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Waking up to someone rutting against him wasn't an entirely unknown situation for John. After all, he did have fond memories of a few friends with delightful benefits. No proper boyfriends, because he would still need to pretend – for his father's sake, mostly, but slowly it became ingrained into him – that 'messing around' was nothing serious, and no feelings were involved besides momentary lust.
For some reason, dad would flip out much worse for love, even should it be chaste, than about actual sex. "I was horny and there was a warm body next to mine," the one time he got caught messing around in the morning when a friend slept over, made his father just huff. But "I want to take Sylvie on a date," from Harry, even when it would presumably not actually involve sex, sent him in a rage.
All that was years ago, though. And even if he had discounted his own feelings for his partners at the time, and actually was more invested in them that he'd admit even to himself, his feelings were nowhere close to the constant pining (let's be honest) for his partner since John had met him. Which is why his reaction wasn't as nonchalant.
If he'd been pushing back while asleep, he suddenly went utterly still upon waking. That didn't please Sherlock, judging from the soft whine escaping him. John's brain went blank for a moment, wondering what he should do. While his body had very clear ideas about enjoying it, his superego was considering flight. John helplessly tried to weigh the chances that allowing this to go on while he was awake would upset the sleuth upon awakening, against the chances of actually waking him up by moving, and that his friend would otherwise be unaware of what happened.
Before he could arrive at either decision, Sherlock woke up, his whine turning into a somehow confused-sounding, "Jawn?" Oh fuck. If running was his best option, he'd just fucked it up.
"Morning," was all the blogger could mumble. Getting up now would be moot anyway. He prayed to be swallowed by the mattress. Even being choked to death by his pillow would be nice. He buried himself down in the bed as much as he could, hyperaware of the detective's arms around him.
What he didn't expect was one of the sleuth's long hands to react with a half-pet against his stomach. John couldn't help it: he groaned, managing only to half-strangle the throaty sound. That seemed to wake the consulting detective up entirely, and he was standing and apologising before his partner could regret the noise. He blushed, then – since Sherlock seemed to have misunderstood the situation entirely – he admitted softly, "I'm not hurt, or…upset. You just caught me by surprise. We were both sleeping until a moment ago. Things like these happen. Actually, that's why it was suggested, I believe." Forcing himself to explain the situation distracted him, thankfully. Thinking of their client helped his body settle a bit, too.
…Then Sherlock had to utter one of these breathy, "Oh," he used all too often when he figured things out, and John's body was raging again with desire in half a second. Damn.
"If sex ensuing is the reason hugging was suggested, why didn't you object?" the sleuth asked, raising an eyebrow.
Oh God. True. He was the experienced one. He was supposed to know better. Could they switch to any other question? Because the actual answer was, "I don't mind," and that was a bit too close to what he couldn't confess even without the, "just the opposite," that should have followed that sentence for the sake of complete honesty… John took the coward's way out, pointing out the obvious. "Sex doesn't have to ensue."
If he had the gall to look at Sherlock, he would have seen him blush brilliantly too. "Of course." A slamming door seconds later informed him that the detective had claimed first turn in the bathroom. John tried to will himself not to listen in, but once again, his body had his own ideas and told his brain in no uncertain terms to kindly fuck off. All John's rapidly crumbling morals could manage was to make him clutch desperately the mattress instead of jerking off. And that only because there was no way that the world's only consulting detective wouldn't know at a glance what he'd been doing in their shared bed and probably what he'd been thinking about, which would kill John.
In the meantime, the consulting detective was seriously considering drowning himself in the shower. The night before had been so lovely, settling against John's warmth, being allowed to, being encouraged to. It was progress, of a sort. It was something he should have been grateful for, and content with. But his damn transport just had to take the lead. This was why he didn't sleep much. Once consciousness flew out of the window, you never knew what might happen.
True, the few times he'd insisted on sharing a bed with Mycroft as a kid because of a nightmare (it was just simpler than waking up his parents) the worst that happened was his brother taking note of whatever nonsense he mumbled in his sleep – and wasn't he happy to have outgrown that issue – and mocking him mercilessly afterwards. Especially that time he dreamt that he was being chased by sparkling penguins, at seven. But he'd stopped looking for comfort much earlier than his puberty kicked into gear, so the prospect of possibly molesting John in his sleep hadn't crossed his mind at all.
For a moment, he'd thought that John was well aware of the chances of this happening and didn't mind it – not that Sherlock dared to hope his blogger would appreciate it. But the doctor had shared his bed with a number of lovers, after all…and if John wasn't disgusted, this morning's awakening was definitely something they could have progressed from. The sleuth hoped he had a real possibility of deepening their relationship…until reality set in.
Fleeing was all he could do. In the safety of the tiny bathroom, he rid himself of his pyjamas, tossing it angrily every which way, got in the shower and turned the faucet full-blast on freezing. It didn't just kill his arousal most efficiently. It was illogical, as emotions' strength didn't actually depend on heat despite the most widespread metaphors, but he wanted to numb his feelings too that way.
Stop the ball of regret, self-loathing and disappointment in his chest from leaking out. He felt dangerously close to crying at his own stupidity for indulging – hoping – how stupid did one have to be to forget that John Watson was. Not. Gay. Just because his transport had reacted to stimulation when slumbering, or even half-asleep, it didn't change his sexuality.
Sherlock blamed this case. He should never have accepted it. Probably, the police could solve it…eventually. He'd been interested since the start not by the mystery, but by the chance of wish-fulfilling playacting. He hadn't realised how masochistic that plan was. For his own sanity, he should really abandon the case. People did that all the time. Interrupt therapy because the therapist methods didn't agree with them.
…And other patients of his client would end up being murdered, before the police figured the case out. No doubt about that. His inner John Watson, aka Moral Compass, was already tutting in disappointment. "Bit not good, Sherlock, people dying because you can't compartmentalise. You're a professional. I really expected better from you."
That did it. Sherlock would never, ever willingly disappoint his conductor of light, if the alternative was at all feasible. He sighed deeply, and concluded his ablutions. He did feel more balanced now, if chilled to the bone. He rubbed himself vigorously with the bathrobe the hotel provided, which for some reason felt coarser than the previous days – or maybe his nervous system was simply misfiring, sometimes it happened when he was upset. He wanted to believe he was calm now, but his neurons seemed to have other ideas. Never mind. He could take that. He needed to get dressed soon, anyway… and his clothes were selected to be bearable in any mental state. That's why they were, as John would say, overly posh. Sadly, quality was not common.
Random thoughts helped take his mind away from the morning's failure, and he was semi-normal (or what passed for his normal, anyway) when he left the bathroom, pyjamas bundled in his hands. "Sorry about not asking if you wanted to go first," he mumbled, not looking at the bed or his partner. He received just a grunt and – from the noise – John rushed into the bathroom himself.
Things to do: get dressed. Wait in the room while John had breakfast (no matter who might be looking, he didn't feel like playing happy-ish couple now). Go for their therapy session. Remind himself they were not actually lovers through all of it. Find a way to either lure the murder out or solve this damned case quickly because he would go insane if this went on much longer.