Dear life; why do you get in the way of everything? Important things like eating sleeping and writing fanficion? Ugh. Sorry this is rushed. Next one will be sooo much better promise.
John stumbled in to the kitchen. Disregarding the time it was. The sun was drizzling in through the window in the living room, setting the whole room in an angelic early morning glow. He stood blankly in the kitchen for a while, lost, without purpose. Sherlock was still asleep in his room. He didn't really know what to expect after last night's… incident. Should he bring it up? Should he just leave it?
The sound of nothing but the steady based heartbeat of a clock in the living room, Calling out a gradual tick with every agonising second that went by. He thought of making a coffee but didn't know if he would be able to stomach something so strong. .His gut was doing somersaults, would Sherlock hate him? He had kissed him back after all…
The door of Sherlock's room flew open and Sherlock stood in his doorway, hair tousled, wild and messy from a deep sleep. His arm bare, cut bare and red. His eyes were covered by the midnight curls that fell around his face and he growled up at John. Who stood there, clutching the kitchen counter with everything he had. He was a soldier; he had braved many horrors and hells of war. But it took a head full of silky black curls and a pair of icy blue eyes to crack his heart in to a million shattered pieces.
"Good morning Sherlock."
His voice faltered. It wasn't supposed to do that. It was supposed to sound brave and sure and sturdy. It barely came out a squeak; A question more than a statement.
"It is?" sneered Sherlock. His voice cold.
John felt himself wincing on the inside, but his outside betrayed nothing at all.
He merely rolled his eyes and watched as Sherlock, clutching his dark blue dressing gown to his frail hung-over figure, stumble around the kitchen in search of caffeine. He was stronger than John and could handle it better and earlier in the morning.
John cleared his throat and proceeded to hover, which was something he never seemed to do. He was a military man., A man of precision and timing and accuracy. If he didn't need to be somewhere he wouldn't be. But indeed here he was hovering. Of course he was. Why wouldn't he be?
He went to slink back in to his bedroom unnoticed but this was unsuccessful.
"John?"
He physically winced at his voice, remembering the way he spoke last night, so vulnerable…he one that had called for him numerous times.
"Y-yes Sherlock?" replied John, covering for his nervousness with a yawn. Maybe he would think he was tired or something…
"What happened last night? Anything bad? I can't really remember most of it-"
"Nothing. No. You just mumbled some stuff and went to bed." His voice was calm. Words abrupt to keep the agony in his voice undetected. He didn't remember, not one moment. All those precious seconds of their lips locked together... fluttered away from Sherlock's memory and they never existed. He had lived through a war, fought in bloodshed and battle and seen things that made him thirst for more violence, but it took a few words and fleeting passionate kisses to break his heart in to a million pieces.
He swiftly turned on his foot and slammed his door shut. Not being able to hold in his emotions any longer.
Sherlock stared after John's quick escape it seemed. Why did he seem so… flustered? When the topic of last nights drunken episode came up his face grew red and he tried to cover his awkwardness with a yawn so obviously something uncomfortable. He frowned. The pounding headache he had wouldn't let him deduce anymore. Again he was reminded exactly why de didn't drink in the first place.
He pondered what to do. He didn't like seeing John like this. Well that and maybe if he was nice he could squeeze some information about what really happened last night out of him. ..
John couldn't hear anything else; feel anything else but Sherlock's heavy breathing and the hands that were kneading his crotch. Waves of pure pleasure made his body tremble in delight and grab Sherlock's silky curls tighter. He felt Sherlock's hands slow and almost yelled in angst.
"S-Sherlock please d-don't stop-" he whimpered, his voice barely a whisper. He cracked an eye open to see Sherlock's arrogant lazy smirk.
"You know that's not how we ask is it John?"
John squirmed. His erection throbbing, he was in agony. Were did Sherlock learn to be such a bloody tease?!
"I-I'm not going to beg you…"
"Oh I think we both know THAT isn't true…" purred Sherlock burying himself in John's neck and teasingly running his fingers over the bulge in his pants.
John was panting, whimpering and trembling. Completely at Sherlock's mercy now. Desperate for a release-
"If you wont I will." He growled. Not liking the fact he would have to beg Sherlock for anything.
His hands started to slide down to his crotch but Sherlock snarled and grabbing his wrists slammed them above his head. Icy glare staring right in to John until he thought he would crumble.
"John…" he muttered darkly.
He gritted his teeth and moaned. Even his voice drove him crazy.
"John!" This cry seemed louder, out of place, out of reality. He felt walls around him crumble and the warmth of Sherlock's hands body and presence dissolve and vanish and reality bleed in through his eyes.
"John!" He sat up in bead, dazed and confused. He looked around his room and groaned. It wasn't real. Of course it wasn't. He rubbed the back of his neck and growled. His laptop let off a small casual hum and the screen lay black. He must have fallen asleep reading or something. His mind was so frazzled he couldn't really remember. His body was still aching for Sherlock's touch. He quickly pushed these thoughts to the back of his head when he heard his name called again. He slid off his bed and stumbled in to the living room.
"What is it Sherlock?"
"You were lying."
"What?"
Sherlock looked up from his newspaper; eyes scanning the obviously flustered as well as unexpectedly woken man in front of him.
"I'm not stupid something obviously happened last night and your not telling me."
John couldn't stop colour rushing to his cheeks and in a desperate attempt not to trip over his words he carefully said;
"You just said a few silly things that's all."
"Like what silly things?"
"Forget it! Please just drop it Sherlock." Snapped John unexpectedly, Sherlock refused to be deterred by this small sudden outburst. It just fascinated him. Obviously rousing him from a deep nap wouldn't lure out the answers, now matter how flustered or dazed he was. He had underestimated him.
As he watched John yawn and shuffle back in to his room he let a smirk crawl on his face as he set his fingers under his chin to conjure a plan.