It was a wonderful first night together, it really was.
There were the long awaited declarations, the heated grappling at each others' clothing, the fevered kisses, the relentless touching, everywhere, everything skin on skin and lips on skin and heat and passion and never enough, not enough contact, not enough skin on skin and lips on skin until Sherlock pushed inside him and it was too much, all at once, too much passion and months of longing scattered further with each thrust into his warm receiving body, and still it was not enough, never enough, until suddenly it was, and they collapsed heaving with satisfied lust into each others' arms.
It really was a wonderful first night. It was how a first night should go. No drama, no pain, simply two people in love showing their love to each other with sweaty grasps and words dirtily whispered into ears and shouts of each others' names as if they were the last people alive on earth. It was perfect; it was everything. They fell asleep in the comforting cocoon of one another's company.
Or, they would have done, if Sherlock hadn't been an utterly fantastic snorer. He was out like a light, so many months of sexual tension finally resolved, and John figured that if snoring was an Olympic sport his bedmate would surely win first prize. Then again, he mused, if snoring was an Olympic sport then all sorts of new games would be added as well, and Sherlock would undoubtedly pull a second gold in Being a Fucking Amazing Shag.
John would have been asleep as well, should have been as well, blissfully happy in the afterglow of the best damn shag he'd had in years, but Sherlock would not stop bloody snoring.
He really should have known, John thought. How did he not know this about his friend? How had he lived with the man for this long and not know about the snoring? It's not, he supposed, something that one notices about one's flatmate.
John rolled over with a grunt, buried his head in Sherlock's pale shoulder, pulled a pillow up over his head, and tried to imagine the sounds the man aside him was making five minutes ago rather than the ones coming out of his mouth now.
It was to no avail.
He changed tactics, removed the pillow, and instead decided he may as well enjoy himself and began staring adoringly at the noisy man snuggled up to him. He traced the pale planes of Sherlock's face with his gaze, the odd contours that made him so uniquely beautiful; the sharp hills of his cheekbones, the truly delicious tumescences that were his lips, the light wisps of eyelashes that graced the covers of his icy-warm gaze.
He was beginning to think that this was unendingly romantic when his partner gave a loud, undignified snort and John dissolved into a fit of silent giggles.
Something really must be done about this, John thought, remembering briefly the telly advertisements for devices to help with such things and making a mental note to invest in something of the sort before crawling up a bit in the bed to lean over Sherlock. He kissed him gently on his eyelids, his cheeks, his nose, and finally those impossible lips, before Sherlock's eyes fluttered open and gazed hazily at the man atop him. "Mmmph," he said, with all dignity.
"You were snoring. Uncontrollably," John muttered with a soft smile, settling back into the pillows.
Sherlock gave him a sleep-filled smile. "My apologies. Do you think I can make it up to you?" he questioned, propping himself up on one elbow. The two men shared eye contact, deep blue on light silver blending into a hopeless swirl of galaxies unknown and unexplored and John's mind began to fill with all the things they could explore together, and it was with these thoughts in his mind that he grasped Sherlock's stunning alien face in his soft hands, kissed him hard, and said, with all the passion in the world (but it was still not enough, it was never enough), "I think that may be a possibility."