John opened his eyes blearily.
When did waking up start becoming a good thing?
He stared at the mop of black curls tucked into his shoulder and neck, and remembered that it was about three weeks ago.
He struggled to remember the previous night. Dinner. He'd had dinner with Sherlock, and Sherlock had been… cheerful. Maybe he dreamt that bit? No. The detective had definitely been in a cheerful, almost playful mood the entire time they were dining. But after that?
John couldn't remember a thing. One thing he did realise though, was that they were both still fully clothed in their dinner suits, and… oh, shoes as well. And they were both sleeping on top of the covers. So, got really drunk, probably. Passed out together on the bed.
He started at a voice beside him, and glanced down into eyes that looked silvery in the morning sunshine. Sherlock murmured, "John," and smiled a goofy, vulnerable smile that melted John a little. A lot, really.
"Hey," whispered John in return, "Did we fall asleep?"
"Falling down drunk, if I remember," groaned Sherlock with a rueful grin, "You hung over?"
"Me? No, never."
"What? No fair."
"Military training, remember?"
"Oh, God, of course."
"Are you hung over, Sherlock?"
"Stupendously," groaned Sherlock, but then belied that by murmuring, "I could do with something to eat."
John laughed, and the detective snuggled a little closer. John asked, "What are you doing?"
"Snuggling. It's cold."
"Get under the covers then."
"Can't be bothered getting undressed."
John fell silent, considering that. Sherlock moved, then moved again to look up at John, and declared mischievously, "Do you always wake up like this?"
John said, "Like wh- oh. Oh, maybe."
"You're blushing," smiled Sherlock blearily.
"And you're still drunk," muttered John.
"I'm not that drunk. I can tell you've got morning wood."
John sighed, and stubbornly ignored Sherlock. Sherlock smiled wickedly, and snuggled a little more. The situation did not improve. At all. In fact it may have worsened.
"Am I turning you on?" demanded Sherlock delightedly.
"No! No! Not at all!" denied John hotly.
Sherlock chuckled, "Not what I would have guessed."
"Shut up."
"Want me to take care of that for you?" asked Sherlock slyly, sliding a hand across John's stomach.
"Sherlock!"
Sherlock grinned and desisted, then asked, even more slyly, "You never did tell me those things that you 'couldn't say', John."
"So?"
"Tell me now?"
"No. I'm not in the mood. Not the best time."
Sherlock smiled, looking positively evil, and asked again, "Are you absolutely sure you don't want me to do something about this for you? Must be awfully uncomfortable…."
"Stop it! Just stop it!" John was feeling hot and uncomfortable, and a little tense.
"It might relax you," suggested Sherlock.
"I'm. Not. Gay."
"Nor me," smiled Sherlock, sliding his hand across John's stomach again, letting it drift lower down, brushing the waistband of his trousers. John shifted away, and said, "If you don't stop this, I'll kick you out of the room."
Sherlock smiled and snuggled closer, then undid John's trouser button, saying in that soft and dangerous voice he used just before he exposed criminals, "No you won't."
"Will."
"Won't. See? You're protesting a bit much, there, John, and as for actions speaking louder than words, you haven't stopped me at all…"
"Sherlock…."began John in a dangerous voice, but just then he gasped as the detective slipped his hand under his pants and began softly stroking John's cock, with a gentle, slow motion that had John gasping for air.
John panted helplessly, and Sherlock's eyes lidded as he watched him.
"Oh, God, I hate you sometimes," whispered John.
Sherlock looked a little sad, but not for long. His expression segued to pure mischief as he whispered, "The things you were going to tell me, but couldn't? If you tell me, I'll stop."
"No. I won't be blackmailed into telling you."
"Then I won't stop, John," purred Sherlock and began stroking John's cock in a gentle, regular rhythm. John heard a moan and was shocked to discover that it had originated within him.
"Stop."
"I'm not hearing the sincerity there, John…." Sherlock said, his voice dropping into a deep, husky register that made John's entire body go tingly.
"Stop."
"Tell me."
"No."
"Then I won't stop," growled Sherlock, making good on his words by intensifying his attentions to John.
John cried out, and then grabbed Sherlock's hand. They looked at each other. Sherlock's eyes were huge, a little guilty, like a child with his hand caught in the cookie jar. John shook his head, "I'll tell you."
"Oh," breathed Sherlock, looking disappointed. But then his eyes widened almost comically as John gently pushed his hand back down to cover his cock.
"But don't stop," added John.
Sherlock stopped breathing for about twenty seconds, then with a shuddering intake of breath took hold of John again and looked at him enquiringly.
John closed his eyes, and whispered, "Obviously, point One… that." He glanced down at their hands, "That I would do that."
"That you want this….."
"Yes."
"Point Two?" asked Sherlock, at the same time destroying any chance John had of answering him by squeezing John gently and beginning to move his hand up and down slowly. John's eyes closed and he was elsewhere for a moment or two.
"John?"
"Ah, yes… Point Two…. I obviously didn't want you to jump because- Oh, God, don't do…. Oh, Jeez, Sherlock….."
"Should I stop?"
"No. Yes? How badly do you want to hear what I have to say? Because you're going to have to stop to let me think."
"Oh? Does this really stop you thinking?" asked Sherlock, looking very interested.
"Yes, of course it does… ohhh..Sherlock."
"I wonder. Would it work on me then?"
"Will you please concentrate on what you're doing?"
"I need a break from thinking John."
"Yes, we could all do with a break from your thinking….. ohhh, God!"
Sherlock stopped. John almost howled with indignant rage, but managed to control it down to a sad little whimper of, "What?"
"You were telling me, the things you couldn't tell me. It was interesting."
"So, what, now you're stopping unless I tell you? Didn't we start back to front from here?"
"Oh, yes we did. Somehow that got swapped."
"Somehow," moaned John.
"If you want me to start again, all you have to do is say….."
"Oh, my God, you're evil."
"No… I don't think so," Sherlock surveyed John, looking a little hurt, but mostly curious, "Well?"
"I…. I…I can do this myself. I don't need you to do it," declared John, palming himself stubbornly and glaring at Sherlock. It wasn't as good, it wasn't nearly as good, but he was damned if he was going to tell Sherlock that.
Sherlock smiled with one side of his mouth and whispered, leaning down to kiss John on the chest, then planting gentle kisses slowly down to his belly button. He looked up at John innocently, and asked, "So you don't want me to…." the offer was there, in the direction of his kisses, in the sweep of his eyes towards John's cock.
Something inside John cracked, "Alright! You smug bastard. Alright. Keep going, okay? Just keep….." and then he gasped as Sherlock kissed downwards with a smug grin and latched onto the tip of his cock with those gorgeous full lips. John bucked upwards as Sherlock sucked him in and swirled his tongue around the top of John's now hypersensitive penis, and cried out as the detective slowly, slowly took his entire length into his mouth.
John suddenly reached down and pulled Sherlock's head back. He looked down at the pale face, the black curls, the open, flushed mouth and whispered, "The main thing? The main thing I couldn't say…. was that…" he took a few deep breaths and looked down at Sherlock, "…that I love you."
He saw a strange light pass through the grey eyes, but Sherlock said nothing, and pushed John's hand away. Sherlock looked at John, looked as though he were going to say something, but changed his mind and returned his attentions to John's cock.
John was reduced to whimpers and moans as Sherlock began to set up a rhythm, pulling John into his mouth and releasing him, until John was fucking into his mouth wildly, grunting with each thrust. Vaguely John saw that Sherlock had his own cock in both hands and was pumping it furiously, too, and the sight was too much for John who warned Sherlock with a croak, "I'm gonna come," and then all thought was gone as he climaxed hard, pouring his seed into Sherlock's mouth, who to John's surprise and delight drank him down enthusiastically as the detective came himself, white seed pouring out over his hands.
Sherlock collapsed exhausted next to the sated John, who moaned and pulled him up to his shoulder.
"Oh, God… that was fucking brilliant," murmured John.
"You think so?" Sherlock was quietly surprised, as he always was when John praised him for anything.
John chuckled warmly, "God yes."
"Good," but Sherlock seemed distracted.
"What?"
Sherlock held up his hand, looking mildly distressed. It was covered in semen, "It's sticky."
"Here," said John on impulse, took the hand in his and pulled it into his mouth. He tasted it cautiously, smiled at the enraptured look on Sherlock's face and began to lick and suck it clean.
Sherlock was silent, then when that hand was clean help up his other hand for the same treatment. John obliged.
"You don't mind the taste?" whispered Sherlock, looking quite entranced as he watched John's tongue dart in and around his fingers.
"Um… no. Kind of spicy."
"You really meant what you said earlier?"
"That I love you?"
"Yes," breathed Sherlock, looking quite undone by hearing the words again. John finished cleaning his hand and released it. Sherlock used it to trail absent little circles on John's chest.
"Of course. I tried to tell you at St Bart's but… you jumped before I could bring myself to say it."
"So, you wouldn't say it to stop me committing suicide, but you would say it to get me to give you a blowjob. John, really."
"It sounds bad when you say it like that," muttered John, "But in my defence, you didn't really commit suicide, and you give awesome blowjobs."
Sherlock thought about that for a while, "That's not really a very good defence."
"No, it's not, is it?" admitted John shamefacedly.
"Hmmmph," said Sherlock.
"Sorry," muttered John.
"Oh, that's alright. I know you're not capable of real feeling, John."
"…..what?"
"You know, genuine, rational feelings. I mean, you have these little," and Sherlock made a fluttering gesture with his hand towards John, "emotional thingies. I get that. But I know you can't feel like Mycroft and I can, and I accept that."
John brought his hands over his face and interlocked his fingers, effectively blocking the world.. and Sherlock… out of his vision.
"John?"
John huffed, then said, "And I was expecting 'I love you too, John.' What. An. Idiot."
"Well, obviously," smiled Sherlock.
John unhooked his hands and looked at Sherlock, wondering what was obvious. Did Sherlock mean that he loved John too, or was he agreeing that John was an idiot? Probably the latter. John said, "You really don't think you've said anything wrong, do you?"
"Have I?" Sherlock looked worried.
"No," smiled John and hugged him, "Not from your point of view, no."
Sherlock frowned, and said, "You know, I really am very fond of you too, you know John."
"Fond."
"Yes."
"Oh. Good."
Sherlock could tell that it was not good, that it was barely even acceptable to John, but he could also tell when he was digging himself into a deep hole, and decided sensibly to cease and desist from the conversation. Talking to John about feelings, he realised, was probably never going to be one of his strong points.
"Sherlock."
"Yes?"
"It's alright. It's fine. You're doing brilliantly. For you."
"Thank you."
John pulled him close and just held him, and the feel of Sherlock snuggling gratefully into him and reaching his hand around to pull John close as they drifted back to sleep was reward enough, reward more than words, John suspected, would ever be.