librarylock:

You know how when we’re around people from our past we have a tendency to revert, just a little bit, to the person we were when we knew them?

Sherlock gets like that around his old friends from his uni clubbing days. (Posted on AO3)

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John and Sherlock were about to catch a cab home from a crime scene when a voice nearby caught John’s ear: “Oh shit, is that Sherlock? Yeah, oh my god, HEY! SHERLOCK!”

Sherlock’s head whipped up; two men jogged over, one blond and one ginger, and a strange smile lit up his face, one John had never seen before. He looked… younger, somehow. Almost innocent.

“Luke,” he said, his voice slightly higher than his normal speaking register. “And Liam? You look, um… different.”

“And you look just the same, mate, done up all posh and bloody gorgeous like always,” the blond one—Liam—said with an obvious once-over. Sherlock flushed, but held his arms away from his body as if to say, like what you see? It was the dead of summer, and one of the hottest days of the year, so Sherlock’s body was on display without his heavy coat, his thin, pale grey button-down clinging in all the best ways. John bristled at their obvious admiration (though he had no claim, no claim at all, stop it) and stepped up to stand at Sherlock’s side.

“Old friends of yours? What, from uni?”

Luke snorted at that, and shook his ginger fringe out of his eyes with an amused glance at Sherlock. “Ah, we didn’t actually go to uni together. Do I look like Cambridge material, mate?”

Sherlock’s chuckle was low and warm, affectionate, and it sparked a pinch of unease in John’s gut. It was the laugh he only ever heard in Baker Street, or over a restaurant table late at night. It was his.  

“Nah,” Liam said, striding over bold as could be and slinging an arm low around Sherlock’s waist, painting himself all along Sherlock’s front. “We were clubbing friends. With occasional benefits.”

He punctuated the last word with a bit of a grind and an eyebrow waggle, and Sherlock laughed, wrapped an arm around the man’s neck before giving him a playful shove.

“You pair of slags,” Luke said, and threw himself at them both, dragging them down to place big sloppy kisses on both their cheeks.

“Stop,” Sherlock whined, though it was obviously a token protest. “You are so embarrassing. If the constables see you, John will never hear the end of it.”

John’s lips parted in disbelief; Sherlock Holmes was a bit camp on the best of days, but this Sherlock was… lisping. Every sibilant drawn out. His body language liquid and casual, his hip cocked out to the side. John folded his arms and strangled his own bicep to keep from reaching out, dragging Sherlock back to him and away from his grabby, grindy ex-friends. (With benefits, ugh.)

“Oi, your man should be thanking us,” Liam said with a scoff, then turned to John. “Who do you think trained him to give those amazing blowjobs you’re benefiting from, eh?”

“Oh my god,” Sherlock groaned, covering his face with both hands as the back of his neck glowed bright red. “You are the worst. We’re not—”

“Not what?” Luke asks, finally acknowledging John’s presence with a raised eyebrow. “Because your boy Johnny here looks about ready to tear our arms off, so maybe we’ll just be on our way, eh Liam?”

Liam threw his arms around Sherlock’s neck for one last hug, and Sherlock’s arms wrapped around his waist with easy familiarity. When they parted, Liam drew a business card from his pocket, kissed it, and tucked it between two of the straining buttons of Sherlock’s shirt.

“Call me if you wanna go dancing sometime, Holmes. It’ll be just like old times.”

And with a saucy wink for Sherlock and a cheeky wave for John, Luke and Liam continued on down the street, leaving Sherlock and John in the crater left behind by their explosive revelations.

They stood in silence for a long moment.

Then John grabbed Sherlock by the hand, spun him around, and kissed him with one hand on the back of his flushed neck. A shocked groan rumbled in Sherlock’s throat, then his hands came to rest on John’s hips and pulled him close. John deepened the kiss as soon as he felt Sherlock respond, made it filthy and possessive and god, so hot.

Luke and Liam’s whooping catcalls echoed back from the far end of the street. John flashed them two fingers, then separated from Sherlock just long enough to flag down a cab.

“Home?” he asked, his voice husky and wrecked.

“Please,” Sherlock lisped, and pulled John in for another kiss.

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(Posted on AO3; check out my other works here!)

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HOLY FUCK THIS IS SO HOT!!!!! And the LISP YASSS!!! *^_^* thank you for the tag!