So, yeah- I'm continuing this, and I'll probably update very slowly. Thanks again for the comments!
Sherlock was an octopus when sleeping. A dangerous, sharp-boned, long-limbed, sprawling octopus that seemed to ooze into every crack or air pocket of the bed- John's bed, he thought indignantly.
But it was nicer, sleeping with an octopus, warmer than sleeping alone. John resisted the urge to shift slightly, to snuggle deeper into the cozy recess of Sherlock's body curved around him. He didn't want to wake the other man, because this- the cuddling- was surprisingly pleasant. That and genuinely normal, which was strange.
John settled for a happy sigh, moving his numb arm slowly out from Sherlock's side, tucking it between their two bodies. It was incredibly soothing, and just so warm, and John fell asleep registering vaguely that Sherlock smelled like John's soap, an old gift from Harry, spicy and apple-scented.
When he woke up again, he was nestled comfortably in the crook of Sherlock's neck. His mouth was open slightly, half of his face pressed against a clean dark blue fabric.
John started, blinking his eyes open slowly. Sherlock had his eyes shut, and his chest was rising and falling peacefully. His arm was curled around John's shoulders.
The doctor shifted so his head was higher on the pillow, regarding his friend with an amused grin. Sherlock was a superb actor, as John had had the opportunity to discover a few memorable times, but John could tell when a man was awake or asleep, especially at this distance.
He cleared his throat. Sherlock remained unmoving, looking the picture of an innocent, slumbering cherub.
"Morning," John said sunnily, grinning wider when he saw an almost imperceptible tightening in the corners of the other man's lips.
Sherlock continued to feign ignorance, even shifting his head a bit against the pillow in an apparently subconscious reaction to John's voice.
"Oh, come on, Sherlock." John reached a hand up and tapped the detective's nose playfully.
Sherlock wrinkled his nose involuntarily, then frowned and cracked one eye open a slit.
"John," he acknowledged finally, sleep making his voice bit deeper than usual.
John shivered a little, a tiny sensual crawl across his back. He ignored it, embarrassed.
John had always had a strange fascination with Sherlock's lips. Even before this, he had to force himself stop staring at them whenever Sherlock ranted, or when he was just motionless, lost in thought, like now.
John really couldn't help himself. He reached out and traced the outline of the other man's lips, gently, with his pointer finger. He had a really marvelous mouth, John thought dreamily, lingering a little in the sharp V of the top lip.
Then, of course, he realized what he was doing, and stole his hand back quickly. Sherlock was staring at him, impassive and unmoving as a rock.
"Hello," John mumbled, a little unnecessarily, voice cracking on the last syllable. They gazed at each other, John's pulse beating a little faster, a strange tension in his chest, unable to blink.
Then Sherlock put out his own hand, fingers slow, as to almost ask permission. John closed his eyes, breathless.
The pad's of the detective's fingers were a strange, rough softness, electric, leaving tingling trails as they traveled hesitantly, lightly, over the doctor's face.
John held his breath, resisting the urge to push into the other man's touch. He simply held himself there, as Sherlock's fingers mapped out his face.
Then Sherlock turned onto his side, and the bed groaned and squeaked in protest. He slipped another warm hand underneath John's sleeping shirt, staying a hot, tangible presence on his stomach.
John had twitched a little at the unexpected contact, but kept his eyes closed. The hand that had been on his face was now in his hair, massaging lightly but firmly, and John felt like an ape being groomed.
Sherlock's fingers were still tentative; brushing over his skin like it was a precious ancient artifact- 'handle carefully.'
He was everywhere, and John felt his toes curl in pleasure as Sherlock reached a sensitive point on his back, careful of the scarred shoulder. He let out a low breath.
Then, instead of fingers, there were lips caressing his face, feathery grazes on his eyelids, his temple, the underside of his chin, the hollow at the base of his neck.
Everywhere but his lips.
John gave a half-hearted 'humph' of discontent, and reached out blindly for Sherlock's face. He wound his hands firmly around his neck and pulled him in, fitting their mouths together. Sherlock was stiff for a second, then yielded, soft and pliant. It continued just like that, a dreamy, warm sort of ecstasy, John thought, and Sherlock was leading, and he was following, because what did he ever do but chase after the man, and-
There was a short, curt ring from somewhere on the bedside table. Sherlock ignored it, cradling John's head like it was a fragile, breakable thing. After a second John shut it out too, because Sherlock was being quite distracting.
Some time later, Sherlock was being his very interesting self to John's nipples, which had never met anyone as curious as Sherlock and John was positive they'd never recover. He was arching his back shamelessly, gasping, and the phone rang again. John registered the sound dimly.
"Sher- Sherlock," he panted, growling at a hint of teeth, and bucking. "The phone-"
"It's Lestrade," the other man snapped, and John was distantly pleased his own voice wasn't the only one worse for wear from their activities. Sherlock, suddenly, switched his head to the other nipple, sucking hard.
John let out a rough sound, definitely not a gasp, he decided firmly. He struggled stubbornly, pushing the other man's shoulders so he stopped suckling at John like a bloody infant.
Sherlock was breathing heavily, and looking extremely annoyed. "What, John? What is so important?" he spat, dark, blown-out eyes narrowing angrily. John, of course, found this incredibly attractive, and reminded himself never to rile Sherlock up before sex.
He glared stubbornly at the other man. "You should pick it up," he said, wanting very much to throw the damn phone out the window and do some sucking of his own. Sherlock tightened his lips, irritated.
"It might be a case," John added, trying to tempt him. Normally Sherlock would have literally dropped whatever he was doing for even the slightest chance of a case.
"I'm busy," Sherlock retorted, fingers tightening on John's inner thigh. The doctor jumped a little, and closed his eyes. Lord, please save me from this insane man, he pleaded, and moved his leg out of reach.
"No, Sherlock." John sighed, and rubbed his mouth with his fingers, stifling the tiny prick of sadness that remembered Sherlock's touch there.
The other man glowered, then fell back onto the pillows with a dramatic thump. He threw a long-suffering hand over his eyes. John choked back a laugh.
"I'll be in the shower," John told him, receiving a growl and lazy flick of a hand in reply. He grinned wryly, and couldn't resist planting a loud smooch on Sherlock's upturned palm.
He felt the man flinch, then scowl at him. John gave him a teasing grin, and slowly got off the bed. The floor was icy on his cozy feet, and John suddenly wanted nothing more than a hot shower. Maybe a cold one, he amended, looking down at his bottom half sheepishly.
He turned the water on, bones creaking and cracking. John stretched unhurriedly, and couldn't resist peeking out again at Sherlock one more time.
He was curled into a tiny ball again, heartbreakingly small, and had shifted so his body was entirely in the space John had just vacated. The doctor smiled widely, all of a sudden warm again.
He couldn't wait until this bloody case was over.