“You’re not leaving.”
John winces away as Sherlock pins him to the wall. He closes his eyes and braces for violence; ready for a punch to the face or to have his wrists clenched together. And yet somehow, the images behind his eyelids have nothing to do with Sherlock at all.
Water runs over his face, his lips. Greg’s hungry mouth is pressed to his and he tastes like smoke. John can feel his stubble growing in and it brushes roughly over his skin. They break away for a moment and both gasp for air. Then John’s hands are working at Greg’s trousers - he’s unbuckling, unbuttoning, unzipping. He’s coming undone.
“Get off of me!” John says as he shoves Sherlock backwards. He manages to get away from the door and slides along the wall trying to put distance between them.
“I am not letting you leave this flat, John,” Sherlock replies, closing the space between them in two long strides. ”You are not going back to Lestrade.”
John clenches his teeth. He knew that Sherlock had deduced a lot about his night away from him, but he wasn’t sure how much. Now, he’s sure. He opens his mouth to spit venom at his flatmate, but someone else speaks in his place.
“Well, it’s a good thing I came up to get him, then.”
John slides his hand into Greg’s pants and grips him. Greg’s knees nearly give out and he has to steady himself with one hand against the tiled wall and the other at John’s waist. Greg leans in and kisses him again, much more deeply this time. John works him out of his pants and presses their cocks together. With a firm grip, he stokes them both under the cascading water.
“Get. Out.” Sherlock is nearly growling. His eyes are narrowed and sharp and he is practically oozing aggression.
“Greg, I told you to wait downstairs, please,” John pleads. He’s seen Sherlock at various stages of ‘unstable’ and with Lestrade in the room, things are very likely to escalate.
“I said I’d give you fifteen minutes, and it’s been twenty. Time to go,” Greg reaches out and takes John by the arm, pulling him towards the stairway.
“Get your hands off of him.” Sherlock steps between them and wrenches them apart. Greg stumbles backwards into the door frame, but John takes the brunt of the force. He’s knocked off his feet and on to the floor. He lands with an audible ‘oof’ and Sherlock freezes in tableau.
“Yes fuck, John. Jesus.” Greg’s lips move against John’s mouth as the words tumble out. Their bodies are pressed together, with just enough room between them for John to continue stroking. Then Greg is kissing John’s neck, tasting skin and shower water, teeth scraping gently. John’s eyes are closed, the muscles in his arm tense from the effort. He’s breathing in stuttered gasps, close to the edge.
Greg collects himself and pushes past Sherlock. He’s on his knees at John’s side in the next moment.
“All right, mate?” he asks.
“Yeah, yeah. Fine. Just help me up.”
Greg hauls John to his feet and then looks at Sherlock. He hasn’t moved. He picks up John’s bag and moves towards the door.
“I’m taking this downstairs. I’ll see you there in just a minute.” Greg doesn’t phrase it as a question.
“Yeah, thanks.” John replies, eyes fixed on Sherlock.
John comes first, but Greg follows immediately afterwards. The water washes the evidence down the drain. When Greg meets John’s gaze, his can see his eyes are red and tired. He kisses him, once, on the side of his mouth and climbs out of the shower. He dumps his wet clothes in the sink and wraps a towel around himself. As he leaves the room, Greg pulls the door closed behind him, leaving John to a moment alone with his grief.
“You said we can’t be together,” John says. ”You said you were leaving.”
Sherlock looks at the floor.
“So what was all that about, then?” John asks.
Sherlock takes a deep breath and straightens. He shifts his position and John watches as a familiar cold demeanour settles into place. John recognizes it immediately as a suit of armour. Something to hide behind as they both unwillingly step into battle.
“We can’t be together, but you can’t be with him either,” Sherlock says.
John lets out a breathy laugh. He walks over to Sherlock, takes a fist full of his shirt and pulls him closer. He kisses Sherlock just the way he likes it best - slow, deep and long. When they break apart, John doesn’t release his grip. He hold Sherlock’s face up against his own and says:
“Well, fuck you.” His lips brush against Sherlock’s as he speaks. Sherlock breathes in his exhalations, his words.
Then, John releases his flatmate, walks out the door and leaves with Lestrade.
Greg wakes to the feeling of someone pressed up against his back. John’s skin is still warm from the shower and his hands wrap around Greg’s midsection. ”Do you want to talk abo-” he starts. He feels John shake his head against his back. Greg nods once and puts his head back down on the pillow. He’s pretty sure that wars have started over less than what happened in that shower. He knows that Sherlock won’t go down without a battle. But Greg has never felt so compelled to fight in his entire life.
Back in 221b, Sherlock touches his lips, trying to preserve the ghost of a feeling. Something feels heavy on his chest and he is being pulled in all directions.
The stairs to the second floor creak and footsteps descend slowly. Sherlock tries to snap himself out of his haze. He moves to the desk and opens a drawer, looking for John’s gun. It’s gone. He must have packed the Sig with his clothing.
“Well, well, well.” The voice precedes the man who steps into the sitting room. ”Having a little domestic?”