if_inconvenient | (no subject)

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Despite everything, he can't help the smile on his face as he takes the slow, pleasant walk up the driveway. Tom is just so... well, cute.

On reflection, not doing anything about that smile was probably a tactical error.

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You know what else was a tactial error?

Taking off the coat.

Intellectually Tony knows that if Sherlock made out with public enemy number one for like three hours, he probably didn't do it with his coat on. Viscerally, he looks at the glittering scales slung over Sherry's arm and his heart skips a beat.

"Goddammit, Holmes!"

Oh, hell.

"Tony," he begins, "I promise I am perfectly—"

"—Safe? Like fuck! What the hell were you thinking?"

He can hear the sound of an engine on the road (a pretty good car, too) and he knows that's probably the man himself, but fuck it, Tony doesn't care right now. He cares about Sherlock Holmes. He cares about Sherlock Holmes, which is why he would really like right about now to kick Sherlock Holmes's dumb ass into next week.

"I believe you can guess," he says steadily, halting ten feet away from the front step before which Tony is currently pacing back and forth.

"No, I don't—I—"

Of course he can.

"Fuck you anyway," he says, coming forward with a shake of his head. If he is thinking about anything, he is thinking about dragging Sherry into the house and kissing him hard enough to make this all go away.

Sherlock sighs, stepping around Tony to skip the being-dragged part and enter the house of his own volition.

"Hey!" He grabs Sherlock's arm.

Breaking that grip is as easy, as natural, as thoughtless as taking his next step towards the door.

Has his narration mentioned he wants to kick Sherry's ass?

He kind of really wants to kick Sherry's ass.

Before his conscious mind can intervene and tell him that this is a bad idea, Tony's hand is closing on Sherlock's arm again.

There are any number of possible responses to this situation.

Sherlock doesn't choose any of the good ones.

He twists, tossing the coat over the railing of the front porch to get it out of their way, and yanks Tony forward.

Despite half a bottle of wine, Tony's reflexes are as sharp as ever. He feels what Sherlock is trying to do and reacts, dropping a shoulder to tackle him into the bushes. It's not the most elegant way to foil a throw, but...

...it works.

They break branches and shred foliage on their way through. Sherlock's back takes most of the damage; his shirt will never be the same again, and he can feel a few scratches starting to bleed as Tony rolls over him onto the lawn.

That could be the end of things, but now Sherlock is starting to get angry, the hot helpless anger that only Tony Stark can ever make him feel. He drags himself free of the mangled bush and pounces.

When Sherry's hand fists in the front of Tony's shirt, he knocks it aside. Punching Sherry in the face just seems like the thing to do, at that point.

The blow gets through mainly because he is wondering what on Earth they are fighting about anyway.

At that point, he stops wondering.

One good turn deserves another; Sherlock elbows Tony hard in the ribs.

He grabs hold of Sherry's shirt and pulls, intending to bring him in range of a counterattack. Instead, the torn fabric gives way entirely, and Tony is left holding its useless remains.

Obligingly, he comes closer.

Less obligingly, he does it by straddling Tony's legs and pinning him to the ground with a hand on his chest.

Tony sees where this is going and throws a punch on the 'hit him before he hits you' principle.

He blocks it.

This is infuriating.

Catching one of Tony's wrists, he pins it to the ground.

Struggle as he might—and he definitely does—he can't free his hand.

Lacking a handy shirt-front to pull Sherry down with, he grabs him by the hair instead.

Almost by accident, his mouth meets Tony's in a bruising kiss.

Oh.

This, Tony decides, is a hell of a lot better than beating each other up.

"As much," kiss, "as it would delight me," kiss, "to tear your clothes off right here," kiss, "we should get inside."

"Yeah," he agrees breathlessly, after a moment.

He rolls off Tony and scoops up the tatters of his shirt as he stands.

"...Shit," Tony mutters, "that bush really did a number on you, huh."

He catches up as Sherlock heads for a gap in the greenery and presses a kiss to Sherlock's bare shoulder just past the end of one long scrape.

"Indeed it did."

Sherlock pauses with his hand on the door.

"Where is Alyce?"

"Sleeping, last I checked." He picks up the coat. "Jarvis'll say something if she's about to walk in on us."

"Tony, I..."

"Let's not start that shit again."

Shaking his head, he opens the door.

He follows Tony through and kisses him as the door swings shut behind them.

It's a hard, messy kiss, full of lingering frustration.

Tony gives as good as he gets. The coat gets tossed in the general direction of a closet; he pushes Sherry up against a clear patch of wall by the base of the stairs.

Sherlock moans, which is not necessarily an objection, as his back hits the wallpaper.

"You're cleaning that up," he asserts.

"Huh?"

He pulls back a little.

"Oh. Quit bleeding on the wallpaper, Sherry."

That is as much of an apology as he will offer right now. That, and grabbing Sherlock's wrist to tow him up the stairs.

He doesn't resist until they reach the third floor, ten steps away from Tony's bedroom; then he drops his shirt and yanks at his captive hand.

Tony's grip tightens.

"Oh, so it's that way, is it?"

Laughing softly, he pulls harder, until Tony stumbles into him and Sherlock can wrap an arm around his waist and bite down on the corner of his jaw.

"Yes."

Although it's Tony who has a hand locked around his wrist, it's Sherlock who opens the bedroom door and pushes Tony inside.

It closes gently in their wake.

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