Happiness is having a dream you cannot let go of and a partner who would never ask you to.
~Robert Brault
Sherlock
He wakes up slowly. It's not one of those days when awareness of his surroundings comes quickly to him. At least until his brain decides to register that pillows aren't supposed to be bony and that he usually sleeps alone but he's not alone now.
He opens his eyes and decides that he must be high because John is lying in bed with him. John's right arm is wrapped around Sherlock's shoulders and his left hand is holding onto Sherlock's right hand.
Except, he doesn't feel high, at least not high in an artificial manner. He feels completely blissed out, ridiculously happy and unrestrained. Because the arm over his shoulders feels real, the taut stomach underneath his own arm feels solid, as does the hand that's holding his.
If he's high then he doesn't want to come down yet. And if he isn't…
No, he's got to be high because there's no world in which John Watson would have climbed into the same bed with him, naked. No world, in which he would have confessed his love to Sherlock. There isn't also a world in which John would say yes to Sherlock's proposal.
He should have said something when he had a chance. In the moment he came the closest to having a chance with John. At the time when John's tight and aggressive control over his heterosexuality became the most frayed. When all he needed instead of picking up his violin or not putting it down after playing 'Auld Lang Syne' was sitting John down to tell him that Irene Adler never had a chance and telling him why.
If only he had been a little bit braver back then, a little more willing to risk everything that had been between him and John for a chance at something more. Except back then, he already knew what lied ahead of him and he couldn't do this to John. Just like he couldn't risk their friendship for a meaningless shag, not that it would actually be meaningless.
But he kept hoping. He promised himself that he would make it back to John and that they would pick everything up where they left it. There would be no Moriarty to hang over their heads or no threats that Mycroft wouldn't be able to neutralise on his own. He eventually made his way back to John but it was already too late, at least six months in not more too late. If only he had given up on Serbia…
If he gave up on Serbia, then he would have make it back home for John's forty-second birthday and he would have about a week to ten days of a head start before John would met Mary. He would make a better and more sensitive job out of revealing himself to John and could go straight for begging John on his knees for his forgiveness.
But this illusion before him is pleasant enough to make him want to bask in its artificial fakeness. Because he desperately wants it. He physically aches for it. He prays for it in the darkest hours.
What he wouldn't give for a chance to stand with John in the church, even if he doesn't believe in God and finds the entire concept of a religion ridiculous.
What he wouldn't give for a chance to say to John:
I, Sherlock, take you John, to be my lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish; from this day forward until death do us part.
What he wouldn't give for a chance to hear John say it back to him…
John's friendship is enough, on most days, because having just this much is more than having nothing.
What a pleasant illusion, he thinks and he burrows closer. Except, the pillow under his head stays bony like the shoulder that shouldn't be there because there's no way that John would climb into the same bed with him, naked.
Is he naked?
Carefully he disentangles his right hand from John and raises the covers. A smattering of hair runs down to John's half-erect cock, a sight which makes Sherlock's mouth water. His own cock, is also half-erect, rubbing against John's leg and getting harder with each rub.
That's when he becomes aware of the soreness of his ass. It's not this 'I got kicked in the ass and now my butt hurts' kind of feeling. But it's also familiar feeling, if a little more distant than the other.
The feeling of being stretched out and fingered to the brink of frustration. The press of hips against his arse, cock buried as deep as it can reach. Not all of them are as distant as they should be.
He drops the covers and reaches behind himself. It takes him a moment to get down to his anus because on the way he encounters places where John had to grip his hips and he almost moans at the feeling. Soon enough though he gets down there and rubs at his entrance. He doesn't need to smell it to know that it's covered in a mixture of baby oil and dried semen.
He had sex with John. John's cock was in his arse and had stayed there after the orgasm, just like Sherlock usually likes it. He was always extremely fond of the feeling of softening prick in his arse.
And if the sex part is real then rest of it has to be true too. John told him that he loved him and had accepted Sherlock's blurted out proposal.
It was real last night and this is also real.
He's in John's arms, where he belongs, with his fiancé, in his childhood bedroom morning after they had…
They weren't exactly alone last night and the light of the room is getting a little too bright for Katie and Josie to still be sleeping.
"Your Dad had been here some time ago," murmurs John sleepily as he turns slightly towards Sherlock. "Took them out and away, caught him closing the door."
"And you let him?" murmurs Sherlock as he burrows closer.
"Well, he raised four kids so he can surely manage entertaining a pair of one year olds long enough for me to have a lie in with my gorgeous fiancé," whispers John. "Plus, I'm not going to look a gifted few minutes of bliss into the mouth when we could be doing something without presence of chaperones in the room," he adds with a chuckle.
"Mhm," hums Sherlock in agreement. "You or me?"
"As much as I would like a repeat of last night in a baby-free environment I want to avoid unnecessary trips to A&E," murmurs John. "Just bear in mind that it had been a very long while since the last time."
"How long?" asks Sherlock.
"Are you jealous?" chuckles John.
"You were jealous of a dildo," he points out.
"I was," John agrees. "I didn't say that I'm not a hypocrite," he says and hums. "Now get on with it."
"Such romanticism," snorts Sherlock in mock annoyance. "Get on with it. What I'm supposed to be a bull or a stallion one uses for breeding?" he mutters.
"No, you're world's greatest detective and also the guy who last used the lube so you can use your superb abilities to find it again," chuckles John.
Then he turns around that he's almost lying on his stomach, presenting his arse to Sherlock and Sherlock blinks. Once, twice, trice and then he gets on with it.
He finds the bottle of baby oil under the bed and he has no idea how it got there because it was right in the middle of the floor underneath the bed. He doesn't really care how it got there though. The only thing that matters is that he finally has it in his hands and that he can use it.
On John. To have sex with John. To put his cock inside John.
Jesus. It has to be a dream. But it doesn't feel like a dream.
He draws in a deep breath and just to make sure he pinches his tight.
John is still lying sprawled on the bed with his arse perked just high enough in the air to make it look like it isn't accidental. John Watson, you tease.
"Enjoying the view?" asks John with a hint of amusement in his voice.
"Very," breaths out Sherlock.
"Planning to stand there for the rest of the morning?" asks John playfully.
"I might," answers Sherlock cheekily as he's trying very carefully to approach the bed. "After all, I have an excellent view," he adds as he kneels on the bed.
Once he's on the bed it doesn't take him long to lower himself over John's legs as he fixates his eyes on his prize. He licks his lips slowly before he allows his tongue to run from the edge of John's left buttock right into the centre.
His reward aside of the hopeful twitch of John's arsehole is a breathy and stifled moan coming from John. He smirks to himself and moves to John's right buttock to repeat the process.
He alternates between both globes without a specific rhyme or reason. Stretching and pulling them apart but staying away from the actual prize. Not because he doesn't want to, rimming John is one of his most favourite fantasies but good things come to those who wait and anticipation is part of the foreplay.
Instead, he licks and nips at the skin of John's buttocks, drinking in every sound from John. Every breathy moan, every mumbled 'brilliant', 'amazing' and 'evil sod'. The last one makes him smirk before clamps his teeth on John's left buttock hard enough to make him yelp.
He sooths the bite with his tongue before he licks his lips and pauses just long enough for a deep breath. He descends on his prize like seagull into the water in search of a fish. Licking and sucking on John's opening between trying to stab his tongue as far as he can into John's body.
From above John breaths out a stream of curses mixed with encouragements, groans with stifled moans that mingle into complete incoherency the longer Sherlock goes on. He does his best to bury his face inside John's arse even though he knows that it would be impossible to crawl inside John, no matter how much he wants to. He can certainly try.
He almost doesn't register it the first time he hears it, he's that far drunk on his desire for John. But it's loud enough for him to register it with some delay and his heart almost drops to his stomach and then to his feet.
John says, "Stop." In fact he keeps repeating it softly, "Please, stop, Sherlock."
So Sherlock does, nearly instantly.
"Did I…" Sherlock starts nervously.
"Oh, my love," whispers John. "You did nothing wrong," he assures him. "But as great as what you're doing is, I do want to come with your cock inside me. I love you, but three times within twelve hours is definitely a limit at my age," he adds between gasps for breath.
"We can always work on it later," concedes Sherlock before one last lick to John's hole. "How do you want it, my love?" he whispers against John's buttock.
"As often as you want and in any position you desire," whispers John. "Not really caring about who gets to top."
"You don't care about who gets to top?" asks Sherlock with a hum against John's buttock.
"Not with you," mumbles John. "Never with you, Sherlock. I want everything with you."
"Me too," whispers Sherlock. "I want everything with you too, John."
He gives John a few minutes to regain enough composure to not come in the very first minute he will start preparing him. He spends it on hounding the bottle of baby oil around the bed and rubbing his face against John's buttocks.
To be frank he could spend the rest of his life like this but he does know that the girls can be a handful and that at some point Daddy's patience with them will run out. He also knows that it would be the best for him and John to not be sexually frustrated when that would happen.
"How do you want it?" he whispers against John's buttock.
"I don't care," murmurs John. "Any position would do, really," he breaths out.
"Not helping," mutters Sherlock and he bites John's cheek in punishment.
"You will figure it out," mumbles John.
Oh, you cock, you bloody tease. That's why you presented yourself like that, Sherlock realises. Oh, it is on, he smirks to himself.
More precisely it's in, or it will be in once he will prepare John. Where that bottle of oil had went? It was just right there.
He finds the bottle again and starts preparing John. Gently at first, skittering with his forefinger against John's entrance. Every now and then dipping to swirl his fingers between John's balls but coming back to John's opening with more pressure and insistence and more oil. By the time he works his second finger into John's arse John is back to incoherent babbling, punctured with death threats over not getting on with it. Sherlock though takes his sweet time and waits until John is comfortable with three of Sherlock's fingers inside him before he even lubes himself.
Finally, he kneels between John's spread tights and rubs his cock over John's crack.
This is it, he thinks as he swallows.
"Waiting for an engraved invitation?" mumbles John breathlessly.
"Are you planning to issue one?" Sherlock quips.
"No, but if you won't move within ten seconds I will get you inside myself," murmurs John.
And just as he threatened his right hand sneaks underneath his body and begins searching for Sherlock's cock. Sherlock smiles and swats it away with it before he returns to rubbing himself against John's crack.
"You tease," mumbles John.
"I'm a tease?" whispers Sherlock. "I'm not the one who ended up with the arse in the air like a virginal offering to be worshiped. Not that I'm complaining," stringing all of the words into one coherent sentence takes a lot of effort from him but he manages.
"Of course you aren't," whimpers John. "Please, Sherlock, I'm dying here."
Sherlock chuckles but finally he lines himself up and gently pushes through the loosened enough circle of muscles. He keeps going at a snail's pace until he's balls deep inside John's arse.
It's such a heady and overwhelming feeling that has to lean over John to support himself on his right arm.
"Are you okay?" he whispers into John's ear.
"Never better," John whispers back. "Never better. You can move, love."
"I need a moment," mumbles Sherlock. "Or it will be over very fast."
"Okay," murmurs John as he turns his face to kiss Sherlock.
The kisses they trade are soft and languid unlike the desire to move but Sherlock knows that if he won't try to draw it out he will come under thirty seconds and that would be not good.
He draws it out with miniscule movements, searching for the right angle that makes John gasp because Sherlock managed to brush against his prostate. Once he knows that he's in the right place he continues to take his sweet, sweet time with John, trying to keep John from sneaking his hand around his prick while trying to kiss John's face rather than his shoulder.
Finally, he curls his own hand over John's on John's cock and starts jerking it in unison. It turns out to be a good thing because in the moment Sherlock's hand closes over John's, his mouth seeks Sherlock's. Within less than a minute John's arse constricts around his prick and John's come splatters over their joined hands. Together they trigger Sherlock's own orgasm which is hard enough for him to black out.
"Are you okay?" asks John softly when Sherlock comes back to his senses.
They're lying on their right sides, with Sherlock's soft cock still buried in John's arse. John's left arm is wrapped over Sherlock's own.
"I should…" breaths out Sherlock, "I should be asking you that."
"I wasn't the one that blacked out," murmurs John.
"Then we will have to repeat it," whispers Sherlock as rubs his hips against John.
"Oh, God," groans John. "Sherlock, you will literally kill me if you will try to make me come four times within twelve hours. I'm forty-five for Christ's sake," he protests weakly.
"Forty-four until nearly the end of April," mutters Sherlock. "But we can work on your stamina once we will return home," he adds before he presses a kiss to John's ear.
He cuddles up to John and shifts their arms until Sherlock's left hand is resting over John's.
He doesn't know when or where but hopefully quite soon the day will come when their joined hands would be adorned with the wedding rings.
"Can't wait for it too?" asks John softly.
Sherlock nods into John's hair.
"Can't help it," he admits. "I know that it's ridiculous and that we don't really need it but…" he pauses. "I want to belong to you, John," he whispers into John's ear. "Legally, lawfully. I surrendered my brain and heart to you and I want to surrender the rest."
"You love being Sherlock Holmes," whispers John quietly.
"I love you more," mumbles Sherlock. "It's just a bloody name, a trademark really. I can still work as Sherlock Holmes without being Sherlock Holmes anymore," he adds earnestly.
"Your parents might disagree," mumbles John.
"Daddy took Mummy's surname so he's not going to hold it against me. Mycroft might be against but he can go and fuck himself, I don't care. I don't particularly care either about Mummy's opinion on the matter even though I have no idea what it would be," he says. "Yours is the only opinion that matters, John."
"I think that you should at least consider hyphening it, for Josie's sake," answers John thoughtfully. "Husband," he adds with a hum.
In response Sherlock's cock twitches with interest.
"Oh, God, Sherlock," John groans. "I love you but…"
"I know," smiles Sherlock at him. "You're an old man, husband," he bites his lips when he feels another twitch. "Come on, lets check if a bath can bring you back to life," he murmurs.
"You know that this development has a potential of becoming problematic in our work, husband?" mumbles John.
"If I survived you pulling a rank around uniformed officers I can survive getting turned on every time I will call your or you will call me husband," he answers philosophically.