Author's Note: Mentions of nakedness, tons of fluffiness. (More A/N at end of chapter.)
"You're chubbier than you were before," Sherlock murmured as he rubbed his cheek over John's bare stomach like a cat walking in circles to trample the grass down before he settled in for a nap.
"I am not!" John exclaimed, teasingly indignant above him.
"Oh, that you are, I'm afraid. At least two stones heavier." John huffed, the fingers of one hand carding through Sherlock's curls.
Sherlock sighed as he nuzzled into John's tummy. "Besides, I like it," he whispered. "This wouldn't be half as comfortable as it is now if I had done it before, when you were all lean and fit and muscular." John swatted the back of Sherlock's head with his free hand, still running his fingers through the consulting detective's hair with the other.
"I didn't do much running around while you were gone and I haven't since you got back. What, with work and all."
"I've been meaning to talk to you about that," Sherlock said through a yawn.
"Ah?"
"Yes. I was wondering if you might consider cutting back your hours at the clinic. I...," Sherlock hesitated, this telling John to listen carefully because Sherlock was about to admit something he didn't really want to. "I miss having you out on cases."
It felt to John like his stomach was dropping from an altitude, not only because of what Sherlock had just said, but also because he was going to have to tell him no, and the doctor desperately didn't want to. He stilled his hand in Sherlock's dark mop.
"I can't, Sherlock, I'm sorry. They're shorthanded as it is and if I came in any less they'd be forced to hire someone else. I agreed to take a pay cut when you came back so that they could buy that new x-ray machine and, if they hired someone new, that person'd likely want a proper salary."
"Right, of course. Had I thought it over more, I would have known that." Not Sherlock's tone of voice nor his bodily position had changed. He was just as relaxed as he had been, moments before, but John had still felt a shift. John had felt a change in Sherlock, in the presence of the man, that unsettled him.
On top of that, Sherlock had just said that he'd missed John and the doctor knew that, before he ever would have said anything like that, Sherlock would have thought through every possible outcome of the conversation, including that one.
"I don't believe that for a second," John said, beginning again to move his hand over the consulting detective's head. "Sherlock, I know you knew I'd say no. What I don't know, though, is why you then asked me anyway." Sherlock sat up, dislodging John's hand from his hair, and moved away from John, scooting to the corner of the bed and hugging his legs to his chest, as if he suddenly felt too exposed, too venerable, in his naked state and sought to cover himself.
"I had—Christ, John, I had hoped that you'd say you'd quit. I had hoped that you would disregard what you think of as your responsibilities and opt to spend your time...with me. But what a ridiculous thing hope is. What an impossible, disgusting, horrible thing it is," Sherlock whispered, turning away from John and tightening his hold on his own legs.
John sat up as well, migrating over to Sherlock and laying a hand over the clasped pair of the consulting detective. "Sherlock, look at me," John requested patiently. He waited a few moments before lifting his other hand to cup Sherlock's jaw and turn the taller man's head to meet his own clouded eyes.
John studied Sherlock's face, the doctor's gaze running over each untamed eyebrow that just seemed to suit Sherlock in the most natural way. John's sights flicked down the aristocratic bridge of his nose and over the perfect shape of his lips; they jumped up to settle for a moment on each ravishingly obvious cheek bone; they fell back down to Sherlock's rounded chin—John's mind quickly questioning why, in all the time he'd known Sherlock, he'd never seen nor felt even a hint of stubble upon it. John's gaze flew upwards again to map the few, barely evident, young wrinkles that were forming above the dark haired man's brow and under and around his eyes. As their eyes finally locked, John brought the hand not cupping Sherlock's face up to run over Sherlock's smooth, yet bony, shoulder.
"Sherlock, I'd marry you if I thought you'd let me," John said, attempting, and failing, not to blush at how sappy he sounded. "I long ago realised that you were going to be the rest of my life, whether you were dead or alive. I'm sure as hell not going anywhere now." Sherlock inhaled sharply and unclasped the hands held between his knees, leaning forward quickly and kissing John; bringing both hands to the back of the doctor's head and tipping it slightly sideways.
Sherlock kissed John with a passion that the doctor saw almost solely as bookmarked for crime solving. The smaller man attempted to participate, Sherlock remaining relentless in his attack, until they were both quite breathless; and yet he persisted. With a huff and a gasp between them, Sherlock continued to lap and suckle at John's mouth, smothering the doctor's abused lips with his own until he could scarcely feel the movement of them against the other man's mouth. Sherlock poured everything he could into each possessive nip, obsessive lick and aggressive mash of lips. When he finally pulled away, Sherlock rested his forehead against John's, each of them taking great gulps of air. As he regained the ability to speak once again, Sherlock whispered thickly, "Yes...yes."
Author's Note +: This is the last bit I have written so far, but it's summer vacation so perhaps I will have time to write out the ideas in my "Bunny" notebook. In any case, thank you for reading thus far and know that I, like every other author, appreciate the encouragement of reviews.