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John hums softly and tunelessly to himself as he folds a pair of socks together. He's taken advantage of one of Sherlock's prolonged and unexplained absences to get the laundry done. Once it's all folded, he separates it into two tidy piles. He'd tried leaving Sherlock's on the table, on his chair, on the desk, in an attempt to get him to put away his own bloody clothes, but that had ended with Sherlock simply marching nearly naked across the flat to get his trousers.
If he'd noticed John's awkward state of arousal, he hadn't said anything, but John has since decided it's just easier to put Sherlock's clothing away for him instead. He knows it's a bit like indulging a grumpy toddler, but honestly, when is living with Sherlock not like indulging a grumpy toddler?
Still humming, he picks up Sherlock's clothes and heads into his bedroom. He drops them in a neat stack on the dresser, and is about to leave when something overhead catches his eye. He looks up, anticipating a stain or some horrifying half-completed experiment, but when he sees what's actually up there, his breath catches in his throat.
It's a poster of the solar system, complete with glow-in-the-dark constellations. John had bought it last week, and presented it to Sherlock as a bit of a joke.
"I found this at the shop while I was out replacing all the tea mugs you've broken. Thought you might find it edifying." John smirked and handed Sherlock the rolled tube.
Sherlock had unrolled it, smiling at John. Not the awkward smile reserved for receiving gifts from clients, but the genuine and slightly crooked smile that John always felt warming him down to the tips of his fingers.
"Thank you, John. I'll find a good place for it."
John had assumed that 'good place' would be the bottom of the wardrobe, or possibly the rubbish bin. He wouldn't have been hurt; it was bought in jest, after all. What he absolutely, positively had not been expecting was for the star map to be hung in pride of place directly above Sherlock's bed.
Without thinking he throws himself onto the bed, arms and legs spread out across the coverlet. It feels strangely intimate to be lying here, flat on his back on Sherlock's bed. The smell of Sherlock - chemical, spicy, a faint whiff of tobacco - is even more pungent here, enveloping John and making Sherlock's absence all the more obvious.
Telling himself it's not abnormal to be laying on his flatmate's bed like this, John stares up at the star chart. Cygnus, Orion, Ursa Major. He wonders if Sherlock lays here at night. Thinking of the stars. Thinking of John, maybe. Smiling to himself, John closes his eyes, the warm and familiar scent of Sherlock enveloping him.
He hadn't intended to fall asleep, but the next thing he knows the sun has set and there's a dark shadow looming over him. John opens his eyes, disoriented. It takes him a moment to realise he's nodded off in Sherlock's bed, and that the dark shadow above him is Sherlock. He's kneeling over John, knees pressing into either side of the mattress at John's hips, elbows propped up on the pillow on either side of his face.
"Hello, John."
"Shit." John nearly jerks upright, managing to hold himself back at the last second. At this distance, his face would have crashed directly into Sherlock's. "Sherlock, I'm so sorry. I came in— I mean— the laundry..." he trails off uselessly and focuses on a spot on the wall, the hot flush of mortification creeping up his throat. Whatever dreams had crossed John's mind while he was napping were vague and ethereal, but he suspects Sherlock - and the bed - made an appearance, and he squirms, trying to hide the beginnings of an erection.
"John, look at me."
Resolutely, John keeps studying the wallpaper. There's a strange nick in it, like someone went at it with a pocketknife. Which is probably exactly what happened, knowing Sherlock. John shifts, waiting for Sherlock to move, to do something.
That something just happens to be Sherlock's fingers, cool and smooth, gently cupping John's cheek. Softly, he guides John's face away from the wall, forcing him to look up at Sherlock. Sherlock, who is smiling. It's a similar smile to the one he wore back when John gave him the star map - lopsided and slightly perplexed, though he'd never admit to that.
"I like you here, in my bed." There's a glint in Sherlock's eye that John can't seem to read, for all his experience studying Sherlock's odd expressions.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'll stay out of here from now on."
"John. You know I hate repeating myself. Did you not hear me?"
John shakes his head, trying to clear the cotton batting from between his ears. It's painfully distracting, being pinned under Sherlock like this. John's hands twitch, itching to reach up and grab Sherlock by the hips. He grips the coverlet to prevent them from wandering and swallows thickly. His brain, still foggy with sleep, finally processes Sherlock's words. I like you here, in my bed..
Comprehension dawns on John's face, and he looks up at Sherlock again. Suddenly the gleam in his strange eyes makes sense.
"You're... this... it's okay?"
"I think of you at night sometimes, John. When I look at the star chart."
There's a strange rumbling echoing around the room. John tries to place it - maybe Mrs. Hudson hoovering downstairs, or a lorry idling outside. It takes him a second to grasp that it's his own frantic, frenetic heart; a caged bird rattling against the bars of his ribs. Despite Sherlock's words, despite the fact that Sherlock is basically pinning John to the bed, he can't bring himself to believe what's happening. He's misunderstanding Sherlock's words; he has to be.
"No, John, you're not misunderstanding." Simple as that, as if reading his thoughts on his face is the most normal thing in the world, Sherlock silences the quailing voice inside John's head. Before he has time to argue, Sherlock has dropped his body slightly, tightening the gap between them. John can feel the heat emanating from Sherlock. With his pale marble flesh and clockwork mind, John had always imagined Sherlock would be cool to the touch, but even with this distance between them he's almost alarmingly hot.
John closes his eyes, attempting to calm his rapid pulse. Sherlock apparently has other ideas though, because the moment John's awareness of his surroundings has dimmed, he feels a painfully gentle press of lips to his own. Something about the tentative, hesitating way that Sherlock is kissing him nearly shatters John's heart. Sherlock, who is always so bold and forward.
Whatever concerns John had about this situation crumble at this point, along with his feeble resolve. Less than a second has passed since Sherlock first pressed his mouth against John's, but he's already pulling back. John wraps his hands urgently around Sherlock, pulling him closer, and parts his lips in obvious invitation.
The muffled, pitchy noise Sherlock makes as he breathes into John's mouth lights a fire in John's ribs, and suddenly they're kissing in earnest now. Sherlock's lips are plush and soft, and John can't help himself. Gently, he sucks Sherlock's lower lip into his mouth, teeth grazing over the fragile skin. With a whimper, Sherlock darts his tongue into John's mouth, all at once awkward and demanding.
No longer placid and malleable with sleep, John's more primal urges take over. He wraps one hand around Sherlock's sculpted back, palm neatly cupping his shoulder blade, and hooks his leg over Sherlock's hip. A calculated shift of weight, a quick tumble, and now it's John pinning Sherlock to the bed. He breaks the kiss and pulls back, studying Sherlock. His eyes are wide and sparkling under heavy lids, his prominent cheekbones highlighted with a vivid blush. His shirt has gotten all twisted about, rucked up around his ribs.
The expression on Sherlock's face is utterly, thoroughly shocked, and John feels a thrill at being able to unseat him so completely. With a whimper, Sherlock throws his head back and exposes the long column of his throat, a gesture that seems both desperate and imperious all at once. Suddenly, it seems imperative to John to get his lips on that throat, to mar the pale flesh, possessive love bites blending in with the beauty marks on his otherwise perfect skin.
He presses the circle of his lips tightly against the raised tendon along the side of Sherlock's throat and sucks, dragging his teeth gently across the skin. He's rewarded with an unearthly keen from deep in Sherlock's throat, a buck of Sherlock's hips beneath his own. Impatient and needy, he drags his lips further down, finding Sherlock's collarbone, and bruises him again, marking him under no uncertain terms as Property of John H. Watson.
John groans softly at the sight before him, Sherlock laid out like a buffet for all the senses. While they’ve been kissing, John’s cock has gone from sleepily half-hard to keenly erect, straining against his pants and jeans. Too eager to fumble with fiddly clothing, John grabs either side of Sherlock's rumpled shirt and pulls roughly, sending the buttons flying and exposing the marmoreal expanse of Sherlock's chest, punctuated by hip bones dipping invitingly into his trousers.
Peering up at John through a maze of tousled fringe, Sherlock smirks and undulates, bring his hips up and grinding his erection against the inside of John’s thigh. As much as John has been fantasizing about Sherlock as a sexual creature lately, to have actual, incontrovertible evidence of his arousal so close to John’s own cock is dizzying. Without even being aware of his movements, John angles his hips slightly and gasps at the friction as his cock finds Sherlock’s.
Hissing through his teeth, John drops his head and plants a series of filthy open-mouthed kisses along the faint ridge of Sherlock's pectoral and down to his sternum. Encouraged by the pleased hum from deep in Sherlock's chest, John moves outwards slightly, tongue finding the raised nub of Sherlock's nipple with unerring precision.
The shrill, undignified squeak that slips out from between Sherlock's lips is the most rewarding thing John's ever heard. He swirls his tongue tightly around the puckered bump, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in his wake. John strokes one hand down the length of Sherlock's bared abdomen and pauses, his hand hovering just above the tented fabric of Sherlock's trousers. The warmth emanating from Sherlock's groin is palpable, and John's nearly convinced he can feel Sherlock's pulse from here.
Wistfully, he pulls away from Sherlock's sensitive nipple, blowing cool air gently across it. He drags his lips back up the pale skin, tracing over the bruises already forming, and eventually reaches Sherlock's ear. John traces the shell of Sherlock's outer ear with his tongue, earning another delicious moan for his efforts.
Taking all his willpower to hold still, he whispers. "Are you sure about this?"
"Really, John? I think that's rather obvious." Sherlock's superior tone of voice is marred somewhat by the ragged, breathy quality of it.
John grins and nips gently at Sherlock's earlobe. "Arse." Somehow the banter has relaxed him, ensured him that this is really happening.
Resting his weight on his good arm, John reaches down and undoes Sherlock's flies with a deftness that surprises even himself. His hands feel clumsy and burning hot, desperate to touch every exposed inch of Sherlock. Eager and compliant, Sherlock rises up on his hips and helps wriggle his trousers down. John finds himself storing the memory away, because who knows the next time Sherlock will be this helpful?
John takes a moment to stare at the damp spot on Sherlock's pants - dark purple, of course they are - feeling a strange sense of smugness, knowing that he's caused it. Sherlock catches him staring and chuckles before rolling his hips again, a silent demand to be freed. John obliges. Not because John always obliges, but because this time he's truly, desperately eager for the same thing Sherlock is.
Sherlock's cock is a sight; so flushed with blood it's a deep purple, contrasting sharply against his alabaster skin and the riot of dark curls at the base. It's long, not ridiculously so but still noteworthy, and neatly tapered towards the tip, with a slight curve. Sherlock is so hard John feels a pang of sympathy in his own cock, the foreskin fully retracted and highlighting a flushed head, glistening and slick with copious precome.
Licking his lips, John debates crawling down the bed and taking Sherlock into his mouth, but his own erection throbs heavily and uncomfortably, and he's not sure he's got the patience for that right now. There will be time in spades to explore Sherlock more thoroughly in the future.
Shaking his head, John clears his mind for long enough to concentrate on getting out of his own trousers. Now he does fumble, wrestling one-handed against the tight button of his jeans, but eventually he manages to get them undone. He tugs them down the barest necessary minimum, hissing sharply as his aching cock springs free. Immediately, Sherlock strokes John's exposed prick lightly with the tip of one finger, and the unexpected contact sends sparks up John's spine.
Shifting his weight slightly to bring them into alignment, John brings his hand up to Sherlock's mouth, pressing his palm against those gorgeously flushed lips. Sherlock looks thoroughly lost and John treasures the expression.
"Lick, Sherlock. Get it good and wet."
Getting to watch the comprehension dawn on his face, knowing he's got one up on Sherlock for the second time tonight, is a prize. Sherlock's tongue darts out from between those obscene lips, slick and glistening with saliva. He sucks each of John's fingers into his mouth in turn, coating them thoroughly and taking time to thrust his tongue repeatedly into the spaces between, nearly fucking John's hand with his mouth. Once the fingers are good and slick, Sherlock laves John's palm until it's dripping, a trickle of saliva running down the side of his hand.
In John's feverish, over-sensitised state, he can feel it leaving a trail of sparks as it curves around his wrist bone and down his arm. Groaning in anticipation, he brings his sopping hand down to their erections, a hair's-breadth apart.
He takes Sherlock's cock in hand, marveling for a moment at the needy noises Sherlock is making, at the heat and weight of his prick, at the contrast in textures. The core of Sherlock's erection is like iron, the skin over it impossibly soft and delicate-feeling under John's slick fingers. Words, taunts, thrown at Sherlock by Mycroft and Irene, flutter unbidden through John's head and he allows himself a brief but fanciful thought; that the fragile skin of Sherlock's cock is pristine, untouched by anyone else until now.
The thought gentles John's touch, slows his pace as he slides his hand up and down the length of Sherlock's prick. Each time he gets to the head, he rolls the palm of his hand over the tip, spreading the pooling fluid he finds there. Each time, Sherlock whimpers and trembles, his whole body going rigid for a fraction of a second. John suspects he's just as hyper-stimulated, and knows this isn't going to last long.
With a series of strokes and tugs that feel almost clinical and perfunctory, John transfers the last of Sherlock's hot saliva off his hand and onto his prick. It takes all his remaining willpower not to thrust his hips and fuck his own hand to completion, but right now Sherlock's needs are more important.
Impulsively he tilts his head and finds Sherlock's lips with his own, sliding his tongue into the moist warmth of Sherlock's mouth and swallowing the needy gasps Sherlock's making. Unable to draw things out any longer, he brings his hips down to meet Sherlock's, lining up their slick cocks and wrapping his hand around as much of their combined girth as he can reach. It's awkward, but it feels bloody incredible. And judging by the way Sherlock just gasped into John's parted lips, the way Sherlock nearly just bit John's tongue, he's enjoying the contact just as much.
Doing his best to keep them tightly together, John finally releases the pent-up tension in his hips and starts grinding them together. He's vaguely aware of Sherlock breaking the kiss and gulping in a large breath of air before rocking his own hips, attempting to match John's pace.
It's a little bit clumsy, their motions a bit erratic and uncoordinated, but nonetheless John feels his pulse ramping up, feels the trickle of sweat down his back. He's vaguely aware that he hasn't even bothered to take his shirt off, but right now that doesn't seem terribly important.
"Oh, oh, John. John. Fuck. Christ."
Something about the way Sherlock's swearing, so rare and so blunt, causes John to halt his movements and look down. For a second Sherlock's eyes are wide and sparkling, his mouth open, lips forming a near-perfect heart shape. The expression fades as his eyes squeeze shut, and John feels Sherlock go rigid beneath him, feels the pressure of Sherlock's cock twitching, spilling his release between them.
John brushes his lips soothingly across Sherlock's cheekbone, holding as still as possible as Sherlock rides out his orgasm.
"Shhh, shh, I've got you."
As Sherlock releases the death grip he had on John's ribs, the one John hadn't even been aware of, he bucks once, one last wave pulsing from his cock. The motion jostles them slightly and John's erection, still desperate and throbbing, slips into the hot, tight space between Sherlock's thighs. It's slick with sweat and the evidence of Sherlock's orgasm, and with a whimper, John thrusts his hips a couple of times.
Sherlock, always the clever one, tightens the muscles in his thighs, increasing the friction for John. Something somewhere in the back of John's mind expresses mild surprise at Sherlock being a relatively generous lover, rather than immediately flopping over for a post-coital nap, and John smiles briefly. He thrusts into the tight gap for only a few moments before burying his face in the hollow of Sherlock's throat to muffle the groans of his impending orgasm.
Sherlock's hands are on John's arse, holding him snugly in place as his vision goes grey, hips bucking as he comes violently between Sherlock's legs.
As John comes back down to earth, he rolls onto his side. It's only then that the absurdity of what's just happened hits him, and suddenly he has no idea what he should be doing. He fusses briefly with his jeans, now tight and chafing across his thighs, when Sherlock reaches out a hand to still him.
"I meant what I said before, John. I like you here, in my bed. Stay." Sherlock's voice is solid and unwavering, but John can tell that refusing him will ruin this fragile thing blossoming between them. He's relieved, realising that he didn't really want to leave in the first place.
He nods in the general direction of his own bedroom, biting his lower lip. "Let me just go get some pyjamas, yeah?"
Entirely at ease with himself, Sherlock shrugs the rest of the way out of his ruined, rumpled clothing. Sherlock slips under the comforter wearing nothing but the pants he somehow managed to keep clean, and pats the other side of the bed in silent invitation. The gesture should seem absurd, choreographed; something out of a bad rom-com, but coming from Sherlock it feels completely genuine and unselfconscious.
As he comes to terms with the fact that getting into bed and sleeping with Sherlock is actually far less terrifying than what they've already just done, John throws caution to the wind and strips down. He debates leaving on the cotton vest he had on under his shirt, but thinks it would be a bit absurd to keep his top half covered when his pants are clearly beyond salvation. Throwing caution to the wind he strips down completely naked and slips under the covers. After a moment of hesitation and awkward shifting, John curls up on his side, facing the wall, back to Sherlock. If Sherlock wants a snuggle, he can take the initiative. John's got no idea what the protocol for cuddling with someone like Sherlock is. As he lays there mulling it over, the delayed shock of what’s just happened hits him, and he realises he's about to start panicking. He sucks in a deep breath.
Before John has time to change his mind, Sherlock has curled up behind him and pulled John to his chest, placing a soothing hand on his sternum, like gentling a wild animal. John feels as though he should be alarmed at how smoothly they fit together, but the thought is fleeting and tossed aside as Sherlock wriggles closer, his knees slotting in behind John's. There's a soft tickle as Sherlock leans forward, the curls of his fringe dusting the nape of John's neck.
"Shh." Sherlock's voice is a warm caress across John's skin.
"I didn't say--"
"Stop thinking, John." John's certain he can feel Sherlock smiling against his skin.
"That's funny, coming from you. Aren't you usually telling me I need to think more?"
Sherlock's fingers are tracing tight patterns on John's chest. They feel random, but knowing Sherlock he's probably drawing out the molecular structure of oxytocin or something equally bizarre but charming.
"Only when there's something to think about. This is a foregone conclusion, it has been for months."
John laughs quietly, comforted by Sherlock's confidence and matter-of-fact tone of voice. Eventually, he relaxes, melting into the warmth of Sherlock's embrace. He isn't sure how he manages to fall asleep with so much running through his mind, but he does. Lulled, perhaps, by Sherlock's slow, steady breathing - at once entirely foreign and completely familiar.