Wake Up In the Morning Feeling Like P-Diddy
I sagged against the back of cab's seat and closed my eyes in complete exhaustion. I hear Sherlock tell the Cabbie the address, and feel the car pull away from the curb. I feel my head start to fall forward and I snap it back up, when I feel the inevitable pull of gravity once again. I open my eyes groggily and find a good resting place against the cab's window. My body melts against the seat cushions and feel like a ton of bricks, but weightless all at once, a feeling you get only when you reach utter fatigue.
I can hear Sherlock tapping away on his phone, and I hone in on that constant staccato and feel myself begin to drift between sleep and the waking world. I seem to have last my battle for wakefulness on our cab journey back home, because I feel warm, moist air ghosting across my ear telling me to wake up. I turn my head slightly away from the window and with my all my will power, crack open my eyes to see Sherlock about five inches from my face. Too tired to care about his disregard for personal space I nod my head in acknowledgement, that I had heard him. I slowly slide my way across the back of the cab to find unsteady footing on the sidewalk right in front of 221B Baker Street; the street lamp lighting my way to the door under the cover of darkness. I see that for once Sherlock actually has money on him and is paying the cab driver.
I think I would have been more surprised if I wasn't so damn exhausted. I pull out my key from my jean's pocket and let myself in, leaving the door ajar for Sherlock. I meander my way up the stairs to the sitting room and all but collapse on to the couch. In a similar pose from the cab I lean back against the cushions and sink down, letting all the tension out of my muscles. I lean my head all the way back on the couch and peer up at the ceiling (covered in gunshot holes; from when Sherlock was bored, of course). My eye lids begin to flutter closed, and I no energy to stop the action.
I'm not a big dreamer, if I do happen to find myself in the midst of a dream it's usually a nightmare about the war. This though, is a rare occasion where I'm actually dreaming and it doesn't turn into a nightmare. The dream is all out of focus and swirling colors, I can't seem to focus on anyone and anything. I wish I could see what is going on, when I feel a warmth spread over the side of my face; a ghost of a touch across my skin. I sigh into the contact. I feel my dream begin to fade, but it's not like I knew what was happening anyway. I feel that light gentle heat against my cheek again, I feel it travel over to my ear; it makes me shiver.
In the far off distance I hear a soft sound. I try to look for the origin of the sound, but my dream is fading from unfocused haziness and smearing colors to black. I hear the sound again, sounds like someone's voice calling to me. I feel my mind floating back to consciousness. I slowly and with the most exertion that my tired body can muster crack open my eyes to see Sherlock out of the corner of my eye. My personal space fully invaded; his mouth is right next to my ear, and I can feel his warm breath wafting over my ear. The sensation makes a shiver run down my spine.
"John," I hear him speak softly, as if not to startle me. I turn my head so that I'm fully facing him, if I was more awake and aware of myself I would have told him to sit back and give me a little breathing room. Seeing as I'm fighting to just keep my head upright, I find that personal space is not a top priority, staying awake is.
"John, I need you to help me get some…Inspiration, for this new case." He looks expectantly at me, and I try to comprehend the hidden meaning behind his words, but my brain is still trying to reboot itself.
"Sher-lock," even speaking seems difficult at this time, but I trudge on, "what...are you...tal-talking about?" I finally make my way through the whole sentence. Sherlock doesn't seem to be bothered by my lack of articulation though. He just locks his eyes on my sleep drugged eyes; still trying to win the battle against just closing them again.
"I need your help with some inspiration," he looks me up and down at this. Oh, that's what he means. I must give him an incredulous look because he continues on. "John, I know you're a little tired," I give a snort at this (cause I'm beyond a little tired, I'm fighting full blown exhaustion), "but you're the only one who can help me. I don't know why, but you seem to be able to aid in my deductive process." I can't help myself; I let out a small chuckle at his last statement.
"Sherlock, I doubt that I in anyway aid in your deductions." He stops his eyes from traveling across my body at this, and locks that liquid metal gaze to mine again.
"You are implying that I'm in some way lying?" He cocks his head slightly to the side, and I just keep looking him as if to say 'yes, duh'. "John, lying is illogical. I don't deal in the illogical, hence I don't lie." He says to me in complete seriousness. I can't help but to agree that he isn't one for dealing with things that are illogical, that's just not how Sherlock's wired.
"I'm beyond exhausted Sherlock; can't I just get some sleep? Then I'll help you with your deductions, by adding in my amazing powers of deduction, free of charge." If I happen to say the last part sarcastically, it was meant to be. Sherlock just narrows his eyes at me, not amused.
"John, you have already acquired ten minutes of sleep, in the cab ride back here." Eyes still intensely focused on mine. I close my eyes and let out a huff in exasperation, because my body is too tired to fling my hands in the air and stomp away in irritation.
"Not everyone can go on very little sleep or no sleep like you seem to be able to," I say to him. Before he has time to come back I continue, "Maybe you should try getting some sleep as well. It would probably do you some good, even just four hours. We've been going for thirty-six hours straight." I peel open my eyes again, because if I keep them closed to long I run the risk of falling asleep again. Sherlock seems to be considering what I said, or at least he appears to be; should have known it was too good to be true.
"You can just stay how you are then. You don't have to move, I'll take care of everything." He smirks at me, but before I have time to continue arguing with him, he crashes his mouth against mine; this move effectively silencing me, and aiding in waking up my sluggish brain.
He nips gently at my bottom lip, making me gasp a little at the stinging sensation; allowing him access to slip his tongue into my mouth and start stroking along the roof of my mouth and my tongue. I can't help the groan that escapes my mouth at the contact, my body still trying to regain its faculties to try and stop this madness that is Sherlock Holmes. I can't help that my body seems to melt more against the couch, allowing Sherlock more access, I want to blame my exhaustion on my deplorable behavior, but in all honesty, I can't. I seem to never be able to say no to this man, or if the word 'no' is uttered, there is never any force behind it.
Sherlock gives a final teasing stroke along the back of my upper row of teeth, and pulls away for much needed oxygen. He looks at me, and I see his eyes are bright and glazed over; I assume I appear much the same. He begins to crawl over my thighs, straddling my lap. He brings his hands up from his side and begins to stroke his fingers through my hair, gently scratching my scalp. I let a sigh slip through my lips at the touch and close my eyes again; like I said, I can't say no to this man. I feel Sherlock shift his weight forward on my lap and bring our lips back together. This time the kiss is slower, more languid in its trajectory. I almost immediately open my mouth to allow him access to explore and taste.
The kiss seems to go on forever, but end too soon. Sherlock releases my mouth and starts to push his body back and away from mine. I try to will my arms and hands to work, to make him stay astride my legs. He chuckles a little at this, and I just open my eyes and glare at him, bastard. He brings his dexterous hand to both knees and slowly pushes my legs apart and bends to his knees in the now vacant space. I look down at him, my eyebrow slightly arched in question. He just smirks at me, and begins to run his hands along the hem of my shirt. I can feel my lower body react to the contact.
He starts to push my shirt up round my ribs and returns his gaze back to my eyes and looks on expectantly. I get the picture and remove my t-shirt (I must have energy reserves, or maybe it's just all Sherlock and his magnetism, to manage such a maneuver in my current state of exhaustion). Once my shirt is complete off, Sherlock begins to run his hands up and down my chest and torso, lightly grazing across both my nipples, making my back arch a little off the couch and a groan escape from between my lips. His hands make their way down to the top of my jeans and begin to slide between the fabric and my skin. The touch makes me squirm, wanting more than just the light teasing touches. He runs his forefinger from hipbone to hipbone, I push my hip forward to try and get him to move along. He just remains vigil on his light touches and lets his nail scratch against the sensitive skin of my lower abdomen.
"Sherlock, stop teasing," I finally cave, and use my voice to urge him on; my lower body no longer wanting to wait. He looks into my eyes and smirks. He brings his long, nimble fingers to the button on the front of my jeans, and works it open. He slowly, too slowly lowers my zipper. I push my hips up away from the couch to aid him in stripping me of the offending clothing. He brings his hands back to the hem of my shorts and begins to peel those away as well, when we hear his phone vibrating on top of the coffee table. He stops his movements and turns to grab his phone.
I let out a frustrated groan and turn my attention back to the ceiling in agitation at the unwanted interruption. I here Sherlock tapping away on his phone; He then goes to stand, still between my spread thighs. He stops his finger's movements across his phone and regards me on the couch. How I must look, thoroughly exhausted and hard as a rock; I honestly don't care at this point. With Sherlock's ministrations now gone from my body I have seem to fallen back into extreme fatigue.
"Lestrade seems to have come across a particular piece of evidence that may aid in the conclusion of the case." I just nod up to him. "I'm actually quite surprised by this; I didn't know Lestrade actually did any work, besides paper work. I also believe that you have helped me with some of my theories about what happened as well." He smiles at me. "I told you you're the only one who can help with my deductions." With that he is all animated limbs and dramatic twists and turns. He all but flounces out of the flat and off to Scotland Yard.
I let out another sigh, for the millionth time; though this time in a combination of my unsatisfied need and weariness. I let my body slowly slide along the back of the couch till I'm lying horizontally along its length. I'm on the verge of sleep, when I feel the chill that's in the room, previously ignored due Sherlock and our previous activities. I locate Sherlock's house coat lying haphazardly in the chair across from the couch. I struggle to push my body up from its reclined position and trudge over the few paces to retrieve the thing. I slide my arms through their respective holes and close the front with the tie. It still feels a little chilled in the room still, so I find a small blanket lying over back of the couch and pull it around my body.
Sleep claims me almost instantly. I don't dream this time, I lay shrouded in darkness, but that's fine to me. I prefer this nothingness to the nightmares about war, blood, bodies, and gun fire. I don't know how long I remain asleep on the couch, but sometime later I wake to the sound of the front door slamming shut and the thunder of feet running up the stairs. I remain obstinate in the hope that I can regain sleep, so I keep my eyes closed. I know it must be Sherlock, because who else slams the door and climbs the stairs as if there is a fire alight behind him, urging him forward.
I hear the sound of shoe clad feet come into the sitting room, but still keep my eyes closed and breathing even; in hopes that maybe, just maybe Sherlock will leave me to my much needed (and deserved) rest.
"John, I know you're not asleep. The door slamming and the amount of noise I made on the stairs would have awoken you, surely." I hear his baritone ring out through the room. Well, how unfortunate for me. I open my eyes and see him standing on the other side of the room; his coat still tight around his body and a faint flush to his cheeks; his hair falling down into his eyes, he looks amazing. He's smiling down at me and begins to walk over to the couch. He pushes my feet off the couch almost making me completely fall off. I hurriedly right myself to a sitting position. I glare over at him; that was a tad bit unnecessary.
"You didn't have to do that, you could have just asked." I rest my elbows on my knees and my head in my up-turned palms. He just turns his head in my direction, still smiling. The smile is irritating, because I can't join in the glee. "What are you smiling about?" I ask. He just keeps smiling.
"You solved the case for me." He all but beams at me, I'm all but dumb struck.
"No I didn't, well not with the last bit. I was here, asleep." My eyes simmer in irritation at my rude awakening.
"Oh, but you did. Earlier when we were kissing, I got my inspiration, and all the clues just seemed to piece themselves together. You're absolutely amazing John, absolutely amazing." I blush at his words, I can't tell if it's at the remembrance of our snogging session or his praise; I just believe it's a combination of the two. His pupils seem to dilate slightly as he glances down my form. "John, are you wearing my robe?" I look down to see that the blanket I had wrapped around me slipped down to pool in my lap. I look back up to him.
"Yeah, sorry I was too tired to go up to my room and sleep, and it was chilly down here." I feel my flush darken anew at being caught wearing and article of Sherlock's clothing; He just keeps staring down at the tie holding the robe closed.
I hear a small groan emit from his form before he is pushing me bodily down onto the couch. His lips meeting mine in a mad ferocity. I feel his teeth biting my lips in a demand to allow his tongue admittance into my mouth. Like I said earlier, I can't seem to say no to this man, and open my mouth to his insistent tongue. Our tongues restart their dance from earlier, twirling and twining together in a heated rhythm.
I feel Sherlock snake his left hand down to the clasp of my (well his technically) robe; while his right hand remains up by my head supporting his weight over me. He undoes the tie holding the robe closed and all but rips it open to expose my naked chest and stomach; his eyes are glued to my newly exposed skin. He runs the pads of his fingers across the scar on my shoulder then over my collar bone, then down my chest. He runs his nail over my left nipple and over to the right. The action causes me to emit a loud groan, captured by our still connected lips. His fingers then begin their exploration south again, ghosting along my ribs, tracing each one. I shiver at the delicate, almost innocent flittering of his fingers.
His movement is impede by the now bunched up blanket that was residing in my lap before Sherlock decided it was a great idea to snog on the couch; and what a grand idea it is! He pulls his mouth away from mine, and I find myself out of breath and trying to gulp air back into my lungs. Sherlock panting as heavily as I am turns his attention to the offending blanket blocking his hands from their final destination. He bares his teeth slightly and rips the blanket out from around my lower body. The only clothing I have remaining are my shorts and the robe that hangs precariously around my arms, while Sherlock has layers on and his shoes.
"Too many clothes, you have too many clothes on." My eyes lock on his and he seems to just remember his current state of dress. He immediately sits up and bends over to take off his shoes and socks, then shrugs off his coat. His fingers work deftly over his pristine button up shirt, till he throws that across the room in his eagerness; I chuckle silently at this. He then undoes the button on his trouser and lowers the zipper down, and shucks his pants off his lean, tones legs. He's adorned only in his shorts, and I find that I like him better out of his clothes, much better. He then resumes his former position lying full body over me, with both hands up by my head supporting his weight. He brings our lips together in a quite kiss, just the brush of lips against one another. He lowers his pelvis down to meet mine, creating a most welcomed friction.
My lower body reacting accordingly, and finding myself fully hard again; Sherlock seems to be equally as hard and wanting as me, if his insistent rutting is anything to go by. He pulls his head back so that his face is only a breath away from mine, his eyes look deep into mine. I can feel his breath against my lips, I can still taste him in my mouth, and I want more. I start to raise my head to initiate another kiss, but he uses one of his hands to lightly push against my chest, telling me to stay like I was. Confused, I look into his eyes anxiously, waiting for him to explain.
"John," his eyes are dilated to the point that his irises seemed to have been consumed by blackness; his breath still wafting across my lips, making me lick my lips in hunger. "John, I need to know that this is ok." His eyes though full of need and lust; still hold a fraction of uncertainty.
"Yes," I whisper breathlessly, because I still haven't gotten my breathing back to normal from our make out session earlier. "It's all fine, all of it," Because it really is fine, actually more than fine, absolutely bloody amazing. He smiles a genuine smile at me and I can't help but smile back at him; all swollen lips and teeth.
He then begins the slow exploration of my body again, but this time he uses his mouth to cover the path his hand had taken earlier. He kisses along the scar adorning my shoulder across my collar bone, down to my left nipple, sucking the flesh gently; then does the same treatment to the right, causing me to arch my back off the couch.
"Sherlock," I can't help the exclamation of his name from my mouth. His eyes glance up at me from my chest, they look absolutely ravenous.
Sherlock then continues his path southward till he comes to the hem of my shorts, he sits up a little and hooks his fingers inside them and tugs them gently; I raise my hips to assist in the removal of the material. My need finally freed, I groan as my cock comes into contact with the chill that seems to be persistent in the room. Sherlock doesn't waste any more time and lowers his mouth down to my member and swipes his tongue along the slit, making me jump slightly and groan all the more.
He then takes just the head in his mouth, swirling his tongue just around the tip, making me arch off the couch and grab a fistful of hair, none to gently. He doesn't seem to mind as he just pushes his hands down on my hips and groans around my member. The vibration his groan emits around me is extraordinary, and that I shout out Sherlock's name, and not all that quietly either. Sherlock proceeds to take more of me in till he has a majority of me in his mouth, the last few inches covered by one of his hands. I can tell I'm not going to last much longer, it's just too much, feels too good.
"Sherlock, Sherlock," I repeat his name like a mantra. He slowly begins a slow rhythm of suction and movement; bringing his mouth all the way to the tip, sucking gently, and then moving back down again. His hand moving in time with his mouth; a torturously slow pace, creating a slow burning in my groin. I groan his name and gently rock into his mouth, nearing the end.
"Sherlock…fuck…Sherlock, I'm gonna …I'm gonna cum…" I groan loudly, I close my eyes against the pressure that has finally reached its peak, when I feel Sherlock hollow his cheeks ad speed up his movements, and that's all it takes for me to empty myself in his mouth with a shout of his name; fingers digging into his scalp.
I release his hair and let my arms fall down to my side, limp. I try to get my breathing back under control, as Sherlock seemed to have stolen my breath from me, again. I feel Sherlock shift his weight and open my eyes to see him crawling up my body, till he's looming over me again. He smiles down at me, and brings one of his hands to cup my cheek and swipe his thumb across my cheek. I flush at the gesture and smile back at him. He leans down to kiss me, I taste myself in the kiss, which is different, but I manly taste Sherlock, and I feel the hunger in my groin slowly start to reignite.
He pulls away from me and moves to get up, and I catch him by the arm; fearing that I he regretted what had just occurred.
"I'll be right back, I promise. Stay here, I'll be right back." He smiles down at me, and I'm instantly put to ease. He's still hard and I then understand where he was going and what he was getting. I feel anticipation rolling in my gut, and adrenaline start building in my veins, its intoxicating.
Sherlock returns down the stairs with lube and a condom in hand. I feel my heart begin to hammer against my chest, the blooding rushing in my ears. He puts both items on the floor right next to the couch and crawls over me again, all raw lust and hunger. He raises my legs and wraps them around his waist and with one hand leans over and grabs the bottle of lube and applies a copious amount onto his fingers. He brings his fingers down to my entrance and gently traces around it, just feather light touches. I feel myself harden and my breathing hitch. Sherlock just looks into my eyes, silently asking permission; I stare straight back and nod.
"Just relax," he whispers. My muscles seem to melt against him at these words, and he slowly glides one of his fingers inside me. I squirm at first, not use to such an intrusion, but once Sherlock starts a slow rhythm, in and out, in and out, I begin to groan at the contact. He then adds a second finger, applying a scissoring motion. I began to rock back on his fingers, and then he presses against something inside me that makes me arch my back completely off the couch.
"Sherlock!" He presses forward again, continuing to open me up. I start panting and moaning without restraint from here, adding a third finger to join the other two slowly pushing into me; keeping the same angle and hitting my prostate every time.
"Sherlock, please, please now. Fuck me now." I breathe out between groans. Sherlock carefully slips his slick fingers out of me, wiping his fingers on his robe, still hanging splayed out beneath me. He sits back and takes his shorts off, freeing his member; a light hiss escaping his lips. He then applies more lube to his straining member, and gently places the tip against my entrance. He turns his face back up to mine and I see his mouth slightly open, panting.
"John, are you sure; is this still fine?" He looks right into my eyes and I see the lust and the hunger reflected back, but I also see the love there, and at that moment I could have said yes to anything he wanted. I just nod my head in acquiesce, because my voice has suddenly failed me. He just smiles at me and leans down and kisses me, while slowly sliding his length inside my body.
There is pain at first, not a sharp pain, but a dull throb that I find just adds to the pleasure of it all. Sherlock pulls his lips away from mine, locking eyes with me, slowly starts to build a rhythm; a languid push and pull that has me moaning and breathing Sherlock's name like a prayer. Sherlock rests his forehead against mind, still never letting his gaze waver from mine. He's panting and I can tell he's close because his rhythm speeds up, becomes less refined. He keeps the same angle though, hitting my prostate with every stroke and has me reaching my peak, I feel the burning back in my groin. I feel my abdomen tighten and muscle tense, I cum screaming Sherlock's name. Sherlock follows me groaning my name.
I watch his face contort into a look of extreme pleasure, almost bordering on pain. His eyes close on their own accord, the first time since we started that he's closed them. He collapses on top of me, and I find that I don't mind his weight pressing down on me. He lays his head in the crook of my neck, slowing easing himself out of my body; immediately missing the contact, feeling a strange emptiness inside of me. He raises himself up on his elbows and looks down at me, a tiny smear of a smile across his lips.
I bring my hands up to his hair and card my fingers through the curly locks. He closes his eyes for the second time and I can almost swear he purred a little. I smile up at him, and he opens his eyes to gaze down at me, reverently. We stay like that for a while, with me lightly messaging his scalp, enjoying the silence. I know both of our eyes say the same thing: love. It isn't spoken but it doesn't need too, we both know, we both see it; I though, break the silence.
"It's all fine, all of it." His eyes brighten and his smile widens, he leans down and presses our lips together, saying with our bodies that its fine, it's all fine.
The End
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