Sherlock wakes, morning after morning, curled up beside himself.
Feathers float through the air. He is not sure where they came from or how. Maybe the pillow, the blanket. Maybe the boa wrapped around his lover's neck to mimic rope. All of the above. He is on top, pinning him down, hand on his chest. His lover starts to giggle, says, "No, Sherlock. I want to be on top!"
So be it.
Change of angles, change of pace. This small body rides him, tight friction around his cock, the weight against his hips. His breath comes heavy, fast. His fists fill with bedclothes, it is too much to handle. He watches his lover work, eyes closed and mouth open as he pumps up and down, forward and back. He is clutching the boa to his neck and chest as though the feathers are Sherlock's fingers. The pressure rises, he lets his head fall back and his own eyes close and finally he feels release.
As soon as he's caught his breath he's pulling the dainty frame to the edge of the bed. Sits him there, kneels on the floor before him and begins to rub his hard on, freshly wet from Sherlock's climax. He looks up and sees eyelids flutter open and shut with pleasure. A hand on the crown of Sherlock's head pushes it down. His mouth around him. It feels right. Different, raw. He works him and works him, hears his moans, feels him go, feels it fill his throat as it goes down, warm.
They lay back against the pillows, in each other's arms. The calm after the storm. Until another one arises.
"You're better than I ever imagined you would be."
Sherlock smiles to himself but says nothing.
"I mean it."
"I know."
"Well?'
"What."
"What do you think of me?"
"Isn't it obvious?"
Whiney drawl, "Yes, but I need to hear you say it."
"I think you are extraordinary, Jim."
"Extraordinary Jim," he says with a laugh. He sits up and straddles the length of beauty he has claimed. Touches his chest gently, over his heart. "Extraordinary Sherlock. I love you." He leans down for a kiss. "But I know you're not ready to hear that."
Morning light falls onto the floor when Sherlock pulls back the drapes and throws open the window. It is one swift motion, it causes dust to rise. Warm summer air that smells of the city comes in. He surveys the scene through crystal clear eyes. Cars move, people walk. These are the sounds of life. The sun warms his naked skin; he has always enjoyed his own stark form.
Jim is cooking breakfast. It is relaxing, being here. In a new place, there is no pressure to be somebody. He finds he enjoys it. There's no telling how long this calm will last. He commits to savor the day.
"Honey, do you feel like coffee this morning?" Jim speaks in a constant drawl.
Sherlock cocks a smile. Still looking out the window, hands folded behind his back, he replies, "One would think you were dying of boredom, the way you say it."
"And maybe I am." He hears a pan slide across a stove, a dial click and footsteps towards him.
"Bring my cigarettes, would you?"
A few footsteps later a hand reaches around and sets a cigarette between Sherlock's lips. Then a lighter appears. He pulls smoke in and shuts his eyes for that first real breath. Jim stands behind him and wraps his robed arms around his waist. His hands graze Sherlock's stomach, ribs.
"You still haven't answered my question…"
He takes another pull off the cigarette, a fine European blend. The warm breeze comes in and tickles him there. Clean.
"Yes, Jim."
"Wonderful!" The footsteps carry back to the kitchen. The truth is that he doesn't like coffee much at all. Never drank it before this chapter in his life began.
There are the sounds of dishes and silverware on wood, the percolating of the brewer. That aroma moves in with the rest. "Will you put on the record for me? You know the one."
Sherlock crosses the room, blows smoke, and sifts through records on a shelf. Debussy, Prelude to 'The Afternoon of a Faun'. He wouldn't have picked this for himself this morning, but he understands. He hears the vibration of plastic on marble and looks around. Atop the mantle he left his phone. He frowns; it must be Mycroft. Yet something compels him. He crosses the room, feels the weight of the phone in his hand.
A foul feeling takes him. The text is from John.
I'm sorry that I couldn't look after you. That was my one goal, made my life worth living. And I failed to do it.
He reads it ten times over and then erases it. It will stay with him. He sets the phone back on the mantle and takes another pull off the cigarette, which is quickly burning down. Once he has snuffed it in the ashtray he goes to the record player and puts the needle down.
They sit and eat in verbal silence, engulfed by the bounce and pipe of every note. Jim's free hand floats about, involuntary, his eyes close here and there as he follows the trail of pitch. When he opens his eyes Sherlock's are locked onto him. This makes him smile and laugh.
"Somebody's feeling fierce this morning."
"I am."
"And why's that? Nothing's happened yet. We've only just woke up."
They hold eye contact. Jim holds a piece of meat on his fork. After a moment he places it on his tongue and chews slowly. He is leaning on the table, nodding his head.
He raises his eyebrows deliberately. "Ohh. He still has your number."
The vibration of the phone, Jim could hear it from anywhere. He is a bit possessive these days.
"This was the first time."
"But you've been waiting for it, I see."
It's his breath, he knows that. Since he received the text, received and memorized it, his heart has been beating anxiously, making his breathing uneven. He had anticipated it, and upon finally receiving it…
"There won't be a response to it. Forget the concern."
Jim sips from his steaming mug and the record scratches to an end. He stands up to reset the needle, talks as he crosses the apartment. "Interesting, isn't it?" He is wearing Sherlock's blue silk robe. It dances gracefully about his knees. The sleeves are too long for him. "How much time it takes them to get over something as ordinary as death."
Sherlock can't finish his breakfast. He sits naked, leaning into his chair, hands folded across his stomach. "Hm." Wonder consumes him, questions and possibilities rapidly firing off in his mind.
"You were his heart I suppose. Must hurt to have it ripped out." Jim returns to his seat, smiles politely and resumes his meal. He motions to Sherlock. "Honey, please. It's all fresh, it's all for you."
Sherlock barely shakes his head.
"I see. He was your heart, too."
He winces. "Don't sound so disappointed."
"Why? Why shouldn't I be disappointed? To think that my one true pairing is still thinking about another man?"
"My mind strays, Jim, yet here I am before you. Day and night."
"That's not enough for me."
"What will be enough?"
His laughter floats like the impressionist composition. It is loving and free. "I'll have to get back to you on that. I just haven't made up my mind."