With tremendous thanks to Team Beta, who have been stunningly patient with me as I figured out how to write these two idiots in an intimate setting. And a shout out to Jamlockk who first pointed me in the direction of kiltlock and prompted me to write one.
The boys still aren't mine, but if they were, John would be in a kilt. Often.
Note that the 'mature' rating is for chapter 1, in which amorous boys are amorous. Posting schedule for the rest of the chapters should be Tuesday/Friday/Sunday ...
John felt the play of muscles in Sherlock's back as the other man shifted in his arms, freeing his hand from the bedding and holding it up to catch the shimmer of morning light on the ring on his finger. He smiled and inched forward to press kisses in the hollow between Sherlock's shoulder blades. Sherlock hummed and leaned back into John, who tightened his arms briefly before snaking his left arm free and propping himself up to admire the ring, and the disheveled form it adorned, as Sherlock settled onto his back.
"It looks good on you," John said with a smile, his right thumb tracing lightly over the prominence of Sherlock's hip.
"It's stunning," Sherlock said, turning his hand again. "Titanium was a good choice. Light and durable."
"The blue reminded me of your eyes," John said, "when they're in a blue mood."
"A 'blue mood'?"
"Your eyes change colour. Sometimes it's related to the lighting, but it often seems to correlate to your mood."
"My mood affects the colour of my eyes?" Sherlock scoffed, shooting John a disbelieving look.
"I've actually got a spreadsheet on it," John said with a laugh, dipping his head to press a kiss to Sherlock's shoulder. "When you're bored they're a stormy grey. When you're involved in an experiment or busy in your mind palace they go a bit green. And when you've had an epiphany about a case, or when you're aroused, they're a brilliant blue."
"You observe the shifting colors of my eyes and are able to correlate their changes to my moods, but you needed a 'sign' before proposing? I despair, John," Sherlock said, wearing an expression of mock distress.
"Git," John replied, turning his light caress into a poke and causing Sherlock to yelp. A brief scuffle ended with John sitting astride Sherlock's hips, pinning his hands over his head. He grinned down at the man below him. As Sherlock's scowl softened into a smile John bent for a kiss, releasing his hold on Sherlock's wrists and running his hands down Sherlock's arms and up into his hair.
Sherlock's arms came up to wrap around John, his hands moving lazily over John's shoulders. He broke the kiss, his gaze caught on the ring again.
"What about the dark grey stripe, then? Not wood, or metal. Some kind of stone? What is it?"
"Meteorite."
John blinked and found himself on his back, Sherlock poised above him, hands wrapped around his shoulders and pressing him into the mattress.
"John Watson," he said with a low growl, "you wouldn't be using my wedding ring to mock me, would you?"
"Am I …? What? No. No, Sherlock," John replied, moving to rest his hands on Sherlock's waist and rubbing light circles with his thumbs. "Never."
"Then why meteorite?"
"It might sound a bit silly, but, well, it's ... me."
"The meteorite is you?" Sherlock repeated, releasing his grip on John's shoulders and resting his weight on an elbow, allowing his body to sag down onto John's.
"You- You are my world, Sherlock. For so long, though, I danced around acknowledging it, sticking to orbiting you from a safe distance. But safe isn't me. And it definitely isn't you. It isn't us, and I wanted us."
"And this makes you a bit of space rock how, exactly?" Sherlock asked, his tone teasing though the expression on his face showed genuine curiosity.
"This sounded so much better in my head," John groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes.
"You're doing fine, John."
John moved to scrub his hand over his face, then looked at Sherlock. The other man was looking at him expectantly. John sighed, but his expression shifted into a smile.
"Right. So, there I was, a chunk of rock, spinning through space around you. Always at a distance, until I realized that it was worth the risk of burning up in the atmosphere to fall. You were worth the risk. And so I fell. It was - Love was like gravity, pulling me home," John broke off with a slightly embarrassed huff. "Told you it was silly."
"Not silly, John. Sentimental."
"Yeah, well. If the ring fits ..."
"Ah. Speaking of rings, will you wear one, John?"
"I'd like to, yeah."
"Good. A ring to show the world to know you're mine," Sherlock said decisively, then mused. "Not matching, I think. Something similar. Complementary. But selected just for you."
"Whatever it is, it will be perfect."
"Perfection is rather a high bar, John."
"I have every confidence in you."
"Now you're mocking me," Sherlock said, nuzzling John's neck.
"Might be, yeah," John replied with a smile. He gasped when Sherlock's teeth nipped at his collarbone, and smacked a hand on Sherlock's arse in response to the other man's chuckle.
"Do you want a big wedding, Sherlock? Something lavish, where I can show you off? Something simple with just family and friends?"
"Don't care, so long as you're in a kilt," Sherlock replied, moving his lips along the scar on John's shoulder. "And there's dancing."
"Mmmm. You know, love, I might suggest that you reconsider April."
"Oh? And why is that? You don't fear a bit of a breeze, do you, John?"
"If you don't mind me flashing our guests ..." John said with a smirk. "But if we're outdoors to catch the breeze, in April, I'm afraid there won't be much to see. April is cold, Sherlock. Freezing my bits off on our wedding day might not be in your best interest." John punctuated his words by rolling his hips up, eliciting a rumble from deep in Sherlock's chest. "Besides," he added, "I'd rather not wait another nine months to call you mine."
"I'm already yours," Sherlock replied, moving to press kisses down John's chest.
"Mmmm, but I want the world to know it, and sooner rather than later," John said.
"September has reasonable temperatures, and a fair chance of blustery days. And it should give Mrs Hudson enough time to plan."
"Not your mum?" John asked, breath catching on the last word as Sherlock's tongue swept across his navel.
"God, no," Sherlock said, looking up with a horrified expression. "Besides," Sherlock said, lowering his head again to continue trailing his mouth downwards, "you know Mrs Hudson's been planning it for years already."
John had to agree, which was good, as he found himself unable to formulate further arguments, coherent or otherwise.