Author's Notes:
I had betas for this! You'll have to let me know if I'm more polished, now :D
The lovely Snogandagrope pushed me into writing more in the first place, and helped me map it out a bit. Thanks a lot: look what you did! 4K words, woman!
And MildrendandaBobbin, who has been a cheerleader all along, kind of morphed into a beta with solid concrit for all the next chapters. Thanks to you both!
And thank you to all the readers who left feedback for the last chapter, letting me know if you thought the story needed more. Most of you thought it needed more sex and little wrapping up. So!
And I am so, SO sorry it took so long for me to update. You may rest happy, knowing that there are two more chapters after this, and they are already written and will be posted soon. And now... here it is...
Chapter 22: The Morning After
John wakes up slowly in the morning. The light filtering through the crack in the curtains is still gray with dawn, and traffic is just starting to groan to life out on Baker St. He lies peacefully for a long time, drowsy and content, brain not yet engaged. He inhales Sherlock: morgue and sweat and crisp cotton.
He is tilted over Sherlock's chest, in his habitual morning position, nose in Sherlock's neck, soft dark curls tangling in his eyelashes. John blinks a few times, feeling the faint tug, just for the thrill of connection; and Sherlock ripples under him with a soundless laugh.
"What are you doing?" he asks, lifting an arm languidly to curve around the small of John's back, inscribing patterns in the hollow of his hip with long fingers.
"I thought you were asleep," is John's response. He purses his lips and begins to nuzzle the soft skin over the sternomastoid muscle, darting out his sticky morning tongue to taste. He lazily suckles and nibbles there. Sherlock hums under him, more of a vibration than a noise, and tips his head to the side to give John better access.
Right. The neck.
Last night, John had intended to drive Sherlock wild via that lovely stretch of slender neck, but had somehow missed the opportunity. Perhaps because Sherlock had been so single-mindedly directing the activities. Well. Things will go slower this morning, he promises himself.
He leans up on an elbow to get a better angle, pressing one hand hard against Sherlock's chest for balance and to keep him still. He worries the skin and muscle in his mouth, sucking hot and wet now, and Sherlock moans, undulates again. There are two small moles on the side of his neck, and John tongues his way over to them, biting, blowing, laving. He shapes the bony ridge of an Adam's apple with his lips, and his mouth curves smugly when he feels it bob in a frantic swallow.
But Sherlock is still pushy and impatient. He reaches around with his other arm and slides his fingers though John's short hair, combing through the soft bristles. His hand wraps clear around the back of John's head, holding him there at his neck. "John," he murmurs. "That's good. Ungh. Very good." He shifts John's hip so that they're pressed closer, and the heat of a growing erection stirs against tickling thigh hair. "Don't stop."
John slides his leg over Sherlock's, settles it into the space between his thighs, brushing up against the loose scrotum, feeling Sherlock, turgid and eager against his hip. He rolls against him, moving his focus to the other side of Sherlock's throat. "John," Sherlock begs, and shifts his hands to both John's hips, pulling him over until he is fully on top of Sherlock. He worms his other leg under John's until he is firmly caught between them.
Sherlock's head is tilted back obscenely. John increases his fervor, his pressure, the intensity of his attack, using lips and teeth to pull little dark marks to the the surface of white skin. He rings a pattern around the two moles, then moves down to the joining of shoulder and neck.
"Nnng. Oh, yes, John. Fuck. That feels good. More-" Sherlock's fingers dig bruisingly into the globes of John's arse, tucking neatly into the crease under them, grinding him down onto his own hips. Strong thighs clamp around his legs, and he's adjusted erratically until their cocks are pressed together.
John laughs a little, breathy. He's wanted to work on that mile of gorgeous, graceful neck since he'd figured out that it was a trigger on that night after the fall. He weaves his fingers in Sherlock's hair and pulls, arching his head back even further, almost at a painful angle. Sherlock groans richly, ruts against him so hard that they're both momentarily lifted off the bed. "Yes! Like that. Yes." Sweat begins to gild him, and there are lewd, tiny, sucking, popping noises as skin adheres then pulls apart.
Sherlock removes a hand briefly from John's arse, and then returns it almost immediately. Long fingers, wet now, slyly glide from the crease under his arse to the space between his buttocks, slipping in as if they belong and don't need an invitation. John stops marking Sherlock's collarbone and tenses. He draws in a breath, but Sherlock grunts at him, annoyed. "I said don't stop. Here. Kiss me." He tugs his head against John's hold on his hair, and then, when John releases him, lifts it for a kiss.
Their mouths gradually grow wetter, losing the stale fuzz of the night as they suck it off each other's tongues. Sherlock rocks John solidly on the fulcrum of their cocks, using his arse as a lever, fingers pushing against his anus with each tug. He doesn't do anything more worrisome than that, though, and John sinks into the rush of a devouring kiss, and the heated pulse of friction and rhythm compelled by Sherlock's movements.
John is ardent, his skin thin and strained from containing all that torrid pressure, and his shoulder blades begin to itch. The feeling is back. He needs to...
He gives in to the urge that has been building alongside the sensations from Sherlocks guiding hands, and releases his wings, with a gentle whuffing sound. There, the desire to mount and flap is assuaged. The sudden fluttering breeze cools them both, and Sherlock's eyes pop open. He grins in approval, John can feel it against his lips, but doesn't pull back from the kiss. John beats his wings twice, broadly, moving the still air in the room, and then folds them around the bed. They are cocooned from the shoulders down. Sherlock shudders as feathers brush against his thighs and tangle in his toes.
Sherlock shifts under him again (he has a plan, John realizes distractedly), and twists his legs between John's, opening him up a little more. But the kiss is intense, and all John's brain cells are occupied with pleasure; so he just relaxes into the new posture, wings adjusting minutely, weight solidly on Sherlock's torso, hands still buried in his hair. Sherlock bites his lip hard, scrapes his teeth on the soft inner flesh, then soothes it with a gentle tongue. He continues to oscillate John by fingertips on his arsehole; little back and forth movements along the heated length of Sherlock's erection, his chest, the wiry pubic hairs that catch and tangle with John's own.
John feels Sherlock sliding his clean hand upward, smoothing warm and firm along the small of his back, teasing over his ribs along the joining of wing and skin, darting under soft feathers to edge around to his cervical vertebrae, sweeping down until he's got five fingers dug into John's wing, jabbing through feathers until they meet the flesh beneath, and curving hard around the upper edge. John groans again, tries reflexively to flap, but Sherlock holds the wing forcibly, massaging his hand down the length of it to the carpel joint, stretching as he goes. "Ah! Jesus fuck, Sherlock. You're killing me..."
Sherlock deliberately moves his focus to John's ear, licking into it, blowing gently, just breathing, before taking it in sharp teeth. And John is suffused with a beguiling wash of heat. Goosebumps prickle over him and he shivers lightly, nipples nubbing up to be rewarded with more friction, brushing through the light hairs on Sherlock's chest. He groans loudly. "Sherlock. Sherlock. Aaah god, Sherlock." The insufferable man pulls on his ear again, mouth as hot as tea, and there are four points of pleasure zinging through John: his ear, his wing, his surging cock, and his anus as Sherlock's spit-slicked fingers press almost inside, shimmy and wobble, each little pressure granting him a tiny bit more access, not neglected one bit by the attention Sherlock is paying to his feathers.
"Oh god. Oh. Fuck, Sherlock! What're you. Doing? You can't. Sh-" Sherlock teases around his opening, using the newly accessible rim of it for each pull up his body, the tug obscured by the overwhelming sensation of pressure and slide against his length.
The rocking has loosened him so gently and gradually that he doesn't even notice, doesn't feel any discomfort, as clever fingers slowly breach him. One more quick, damp push; and Sherlock slips fully inside. He ghosts a fingertip around John's prostate. And now. Now there are flaring sparks sizzling out from the nerve bundle in his arse, and Sherlock is bucking up against him and moves to hold his head in a tight one-handed grip.
"Come on," he mutters against John's ear. "John, come on. You need to-. I need-" he drills his tongue into John's ear and John just can't take any more. He gives a hoarse shout, doesn't even know which intense sensation to chase after. But Sherlock solves that, by thrusting his hips up fiercely against John's, crushing their engorged cocks, curling his fingers inside him as if it's a handle to rub him back and forth over Sherlock,
and in a splendid manifestation of serendipitous timing, they come synchronously, the wrenching, scalding heat between their bodies sending John off into a purely transcendental moment. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock. Fuck. Oh. Gnah guh. Sherlock." And Sherlock pants back, "John. John! Oh god that's good. Yes. John!"
John collapses back onto Sherlock's chest, slippery now with sweat and come, and gasps for breath. Sherlock wiggles his fingers a little in John's arse, and John can feel his jaw shift in an invisible grin. Sherlock slowly pulls them out, gentle, careful not to cause undue pain, as a hurried round of saliva can only go so far as a lubricant. He turns to nuzzle his jaw against John's damp hair. "You're so good, John," he murmurs, and slides his clean hand down John's neck to gently stroke over his wings. John is still gasping, collapsing all his weight trustingly on top of Sherlock, all limbs lax and carelessly disposed. They lay still for a moment, recovering.
"Now you've had penetration, and you can call this real sex," Sherlock teases.
John doesn't answer.
Then Sherlock abruptly notices that the pulse under his hand is very irregular, with long pauses and then periods of rapid patters.
He rolls immediately to the side, dumping John on his back (after considerately gathering his wing into a compact bundle under him, so he won't crush it), and looms over him in concern. "John? John, are you alright?" John nods, but his eyes are wide, and he clutches his chest with both hands. "Your heart?"
John nods again, then shakes his head. "It's OK," he says in a wheezy voice. "To be expected, after last night. Just give me a minute." But he is ashen, his breathing shallow and labored, and the sweat on his face looks more like illness than post-coital glow. Sherlock is extremely concerned, his own heart galloping in sympathy. He thinks he can even sense a dulled echo of the ache John is feeling, in his own chest through the line that seems to bind them.
"Shall I raise your legs?"
"No. Just. Help me... Ah!... sit up a little." John sends his wings away, after a moment gathering himself to acquire the energy. Sherlock immediately scoops John up to rest against his shoulder, and then holds him there for several minutes, fingers pressed worriedly against his cartoid. It slows down gradually, and becomes more steady; he can feel John relax back into his side. The tension in his chest eases a bit.
"Better?" asks Sherlock.
John nods. "Yeah. I think. I'll just need a couple paracetamol." He rubs his chest in the middle, over his sternum, and Sherlock can feel that, too, a warm comforting touch over a purple ache. They sit there a while longer. Sherlock pulls the blankets back up, and snuggles John against him, stroking soothingly over deep pectorals, sorting prickly golden-brown hairs with his fingers, until the sweat has dried and John isn't struggling for air any more.
"Tell me about it?"
"Arrhythmia and strain are pretty normal, after a heart attack," John says. "Even externally forced ones, I now see. I just need to be a little more careful for the next few days." He tips his head against the headboard and looks at Sherlock through short lashes, glowing in the slanted morning light, and smiles.
Sherlock nods seriously. "Of course."
"But don't feel guilty," John hurries to reassure him. "I chose to do that, yeah? I would do it again. It wasn't too much. Just need to be careful, that's all."