Author's Note: I have writer's block. I listened to cutesy music. So have a fluffy drabble. Psuedo-fantasy because why not.
Morning's Kiss
Sherlock watched John move about the room as he lay on his stomach, wings flapping in agitation that his lover was no longer by his side. He had collapsed into the thick quilts and furs just as John was waking, intent on rousing him for an early morning session of kissing and seeing where it could go from there. Unfortunately, once John had been coaxed into consciousness, the man leapt from the bed, intent on denying Sherlock his much due affection.
"I have to go to the market. Are you coming with?" John stood, body tense, staring hard at Sherlock. He was acting placid enough, though his tone belayed his displeasure. In response, Sherlock rolled onto his side, covering his head with his wings. "Oh come on. Stop acting like a child, and get up."
"I see no point in leaving the bed when I had just gotten in it." Sherlock snapped back, his voice muffled by his onyx plumage. He could practically feel John rolling his eyes at him, that leftover anger from the night before directed plainly at Sherlock as he stayed stubbornly in the bed. There was a moment of silence, stretched out by Sherlock holding his breath and hoping for the other to join him, before John sighed.
"Fine. Stay here for all I care." He heard him stomping away, peering through his wings as he watched John's back retreating, disappearing, and the subsequent door slam of him leaving the flat. With an indignant grunt, Sherlock buried himself underneath the warm furs, breathing in the scent of his lover and obstinately denying he wanted him back here in the bed with him. Their fight last night was not his fault. He could hardly be blamed for not wanting to stop and apologize to every person he knocked over in his chase for his most recent adversary.
Still, he longed for John to be with him, arms wrapped him, as they lazily kissed the morning away. This intimacy of theirs was still young and fresh, and Sherlock feared he would bore of it easily. He sought attention whenever he could, enfolding their hands, embracing his lover at every turn, leaning upon him as much as possible, and John was incredibly responsive. He pondered on this now, fighting down the guilt from the night before as he combed a finger through his feathers. It had escalated out of hand easily, Sherlock not knowing how to deal with a fight now that he and John had deepened their relationship, insulting his lover an ease that should've startled him then as it did now.
When John returned, he would apologize in some way, maybe fighting down his own ego to say it aloud. For now, he lay comfortably, swathed in the furs and quilts, letting his mind wander to a few nights ago when John hadn't been mad at him and they had spent the night in this very bed, too desperate for one another to have a care for anything else in the world. It had been so sweet, the grasp upon his wings as he had slid so easily into his lover...
It would've been difficult not to be lulled into sleep, the heat of the covers, the pleasure of the memories, and the comforting scent rocking him gently as he allowed his mind to slip simply away.
He didn't know how long it was between when he fell asleep to when he felt the furs being pulled back and John slipping in behind him, lips brushing lightly against his shoulder as he let his wings fall forward to make room. A mumbled apology could be felt against his neck, arms enclosing around him, and though he began to lose his grip on consciousness again, he knew that when he awoke, John would be there and maybe then he could get his morning kiss.
Why does Sherlock have wings? Why not. Does this have anything to do with my other story? I don't know. You decide.