Title: The Roommate Imbroglio
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Rating: R(ish)
Length: 560
Content notes: M/M/F Threesome, College AU
Author's notes: Thanks to fitofpique for beta!
Summary: John took a step toward them, then another. "This is one of those occasions in which your behaviour is not aligned with social norms," he told Sherlock, rather breathlessly.



John had put the light on and nudged the door closed before he noticed that the room wasn’t empty.

“Oh,” he said. His keys were halfway onto their hook near the door; he’d frozen like that, deer in headlights, dazzled into paralysis by all the unexpected nakedness. “Shit. God. Sorry. I didn’t think you’d. I’ll just. I’ll go.” He lowered his hand, keys still in it, and half-turned toward the door.

"Or you could join us," Irene said lightly, like she was suggesting they all go to the cinema. "We're already on your bed, after all." That was true. Sherlock's bed was buried in things he’d evidently been too lazy to clear off, and their room was too small for a sofa.

John swallowed. There wasn't anywhere to look. Irene's knee next to Sherlock's hip, her hand on his pale chest, his fingers gripping her thigh, just above her stocking. His eyes on John, unsurprised, lit with something like a challenge.

"That's...mad," John said faintly.

"We're at uni," Irene said, rolling her eyes. She leaned down to steal a kiss from Sherlock’s unresisting lips. "Live a little!" She slanted a smile at John and kissed Sherlock again, long fingers framing his face, lingering this time.

John coughed. His hands were sweaty where they gripped his books. His face was flaming.

"Yeah, John," Sherlock said, sliding a hand up to cup Irene's breast. "Live a little." He stroked her nipple with a thumb, leaned up so he could follow that with his tongue. His eyes met John's for a moment, hot and pleading, and then he closed them.

John closed his eyes too. "Jesus," he said. He glanced at the door again, thought briefly about leaving anyway. Most people would, he thought. Most people wouldn't find themselves in this situation in the first place. But John wasn't like most people, he was starting to realize. One of the many things he'd learned over the past few months. He might be better at hiding it than Sherlock was, but he knew the truth. Both of them did.

He exhaled. Then he turned the lock and set his books and keys on his desk, tugged his jumper over his head and draped it on the back of his chair. Sherlock was watching him again, his mouth on Irene's long neck; she had her head thrown back, her dark hair tumbling down between her shoulder blades.

John took a step toward them, then another. "This is one of those occasions in which your behaviour is not aligned with social norms," he told Sherlock, rather breathlessly.

Sherlock huffed a laugh into Irene's skin. Irene smiled and stroked a hand through his hair. His cheek was flushed, John saw, and so was his ear where it peeked out between Irene's fingers and her thumb.

"You asked me to tell you," John said. He tugged his t-shirt off as well, one fell swoop, and dropped it on the floor. “So I am. Telling you.” He shifted his weight, crossed his arms over his chest and scowled.

Sherlock lifted his mouth from Irene's collarbone so he could look at John properly. He was still smiling like that, damn him. He held out a hand. "John," he said.

And John sighed, and went.