Not Good at All
Note: This is based off art work created by NekoWork. The title of the story is the title of her piece. I would link to it here but it will not allow me to. Sherlock and all related characters belong to BBC.
Also, I take full responsibility for my American mistakes.
John wakes in the early hours of the morning to his phone gently trilling on the bedside table. With a soft groan he stretches out a hand to touch the alarm button, effectively shutting it off before curling his arm back underneath the comfortably warm covers. Since his army days he has been able to be up at the crack of dawn without feeling too drowsy. However this morning he wishes that he could have a few more moments in this bed. In Sherlock's bed. The detective in question had not stirred at the sound of the alarm and was currently curled up on his side, facing John. The former army doctor is on his back but he turns to look at him now, smiling gently at what he sees. Not even Sherlock Holmes can keep up a façade while asleep.
Sherlock's face is relaxed and peaceful, making those sharp cheekbones look just a little bit soft. There is no trace of a snide remark on his lips and those aquamarine eyes are closed, sealing away the intelligent spark that always remained even when he was sleepy. John reaches out then, gliding his fingers through Sherlock's slightly messy curls and marveling at how soft they are. He never did like using cheap shampoo. Meanwhile Sherlock still doesn't stir which causes John to grin even wider. He really must be exhausted after their ordeal last night. The case had been a grueling one and yet even after they returned home Sherlock had insisted on making John arch and sigh and feel that same sensation he felt every time they became intimate. John had never figured Sherlock was capable of such acts or feelings. Yet he is human after all and it hadn't taken them long to figure out that something was going on between them. Even now, months later, John can hardly believe he gets to wake up in this bed next to the most incredible man he has ever known.
Knowing that he can't prolong the inevitable any longer, John's fingers leave Sherlock's hair and he rolls over and out of bed. The cold air hits him but he had chosen to wear a shirt and pajama bottoms to bed so that makes it more bearable as he shuffles his way into the tiny kitchen. John makes his morning tea as quietly as he can, moving a few beakers and test tubes out of the way as he does so. Sherlock doesn't see the kitchen as a place to make food but rather as a make-shift laboratory. John chews on his lower lip as the kettle began to boil. He could always offer the room upstairs since he spent virtually all of his time downstairs. Even his clothes had migrated into Sherlock's closet and dressers. Then again turning his old bedroom into a lab meant that he wouldn't see Sherlock as much as he'd like to. Whenever he worked in the kitchen it made John feel the comfort of his presence, even if he tended to leave bloody instruments in the sink.
Smiling to himself, John rubbed his eyes as he used his free hand to pour piping hot liquid into his favorite mug. He had a long shift at the clinic today because one of the doctors was on maternity leave and Sarah had begged John to come help out. Naturally he agreed much to Sherlock's obvious displeasure. "They have plenty of back-ups," Sherlock had grumbled a few days earlier. "Why do you need to be the one they need?" John had looked up from his newspaper. "I could use the money you know. Solving cases doesn't always bring in the dough." Sherlock had turned away from him, muttering something about John never needing money as long as he was around. While Sherlock always seemed to have cash (what did he need a flat mate for anyway?), John preferred to earn his own money. Plus he had a sneaky suspicion that Sherlock just didn't like to share him with anyone.
"Quite right, I do not."
Luckily John had heard the detective pad into the kitchen or he would've jumped out of his skin at the sound of that silky voice so close to his ear. He gripped his hot mug in both hands as Sherlock pressed against him from behind, reaching around a slender hand to brush against his lower belly. John relaxed into his touch as Sherlock's other hand lazily gripped his shoulder, mindful of the old injury hidden underneath his thin t-shirt. "How do you always know what I'm thinking?" John asked, feeling his eyes slide shut as Sherlock nuzzled the sensitive spot on his neck. He felt a smile against his skin. "Surely I am no longer required to answer questions you obviously already know the answer to." It wasn't an inquiry.
John sighed as the warmth from Sherlock's body mixed with his own. What had been gentle caresses was slowly turning into something more urgent as Sherlock's fingers tugged at the waist band of his pajama bottoms, revealing the band of his pants underneath. He had told Sherlock that the red boxer briefs made him feel silly but he liked the way Sherlock's eyes lit up every time he chose to wear them. For whatever reason, they appealed to him. "Sherlock…" He warned, knowing that he didn't have much time before he had to hop in the shower and then leave. It wouldn't be good if he walked into the clinic half-aroused.
Of course Sherlock ignored the warning and instead worked his fingers further underneath the cloth in order to reach his goal. John hissed when he found it, knowing that there was no stopping him now. "They can wait." He growled, pushing his nose deeper into John's neck and inhaling the scent of him. John leaned into his touch and groaned softly. Yeah, he supposed they could wait.