Fresh and pleasantly cool morning air was flowing through a slightly open window, playing lazily with net curtains, pervaded with sunlight, into a room where two men had shared a bad for some time already.
And this morning they also lied together.
The shorter one of them slowly opened his eyes and a drowsy smile appeared on his lips at the sight of the other man's bare back.
The corners of his mouth twitched lightly – he remembered the previous night.
Oh, how could he ever live without this man? Man, who had loomed into his life as something strange, completely unknown and with powers to attract the short man's attention by all its inscrutable self. But as time went by John had discovered the very better of Sherlock and he now became someone absolutely beautiful to him despite every imperfection.
It wasn't a real life, he thought and stretched out his neck to place a gentle kiss between the thin man's shoulder blades. Then titled up his head and whispered into the soft skin that covered the nape of his flatmate: "Good morning."
The taller man moved slightly as the other one's breath tickled him. "Mmh, good," he mumbled deeply and rolled over to face the source of warmth that was protecting him from the morning coolness.
He cuddled up to his flatmate's body and contentedly buried his nose into John's hospitable chest, "Very good..."
They fell asleep once more and it was the detective who woke up first this time. He was now again turned away, facing the wall, no longer in John's arms... and he was cold.
He touched his side and then all around his body to find out that the short man had stolen the cover for himself.
(Sherlock was not exactly a perfect man to share a bad with, and it was a painful truth that he did not even try much to be one – this was his bad after all. So there's no reason for you to be surprised that he had made something so heartless as to draw the cover completely away from his flatmate and wrapped himself into it, closing his eyes for the third time in this morning.)
All of sudden the thin man felt a hand – that could be no one other's then John's – how it gently stroked his tight, slowly crossed the hip to his ribs, up onto his shoulder, and then back down all over again.
"It seemed to me you had enough last night," the detective said in a sleepy tone of voice, but yet there was a smirk on his lips.
The short man – not stopping a bit in fondling his flatmate – made no reply and happily continued in his action.
Sherlock exhaled with contentment that John was providing him by his touch, and pull the cover down from his shoulder to feel and properly enjoy the contact of the other man's hand.
But when the doctor moved it to the now accessible piece of his flatmate's skin, his intent had nothing to do with caressing it – not at all. He only run his finger tips over it and then swiftly grabbed the cover, snatching it from Sherlock.
"Oy! Give it back!"
The detective was fully awake now as he turned sharply at the short, grinning man. "Give – it – back," he growled, baring his teeth, gripping the cover. But his flatmate held it tightly and Sherlock did not manage to take the cover from him. He even tried to yank it out, but that was not exactly the best idea, because as soon as he gave it a strong tug, he lost his balance and fell out of the bed.
John laughed at that, amused by something he did hardly expect to ever happen to his friend. But he didn't laugh for long...
The detective looked up from the floor and pierced him with sharp eyes.
Oh, shit, was the only thing that the doctor managed to though in time, before the thin man seized a tip of the cover, and by a very strong jerk he pulled his flatmate down, right onto himself.
John did not waste a minute and in a crack he pressed his lips to Sherlock's. "Hi," he said as he drew away and straightened up, sitting astride on the detective.
"Give me my blanket," the thin man grumbled through the clenched teeth.
"Fine," the short one shrugged his shoulders. "Here you go," he said and got up, pitching the cover into Sherlock face. "...I'll go wash my teeth."
. . .
The doctor knew it wouldn't be easy to sleep or only lay in one bed with someone like Sherlock Holmes (it was always: 'John, move.' 'John, your arm, put it somewhere else.' Or even: 'John, get off my bed, I want to sprawl out.') and he knew that he had to prepare his nerves for it. And so he did. Because he (unlike his flatmate) very tried – the thin man was worth it.
He calmly went to the bathroom and squeezed the toothpaste on his toothbrush.
Looking in the mirror, cleaning his teeth and after a while there stood another man in the bathroom door; The detective came after him to make an apology (but, of course, in a way so typical for him – not mentioning it). Fortunately John was aware of his flatmate's inability to say sorry in a common way, so he just smiled slightly for himself and waited for whatever would come.
Sherlock approached him and for a brief moment he watched the short man with an unclear gaze as if trying to figure out how he should perform his apology.
"...You have some foam in the right corner of your mouth," the thin man observed before bending down his head to reach his flatmate's lips and with the tip of his tongue he licked the foam off.
"I quite like this flavour," he stated when straightened back. "It' cooling and sort of–" Menthol, he finished in his head as John stood on his tiptoes to cup Sherlock's face and kissed him possessively, forcing his way into his flatmate's mouth to find that gorgeous tongue again.
Sherlock wrapped his sinewy arm around the short man's middle to support him in his action and by the hand of his other arm he caressed John's nape, going up through the fair hair, ruffling it with his long fingers.
John unwillingly drew his head back and broke the kiss to get some air, which he so urgently needed. He took a few deep breaths, then looked at the thin man from top to toe and licked his lower lip in a way that always made Sherlock forget a half of periodic table. And when, shortly afterward, there appeared a tiny, roguish smile, rolling up the doctor's left mouth corner, the detective couldn't stand it any longer; He grabbed John by the pyjama t-shirt and leaned himself against the wall, taking his flatmate with him.
John's body pressed against Sherlock's and the short man did not waste a second. Once again he matched the detective's mouth with his own, sinking his teeth into his flatmate's underlip.
Sherlock whined slightly and tightened his grip at the doctor's hair. John realized and immediately comforted the thin man by running his tongue gently across the place where his teeth had been. Then he quitted the kiss and put his lips to Sherlock's unrivalled neck, where he could bite almost as he liked. He kissed the detective under his jaw and then moved down, his lips gliding over the salt skin, which smelled so good in the morning, finding a sensitive spot in the area of Sherlock's posterior triangle, just above his right collar bone, licking the small depression formed beside the sternocleidomastoid muscle (for the medical man it was a good way to practice anatomy actually).
"Yesterday," the thin man breathed, going up and down his flatmate's nape with his right hand "I didn't try to make you have enough just for nothing."
"Well..." the doctor laughed briefly "I had enough," and mumbled into his flatmate's neck base: "But today's not yesterday, is it?"
"Nngh, John..." the detective squirmed as the short man stroked his bare chest and by his tongue started to explore Sherlock's jugular notch, "John, stop." He put his hands on the short man's shoulders. "Stop–"
"Why?"
"We... can't," the thin man tried to utter his explanation between the short kisses that the doctor was placing on his lips, and he could not help but response to every of them, "I mean I have... mmh –" John just caressed the thin man's side and then stroked the inside of his tight (Why are you doing this to me? the detective thought), "– some work."
"But it seems to me," the doctor said, his voice a bit husky, "you have to do some work here first," and having no mercy for Sherlock, he rocked his hips into the detective's lap.
"Ah–!" the thin man gasped and his head hit the wall as he felt John's erection pressed against his own.
The short man smiled at that and made the movement again.
Sherlock's hand flew up at that and he placed it over his mouth, trying to repress a moan, which so desperately wanted to force its way outwards.
"Let it out," the doctor whispered an order into his flatmate's ear, his breath becoming hotter and heavier as his hips were still repeating the motion, "I want to hear it."
He bucked sharply towards and compelled the thin man to let a low, indecent groan be escaped from deep within his throat.
"Oh, God, Sherlock..." the short man complimented him, kissing the dainty, parted lips, "Shouldn't I just bend you over the washer and fuck you right here?" he suggested and slid his hand adeptly into the detective's pants.
"J-John," the thin man uttered deeply, his abdominal muscles flexing under that sensation, and caressed his flatmate's back. He wanted it – oh, fuck, how much he wanted to get laid right now (and somewhere in the back of his head he was even aware of that tiny upwards motion of his hips, but still...), "...the work – ah!" he gasped as John, who had no intend of stopping in any of his current action, had closed his fingers around him, rubbing.
"Yes?" a muffled voice – maybe more of a puff of a hot breath – sounded nearby his right ear.
"The wor– nhh... the work..." Sherlock tightly clenched his jaw and tried to force his tongue to play along with him, so he could say something at all.
The doctor understood there's probably noting in the world that he could do to achieve the detective would keep his mouth shut, so he slightly slackened his pace, giving his flatmate an opportunity to express himself.
And then – at last – Sherlock managed to utter two words that John wanted to hear right from the beginning: "can wait."