I can’t be patient around you.
I wrote a ficlet for this:
I crouch next to the battered corpse, rattling off deductions almost faster than Lestrade can write them down. Out of the corner of my eye I see John slowly lick his lips. Aroused. Obvious. I pitch my voice deliberately lower as I reach my conclusion. “Murdered last Tuesday behind the Blue Duck and dumped here. Boyfriend.”
Lestrade nods and closes his notebook. “Thank you.”
I turn and walk away. Behind me John mutters the proper platitudes. He hurries in my wake as I head down an alley, my own steps silent as a predator. I want to make sure for John’s sake that the Yard is sufficiently behind us.
My body buzzes with excitement and anticipation. John’s footsteps echo steadily behind me, loud over the blood rushing in my ears. Patience has never been my strongest suit. John Watson tears down what walls I do have.
Pivoting, I shove him up against the bricks, making him grunt. “Sherlock,” he moans, somewhere between a reprimand and arousal.