Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.
This onecontains a bit of non-graphic sex.
Enjoy!
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Speaking Of Which...
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Once John is awake, he can´t go back to sleep. It has always been like that, and on this very morning he curses it, maybe for the thousandth time.
He has woken entirely too early, it´s barely light out, and Sherlock was sleeping peacefully, nestled in John´s arms. He´d have loved to stay like this, listening to Sherlock´s quiet breathing until he woke as well, but his bladder, who´d roused him in the first place, didn´t allow for it.
He has painstakingly slowly extricated himself from Sherlock, been to the bathroom and then equally careful climbed back into bed. Sherlock has turned on his side during the short time in which John was gone, and as he now slips back under the covers, he presses himself against the detective´s back, winding one arm around Sherlock´s hip. He cautiously shifts around until he´s comfortable, resting his cheek against the nape of Sherlock´s neck. It´s such a marvel to be able to do this, he thinks, nuzzling Sherlock´s skin and inhaling the other´s scent.
If anyone could see them now, they´d probably not believe their eyes, for Sherlock Holmes has done his best to spread the impression of being an unfeeling, deadhearted bastard, and people often consider John Watson as his devout and rather blind follower, someone who has got nothing better to do or maybe simply was at the wrong place at the wrong time and then got stuck; someone who came back from the war damaged enough not to mind.
None of this is true, at least not strictly speaking. But of course, that particular milk is spilt, and nobody would possibly believe John if he told them how caring Sherlock can be, how gentle, how considerate of John´s needs. How incredibly good he smells and how soft his lips are, how much John loves it when they kiss, when they caress each other with a tenderness neither of them knew they possessed.
It´s when Sherlock is most unhurried, most unfocused, and, John is convinced of it, most himself. The true self, not the one he flaunts about. The one which allows him to relax and enjoy being together with the man he loves, which allows him to show emotions and say silly things which aren´t so silly when you are in love.
John subdues a sigh, stroking Sherlock´s skin just below his navel with his fingertips. Getting to know the other´s body was strange, weird, wonderful, scary and exciting all at once, but now they are comfortable with each other´s anatomy, which seemed an entirely foreign territory at first. It now seems ridiculous to John that he actually has been a little intimidated by touching Sherlock´s more private parts; being naked with each other was one thing, being intimate a whole different story. Pressing a kiss on Sherlock´s ear, John smiles: now, he wouldn´t want to miss it ever again.
He listens to Sherlock´s steady heartbeat while he ponders the man, something he never tires of. Peering down on the corner of Sherlock´s mouth, which he can just see from his position if he cranes his neck, he contemplates his partner´s smile. Sherlock´s lovely when he smiles. It´s a rare treat, getting a genuine smile from the great detective, but John´s heart rate picks up considerably every time he does.
Sherlock´s also lovely when he´s on the brink of falling asleep; he usually takes some time, murmuring and snuffling and kneading his pillow with one hand because he usually is agitated.
He´s gorgeous when he actually sleeps, his expression all innocent, unguarded, long lashes contrasting with pale skin, hair tousled. He´s a surprisingly heavy sleeper too; as much trouble he has to find sleep, as difficult he finds it to wake up and get going. He usually is up early, but talking is not a possibility at that time of day. Unless there is a case, of course; the adrenaline works better than three cups of coffee.
John comes to the conclusion that he loves it best when Sherlock´s dozed off on the couch though, because waking him in order to get him to bed usually is John´s task, and Sherlock´s not only adorable when he´s half-awake and sleepy, but also rather cuddly, his long limbs wrapping around John with surprising flexibility.
"You´re awake," Sherlock murmurs, his voice low and drowsy. He blinks a few times, not quite awake himself yet, and yawns. To John, even his yawn looks delicate, but that´s most probably down to the rose-tinted goggles he´s certain he´s wearing, which the rational part of his mind keeps reminding him of, at the same time snickering at him.
John ignores it and caresses Sherlock´s cheek: "Did I wake you?"
"No." Sherlock covers John´s hand with his own, stroking it with his thumb: "Do you have to go to work today?"
"No," John sighs in relief, "I don´t. Not for the next two days, actually."
He can feel Sherlock´s smile underneath his fingers: "Good," he murmurs before slowly turning around until they are eye to eye, and Sherlock is still smiling: "Good morning." His deep baritone sends a vibration through John which makes his stomach flutter: "Good morning," he breathes, wishing he could have this every day; he´s sure it´s not going to wear off so soon, if ever.
They nuzzle their faces against each other, nose against nose, lips meeting for a kiss, then another, and another. There´s only the two of them and time has become obsolete.
Sherlock sometimes looks back at those moments and wonders what is happening to him; it doesn´t make sense to act like that, sentiment before ratio, and yet it is what he wants and what he needs right now, and somehow, he´s fine with it. He hasn´t missed any of this before he met John, but going back to that state is inconceivable. He feels less hounded by his own thoughts, less tense, infinitely more capable of dealing with the world around him.
He had been intimidated at first; being in bed with John, with anyone at all, and willingly being vulnerable scared him more than he´d anticipated, but of course John managed to make him feel safe and secure almost instantly, being gentle and non-demanding.
Sherlock remembers the first time John´s hand slowly went exploring below his navel, and the memory always sends pleasant goosebumps down his spine, because John´s hand ventured where none other than Sherlock had ever had access before, and while the doctor was kissing Sherlock and caressing him with his left, the right was doing wonderful things to the detective, giving him an idea of whatever else might be possible, while his brain gave up thinking any clear thoughts at all for the time being.
Contrary to his expectations it hadn´t been embarrassing or unpleasant though, and he had felt loved and cherished.
It was special to share those most private of moments with John, and Sherlock couldn´t imagine having to go without ever again, because it was something only they were doing with each other, and it showed how much they trusted each other.
And it felt good, of course. He loved it when John was lying on top of him or if he was lying on top of John, feeling the other breathing, feeling the whole of his body, feeling complete.
"I love you," Sherlock now says, and John presses closer to him: "I love you, too," he whispers against Sherlock´s mouth. "So much."
Sherlock wraps his arm around John: "Good," he repeats in a very low voice. "John."
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Fin
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