It had been two days since the last case, and several more since their last sex, and Sherlock felt that the cure to both his boredom and John's sullen mood could be found in remedying the latter. Sherlock still hadn't found the best way to express a desire for sex, however -- the last time he'd tried John's strop had lasted longer than Sherlock's interest, and they'd both ended up frustrated.

This time, he had a plan.

He started with a stretch, arching his body up off the couch and letting out a little moan of satisfaction at the feeling, then curling up and letting out a little whimper as something in his shoulder popped. A languid roll onto his back let him see that John's attention was no longer entirely on his newspaper, so Sherlock had one last, lingering stretch, letting himself wallow in the physicality of it.

"Is there tea?" he asked, getting a huff of annoyance in response. "I take it that's a no?"

"You could make it yourself," said John, giving his newspaper an unnecessary rattle.

Sherlock sighed. "You don't like it when I make toast," he said despondently.

"Oh, for... Fine, tea and toast, will that be all for your majesty?" said John, already folding the paper to set aside.

"Chocolate spread?" asked Sherlock hopefully. He didn't like the raspberry jam John preferred, but John had introduced him to chocolate spread and they'd been keeping it in the kitchen since.

"Fine, fine, tea and toast and chocolate spread," John's voice was low, irritated but also amused as he bustled about in the kitchen, making up the snack for two just as Sherlock had known he would. "You're lucky I was peckish," said John, upon delivery of Sherlock's cup and plate.

"Thank you, John," said Sherlock with absent dignity, already reaching out to smear one finger in the thick, sweet spread. He licked it, then looked up at John while sucking on the one digit. "Mmmm."

John twitched, but eschewed further commentary, going to sit with his paper and his own treat.

John ate as he always did, neat, fast bites as though the food might disappear if he didn't get it down, though he did pause to sip tea or appreciate the flavour more than he had when they first met.

Sherlock made a mess.

Not with the tea, of course, he felt that scalding himself would lead to the wrong sort of attention from John, but the toast with its warm, gooey topping was the perfect thing to enact the next stage of his plan. He smeared his fingers in it and licked them clean. He let it get on his face and then tried to remove it with his tongue. He even went so far as to drop a bit on one thigh, then pick it up with a finger and a sigh.

By the end of it, his next tactic was not only believable, but necessary -- and John hadn't actually read a single line of his newspaper.

"I'm going to shower," Sherlock announced. He stood so that his dressing gown hung off one shoulder, tugging his t-shirt down to expose part of his collarbone. He paused to let John's eyes linger on the exposed flesh, then went straight into the bathroom without bothering to gather fresh clothing. If all went according to plan, he wouldn't need it yet, anyway.

Sherlock left the door ajar so steam would waft out, carrying with it the scent of Sherlock's shampoo and the fragrant soap John pretended not to like. Sherlock washed thoroughly, then took a moment to prepare himself, long fingers and slick lubricant making short work of the task. If his plan did come to fruition, he wanted to be ready.

"About done in there?" called John, just as Sherlock worked in his third finger.

"Almost," said Sherlock, washing his hands and then shutting off the water. He dried himself haphazardly and threw on his dressing gown, using the towel on his hair as he stepped out into the hall. "Sorry, did you need the loo?"

John's gaze fell predictably on the places where the dressing gown clung to his wet skin, and where it gaped over his pale chest. "I, er, yes, thanks," he said, and Sherlock moved just enough so that their bodies brushed when John finally remembered why he was there in the first place and took over the bathroom.

Sherlock grinned as the door clicked shut, then made his way to the couch, where he flopped down, letting his robe fall open and uncover a nipple. He timed his next move with John's emergence from the bathroom, letting out a bored sigh and shifting his legs so the entire length of one hip and thigh was artfully exposed.

"Dressing too dull now?" asked John, his voice a bit strangled.

Perhaps Sherlock had let them go too long between bouts, if John was already sounding so needy. Well, easy enough to correct. "Why bother? It's warm enough in here, and you've seen it all before."

"Mrs Hudson might mind," said John, moving closer.

"Out for the evening, it's her bridge night with Mrs Turner," said Sherlock, waving away the protest.

John grinned a slow, sexy grin. "So it's just you and me tonight, then?"

"So it would seem," said Sherlock, sighing expressively. "The criminals appear to be giving you the night off."

"And you," said John, scooting Sherlock's hips over with his own and running warm fingers down Sherlock's sternum. "Perhaps you'd like to spend the evening lounging about in bed?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue that he was already lounging out here just fine, but John interrupted him with a very hot kiss indeed. "Well, when you put it that way," he said, "Since I haven't got anything else on, I could be persuaded."

John dipped his head down further, taking Sherlock's nipple into his mouth and sucking the sensitive flesh, fingers slipping under damp fabric to find and tease the other. Sherlock let himself grow hard slowly, shifting with a little moan until his cock rose up through the gap in the fabric. "Persuaded yet?" asked John, then he bit down on Sherlock's nipple just hard enough.

Sherlock gasped. "Oh, very," he said, pulling John up for a warm, sensual kiss. "Lead the way, my intrepid soldier."

John grinned like he'd just been given a medal, proud and shy and pleased to have won Sherlock over to his way of thinking, and Sherlock congratulated himself on having successfully enacted his plan, with less trouble than he'd imagined.

John pushed Sherlock down on the bed and untied the belt on his dressing gown, so the damp fabric fell open, framing Sherlock's pale body in blue silk. Sherlock gave another languid stretch, this one more obviously intended to entice, and then he spread his long legs in a slow, shameless tease. "Are you going to have me?" he asked, not sure where this landed them in the foreplay process now that they were in bed but both already quite primed for the main event.

"Oh, god, yes," said John, stripping out of his own clothes with military efficiency. Sherlock loved it when he said those words in that needy tone, a reference to their very first adventure together and every time John had enthusiastically followed Sherlock's lead since.

John snagged the lube from the bedside table and laid himself out between Sherlock's invitingly spread thighs. "Shall I take it slow today and tease us both?" asked John, his voice low. He kissed along Sherlock's throat, then bit at one collarbone, though not quite hard enough to mark.

"I'm ready now," said Sherlock hoarsely, and then, "I just want you."

John groaned and his hips jerked, cock rubbing a wet stripe inside Sherlock's thigh. His fingers shook a little when he slicked them and his cock for good measure, and his face was hungry as he slid his hand down behind Sherlock's balls.

Then his fingers sank into Sherlock's entrance, finding it slick and loose, and his expression changed to one of wry amusement. "You planned this all along, you cheeky bastard," John protested, kissing Sherlock hard.

Sherlock's hips gave a little jerk, and any annoyance John might have had at being manipulated dissolved into pure lust. John pulled his fingers out and fitted his cock to Sherlock's entrance without another word, pushing in relentlessly without giving Sherlock any time at all to adjust.

Sherlock loved it.

He moaned, folding himself shamelessly in half so John could lean down for greedy kisses. John's hands gripped Sherlock's hips and he thrust hard into Sherlock's body, setting a relentless pace that promised to send Sherlock over the edge much faster than Sherlock had intended. Ridiculous nonsense spilled from both their mouths, half-spoken words and moans that were somehow wonderful despite their absurdity, like everything about sex with John.

John's murmured words went from praising to filthy, which was a much-welcome sign that he, too, was going to come fast and hard this round. Sherlock had every hope they'd go another round or two before one of them grew too tired to continue, so he didn't bother to hold back. John shifted his hips and the next few thrusts rubbed firmly against Sherlock's prostate, sending sparks all through him that set him off, tipping over the edge into the rush of orgasm.

Sherlock felt John's groan as much as heard it, and after a few more erratic thrusts John, too, was coming, face pressed into Sherlock's shoulder and hips curled as close as they could possibly get. Sherlock fancied he could feel John coming, though it was really just the shift and pulse of his cock rather than the fluid itself, and he made a satisfied little sound.

"You," said John, panting, "You planned this."

"You got mad last time," said Sherlock. "This worked. You're not really angry, I can tell."

John huffed out a laugh. "What gave it away, my cock in your arse? No, don't answer that." He pushed himself up so he could look Sherlock in the face, and Sherlock let his legs uncurl, though he made an effort to keep them joined as long as possible. "Look, it's not that I mind you wanting it, it's just that I'd like to be asked, not ordered about."

"You liked this, too, though," said Sherlock.

John pulled out and then leaned down for a slow, sweet kiss, their spent cocks nestling together for a moment. "I did, yes. I like being wanted, Sherlock, especially by you."

Sherlock grinned, his mind already reeling out plans for future seductions. Perhaps he could learn the vulgar art of innuendo well enough to get John going, or dig out the few items of clothing he owned that were too tight, or that one shirt that had turned out to be nearly transparent, the cloth was so fine. He'd just have to remember not to prepare himself and give the game away.

Asking would be nice once in a while, but a game was always better.