Blearily opening his eyes, John mumbled sleep garbled sounds as he was dragged unceremoniously out of oblivion to the shrill echoes of the personalised ring tone 'cops and robbers'. He lay there dazed for a moment, not able to connect the dots. God he was just so comfortable and warm, a long line of a body pressed against his. He turned around slowly, searching out that blazing warmth and snuggled into the bare chest he found, pulling up the duvet over him and his bed fellow.
"John… John… john… john!" Sherlock, of course, was wide awake straight away, the only evidence of his rest was a large yawn emitted as he rolled slightly to encompass john in his long arms. Sherlock was amazed every time he woke up next to john; he couldn't believe he was actually here, 8 months down the line, still in a relationship. Him, THE Sherlock Holmes. God the sentiment was repulsive, or it would have been, if it was anyone but his John. Speaking of which… "Jooooohn its Lestrade, answer it, nooow!" as he was speaking, he softly butted his chin against the top of john's head, keeping rhythm with his whining, a soft smirk gracing his angular face.
"Mmm… nope. Not gonna work Sherlock. It's one of my only days I get to lie in, we're not on a case, your actually here in the bed with me for once, and I am not moving." He furthered his point by rubbing his nose up Sherlock's sternum, taking in a long breath, humming, and then slumping even further into him.
"John, it might be a case! An interesting one, maybe a double locked room murder suicide theft!" john sighed, huffing a breath directly across one of the nipples in front of him. He watched, fascinated, as the skin around it pebbled, the tiny hairs pin pricking around the small little nub. He couldn't help but smile at the loveliness that Sherlock was when he was excited, how that voice shook sound waves that seemed to lap crushingly at john's heart. Sherlock scoffed, and whispered deeply in his lovers' ear, trying to sound unaffected. "John, that's not going to work, I NEED a case." he was grinning slyly; john could imagine it perfectly. Oh he knew his partner was trying to wind him up, but it worked perfectly every single time.
"We just finished one! Two days ago!" He gave a playful little remonstrating nip to the pale chest, and hitched his leg further around the others hip, trapping him as Sherlock went to let go of him to reach towards john's phone. Their faces were now level as, after a few minutes of useless squirming, Sherlock gave up unwillingly. Teach him to try and get out of an ex-soldiers' ninja cuddle hold, john thought victoriously to himself. Sherlock pouted and cupped Johns face with his hands.
"But john, don't you see? It must be important, your phone. Is still. Ringing. How long is that infernal song?! It's been going for 1 minute and… 9 seconds. Why is it that anyway? Why choose that?" He was scrunching his nose up showing his utter disgust for john and his stupid charming ways. I mean, who personalises their ringtones now? And how did john even figure out how to bloody do it in the first place, that insufferable, adorable man was basically allergic to technology. At least, he seemed to be, if his two-finger typing was anything to go by. His trail of thought was interrupted as john giggled and placed a kiss on his nose, just as the phone stopped ringing.
"Love, if it's that important, Greg will ring your phone after mine, let it ring once, hang up and then ring again. I still don't see why they don't just contact you first anyway, they used to."
"Apparently, the yard 'can't be dealing with stroppy drama queens', according to 'Greg'" John snorted and tried to spit out his next sentence whilst laughing.
"Why- why do you always s-say his-his name like a swearword?! Oh ye-yeah, it's because you a-are a drama queen!" Sherlock kept a straight face and stared at john, secretly amused as his partner shook from his laughter, and said in his most pompous high class accent:
"John it's not nice to laugh in someone's face, is it now? Who's the one who is always talking about 'taking social cues' and 'sherlock, don't degrade people just because you're bored' the hypocrisy is stifling John, I may not survive under the onslaught of such a travesty." He slowly began to grin, as john broke down in a fit of high pitched giggles that made his heart melt. He stared; sobering up as he again wondered how he deserved this beautiful, walking anomaly, who accepted him whole heartedly without restraint, put up with his eccentricities and cold exterior, who loved him completely. John had stopped laughing by now, and was looking at Sherlock in confusion, wondering why he had that awestruck look on his face and rapt eyes. He stroked across his cheekbone with a finger, swirled shooting stars to land on his cupids bow: an angels kiss. John would never get over how gorgeous this man was to him, how essential he was to his happiness. Alive. Sherlock made him feel alive.
They didn't need words in this moment; they could communicate with each other so easily now, after living together as work partners and flatmates for four months, and even closer together as their other half for eight. John tightened his grip on Sherlock, and caressed his back with gentle hands, which travelled up to carefully grip bed-head curls that twirled lovingly around his fingers, like honeysuckle vines through a woodwork trellis. Their eyes were on fire, bodies burning up in the close quarters of the duvet, every inch of them pressed together as much as possible, as if they could absorb the other through osmosis. Breath hitching, words that weren't enough caught in his throat, Sherlock tipped john's chin up with his long fingers, knuckles rasping stubble, and burned. John's gaze flickered between kaleidoscope eyes and licked lips, the tension increasing in ever growing logarithms. No matter how many times they were intimate, the passion between them never waned, only grew as awkward inexperience was nurtured into perfect synchronisation.
"John…" Lips were parted, breath shared, eyelids lowering as they licked gently into each other's mouths, tongues coiling together. Sherlock let out a whimper as john's hand in his hair tightened further, the other hand travelling down smoothly to grip a firm, full arse cheek. Sherlock's fingertips searched out a bare chest, to play across sensitive scar tissue that he stroked reverently, a routine that he never failed to carry out every time they made love. An ode to what brought john to him: his soldier. He felt as John's hardness pressed insistently against his thigh, heard him moan as he adjusted to press against Sherlock's own arousal as they rutted through their pyjama bottoms. His cock was so hard already, throbbing slightly as they exchanged pleasure filled sighs between them. John felt like he was going to burst with lust. He wanted. God how he wanted him. Causing Sherlock to gasp out a breathy laugh, John rolled so he was on top of Sherlock and straddling his thighs, hands either side of his head, nose to nose as they grinned at each other.
"It seems you have me at a disadvantage, Dr. Watson." Sherlock purred out as he ran his hands up and down John's muscular thighs, wrinkling and gripping at the soft tartan material. John laughed deep in the back of his throat, a sound that never failed to make Sherlock shiver.
"Well Mr. Holmes, I-"
Sherlock's phone rang.
Their heads whipped around at the same time to stare at the innocent blackberry buzzing across the bedside table, a generic tune playing unaware. They looked back at each other in silence, faces carrying only a ghost of the previous happiness. Their minds ran through the same vein: please continue, don't stop ringing, please.
Of course, the phone stopped. Sherlock let his neck relax and his head thumped down onto the pillow, a heavy sigh parting his lips. "It's not like you didn't wish for an interesting case, love," John teased half-heartedly, running a hand down his face, panting as he tried to calm himself down. Sherlock scowled at him slightly, closing his eyes and cursing Lestrade for interrupting now of all times as the phone began to ring again.
"It better be at least a 9." He growled. Even though the work came first, Sherlock was sick of having to hide their relationship because of it. When they had first started, they had talked about this topic only briefly, as they were both in accord: only Mrs. Hudson would know, because they didn't want to put each other in danger. Moriarty had already pin-pointed John as one of his only weaknesses: who knows what other criminal classes would do with the information. That was Sherlock's worry.
But it was one that was steadily fading away into the background. He was tired of not being able to share his affection with John in front of others; lately he had found himself reaching out to take his hand, only pulling away at the very last second. No one noticed of course, they were all idiots. He planned on talking to John soon, see if he could talk him out of the ridiculous notion that Sherlock would fare better without anyone knowing, that he would try to run. He would be offended by how little faith John had in him, but knew it was in a way his own fault: he had planned to talk to him sooner, convince him and lay out all the facts, try to get past his own 'emotional constipation' as John put it. He had deduced that John did have faith in him; it was Johns own self that he couldn't seem to trust. Who knew trust issues could manifest themselves to be so misaligned. How could anyone trust Sherlock of all people when they didn't even trust their own reactions and feelings?
John was anxious about the press, and how it would affect Sherlock's work. He didn't want to be the reason that someone was prejudice against his partner, or didn't take him seriously. Hell, the yard already mocked them, even when they didn't believe their relationship could ever happen. Sherlock was fragile when it came to emotions, John thought. He needed the protection that came from pushing people away, and the fact that he had let John into his heart spoke volumes on how much Sherlock trusted him. John would happily bear the burden of knowing the real Sherlock Holmes, due to the fact that he thought that there was no burden at all. He had no idea how Sherlock would react if everyone knew. Bloody hell, if anyone somehow saw the man behind the mask, the man who loved completely but silently, and liked to snuggle on the sofa when thinking on a case, he might shut down. Or pull away from him completely, scared about the repercussions.
Now, John was not an insecure man. He knew that Sherlock loved him, but he was only human. After an especially taxing argument or on bad days when his PTSD would grip him by the throat and torture him with no sleep- the less said about those, the better -, he would sometimes get it into his head that he did not deserve Sherlock. That Sherlock was embarrassed to be seen with a man like John; broken, slightly grey haired and older: Normal, not amazing in the slightest. After these episodes, he always felt like a stupid, overbearing teenager. He knew the reasons, hell, he didn't want to come out, as he was scared for Sherlock. What if Sherlock was feeling the same way?
All of this flashed through both of their heads in a moment: Sherlock had turned and shuffled towards the edge of the bed, dragging John with him, to pick up the damned mobile.
"Lestrade, as you are calling at such an early hour and using the emergency protocol, I deduce that you've bollixed something up. More than usual, I might add. Tell me, what have those moronic apes that you call officers done this time?" Sherlock smirked at him, a playful glint in his eye. Oh of course he didn't, John thought, sheepishly amused: he could just deduce that his reasons were 100% truthful. He realised in that moment that whenever he had these dark thoughts, Sherlock was unfailingly there: he would stay in bed instead of running off to his experiments, there would be a slightly tidier kitchen and he would smile at John more, make him laugh. Warmth bubbled through him at this insight; he felt stupid that it had taken him this long to notice it.
Sherlock was listening to Lestrade carefully, trying to figure out how serious this case was by the inflections in his voice: Pretty damn serious, if Sherlock was correct. His tone was low, as if he didn't want other people to hear, even though he was in his own office going by the lack of background sound that came through. A psychological response to distress and secrets to be kept on the down low. A personal matter then, something connected to himself, Sherlock and John. His London accent wavered around syllables like reflections distorted around a pool, rippling as though he was burdened by a heavy weight.
A pool at midnight.
John watched as Sherlock's expression became gradually darker, his smirk melting off his face slowly, as whatever solvent words Greg said dissolved the character of those animated lips.
"It's him isn't it?" Sherlock interrupted mid-way through Lestrades pathetic attempt to explain. "Moriarty's done something again, sent another message. What? And who for? Why would he, after all this time, suddenly reappear after not being able to be found? Lestrade! Come on, don't sit there gaping at your desk, I don't need a goldfish- I need data!" Sherlock found himself staring at John, wondering how a morning could be so perfect and turn out like this, one little phone call and the hologram of his self-image in his mind-palace ran frantic through the halls. He heard as if from a great distance away -sound distorted through tunnels- Lestrade spluttering something about tapes and letters and how he was sorry about watching something-
Sherlock snapped out of his panic before it could gain momentum. "Lestrade, I don't have time for your stupid mumblings, John and I will head to the yard. Do not. Tamper. With anything. Got it? I need everything exactly as it was if you can. He's back and I can't leave any room for mistakes… not like last time." He hung up, half formed sentences dying across the network. Looking over at John, he saw his eyes glitter with determination and reigned in fear. Always the calmest man in a bad situation, Sherlock thought with pride. John had got them out of plenty of untenable positions before, due to his immense self-control and combat skills. When the sirens call of danger beckoned with skeletal phalanges, John Watson was the first to heed it.
He made a vow, right then, staring into his lovers face, that he would not stop until Moriarty was finished. He would make sure his soldier was safe, and as happy as possible.
No matter who got in his way.