John was asleep. He was having a rather nice dream too, about Sherlock preparing breakfast for him, and then they sat together at the small table in their flat and John was wearing Sherlock's favorite purple shirt. Everything was lovely, they sipped their tea and Sherlock even took an occasional bite from the toast he had on his plate while talking a mile an hour about a murder in the tube (Later, John would wonder what it said about his mental state that he even dreamt up new murder scenes. His therapist would have had a field day with that one, he was sure). Early morning light poured in from the window and painted amber and ebony and sometimes blue streaks in Sherlock's curly soft hair.
Until, quite suddenly, John had a lapful of Mycroft. This turn of the dream was a little unexpected, and Mycroft was quite heavy even though he was only wearing a neon green thong and a garishly pink umbrella. John thought he may have made a distressed sound, a squeak maybe, and his eyes snapped open.
For a moment there was nothing but darkness in front of his eyes, and a soft, warm pressure on his lips, and then John recognized Sherlock bloody Holmes. Sitting on top of him and... kissing him? What the hell? When Sherlock leaned back and his hot breath ghosted over John's lips, he spluttered, "I swear to God, Sherlock, if this is one of your experiments like when you monitored the movements of my eyes during REM-sleep I'll-"
"Let's have sex," Sherlock interrupted.
...What?!" Maybe John's brain wasn't working anymore, or he was still dreaming, but there was no way in hell Sherlock Holmes -who had just been kissing him a not-so-very-helpful part of his brain reminded him- had just suggested they have sex.
"Don't be dense, John, surely you know what sexual intercourse entails." There really was no appropriate response to that, so John didn't answer.
"Why?" he wanted to know instead, a little breathless. It probably did not bode well for his mental state that that was the first question that came to mind, but in all honesty, Sherlock's face was so close that it short-circuited John's brain. Sherlock's pale eyes were huge, his pupils blown wide, his breathing elevated, and with shocking clarity John realized that Sherlock was aroused. By him, because there was nothing else in his bed. Or was there? John panicked. Maybe Sherlock had poisoned himself, or an experiment had gone wrong and now Sherlock needed to have sex lest he die. "Oh God, Sherlock, what did you do? Are you going to die of it?" He tried to get up, but Sherlock held him down with ease.
He leaned up, though, taking a bit of his warmth away, making John miss it, missing him even though that was ridiculous. Sherlock was still straddling him.
"Don't be stupid, John," Sherlock chastised. "If I was dying, I wouldn't want to have sex. I would be busy finding a cure."
"But then", John asked, confused, "why would you want to have sex? With me?" The conversation was slightly surreal, and if it weren't way too late -or too early, depending on how you looked at it- John might have worried about that. As it was, he was left wondering why Sherlock wanted to have sex with him. If he wasn't dying, then what? "Is it for an experiment? Because I'm not having sex for an experiment, Sherlock. Go and find someone else you can bother with your experiments. The body parts in the fridge are quite enough."
Sherlock kissed his eyebrow. "It's not an experiment, John."
"Was there a murder?"
He shook his head and leaned down again, nibbling at John's neck. "No." John shivered. Parts of his body that had no business being awake started to be very interested in the conversation.
"Are you high? Or maybe drunk?" Heat pooled in John's groin. Sherlock had a hand under the t-shirt John had been sleeping in and his fingers grazed a nipple.
"No, John." He thought that he ought to fight Sherlock more on this.
"Bored?" Sherlock hesitated, his left hand played at the hem of John's shorts.
"A little, but only because we're not currently having any sex, John."
"Then why?" Sherlock sighed again.
"John. I would like to have sex. With you. Not because I'm bored, or am conducting an experiment, or dying. I just..." Sherlock looked away, and the streetlight that shone outside of the window cast him in ethereal light. John tilted his head a little in order to see him better. It was hard to make out in the darkness, but John thought he saw pink on Sherlock's cheeks. "...I just want to," the consulting detective admitted sheepishly. And before John could find an answer to that perfectly sweet admission, Sherlock went and ruined it. "It's not like you haven't had sex with a man before, even as the submissive partner, or that you don't want me, because clearly you do-" Sherlock made a rolling movement with his hips that made John gasp "-so what's the problem, John?" He basically purred John's name and really, what was he protesting? He'd wanted Sherlock before, how couldn't he, the man was gorgeous, and now Sherlock was offering. Just because he wanted to.
"Are you sure?" John asked, because he needed to be sure that Sherlock really wanted this.
"Yes, of course I'm sure, John!" Sherlock snapped.
"Oh. Okay then," John agreed, because what else was there to say? And then Sherlock kissed him, kissed him properly.
His lips were soft, incredibly so, just like John had imagined. That, and the skill behind it, the subtle shift and press and the occasional nibble made John's pulse spike. Their lips locked, John finally accepting that this was happening, he was really kissing Sherlock. It felt bloody fantastic, just what he wanted, what he needed. It was too much and not enough all at the same time, and John had to close his eyes. The pressure on his lips increased and he opened his lips willingly, submitting to Sherlock. The other man's tongue, hot and imploring, found its way into John's oral cavity, exploring first the right, then the left side with almost scientific precision, taking John's tongue and stroked along its underside. His fists clenched and unclenched in Sherlock's t shirt -he couldn't even remember taking hold of it. A stream of sensations whizzed past him with alarming speed, heat, need, satisfaction, love, desperation. At first John hadn't been able to do anything but receive, but suddenly it wasn't enough anymore, he needed to make Sherlock as hot and bothered as he was rapidly getting. He pressed his tongue against Sherlock, and Sherlock shifted atop of him, sending delicious shivers down John's spine when Sherlock's cock met his.
Sherlock tipped his head back, opened his mouth and moaned loudly. John's eyes snapped open, staring at the long line of his pale throat. It begged him to be kissed, to be sucked at, so he reached and pulled Sherlock down with a hand tangled in his luxuriously soft hair and attacked his pulse point. Enjoying the hard chest above him, Sherlock's lean body pressed against him, John sucked hard. Sherlock whimpered "John!" when he used his teeth. He would leave a mark, but John couldn't care less. Sherlock was his now, and the rest of the world should know that he was hands-off. Possessiveness gripped him, and with a growl John bit down a mark right next to the one he'd just made. Nobody would touch Sherlock this way ever again if he got any say on the matter. Sherlock's hands were now all over him suddenly, everywhere at once. When a thumb and forefinger worried a nipple, John had to stop covering Sherlock's throat with little kisses in order to make a breathless sound of pleasure. It would have been embarrassing how close he was from this, from just tasting Sherlock with both hands now tangled in his hair, but this was Sherlock, so it was okay. It was all okay, as long as Sherlock was right there with him.
John felt that he was getting close, the heat in his groin giving way to desperation. He needed more friction, more something right now, or he was going to... But Sherlock just continued to trace his ribs, each one separately, from the outside and back to the solar plexus -was he counting them?- in slow, measured movements, and every time he came close to one of John's nipples, so close, he just ghosted over the areola and John wanted to scream with frustration. The sound he had made earlier apparently forgotten Sherlock now seemed to be intent on finding new ways to make John scream. He kissed his neck and John moaned at the moist heat of his tongue. He stroked over the flat of John's stomach and John whimpered because Sherlock was so close to where he wanted him and not close enough all at the same time. John felt full, full of Sherlock, full of everything-
"Sher-lock, ple-please..." John begged, almost sobbing. He felt the man's satisfied grin against his throat to where he had just shifted and was kissed there, softly, almost chastely. One of Sherlock's hands suddenly closed around John's shaft, and he cried out with relief when Sherlock immediately set a fast rhythm. The problem was just, Sherlock's grip was gentle, too gentle to provide the friction John needed, and shifted his rhythm whenever John was close enough that he thought he might finally be coming. A litany of SherlockpleaseohgodpleaseSherlockplease fell from his lips, but the world's only consulting detective was undeterred.
John had lost track of the world and of what Sherlock's other hand might have been doing, but he suddenly felt a cool probing at his entrance. A finger traced the outlines of John's opening, stroking around its edges, and it was all too much. With a hoarse cry, John came, white-hot joy in his heart, heat waves clashing over his head, the universe exploding behind eyelids he'd screwed shut.
Slowly, John came down from his orgasm, still panting but feeling utterly contented. That was when he noticed a finger was now inside him, stroking and curling. One of Sherlock's long, lean fingers. Wide-eyed and still a little unfocused, John stared at him.
"Okay?" Sherlock asked, his voice unusually deep and husky. John could only nod. He was too exhausted to do much else. Sherlock continued to wriggle his finger, then joined it with a second one. It didn't hurt, John was way too relaxed for that, and instead it gave him time to really look at Sherlock.
His friend -were they still friends? Did you still call someone that just made you orgasm this hard a friend? - watched himself prepare John, cast in shadows and light from the streetlight outside their window, a study in contrast. His face was illuminated, but shadows from his cheekbones made his eyes almost invisible but for a glitter in them that made John shiver a little. John's eyes traveled over Sherlock's chin to his throat. A bruise was beginning to form there, and possessiveness gripped John's heart again. He wanted Sherlock to be his, and he wanted to be Sherlock's. Of course he did. How could he not? Sherlock was brilliant. He was beautiful. Brilliantly beautiful, and achingly hard. Precum leaked from Sherlock's cock, and John couldn't help but think that it was like a miniature version of the man himself: standing tall, a bit taller than everybody else, slim and proud.
Then, Sherlock's finger hit John's prostrate, and it felt like a small candle was lit within John. Sherlock, of course, being Sherlock, after that and John's telltale gasp found the little bud again and again, stimulating John mercilessly until his previously spent dick decided that it wanted to have another go, and now, please. A third finger joined the other two, and as Sherlock was scissoring them, panting himself, the little candle morphed into a wildfire and John made a helpless sound of desire.
When the fingers left him, John wanted to protest because he was feeling empty, his hole clenching around nothing, but then Sherlock was there and pushed in with one deep thrust. He fastened his legs around Sherlock's hips, holding on. John's lips fell apart and he panted, he was unused to this kind of penetration and unsure whether he had ever taken anyone in that far. Sherlock was freaking long. For a fraction of a moment Sherlock stopped, looking at John, and John experimentally clenched his inner muscles. As if a dam had broken inside of him, Sherlock started to pound into John with wild abandon. It was a sight to behold, the great detective without all of his masks, without the control he valued so much. Sherlock's eyes were closed, his cheeks flushed and he was panting, calling John's name and other words that made no sense, and John thought he had never seen anything so fucking beautiful in his entire life. Sherlock moaned, slowly falling apart, slowly driving John insane. He himself could do nothing but stare while nonsensical words slipped past his closed lips, Sherlock and yesplease and I'vegotyouyesssplease. When Sherlock came, his cupid's lips went slack, his eyes opened wide. He stared at John with wonder, as if he couldn't quite believe he was here, with him, doing this (which was frankly ridiculous if it weren't so adorable), and there was something else there, something raw and needy and desperate, and it sent John right over the edge with him, just as Sherlock's semen filled him searing hot and to the brim. John had never felt so full before. Or so content.
When John awoke a second time, sunlight was streaming into the room. Next to him, Sherlock was still fast asleep, his chest lifting and falling with each slow breath he took. John was positively surprised by this, he had half expected for Sherlock to be gone when he woke up. He reached a hand out and pushed one rebellious strand of curly hair back behind Sherlock's ear.
"I love you," he whispered softly and wondered if anything would ever be the same between them.
"Of course you do," Sherlock answered and scared the living shit out of him. "Come on, now, Lestrade phoned me hours ago. There has been a dead woman in Central Park, and she was covered in sheep wool! Let's go!" Sherlock literally bounced out of John's room and left the good doctor staring bemusedly at his naked behind. He stopped in the doorway.
"Come on!" Some things, John thought, will never change. And that was just fine. Just how he wanted it.