Blargh.
Sherlock was being slowly tugged into consciousness by his stomach rumbling with hunger. He frowned, trying to ignore it and wanting to stay asleep. His eyelids and limbs felt pleasantly heavy and he was warm, comfortably so, from his head to his toes. He flexed his toes, the sheets soft against his skin. He felt like he was wrapped in a cocoon of warmth and blankets and for once, he had zero desire to leave the bed. There was a solid pressure on his chest and shoulder and his arm was around something, probably pillow, although it was a little hard to be a pillow. But Sherlock didn't care. He didn't think he'd ever been this warm. It was lovely. He gave a low, sleepy hum that vibrated in his throat, nuzzling his nose into the soft pillow. Except, now it really didn't feel like a pillow, and he was on his back, so that wouldn't have made sense. Sherlock sniffed and smelled shampoo. Something wasn't right. However, he was only about 20% awake, so he tightened his arm around whatever it was and shifted his body, turning onto his side and slotting his leg in between something, smacking his lips and mumbling sleepy nonsense. Something wrapped around his hips and held him loosely. For a moment, Sherlock was drifting back to full slumber, feeling safe and peaceful.
Something else nestled into the crook of his neck and started huffing hot, damp breaths onto his skin. Then, Sherlock felt pressure against his hips, which made his morning wood perk up. He gave a lazy thrust. It was when another set of hips thrust back that made Sherlock alert. He opened his eyes slowly and was greeted with blond-grey hair. Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. Every muscle in his body turned to stone.
John.
Sherlock looked down and saw John's head tucked below his chin, face buried in his neck, the sound of his deep breathing filling the silence of the room. Sherlock's arm was wrapped around John's back, hand underneath his T-shirt, and John's arm was wrapped around his hips. One of Sherlock's legs was in between John's and, if Sherlock just inched over a little bit or thrust again, their groins would touch. They were cuddling. They were cuddling. When did this happen, and how did Sherlock not wake up?
Sherlock forced himself to breathe steadily, fearing any sudden movement would awaken John. John's hair tickled his nose, so Sherlock turned his face and pressed his cheek against John's head to avoid a sneeze. He never knew how soft John's hair was. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. The hotel shampoo actually smelled pretty good. He gently rubbed his cheek over the feathery tufts.
He shouldn't have been doing this. He should have removed himself from John's loose hold on his hips. But John seemed to be fast asleep, so why not savor the moment? It was already well into the morning. Sherlock didn't know what time it was, but sunlight filled the room, making the brown carpet appear golden. It must have been at least 9:00. They were supposed to go back to London hours ago.
John sighed in his sleep, rubbed his nose against Sherlock, and settled.
Sherlock gulped.
He never held someone before, or had been held, but he loved it. Not only did he feel protected with a strong arm around him, but he felt like he was protecting John. Sherlock held him a little closer. He would kill to be able to do this every day. He wanted to wake up with all of his limbs tangled with John's every day, completely covering and shielding him from the world.
The slow rise and fall of John's chest against his was confirmation that they were both here, alive and well. Their closeness slowly turned Sherlock's blood hot. A small throb in his groin reminded him of his arousal and he rolled his eyes at his own penis. His damn body wasn't used to this much contact.
"Stop it," he whispered harshly to his crotch.
A drawn out "mmm" came from John's throat.
Sherlock froze.
John stayed asleep, though, and only tightened his hold around Sherlock.
Mini heart attack avoided. For now.
Sherlock wondered if he would ever be able to hold John again. At the rate they were going, it wouldn't happen for a long time, if ever. Last night's conversation was mortifying and just too much. Did John seriously not know, at least up until that point, how much their fuck meant to him? Sometimes, Sherlock really didn't know John thought of him. More specifically, what John thought he was to Sherlock. Sherlock loved him so much he could hardly bear it.
He looked down at John, wanting to make sure he was really out cold. "John?" he whispered.
No response.
Sherlock shifted carefully, craning his neck to look down. John's eyes were, indeed, still closed and his pink lips were parted. He looked fifteen years younger, all of the tension that normally clouded his face nowhere to be found. Sherlock wished John would look this relaxed more often. Sherlock shifted back a little more to see him better and the sun got caught in John's hair, making it shine. Sherlock's heart gave a big thud. John was too beautiful. Sherlock pressed his lips against his forehead, so gently it could barely be called a kiss.
He dared to take another risk. His touch feather-light, Sherlock ran his thumb over the soft skin of John's cheek slowly. This only seemed to further relax John, a long sigh leaving his lips. Sherlock touched John's jaw and felt the budding stubble, rough to the touch. Sherlock wanted to put his mouth there.
He couldn't go that far. If he were to kiss John there, he would probably wake up. Plus, Sherlock might not have been able to stop after one stubble-y kiss.
He delicately brushed his thumb over John's lips. John's lips unconsciously returned the pressure in a small kiss.
Sherlock drew his hand back, thumb burning where John kissed it.
John gave another low, sleepy moan in his throat, seeming to miss Sherlock's touch.
Sherlock's chest was about the burt with affection.
"John," he breathed.
John remained blissfully asleep.
Sherlock needed to wake John before he let himself kiss him on the lips. Before he did, though, he decided to kiss John's forehead one last time. He didn't know why he enjoyed performing such a simple gesture. He thought of kissing John's hand, his knuckles and fingers, and Sherlock's heart gave another thud. He closed his eyes, every fibre of his being singing with the need to touch John. His lips met with John's soft skin again.
Maybe it was the remnants of sleep still clinging to him, or maybe it was being this close to John, or a combination of both, that influenced Sherlock to whisper against John's skin, "I love you."
Sherlock pulled back. John was definitely asleep, because he would not have sat through the touching and the confession without speaking up.
The distant sound of a baby crying down the hall outside of the room shoved Sherlock back to the real world. They had to leave the bed eventually.
Time to start the day.
Sherlock was already near the edge of the bed, so he couldn't scoot out of John's embrace. He carefully placed his hand on John's shoulder and tipped him onto his back. John frowned and groaned, rubbing his eyes.
As soon as John wasn't touching him anymore, Sherlock let him go. "John," he called softly.
John opened his eyes, blinking three times and rubbing the stubble on his jaw. He yawned and turned his head, looking at Sherlock with puzzled eyes. A couple seconds later, recognition.
"Hey," John said, voice raspy.
Sherlock was reminded of his partial erection and mentally scolded it again. "Hello," he greeted, voice equally hoarse from sleep. At their proximity, Sherlock saw John's pupils dilate.
John grinned and laughed through his nose. "You have pillow lines all over your cheek."
Sherlock touched his cheek. "That tends to happen."
John's grin widened, showing teeth. "God, your hair's a mess."
Sherlock pouted. "Are you going to continue making fun of me?"
"I'm not," John sat up on his elbows. "It's just-unusual to see you all disheveled. 'S kind of nice."
Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair, not sure what to say. John's hair was a little mussed in the front, although that could have been from Sherlock's face touching it. "Yours is, too."
John smoothed his hair down.
There was a term for this, Sherlock thought. Pillow talk. They didn't have sex, but he figured this counted nonetheless. The conversation was getting stiff. He was saved by his growling stomach.
"Hungry?" John asked.
"Clearly. I think we may have overslept."
"Yeah?" John yawned. "Well, we didn't set an alarm. It's okay, though. We don't have anything to do today, right?"
"Not that I know of."
Sherlock's phone chirped a few feet away. Sherlock stumbled out of bed, his back to Jon to hide his slight bulge, and he unplugged his phone charger from the wall. He was right: it was after 9. "It's 9:07," he told John.
He had a text from Lestrade and he gripped the phone in anger, hand shaking and erection deflating.
"Is something wrong?" John asked.
"It's nothing."
The text said: So, get anywhere? ;)
He used a winking face. Was he fourteen years-old? Sherlock's lip twitched. He sent a simple, honest reply:
NO. SH
He hadn't been brave enough. At the very end of their horribly uncomfortable conversation, they could have made real progress. He wanted John so fucking badly. Why couldn't he just take the next step?
He remembered his brother's involvement in this and sent him a message, as well:
Why are you so set on interfering with my life? SH
Sherlock huffed angrily.
John got out of bed. "You sure you're okay, Sherlock?"
"I'm fine. It's just my meddling brother."
"What's he want?"
"You don't want to know," he mumbled. He received a reply.
Since you could not achieve happiness by yourself, I figured a little push would help. MH
It didn't work. S
What? M
It. Didn't. Work! S
John yawned loudly and scratched his stomach. He grabbed his change of clothes from his bag. "I'm going to use the loo. Then we can get ready to leave soon?"
"Sure," Sherlock replied absentmindedly.
A text from Lestrade:
What the fuck?
John went into the bathroom.
Mycroft called Sherlock.
"What do you want?" Sherlock yelped in indignation, which just made him sound like a disgruntled chihuahua.
"How did it not work? We put you in the same bloody bed," Mycroft sounded genuinely baffled, which hadn't happened since "Moriarty's" return.
"I couldn't do it," Sherlock admitted shamefully. He was glad Mycroft wasn't there to see his burning cheeks. He was mindful of John, who was only separated behind the bathroom door. Sherlock's voice lowered, just above a whisper. "You know nothing of our relationship, or relationships in general."
"Do you know how much the Detective Inspector and I had to do to arrange this?" Sherlock could picture Mycroft rubbing his eyes.
"Pardon me for not acting according to your expectations," he said through clenched teeth. He couldn't get carried away. John would be out in a moment.
"Seriously, Sherlock, why did it go wrong?"
"It's none of your business."
"Sherlock," Mycroft said, almost sounded like he was pleading, "tell me."
Sherlock's fingers twitched. "I couldn't, Mycroft," he admitted quietly. "I couldn't. I have to go. He's near."
Sherlock hung up. He couldn't hear Mycroft pitying him any longer.
Sherlock threw the phone on the bed and it bounded on the mattress. He put his head in his hands and took three deep breaths. He was a constant failure.
John came into the room and took one look at him. "You're not okay."
Sherlock's facade didn't work with John as well as it used to. "You're ridiculous." He walked to his bag, grabbed clothes, and then went to the bathroom door, but was stopped by John's hand on his shoulder.
Sherlock looked back at him over his shoulder.
John stared at him.
"May I use the loo?" he asked lightly.
John's mouth twisted to the side, but he nodded.
"Thank you." Sherlock went into the bathroom. While getting ready, he looked at himself in the mirror. He looked tired, despite the full night of sleep. Maybe he could sleep on the train. He was sleeping more than usual lately.
After a quick breakfast from the hotel dining room (which actually wasn't as bad as Sherlock thought it would be), Sherlock and John were on the train for 10:00. They sat across each other in silence. Sherlock leaned his head against the cool window.
He was going to close his eyes, but he saw John texting and smiling at his phone. John didn't have friends outside of Sherlock, Lestrade, Stamford, and maybe that Murray fellow from the army. He didn't text those people very often, either, except for Lestrade. John preferred to email Stamford and Murray. Besides, John never smiled like that when talking to a friend, not with that coy smile accompanied by his lower lip bitten. It couldn't be a friend he was texting.
"John?"
John's head snapped up, swallowing. Was there a shade of guilt on his face? "Yeah?"
"Who are you texting?"
John pocketed his phone. "A friend. Why?"
"No," Sherlock shook his head.
John's eyebrows knitted together. "What do you mean, 'no'?"
"You're not texting a friend."
"And how the hell do you know who I'm texting?"
Anxiety felt likes pins in Sherlock's stomach. "You're defensive; that confirms it."
"Sherlock," John leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, "do me a favor, will you? Shut up."
Sherlock looked out the window, his lower lip pouting without his knowledge. John might have regretted being harsh, because he bumped his leg against Sherlock's. A silent apology. Sherlock bumped it back.
John didn't want him to know who he was talking to. Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood. Who else could John be texting other than a friend? If it had been some business associate, he would have had no problem telling Sherlock. The worst possibility reared its ugly head.
Was John texting a lover?
Sherlock had to investigate. For now, he resisted jumping onto John's seat, throwing his phone out the window, and smashing their mouths together.
I can't wait for John's emotional breakdown :)
