John's vaguely aware of the beep to his left, but he doesn't think for a moment that Sherlock will answer it. Not when Sherlock's making little huffs and arching back into him. But no, he can feel Sherlock reaching for the phone, and the telltale tickity-tack of Sherlock's fingers, one-handed at least, as he replies. But John's so close he's incapable of forming a sentence of protest and instead channels his annoyance into some particularly hard thrusts that earn a little whimper from Sherlock and send John over the edge into release.
John pulls away abruptly, with no gentle withdrawal and that elicits another little whimper from Sherlock, but John doesn't care as he flops on his back. "Really, Sherlock?" he asks.
"That hurt, John," Sherlock pouts, "Why are you angry at me?"
"Why? Because you were bloody texting while I was coming inside you. I think that shows a general lack of focus, on me, on us," and then, "Who the hell was it anyway?"
"Lestrade. I think he has a case."
"Well, good, you and the case can go and be very happy together. I hope it comes at a more convenient time for you."
"I told him I was busy," Sherlock says in his little lost voice that he uses when he knows he's done something wrong, but isn't sure how to make it right. He reaches for John's arm, but John jerks away to stand up and gather his clothes and clutch them defensively to his chest.
"I'm making tea and then I'm going to bed. Alone. And you can go do what you do."
John stomps off to the kitchen struggling into his shirt as he goes, and leaning on the kitchen table to put on his shorts and jeans and then just leaning on the table to take deep breaths. It's not like Sherlock wasn't into at the beginning. Case over, they'd been on each other as they stepped into the flat, Sherlock kicking the door shut behind them and proceeding to work his way down John's front, undoing buttons and snaps as he went. And when John tried to get to the bedroom or at least to the couch, Sherlock was instantly on the floor in front of the fireplace, wriggling out of his own clothes, tossing them aside and presenting his lovely, pale arse to John like a cat in heat, like some desperate feral beast.
John's breath was taken away again by what a lovely bum Sherlock had for such a thin man, and then by the fact that Sherlock offered it to him so eagerly and so often. He didn't need a written invitation. He fumbled for lube that always seemed to be at hand since they'd started this sexual thing. He vaguely remembered Sherlock coming home with a full bag of the little tubes and then scattering them in convenient locations about the flat. Sherlock liked to be prepared. And when they were like this, too needy to get to a bedroom John was grateful for the foresight. He had knelt behind Sherlock and kissed his way up his spine, taking little nips along the way that made Sherlock shudder. At Sherlock's hairline he'd sucked a little harder while he slipped a finger inside and made gentle circles, opening Sherlock up, then adding another until Sherlock was moaning and pushing back against him. Then pushing in, holding Sherlock's hips up so that he wasn't rubbing against the rug. They were both going to have rug burns on their knees and their elbows and probably other strange places but right at that moment it didn't matter because Sherlock was so tight and hot and this was so good each time it happened that John wanted to pinch himself to remind himself it wasn't a dream, so he pinched Sherlock instead, and was rewarded with another moan and push of hips back into his.
He reached for Sherlock's erect cock, but Sherlock murmured that he didn't want to come on the rug—which seemed faintly absurd given what they were already doing on the rug-but John moved his arm up to Sherlock's chest to gently keep them both up and kneeling. And they'd found a delicious rhythm that was steady but not fast, slow enough to keep them both on edge for awhile, and then, just as John was beginning to push erratically, the tension building deep in his spine, the damn text had come in.
John reaches to start the kettle, but it seems too much trouble and he decides to just go off to bed. Sherlock's huddled on the couch wearing only his unbuttoned shirt, legs drawn up. John just stares at him for a moment and leaves the room.
At some point in the night he becomes aware that Sherlock has slipped in beside him, but is staying a discrete distance away, wary.
John wakes up and looks over at Sherlock whose arms are thrown above his head, still dressed in only his white shirt. He's so beautiful in the morning light that John wants to forget that he should be angry with his lover and just press his mouth along the bare, white skin, the dusting of chest hair, the rose colored nipples, and further down to the thin line of black hair that trails into the dark curly pubic nest. But John's still wounded from the night before and so he gets up and goes to the kitchen as he does every morning and starts tea.
He almost jumps out of his skin when Sherlock is suddenly behind him, still naked except for his shirt, which would be comic if not for the slightly frightened look on Sherlock's face.
Sherlock holds out his phone for John to see and scrolls through it as necessary.
To: DI's Lestrade, Dimmock, Gregson, Molly Hooper, Sarah Sawyer, Harry Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft Holmes, Scotland Yard, MI-6, MI-5
John & I will be unavailable for the next 24 hours at least. Do not call, text or come by. We will let you know when we are again within range.
Sherlock presses send and John can only stare, amazed as Sherlock then presses the off button and his phone goes dark.