Undivided
They start out in two different beds. Really, they do. Two different rooms, even. Sherlock in his, John upstairs.
John eventually gives up trying to talk himself into believing that he is perfectly fine in his room, and that the thoughts of Sherlock not having truly returned are completely irrational and pointless at sometime around three in the morning. And that is three in the morning after having been woken in the middle of the night twenty-four hours earlier and a marathon day at Scotland Yard for him and Sherlock that lasted until well after dinner time (dinner, as well as breakfast and lunch, consisted of something sandwich-y and coffee).
He gets out of bed, telling himself he will sit on the couch, and, honestly, he will only peek into Sherlock's bedroom for a second, just for long enough to know that the other man is really there.
He comes down the stairs and stops in the doorway to the living room. Sherlock is sitting on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, staring into space and looking as exhausted as John feels.
"Can't sleep?" John asks, and Sherlock startles. No, the detective is not in his best form if he doesn't hear John come down the stairs. There's at least two steps that creak, never mind that even bare-footed, Sherlock would normally hear him.
Sherlock with his big eyes directed at John looks oddly embarrassed, a bit like a kid caught with his hand in a cookie jar. He quickly shakes himself, though. "Nightmares?" he asks John instead of answering.
John indulges him – because he always does, and it is distinctly easy to just fall back into old patterns – and sits next to him. "No. Just… stupidly afraid that when I close my eyes, I will wake up two days ago." He contemplates that. "Or worse." The worse namely consisting of the two weeks after the fall, but he doesn't say it. Sherlock can hear it anyway.
Sherlock's jaw sets, and John can see his Adam's apple bob a bit. Then he opens his left arm that is closest to John and invites him under the blanket. He never turns his head to look at John, doesn't urge, just invites.
John doesn't need urging and slips closer, the arm and the blanket settling warmly around him.
"I kept doing it, you know," Sherlock finally says, softly. So softly, that John for a second isn't even sure the words are directed at him. "Like I used to…"
John settles closer still when Sherlock pauses, leaning his head against the pointy shoulder. He doesn't urge either. He invites.
"I would… be in a hotel room. A flat. Somewhere," Sherlock says, uncharacteristically nondescript, but John has a feeling the words aren't about the location or the surrounding adventure. Not this time.
"I would… talk to you." The words come from deep within, or possibly far away. Far away from some empty room that was not home, did not contain a John.
Sherlock suddenly breathes in sharply, as if he only just remembered that he hasn't finished the thought and isn't in a place that isn't here. "Then I would turn around, expecting to see you there, expecting your smile because I'd done something smart."
His eyes briefly flicker to the top of John's head on his shoulder, and he can see the other man's closed eyes and wet lashes. He has to stare ahead again; he can't finish that sentence while looking at his friend.
"And you weren't there."
John swallows and clears his throat. "I missed you too."
Sherlock nods. "I must thank you."
John perches up a bit, but doesn't lift his head.
"I couldn't risk letting you know. I must thank you… for noticing. It… soothed my mind."
John chuckles. "It certainly soothed mine, I can tell you that." He does lift his head, now, smiling at Sherlock.
It takes a moment, but Sherlock eventually smiles back. He sobers quickly, though, just looking at John. "I am sorry for the pain I caused you."
John nods. "I know you are."
"That I am capable of this kind of regret is down to you, and I don't know whether I should thank you or curse you for it."
John purses his lips. "Do you feel like thanking me or cursing me for it, now?"
Sherlock doesn't hesitate. "Thanking you."
John grins, ruefully. "I'll remind you of this moment, then, when you feel like cursing me, later."
It startles a laugh out of Sherlock, and John feels very thankful as well.
With proof of his friend's continuing existence right there with him, John soon falls asleep.
When he wakes up, he is lying next to Sherlock, his head resting on the warm chest with the steady beat resounding in his ear. He briefly wonders how there is even enough room for both of them on the narrow couch, but once he blinks his eyes open, he can see the backrest cushions lying on the floor and grins.
Feeling quite warm and comfortable, he sighs and closes his eyes some more.
After a while, a voice rumbles along with the heartbeat.
"If you'd rather not be caught in this somewhat compromising position, I suggest you get up…"
John merely groans in response. He is still comfortably wrapped in arms and blanket and doesn't care much about anything, much less 'being caught'…
The hand resting on his shoulder shakes him a bit. "John?"
"Hm?" He remains unconvinced that there is a solid reason to move.
Sherlock chuckles. "Lestrade will be standing in this room in about thirty seconds."
"Hm."
Sherlock would be lying if he said he gave a fuck about Lestrade walking in now, but he felt it prudent to at least give John the chance to have his say. He tells himself that asking John for his say while the man is half asleep is sufficient. Whether or not John will be annoyed with him, later, Sherlock isn't quite so sure, but right in that moment, it feels good and he relaxes his arms that are still wrapped around John, sighs and closes his eyes for the remaining fifteen or so seconds of quiet he has.
As it turns out, he has almost a whole minute. Not because he miscalculated (of course not), but because Lestrade remains standing and silent in the doorway for quite some time before he goes for a perfunctory knock on the doorframe.
John's "Hm" sounds decidedly more grumpy this time around, and it makes Sherlock chuckle.
"Hold still," John demands, which makes Sherlock laugh more.
Sherlock opens his eyes and looks at the Detective Inspector who takes in the scene before him with a familiar exasperated/fond look. Sherlock can't help but grin at him. "It's a bit early for you. Didn't we spend enough time at the Yard, yesterday?"
"There's a media circus, outside," Lestrade informs him, and Sherlock rolls his eyes.
John grumbles some more, but finally stirs awake. "Wonderful." He pushes himself into a sitting position and rubs his face. "Should I even dare look out the window?"
Lestrade shifts a bit. "I wouldn't, to be quite honest. But it's better than it was an hour ago. We cashiered some of them away for obstructing traffic." He frowns. "It's a miracle nobody rang the doorbell."
Sherlock sits next to John. "Not for lack of trying, I assure you." He shares a look with John and both laugh.
Lestrade rolls his eyes. "That's why I always knock."
"Was there anything in particular you wanted, Detective Inspector?" Sherlock asks. "Or did you just drop by to inform us of the press reaction?"
Lestrade fidgets. "Just checking if everything's okay, here."
Sherlock looks confused, but John smiles warmly and moves to get up.
Sherlock's hand reflexively reaches for John's.
"Tea?" John asks, but doesn't remove his hand.
Sherlock nods and lets go. His left hand falls limply into his lap where it reaches for the right, clasping tightly. Suddenly, he looks thoroughly uncomfortable. He doesn't look up when Lestrade sits next to him.
Lestrade clears his throat. "Good to have you back."
"Thank you."
"But for God's sake, think of something less dramatic next time."
Sherlock's lip twitches, and he tilts his head towards the Inspector. "I doubt I would be able to pull that one off, again. Nobody would believe it."
"Well, good!" Some of the relief turns into anger. "If you ever do something like that again, I'll punch your bloody lights out, myself!" He seems surprised at himself and runs his hands through his hair.
Sherlock blinks. Of course, he has expected anger, but now that he faces it, he is somewhat at loss and looks for his moral compass in the kitchen.
John leans against the doorway, smiles and nods.
Sherlock purses his lips, shifts in his seat and finally forces out, "I'm sorry." It doesn't come as easily as it has with John, and he doesn't look at Lestrade while he says it. He knows that he is sincere, he knows that there are ample reasons for Lestrade to be hurt and angry and that it warrants an apology. He doesn't think that offering Lestrade a cuddle under his blanket is a good idea, but another brief look exchange with John confirms that maybe the mumbled words are enough and that he hasn't committed another social blunder. (He doesn't think that he will ever top the one where he let everyone who cares about him believe he was dead. That one must be the mother of social blunders, and it is only fitting that he would be the one to make it.)
They don't talk; they don't even look at each other until John returns with the tea. Though Sherlock seems to want to protest when John takes a chair and doesn't return to the couch, he remains quiet.
Lestrade takes his cup with a mumbled thanks and holds it without so much as sipping. "People actually care about you, you idiot!" he suddenly bursts out.
"I said I was sorry!" Sherlock complains.
Lestrade stares for a moment, puts down his cup and looks at John. "Does he even get it?" Before John can answer, however, he shakes his head. "Of course he does. I doubt he's usually one for cuddles on the couch," he grumbles. Then he turns towards Sherlock, again. "John's not the only one, you know."
Sherlock looks positively scandalised. "I'm not going to cuddle you."
"I'm not- I don't…" Lestrade throws up his hands in surrender. "Just stick to cuddling John, but I'd appreciate it if you didn't forget that I actually give half a damn about you, too. God only knows why, because you are one insufferable bastard."
Sherlock blinks at him.
"Insufferable," Lestrade repeats. It bears repeating, though. "But a good man, Sherlock Holmes. And you shouldn't forget that, either."
That he's a good man or that people believe it? Sherlock isn't certain, nor is he certain if it even matters… Finally, he nods, once. "I'll keep that in mind."
The talk flows more naturally after that. Sherlock is particularly pleased that Lestrade has come equipped with cold cases for Sherlock to play with until it would be marginally safe to leave the house, again.
Before he leaves, Lestrade stops in the doorway. "You should consider giving a press conference. You know, get it over with. They're not gonna leave off until they have answers to print, and you know what they do when you won't give them any. They make 'em up."
Sherlock looks about as happy at that prospect as expected. He rolls his eyes, and his lips do that annoyed pouting they're so good at. Finally, he relents. "I'll consider it." Press conference, he can deal with, he thinks. Interviews full of personal irrelevancies are a different matter entirely.
Lestrade nods and puts his hands in his jacket pockets. "We can do a joint one at the Yard. I think it's in both our interests if I keep an eye on you during it." He waves at them. "Let me know."
The moment he's out of sight, Sherlock looks for John again. He realises that he's doing it, and he's not at all sure that he likes that newly adopted reflex of his, but he doesn't dislike it enough to try and fight it.
John shrugs. "I agree with him. We won't be able to leave the house at all, if we don't do any damage control. And maybe you should…" He can't finish that sentence. It doesn't feel right, asking that of Sherlock.
"Lie low?"
John releases the breath he's been holding. "For a bit?" It sounds more like a suggestion than anything.
Sherlock sighs and rubs his face. Then he sighs. "I think… after everything… I can go for a bit without."
"Just for a bit," John says, smiling benignly.
Sherlock grins lopsidedly. "Don't expect miracles."
John's playful smile turns honest. He will certainly expect little things from Sherlock, there is no doubt about that, but… "You gave me the one I wanted. I'm not going to ask for another."
They don't even try to go to two separate beds that evening. There is no debate, not even really a question. There is just a look and Sherlock casually mentioning, "My bed is bigger…" with an unreadable expression on his face.
The first few nights after that – and after the press conference – John eventually seeks out Sherlock's chest and the steady heartbeat during the night, even if he falls asleep on his side of the bed. Neither comments on it.
One week after that, they are being called to Sherlock's first 'post mortem' case at the Yard, as Lestrade now apparently feels secure enough to call it jokingly.
Sherlock rolls his eyes at that, and then realises that his glee at Anderson's request for a transfer lasts precisely until he meets the new guy on forensics...
John doesn't know if it's the return to what constitutes as normalcy for them that wakes him that night when he turns towards the warmth that is his bed mate. He makes it as far as onto his side when his eyes open, and he finds Sherlock return his look, mirroring the position.
Sherlock rolls onto his back, his eyes wordlessly on John.
John follows and rests his head on Sherlock's chest again. "Are we ever going to talk about this?" he asks, softly.
Sherlock arranges his arms around John until he feels comfortable. "What is there to talk about?"
John pauses for a second. Sherlock sounds serious. "Wh…" He props himself up on his elbow. Sherlock just looks at him curiously. "Sherlock… we… are sleeping in the same bed. I sleep with my head on your chest at least for half the night." He thinks about saying how it would probably be for the best if they got over their fears and returned to the status quo from before. The words are there, formed at the tip of his tongue, but he can't make himself say them.
Sherlock remains calm. He keeps one hand around John's middle, while the other rests on his own stomach. "And why would that be a problem?"
"It's not…" John is about to say, 'what ordinary people do,' but he has to stop that thought as well. Not because it hurts like the other one, but because he is pretty sure he couldn't say it with a straight face.
Sherlock's lips twitch in amusement. He can still read John like a book.
"Yeah, alright. You got me there," John admits.
Sherlock huffs a laugh that lights up his whole face.
"Oh, fine!" John complains (with a big grin) and lays his head back on Sherlock's chest, where they apparently both feel it belongs. "Shut up already."
Sherlock runs a hand through John's hair, twisting and twirling strands of hair, his thoughts taking similar twists and twirls.
John finds it oddly soothing and is being lulled to sleep by the steady beat and the thoughtful fingers on his head.
"There is nothing ordinary," Sherlock's low voice says when John is almost asleep, "about the connection we share." It is deliciously extraordinary. Too extraordinary to ever truly understand. He has never known another person like John Watson, and he doesn't expect to. He has never understood sentiment, either, until he found himself at the cutting, raw edge of it. A raw edge of solitude that has never hurt him before – one that he has on the contrary sought out.
John has… become a part of him. He doesn't function as well without him. Nobody else has ever managed to coax more efficiency out of his, frankly, remarkable mind. And nobody else's absence has ever blindsided him with feelings.
While away and being confronted with the lack, Sherlock had soon decided to accept the sentiment in order to also have the efficiency, if he was offered another life with John. He has to silently admit to himself that he has found it easier to accept said sentiment than he had originally expected.
The silly notion of 'absence making the heart grow fonder' would almost ring true, if it wasn't so terribly inadequate a description. 'Fondness' doesn't even come close to the aching need and hunger for his friend's presence. It is no longer merely a matter of Sherlock deciding that keeping John's company is the rational thing to do, it is that he simply no longer cares about the rationalisation. Like with his brain's unquestioned and constant demand for stimulus, Sherlock wants, and now that he has, he wants to keep.
His lips lift in a small smile at the deep sigh John is breathing on his chest. He very much intends to keep.
Sherlock's words about their shared connection accompany John into his dreams. No. There is nothing ordinary. He has never known anyone as suiting, as complementing, as frustratingly brilliant as Sherlock. And he knows that he is suiting, complementing and frustratingly grounding to his friend in return.
If he lives to be a hundred, John knows that he will know no other person who can fill the natural gaps in his life as completely as Sherlock Holmes.
He is surprisingly okay with that.
It's funny. John only remembers their first kiss when they're in the middle of the second.
John once more regularly goes to bed before Sherlock, particularly when Sherlock is on a case, and this day was no different. He's asleep when Sherlock joins him, but his body rolls towards the warmth, needing no conscious thought.
He opens his eyes to Sherlock lying on his side, studying him. "Solved it?" he asks. Sherlock wouldn't be here if he hadn't, after all, even if it was only a cold case.
Sherlock nods, smiling. "Turns out it was rather boring, actually. Accident with the brother. Brother panicked. Et cetera, et cetera."
John nods. "Shame," he mumbles and inches closer. He knows that he will end up half-lying on Sherlock anyway, but for the time being, he quite likes looking at the bright eyes winding down from the case.
Sherlock reaches out and runs a finger down John's face.
John sighs, sleepily. That feels nice.
"Why are you awake?" Sherlock asks.
John huffs. "You woke me."
"Apologies," Sherlock whispers. Then, as if to seal the word, he closes the gap between them, presses his lips against John's in a warm kiss and spreads his fingers to cup his cheek.
It occurs to John that he knows the feel of those lips, and it is only then that he remembers kissing Sherlock the day he came back. The feel of the lips isn't the only thing he remembers, though. He remembers the emotions from when he finally got to hold his friend again, and he is almost surprised to notice that they haven't changed or weakened over time. The desperation and fear are no longer at the forefront but have made way for a strong sense of belonging.
The kiss remains tame and warm, just their lips pressing, brushing and massaging, and it's still the most intimate John has ever felt.
When it ends, they look into each other's eyes for a long moment. It's a comfortable moment, not a tense one, which would have been another surprise, had either of them thought about it.
John's lips twitch. "I guess this is another thing that doesn't warrant talking about, then?"
Sherlock grins a bit. "Would you rather I hadn't done it?"
John rolls his eyes and leans in for another kiss. "Not what I meant."
"Obviously." Sherlock raises an eyebrow, making John snort. "Are you having a sexual identity crisis?"
John shrugs the shoulder he isn't lying on. "I don't know. I don't think so." He ponders that. "The thought hasn't entered my mind, to be honest."
Sherlock lowers his voice until it almost rumbles the whole bed. "Didn't realise you were kissing a man, did you?"
John burst out laughing at that display and rests his forehead against Sherlock's chest (that is shaking in silent laughter, too). "I did notice, thank you very much. But… you're Sherlock." He pushes back a bit to look at his friend again.
Sherlock tilts his head.
"Shouldn't this be more of an issue for you?" John asks. "I mean… you're not exactly ever interested in anyone."
"In one way or another, I have been interested in your company from the day we met," Sherlock replies, matter-of-factly.
John has to give him that. "But… kissing? I would have expected your sexual orientation to tend towards the asexual."
"There is a difference between asexual and aromantic, John," Sherlock can't help but correct. "You do have a point with sexuality being something that tends towards one variation, however. I have never viewed it as something that is particularly fixed." He shrugs. "And I have never had enough data to come to a definite conclusion as far as my own orientation is concerned. It may very well be that I tend towards asexual, or it may be that for obvious reasons I have… issues with close proximity to people, which would lead to the same result. Either way, it is entirely possible that you are the exception to both."
John blinks. That is… a lot of information.
"Of course," Sherlock continues, "I still lack most of the data to come to a conclusion." His lip twitches. "About both our exceptions, for that matter."
John snickers. "Well, I didn't run from the bed screaming…" That should have scared him, too, come to think of it. It doesn't. Still, John is sure that if he were to hold out his hand, it would be perfectly steady. The thought makes him smirk.
"You did not."
John still grins, leans in for another kiss, and then pushes Sherlock onto his back to rest his head on his chest. "Good night, Sherlock."
"Good night, John." Sherlock feels entitled to run his hand through John's hair, again, caressing them both to sleep.
It's an enjoyable stage they're at, now. They are settling back into life together, solving crime (while lying at least a little bit low) and sharing the same type of comfortable domesticity they've come to know before.
Except for the part where they still share a bed and a kiss every now and again. Perhaps it shouldn't have fit so well into their schedule, but it did. It managed to install itself into their everyday lives, much like John making tea and Sherlock forgetting to buy milk.
It doesn't even particularly change their behaviour around each other. They still stand closer than the universally acknowledged definition of personal space demands, they still laugh at inappropriate jokes, and they still share a corner of understanding that nobody has ever been allowed to enter.
The kissing is indeed more like the shared laughter than anything else. More often than not, that is where it starts.
For someone who dislikes human contact as much as Sherlock, he is a quick study, and it doesn't take him long to figure out the type of kissing that feels like a cleansing breath of air rushing through his overactive mind and that gets John to forget everything around him. (Sherlock does like to have all of John's attention to himself.)
While before he always believed the more involving kisses to be unnecessarily invasive, he now happily catalogues taste and texture in a way that only a curious tongue can. He also never quite understood how people could insist that physical contact strengthens a bond between people. After all, it was a conscious decision to seek the company of someone; physical contact didn't need to be part of that equation... He now understands that altered brain chemicals doaffect him and make him seek more of the same. Natural addictives.
Sherlock expects John (or, rather, his body) to eventually want more than kissing, and he isn't entirely disinclined to oblige. He doesn't expect the same to happen to him, however.
Sherlock is neither blind nor immune to his body's reactions. He enjoys the kissing almost as much as the fact that it is something shared with John. But when the kissing inevitably becomes more heated one evening on the couch, he still finds it almost overwhelming.
He likes John's little moans. To him, they indicate that John's mind is with him alone. Then the moans start sounding more desperate, the breathing speeds up more than usual, and Sherlock helplessly gravitates towards more of the same. His body turns to the side, and his hands pull John closer. It's only when the movement causes his trousers to stretch over his crotch, that a loud moan escapes his throat and startles him into breaking the kiss and leaning his forehead against John's shoulder, breathing heavily.
John releases a shuddering breath and runs a calming hand through Sherlock's hair. "Sorry," he gasps out and swallows. "I was getting carried away."
Sherlock shakes his head but doesn't lift it. He opens his eyes and from his position can clearly see that he isn't the only one affected. This is hardly the first time he notices it in either himself or John; it is the first time that he feels like maybe he wants to do more than notice it, though.
John kisses the top of Sherlock's head. "Are you alright?"
Sherlock lifts his head, cups John's jaw with one hand and leans in for a soft, short kiss. "Yes." His thumb draws small circles below John's ear. "I did expect things to... progress at some point."
"Sherlock..." John averts his eyes and sighs, then returns to look at him. "It doesn't have to progress any further. I'm perfectly happy with your company as it is."
Sherlock raises an eyebrow and sends a pointed look towards John's crotch.
John clears his throat. "Yes, well. I'm a big boy, I can handle it."
This makes Sherlock smirk, and he takes gleeful delight in the childishness of his reaction.
John rolls his eyes. "Oh, for God's sake!" he complains and leans in for another kiss, stopping the chuckle erupting from Sherlock's throat.
Eventually, the kiss ends, again. "Seriously, Sherlock. We don't have to do anything else. I'm not a horny teenager. I am fine with whatever you can give me."
John's caution annoys Sherlock, though he is not entirely sure why. "You don't believe in all this virgin rubbish, do you?" He goes with the first thought that comes to mind.
John looks entirely too unconvinced. "I don't give a damn about that," he states, calmly. "Why would that even matter? None of my exes in any way come into this... us." He holds Sherlock's eyes with his. "I don't care about the past, I care about you and me and what this is and where it's going."
"So it is going somewhere," Sherlock adds, still sounding slightly piqued.
"Things always do, Sherlock. My point is... You are important to me." He helplessly looks for something to add and eventually has to give up with a smile. "That's it. Whatever it is between us, we will define it together, and I'm not going to drag you into something you don't want."
Sherlock marginally tilts his head. Now he's the one who's unconvinced. "So this has nothing to do with you coming to realise that it's a man you're defining things with."
"No," John replies firmly. "It has everything to do with the fact that it's you I'm defining things with."
Sherlock appears puzzled. He has assumed that John's sexual history would cause the man to define things differently. It now appears as if – no matter how different they may be – in this one very important matter, they coincide perfectly.
"I love you," John adds. "You must know that, don't you?"
Sherlock draws in a sharp breath. "I do know that." His face softens. "Of course I do."
"This is what matters. You and me, and knowing that we belong." He peeks downwards. "Not this." He smirks a bit and is relieved when Sherlock reciprocates. "I won't deny that I'm enjoying it, and that my body has very specific ideas of what to do about that, but..." He sighs. "You come first." He shakes his head, ruefully. "You always do, you bastard."
Sherlock grins, then sobers. "I..." He clears his throat. "I do enjoy the arousal, but... it's a bit of an afterthought..." He is trailing off, trying to find a delicate way to say that exploring John is definitely at the forefront, whether or not the arousal is.
"I think I understand," John says. It's a bit of a first for him. He used to hold a much higher regard for the act of sex. More often than not, the regard for the sex was higher than the regard for the person. He never thought so at the time, but Sherlock would be able to point out each and every instance where John thought the wrong name, used an endearment because the right name wouldn't come, or just generally made a mess of his girlfriends.
John does still blame himself for that. He can't find fault, though. How could he be expected to find another person to outshine everyone in the way Sherlock does? Everyone pales in comparison, and more importantly, the connections he has known with other people pale to the one he has always had with Sherlock.
Sherlock returns the look and thinks that maybe John actually does understand. He also thinks that John will not be the one to progress things further, as if a lived heterosexual history somehow weighs less than a lived asexual one. Other heterosexual males would certainly argue that point, but John seems to be the exception, as per usual. Sherlock loves him terribly for it.
Their arousal has subsided somewhat, and postponing the decision seems at least an option. For some reason, Sherlock doesn't favour that option. He leans in for another kiss, allowing enough passion to weave into it to make his intentions clear, before he pushes John backwards to settle over him.
John accepts the kiss – of course he does; where Sherlock leads, John follows – and wraps his arms tightly around Sherlock's back when he is being shifted to lie down. Sherlock's heartbeat thunders against John's chest where his own counters the beat in kind.
Neither of them holds back anymore, and they allow the arousal to fall into place next to kisses, laughter, breakfast tea and solving crime.
They grin into the kiss, enjoying the familiarity of the new, and John feels entitled to run one hand lower and grab a handful.
Sherlock chuckles into the kiss and lifts his head to look at John.
"Not bad," John remarks.
Sherlock rolls his hips down, making them both bite back a moan. "Not bad yourself."
John smirks. Still. "Alright?" he has to ask.
Sherlock nods. "Perfectly." He cheekily grins and licks over John's lips.
John grins right back and pulls Sherlock into a kiss with the hand that is currently not busy keeping a hold of that arse.
Eventually, Sherlock lifts his hips enough to allow both of them to get to each other's belts and zippers and push trousers and pants maybe halfway down the thighs, all of that with some struggling but mostly without breaking the kiss.
John feels like there should be more of a... barrier of sorts. One that tells him that it's kind of a big deal to shove your hand down another man's trolleys for the first time, but the barrier stubbornly refuses to materialise. On the contrary. The silky hardness feels as if it was made for his palm and fingers, and the sounds Sherlock is making were definitely made for his ears.
Sherlock shivers from head to toe and moves a bit to the side to ease John's access. "Shouldn't we head for the bedroom?" he makes himself ask, anyway, using his own hand to reciprocate.
John pants against Sherlock's lips, briefly kisses him and catalogues every expression on the otherworldly face. He doesn't want to leave. He doesn't want to be anywhere but here and now.
"Later. I don't want to move."
Sherlock accepts that; he doesn't really want to move, either. Well, apart from the obvious. He leans down for a kiss and lets himself drown in it.
After a few minutes of kissing and a growing frustration about the immobility of their hands in that position, John takes a hold of Sherlock and moves them to their sides, careful not to fall off the couch.
The new position and particularly the eased access of John's hand on his dick startles a moan out of Sherlock, and his shivering turns into trembling. His own hand falls off John, and though he tries to return it, he eventually has to give up and just clings to the warm body.
"I'm s-," Sherlock chokes on the last word and John kisses him.
"Shh. It's okay. I've got you." John can't stop looking at Sherlock. The other man's eyes are wild and wide open; his pupils force the iris to the margin, making them into two blue rings of fire. He looks like a water spirit with his mesmerising eyes and glistening skin, full of so much magic to give and not knowing how to give it without burning himself to ashes.
John can honestly say that he has never seen anything this captivating. And it's for him. Just for him.
Sherlock's indignation at being called a virgin probably means that he has been with someone, but John has absolutely no doubt at all that whoever that person (people?) was, they were not given half of what John is offered now.
"John," Sherlock whimpers, and that sound makes something inside John jump sideways.
"I'm here." His voice is breathy, hoarse and trembling. "Sherlock, I've got you, I love you, just let go, I'm right here with you, beautiful, you're so beautiful." John doesn't know what he's saying, only that he begins to sound more and more like he's sobbing than anything else.
Sherlock's body lurches forward, his head thrown back, his whole body going violently rigid, the rabbit in his chest running a mile a minute, and there is not enough air and too much love and probably declarations and...
When Sherlock opens his eyes, his head is giving every attempt to swim back to the surface, but he has a feeling that it might be a while before it gets there. John is there, instead, though, so that is okay. John is smiling, and Sherlock is sure he has started to smile back before he is even aware of it.
"Hello," John says, laughs lovingly and kisses Sherlock softly. "Welcome back." The humour crinkles around his eyes, making Sherlock breathe out a laugh of his own.
"Is this... normal?" He's not sure what he is referring to. Well, the feeling, obviously. But there are chemicals – he can even list them – physical reactions, relaxation, elation... How is it possible for him to feel the chemicals flooding his system and immediately recognise them as what people call 'love'? He has nothing to compare it to. Yet he knows it.
"I should hope so, yes," John answers. He leans in for another kiss. "Don't expect it to be this overwhelming every time, though." He smiles, clearly amused.
Something occurs to Sherlock and he looks down... only to see that John is as spent as he is.
John clears his throat. "I may have come against your leg." Sherlock snorts. "Very undignified."
Now Sherlock laughs out loud and pulls John closer.
"There is one problem, though," John mumbles into the shoulder he is pressed against.
Sherlock pushes him back a bit to see his face. The tone in John's voice is in no way worrying, so he is merely curious.
John sighs. "I still don't want to move."
They both burst into giggles at the same time and just collapse against each other.
Eventually, Sherlock clears his throat. "We should move at some point, though. Mrs Hudson is bound to walk in on us at an inopportune moment. That woman has no sense of personal boundaries."
John just snorts. "No wonder you like her."
Sherlock bites John's shoulder in retaliation, making John giggle again.
There is more necking and kissing – even tickling, for God's sake! – but they do manage to make their escape to the bedroom before Mrs Hudson (or certain relatives with similar concepts of privacy that shall remain unnamed) has the chance to walk in despite of the late hour.
As it happens, she doesn't. Not that day. Or the next. All bets are off for the day after that, though...
TBC
That was my attempt at creating a sexual relationship that doesn't focus on the sexual aspect... How did I do? ^-^'
Also, if there is something about their relationship at this point that you would like to have covered, drop a note :) I can't promise I'll be able to work with it, but it might lead somewhere anyway :)
