds one of the best kind of satisfaction he'd ever known evokes a sense of expectation no career can compete with.
He can't stand it anymore and takes the back of Y/N's head with the hand he'd previously had on the computer mouse, pushing Y/N's face close enough to his own to claim her lips. She was still smiling, he could feel it as she kissed him, the rocky edge of her teeth, the soft exhalation of air as she laughed at his neediness.
'I'll show her,' Sherlock wanted to be able to think. He wanted to sweep her off her feet, take back some of the control she'd easily plucked from him like sweets from a baby. Not for the sake of his pride---because Lord knows that escaped along with the pitiful begging sound he'd made a second ago---but because he wants to please her. He wants to make Y/N make that pitiful sound, to want him as much as he wants her (and God, he wants her. Every second). She makes his knees feel like cooked spaghetti, his body quiver with need simply by standing within a foot of him, his head to drain of blood so rapidly he momentarily forgets to inhale---and it's wonderful. He wants her to feel it too, he wants to stand up right now and give her a kiss so wrought with confidence and male sexuality that she---
But he couldn't because he doesn't know how. Not really. 'Not yet, anyway.' And he knows that if he tried, all it would take would be a flick of Y/N's tongue along his lip, the tip of one of her nails lightly, accidentally, brushing his scalp, to tug the metaphorical rug out from under his feet again.
Y/N's still leaning over Sherlock, their kiss upside down and yet, curiously, Sherlock thought, no less pleasing. If he did document the many ways that Y/N caresses him, as he'd considered earlier, he'd definitely take note of this one. She sort of had his bottom lip and he had her top one, the unfamiliar position causing their movements to be slightly sloppy and mismatched. Not in an uncoordinated way, but in a way that meant their mouths would become separated enough every now and again and Sherlock's happy little moans to break free, his jaw pulled open by the stretch of his lithe, pale neck.
It was around the time that Sherlock made a hungry groan (brought on by Y/N pushing the kiss deeper) that he felt vaguely aware of something pulling his shirt. Embarrassingly slowly compared to his usual bullet trains of thought, he realised it was Y/N's hand trying to show she'd like him to stand up.
With the best of his ability, Sherlock broke the kiss enough to rise to his full height and let Y/N guide him to where she wanted him. He hoped that with this improved position Y/N would have better access to his mouth, which he really wanted her to continue her exploration of.
She nudged him backwards until he bumped into the hard edge of the desk, but Y/N didn't stop nudging and he realised, with a new kind of heat rising to his cheeks, that she wanted him to sit on it.
"We can't make out on the desk!" He gasped as best he could, not believing what he was saying for a second.
"Why not?" The moon-coloured light from the forgotten computer screen cast a soft glow over the side of Y/N's face, reflecting off of the soft pink curve of her lips, shiny from Sherlock's kisses. If he leaned down again to take them he'd be able to taste himself. The thought was very appealing.
"We're in public. What if someone comes in?" His voice had caught on that last word, Y/N having pushed herself up onto her toes to reach that place he liked on his neck, pressing one, fleeting kiss there. Sherlock whimpered.
Pathetic.
All sensible thought had left him so when Y/N gave him another little push, urging him to sit on the desk he did, pulling her eagerly between his legs. His emotions were rapidly outrunning his self discipline, urging her closer, hands on her hips and fingers kind of digging in desperately, mouth falling open so he could gulp in oxygen when she started biting at that spot. He could feel the temperature of his blood rising with every passing second, every tug at his hair, his shirt, every probing flick of Y/N's tongue. He exhaled thickly with a small moan, mouth falling open against Y/N's as the last of his composure shattered into a million little pieces.
"Y/N."
"Relax, I've locked the door."
He practically fell to pieces in her arms.
...
"God," Sherlock panted as Y/N pressed her lips to his forehead, between his eyes, which he let slide closed, the gesture simple and loving and utterly addictive.
She's making a daisy-chain of kisses down the center of his face, catching his chin between her teeth playfully and he let his head fall backwards, feeling it bump into the wall behind him.
As the minutes had passed, Sherlock was finding it more and more difficult to keep his breathing convincingly even. His blood cells were racing beneath his skin to eagerly greet Y/N's touch as her lips roved, sucked, and pressed. The smallest gestures were somehow enough to illicit an involentry, helpless sound of pleasure, which kept inturrupting any kind of rythm his lungs had managed to establish.
It was rather embarrassing.
Embarrassing that it takes so little to turn him on.
Embarrassing that he's grateful for the desk below him because his wet-spaghetti-knees surely would have given out by now.
Embarrassing because he's swooning so much Y/N's chest pressed against his is the only thing preventing him from being a melted puddle on the spotless lino. He's leaning into her, he can't help it, she's not close enough, and, in an attempt to remedy that fact, Sherlock tightens his grip of her waist with his legs.
'Isn't the woman the one that usually winds her legs around her boyfriend's waist?' Sherlock wondered before realising that he absolutely didn't care. In a strange way, it felt nice to be looked after for a change.
Y/N had reached his neck now, the base of it, and mouthed at the little dip there, that hollow between the smooth slash of his collarbones. His breath caught, and he gritted out through a smile: "How are you so good at that?"
Y/N giggled. "All I'm doing is kissing your neck," she'd said it like it was no big deal, which Sherlock knew she'd done on purpose. As if hinting, reminding him of the other more complex things she can do. That this is only the beginning.
Or maybe she hadn't. Maybe his brain had just been looking for an excuse to think about the other things. He chuckled at himself, a deep rumbling of syllables. "I think there's something wrong with me."
"Oh?" Y/N pulled away, only for a second so she could push her nose back up to nudge the side of his face as she bit the lobe of his ear, getting a bitten down moan in response.
"Mm." A pause, while he took in enough air to continue. "I can't stop thinking about your mouth." He realised, with amusement, that his hands had wandered of their own accord to the swell of Y/N's hips. Shyly: "And...other parts of you."
She didn't seem to mind. She made an amused, pleased humming sound against his skin. It was sweet and arousing and Sherlock's new favourite food. Can a sound be a food? He'd eaten it up like it was one, anyway.
...
"Wait," It had taken every ounce of self control Y/N possessed to push those three little words from her mouth, and even more concentration to form them with her tongue in the first place.
Sherlock felt her hands retract from the coils of his hair and come to settle squarely on either side of his chest. This had been the first touch Y/N had given him in ten minutes that wasn't designed to elicit some kind of moan. Concerned: "What's wrong?"
"I was about to untuck your shirt." She chuckled, the little breath of air brushing Sherlock's lips and he tried to stifle it, catch her again, but she leaned just out of reach.
He frowned. "I would have liked that very much. More kissing, please." This time, when he leaned in, she let him take a kiss, let herself be swept up by it for a few seconds before breaking it once more.
"I shouldn't be distracting you at work, Sherlock," her words were mixed with a disappointed sigh.
"But I want you to distract me at work." He really does. His lips feel slightly raw, but he doesn't care. The rest of his body is aching for close contact, even though he knew heeding it's wishes would be a very irresponsible thing to do. Irresponsible and fun.
Y/N straightened his collar, smoothed his curls with her fingers. She hadn't meant it to, but to Sherlock's touch-hungry nerve cells it had felt lovely and he hummed, tipping his head into her palm; a silent plea for more.
"You're missing all the footage. You know, from the crime you're supposed to be solving."
He wasn't really paying attention. He couldn't stop staring at Y/N's mouth. He wanted to kiss her again. "That doesn't matter, I solved it already."
The way Y/N's features unashamedly arranged themselves into a mixture of awe and surprise would never get old. No matter how many times Sherlock made it happen, that little swell of pride still blossomed in his chest. She thinks he's amazing. "You have?"
He nonchalantly inclined his shoulders, shifting uncomfortably on the hard surface of the desk. He'd been practically burning several seconds ago, boiling, and now he was rapidly cooling off, arousal leaking from him like steam. He was sad to see it go. "Yeah. It was the manager---Ms Levine, or whatever her name is." He nudged his head forwards, drawing constellations with kisses over the small patch of bare skin at Y/N's chest, using one finger to tug the material of her shirt down slightly. As much as he liked being on the receiving end of gentle affection, he'd quickly realised that he thoroughly enjoys giving it too. Not just because he wants Y/N to be impressed with his rapidly accumulating skills, but because taking care of someone has turned out to feel surprisingly rewarding.
"How? You didn't even watch all the tapes."
"I didn't need to," said in between kisses. Y/N's breath caught as he touched on a sensitive spot and he liked it. "I'd pretty much figured it out as soon as I saw the security camera in the lobby."
Voice more wobbly than she would have liked (now she's the one being distracted. Damn Sherlock's addictive cupid's bow): "You're going to need to explain a little more than that."
He sighed, pulled away, and let go of the neck of Y/N's shirt. Trying to get her to continue what they'd been doing a little while ago was clearly a losing battle. He almost laughed to himself, as disappointed as he was, at the situation he was currently in; Sherlock Holmes would rather be kissing that crime solving. Although, in his defence, who wouldn't?
"The security cameras." He stated. "Did you notice the whole hotel is expensive and modern apart form the cameras? Why not replace the old technology?"
Y/N raised an eyebrow at him and he quickly continued, for once not wanting to sound patronising:
"Because old things are easier to tamper with. And they have been tampered with."
It was obvious to him by now that the heated make-out session was over---at work, anyway. Y/N had said she didn't want to distract him at work, thus, Sherlock decided, all he had to do was wrap things up here then they could go home and do more than making out. Not that the making out wasn't wonderful on it's own, it was, but he'd only done 'more than making out' once (well, several times) and it was already his new favorite activity.
He released Y/N from where his knees had been kind of gripping her hips, and pushed himself off the desk, smoothing out his shirt.
"How do you know?" Y/N's eyes followed him as he combed his fingers through his hair in an attempt to restore order to his appearance.
"The door at the end of the last tape we saw before you started playing with my hair---"
"Sorry about that, by the way."
"Don't apologise, it was nice." His cheekbones coloured and he didn't have to be able to see Y/N's face to know she was smirking at him. Clearing his throat, because he'd let himself recall the hair-stroking and it had not helped him cool off one bit: "Anyway, the door. Didn't you notice anything interesting about it?"
"No. But you did, obviously. You should use your phone as a mirror, by the way."
"Thanks." He did, and bit down a chuckle as he activated the front facing camera. His hair looked like an unmade bed. So that's what he looks like after being kissed by a pretty woman for ten minutes? He had to admit, it wasn't a bad look, all wide pupils and a smile that just wouldn't go away no matter how many times he tried to wipe it off with the back of his hand. "When the tape ended it had a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on it---which hadn't been there at the beginning. But no one walked down the hallway to put it there and no one opened the door."
Y/N pieced the rest together herself: "So the footage has been edited? There's some time missing from that recording?"
"Obviously." If only he'd brought hair gel, or hair spray, or hair something with him. Even just a comb---
"That's the perfect time and place to do it, too; the top floor has the least foot traffic because most people's rooms are on the floors below," Y/N mused aloud. "And it would have been that time of night when most people would be downstairs having dinner."
Having figured this all out for himself a while ago, Sherlock just nodded along. 'How does she look so tidy?' He wondered as Y/N fixed a few strands of hair that had ended up on the wrong side of her parting---the only thing that was out of place about her appearance. Although, maybe she just seems tidy to him because he thinks she's perfect. Sherlock would find her pretty even if she'd been dragged across the British countryside backwards.
"Sherlock?"
"Hm?"
"I asked how you knew it was Ms Levine."
"Because of what she said about the keys."
Y/N still looked blank and he waved a hand, unlocking the door and opening it, a wedge of light cutting the dark little room in two.
"I'll explain when we meet back up with Lestrade."