"Each night he added to the pattern of his fancies until drowsiness closed down upon some vivid scene with an oblivious embrace. For awhile these reveries provided an outlet for his imagination; they were a satisfactory hint of the unreality of reality, a promise that the rock of the world was founded securely on a fairy's wing."
― F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
At some point just after sunrise, Sherlock gradually blinks awake, his mind groggy with exhaustion and the tension that has resulted from reappearing among the living. He is aware that there is still yet many things they need to discuss…and perhaps even one particularly large thing, but for now he wants to keep everything behind the doors of Baker Street. Beside him, John's half-naked body radiates heat so Sherlock shoves both the blanket and sheet off of them; they end up in a heap on the floor.
"Good morning." John's voice is husky from the lengthy rest; the tone causes Sherlock to smile despite himself.
John stretches then rolls onto his good side so they face one another. His blue eyes roam Sherlock's face before finally settling on his mouth. Sherlock has a quick flash of insight from the mind palace, though in truth it feels an awful lot like being pushed forward. He frowns and John starts to draw back with a muttered apology.
"No," Sherlock demands and grabs John by the shoulders to haul him down. When their lips come together, Sherlock sighs and throws his leg over John's pajama-clad hip. No one can miss that; besides John hasn't been surprised about anything so far, even the fact Sherlock sleeps in the nude, so maybe this is that next step he had been thinking about yesterday.
In the midst of his whirling thoughts and pounding heart, Sherlock masterfully parts John's lips with his tongue and receives a hum in reply; he does his best to get as close as he is able, finally settling for a slow, maddening rub against John's thigh. John licks at Sherlock's mouth, then down the side of his jaw; at the same time he grabs a handful of Sherlock's behind and kneads at the muscle there.
Sherlock grinds harder and John rolls his hips, offering the friction Sherlock is so obviously seeking as well as taking some for himself.
"Tell me what you need," John says then lets his palm trail from Sherlock's bum over his thigh to stop with his fingers curled around the base of Sherlock's cock.
"Ah, John!" Sherlock shouts and throws his head back, baring his neck. He groans louder when John sets his teeth to a spot to the left of Sherlock's Adam's apple. Sherlock decides that this is so much better than talking.
"Brilliant," John whispers in between nips and licks. "Amazing, wonderful. Sherlock, tell me what you need."
Sherlock bucks harder and John squeezes him; he growls under his breath and John squeezes harder. As much as he wants to say what he knows John wants to hear, it is too late. As soon as he gets his lips around the words, he bucks upward and John lets go. A steady, crystalline gaze holds Sherlock in place then John says one of the most erotic things he's ever heard:
"I want to see you come, Sherlock."
Oh, how he does.
The bedroom fades away and Sherlock is suddenly in another room of the mind palace; this one much smaller than many of the others. The atmosphere here is closer, more intimate. The windows are draped in thick blue material, as is the large, round bed. Sherlock holds himself up with one hand against the wall, panting. He wonders vaguely why, out of the twenty-seven other times he's climaxed with other human beings the act of physical release has never sent him this far before. If a simple hand job forces him here, then logic dictates that he must accept that he's in for a serious awakening.
Here is, of course, one of the very-rarely used rooms, in fact, it is visited so little that he has practically forgotten about it; as much as Sherlock can forget anything. He stands up slowly, and only then does he notice that his Doctor/Warrior John is lying on the bed on his belly, chin resting on crossed arms. He is nude, the robes and mail he wore earlier spread beneath him like a blanket. Sherlock can't keep his eyes off of John's muscular back and shoulders as the man slowly rolls over and licks his lips, wearing the same hungry expression that graced real life John's face when he watched…
"Sherlock," he says and grins wolfishly.
"Sherlock!" Real John calls out, his voice low but loud enough to distract Sherlock and hopefully not wake Mrs. Hudson.
Sherlock blinks his eyes and grins. "Hi John."
John doesn't say anything else for a moment, instead he pulls Sherlock into a tight embrace. Sherlock breathes hard against him and wonders what his pulse rate is. John's heart is thudding in time to Sherlock's own; the detective pictures a metronome.
"Sherlock, are you alright?" John has moved back some so that he can see Sherlock's face more clearly.
Sherlock nods, something even he is aware is out of character for him; he feels floaty, almost like being high. "It's been awhile," he mumbles, suddenly embarrassed.
John snorts. He smiles, allowing some of the tension that has built up in the room to disintegrate. Sherlock certainly isn't feeling too much of it—he could almost swear he's never been this pliant in his entire life; at the moment, he can't actually say that, though, so he just grins back. John leans in carefully and kisses him softly on his lips, then again on each side of his mouth. Sherlock allows himself drown in the sensation and casually rests his hands on John's hips. As their kiss begins to heat up, he tightens his grip and John winces.
Sherlock pulls his hand away as if he's been burnt.
"Its fine, Sherlock, really." John holds his hand to his side. "I've just irritated it a little, that's all." He scoots so that his legs hang off the side of the bed, his bum pressed against Sherlock's long leg.
It seems to take a minute for Sherlock to come back online. He gazes at John's back and fights the urge to touch, to see if the reality matches the fantasy in his head. He frowns just as John turns towards him and clears his throat. Sherlock wonders if his throat still hurts.
"Do we really need to discuss this?"
Sherlock is unable to do anything other than stare at John. It seems he is seeing mind palace John and real life John at the same time. They don't look that different, except mind palace John has a particularly rosy glow about him that real life John seems to be missi…
Oh! Oh god, his first time with his real-life lover and he's already gone and messed up. Granted, John has full disclosure to all of his possessive and jealous tendencies, but still—he drops his gaze to the front of John's pajama bottoms. This time, the urge to touch is overwhelming. He drops his hand to John's thigh and leans forward so that his breath will be right over John's ear.
"John, do you really believe you need to discuss fidelity with me? Do you really need to hear me say those words to you?" After everything.
John shakes his head, "Not as such, no. Just so we are on the same level, Sherlock." His tone is steely.
Sherlock huffs playfully and the sound it pulls from John is making Sherlock wonder what his neck tastes like. Taking the chance to trust that John will tell him if he makes a wrong move, since he always has before, Sherlock gets even closer. His lips brush John's collar bone when he speaks.
"Loyalty has always been a strong point amongst my myriad of failings, John." Lick. "On the other hand, Three Continents Watson…"
John cocks his head to the side, giving Sherlock more space. He is supporting himself with one hand planted on the bed and the other is now around Sherlock's shoulders, almost-but-not-quite pulling him into John's body. Sherlock moves carefully so he doesn't add too much weight to John's injured side.
"There's no comparison," John whispers in a scratchy tone.
Sherlock pulls back and stares into John's face. After a time, he sees what he's looking for, "You mean that."
"Yes, Sherlock, I do," John's expression is open, honest.
Sherlock almost lets himself wander back to the mind palace, then manages to stay in control, because what is happening right now is of the utmost importance. He nods and kisses John soundly, fully intending on repaying the favor and only slightly being distracted by a soft thud down downstairs. His fingers have just begun their travels between John's lovely warm skin under his tee shirt and the waistband of his soft pajamas when the sound of footsteps becomes less a gentle thump and more firm—two sets, one male, one female—and then the squeak of the door and Mrs. Hudson calls out,
"John, is that you?"
John's eyes widen in surprise and Sherlock yanks his hand from John's pajamas. Too late, Sherlock realizes that he might have forgotten something that may or not be deemed pretty important by the two people who are three seconds from passing by the open bedroom door and getting an eyeful of John Watson and someone they still believe to be dead.
There's always something.