Pax XIV

John Watson woke up for the first time around seven the next morning. But as soon as he rolled away from Sherlock to check the time, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist and murmured, "No, too early," pulling John more closely to him and back into sleep.

The second time John Watson woke up, he and Sherlock had switched positions; whereas the detective had spooned around John for most of the night, John found his chest pressed against Sherlock's back when he drifted into consciousness again several hours later. John's face was buried in Sherlock's neck, and he could smell his lover's shampoo and, under that, a faint whiff of perspiration. He tentatively pressed his lips to the nape of Sherlock's neck, and when Sherlock pushed back encouragingly against his hips, John licked the smooth skin at the top of Sherlock's shoulders, tasting of salt.

" 'Stoo early," Sherlock moaned.

"I know," John whispered into his ear. "I know – just – " he sighed – "—this is so lovely, just lying next to you like this, Sherlock."

Sherlock wiggled his hips against John's, provoking a low chuckle from the doctor.

"Is that how you want to play, eh?" he asked.

"If you're going to wake me up, it better be for a good reason." Sherlock turned his head to look at John over his shoulder. "And first thing we both need to do is take a shower. You stink and I'm sure I do as well."

"I wasn't going to say anything, Dragon Breath, but now that you mention it..." John began. With a huff, Sherlock wrenched himself away from John's arms and rolled out of bed. John watched him as he dropped his pajama bottoms and pants, giving out a low whistle of appreciation at the sight of Sherlock's naked bum a few feet away.

"Nice view," John commented. "I could get used to waking up to that."

He smiled to himself, watching the tug of Sherlock's muscles as the other man stretched his long arms up above his head, groaning. His eyes followed the contours of Sherlock's back: the smooth lines of his trapezius, the winged tips of his deltoids, the march of vertebrae down his spine. Sherlock had taken up judo again this past year, after a hiatus of half a decade, at John's suggestion. That is, at John's ultimatum: Either you get out of the house now and again and get some exercise, or I am going to drag you out with me to run in the mornings. Sherlock had protested, but John had been serious about the running, serious enough to pull Sherlock out of bed at military hours and force him to run down to the Thames and back. Sherlock hated running, unless he was running after a suspect, so to appease John he had begun to frequent the dojo again. The sensei was a demanding teacher, and after his first night back on the mat, Sherlock wondered if he wasn't getting a bit old, after all. He was winded after just a few rounds of sparring – admittedly, the other black belts there had not just come off of a five-year break, nor had they occupied themselves with cocaine and cigarettes in the meanwhile – and it was shame that had prodded Sherlock into training at the dojo as often as he could, after that. His training schedule had also had the unexpected benefit – in John's opinion – of stimulating the detective's meagre appetite and forcing him to sleep more than twice a week.

John was now looking at the results of those months of training; Sherlock would never be a large man, but in the two years since he had met John, he had filled out in all of the right ways. His chest was broader, his shoulders wider, and there was no doubt in John's mind that there was something positively indecent in Sherlock's insistence on wearing his old D & G shirts when the buttons were ready to burst at the seams. At least, it had been mighty distracting, in the last few months, wondering how Sherlock would react if a button suddenly burst off his chest in the middle of a rant or discourse. But of course, that had never happened, and John was left to marvel at the subtle changes in his flatmate's body, now naked in front of him.

It was turning out to be a very fine Christmas, indeed.

"Don't be long," John called out, watching Sherlock sway – yes, actually sway – his hips as he walked into the bathroom. John swallowed tightly.

"Care to join me?" Sherlock turned at the door to the bathroom, and John could see that Sherlock's cock was morning-hard.

John groaned and covered his face with an elbow.

Sherlock reached one arm up, gripping the arch of the door, and pushed his hip to the side as he leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms.

"John," Sherlock said imperiously, "I need some."

"Need what?" John moaned. As if he doesn't know, Sherlock thought. But why is he playing hard to get?

"And I need you to give me some."

"Give you what, Sherlock?" John dropped his arm from his face and smiled at Sherlock. He's bluffing, Sherlock thought.

"Do I need to be blunt?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.

God, John thought, looking at the glorious body on display in front of him. He really has no idea. No bloody idea what he does to me. The sick tease. He sighed loudly.

"John?" Sherlock prodded him. "We don't have all day."

"Yes, we do, Sherlock," John said. "That's the whole point of a holiday, isn't it? We have the whole day to spend however we want to."

"True. But I'd rather start it now, John. Without hanging participles. Come. Now." Sherlock turned, giving John another glimpse of his arse. John was enjoying this too much to stop.

"Are you going to make me get up and give you a bath?" he asked. "I'm quite comfortable here in bed, you know. And I'm not your nursemaid, despite what Lestrade might think."

Sherlock pouted. Shut up John and join me. Shut up shut up shut up.

"What do I have to do to get you to join me?"

John considered the question for a moment. "You have to tell me something."

"What?"

"You have to tell me something about yourself." He grinned. I can't believe we're playing this, John thought.

"Anything?" Sherlock asked hopefully.

"No, not just anything, Sherlock. That would be boring. You have to answer any question I ask you."

"Where's the fun in that?" It made Sherlock nervous, suddenly, to think of John having the freedom to ask him anything.

"That's a royal thing for you to say," John replied. "Isn't your favourite pastime 'Let's see what John Watson has been up to lately?' "

"I don't have to ask questions to get the answers I'm looking for."

"To get the answers for which you are looking, don't you mean?" John grinned at him from across the room.

"If I am going to play your game, you can at least let me use your grammar."

John snorted. "Ha!" He began to giggle.

"What?"

"You can't stand to have anyone tell you you're wrong. About anything. Even grammar." John scooted to the edge of the bed and sat with his hands on his knees, his eyes wide as he continued to stare at a very naked, and very aroused, Sherlock.

"What is the question?" Sherlock asked abruptly.

"The question? Oh, yes. The question. Let's see." John paused. Who was the first person you kissed? Have you always like men more than women? Ooooh, I don't know if that's even the case. Do you like men more than women? When did you find out that about yourself? When did you have sex for the first time? Was it with a man? A woman? When did you start to think about me? How long did you want this, with me? How many other people have you had since we met? Did you sleep with her?And, really, did you ever sleep with Lestrade?

"I never slept with Lestrade," Sherlock said. "Nor with anyone else at Scotland Yard."

"Jeezus, Sherlock, how do you do that?"

"How do I do what? Deduce what secrets you want to pry out of me? Easy. We're in the first week of a sexual relationship. You're an attractive, experienced, bisexual male, but you still feel uncomfortable being seen in public with another man. Interesting, need to explore further."

"What does that have to do with Lestrade?"

"I'm getting to that, John," Sherlock snapped. "You're attractive, but you don't think you are."

"I'm not ashamed of my body," John protested.

"No, you're not. But you do think that I'm – for lack of a better term – out of your league."

"That's harsh, Sherlock."

"You're wrong," Sherlock stated flatly. "But you won't believe me if I just tell you. So you're looking for evidence. That's what new lovers do: they look for evidence that they're something special, something different than whatever their lover had before. You want to know: are you special to me? What does it mean to me, to sleep with you? So you'll ask me, you'll try to make it into a game, this questioning of who my previous lovers have been, and how they compare to you, and maybe, if you're lucky, you hope I'll tell you what you want to hear. So you'll ask me those questions, but you won't be happy with just any answer. You don't really want to hear about the casual fucks I've had since I first met you –" John cringed and held a hand out, as if willing Sherlock to stop.

"Sherlock, that's –"

"You'll ask me, but you don't really want to know. This, despite the fact that I have known about every, and yes, I do mean every woman that you have shagged and probably know about 90% of the women that you have snogged, within a 5% margin of error –"

"No fair when you hack into my email," John protested. "You've always known everything about my dating life. And I know nothing about yours. I'm just trying to balance the field here."

"I've told you, John," Sherlock said. "I've never been in a relationship before." He tried to say it nonchalantly, or even proudly, not wanting to show how it made him feel at a disadvantage, not knowing what John would expect from him, not knowing what to expect from himself.

"So you've said," John muttered, looking directly into Sherlock's eyes, the blue irises blown wide by the bright morning light.

"But you still want to know details," Sherlock observed. "So, go ahead. Try me. Ask me anything."

"I'm not sure I want to know, now," John said, dipping his head into his hands.

Sherlock took a step towards him and caressed John's blond head. John looked up.

"I do want to know," John said. "But I think you're right. I don't really want to know. At least, not yet."

"Everything you need to know, I've already told you," Sherlock said softly. "I don't have friends. Just you."

"You know that's rubbish," John said, but with affection in his voice. "You know that Lestrade, and Molly, and Mrs. Hudson, and even Sally Donovan, would all be your friends in a moment, if you let yourself think of them that way."

"I don't want other friends, John," Sherlock said in a low voice. He spread John's knees out so that he standing between them, looking down at John and continuing to play with his hair. John turned his face into Sherlock's hand, reluctant to break contact with Sherlock. His hands came up to rest on Sherlock's hips, tracing lightly over the edges of the iliac crest. Sherlock's erection swayed and bobbed as John continued to run his fingers over Sherlock's stomach, brushing down the line of dark hair that led to his pubis.

"John," Sherlock gasped, when John's hands strayed to his balls, pulling them out from between his legs, holding them in his doctor's hands and thoughtfully stroking them.

"John," Sherlock said again, more insistently. "I only want you."

"Isn't that what I'm giving?" John asked softly, as the fingers from both his hands traced the outside of the younger man's sacs, just where they joined Sherlock's inner thighs.

"Who you're giving," Sherlock corrected him.

John worked symmetrically, his hands in tandem, exploring the texture and weight of Sherlock's testicles: first between his fingers and in his palms, then with his tongue. They were smooth, under the hair, and John wondered briefly what they would feel like if they were shaved. And then he asked himself, Where did that thought come from?, before returning to concentrate on the ridged underside of Sherlock's scrotum.

It was incredibly intimate, this act: John Watson didn't care how many teenagers were doing it these days, he was still a bit old-fashioned in that he had discovered oral sex after the other kind of sex, the 'real' sex, as he would have said it back then. As a teenager, it was one thing if your girlfriend let you put your prick inside her, usually for just a few seconds, not enough for it to really feel good, certainly not long enough for you to come; but it was another thing entirely if she gave you head. And it was even more miraculous if she proposed the act without any bidding: if she, on her own initiative, bent down and took you out of your pants, took you first between her fingers and then in her mouth – now, that was something, when it happened. And later, when it had happened between him and another man, John had still felt that there was something of the verboten about it, and not just because it was a man whom he was sucking, or who sucking him – no, it wasn't just because he had a cock and not a cunt in his mouth, it was because, for the first time, he had begun to think of this as just as much a part of sex as the old in-and-out of his school days.

"What are you thinking?" Sherlock asked breathlessly.

"About what it means to be doing this to you," John confessed. Sherlock bucked his hips forward, searching for John's mouth again. He had enjoyed the feel of John's tongue in the groove of his scrotum, and reprimanded himself for having asked John a question just when John's mouth had been doing such delightful things. But then – Sherlock really did want to know what it meant to John, despite the fact that, by asking him, John would stop doing what he was doing, which was really less than ideal, but in this case Sherlock's curiosity got the better of him.

"What does it mean, then?"

John grunted and looked up at Sherlock's face. "Do you really want me to tell you right now? Or do you want me to continue what I was doing?"

"I still need to take a shower," Sherlock protested.

"No, you don't," John said, rubbing his nose against Sherlock's groin. "You are perfect, just like this."

"I must smell like a stable."

John snorted. "You smell wonderful, Sherlock. All musky and raw and – please, don't be embarrassed. Let me do this to you."

"I'm not embarr—Oh!" Sherlock gave an unexpected cry. "That – that – yes, John. Yes." John had taken Sherlock's shaft into his mouth, sucking gently around his glans, little strokes to ease Sherlock into the pleasure. He varied his motion, concentrating first on the head of the penis, then on Sherlock's shaft, running his tongue along it until it reached the base and then, even further, enveloping one testicle between his lips while Sherlock moaned above him. Sherlock's fingers searched for purchase in John's hair, his hips bucking wildly against John as soon as John lifted his head, and John was tempted to lie his lover down on the bed, and make him come there, but decided against it. There is something so lovely about hearing Sherlock beg, he reminded himself.

"What was it you said, earlier, about 'wanting some'?" John asked, lifting up his face just enough to make Sherlock frantic with the sudden lack of contact.

"You know perfectly well what I said. Now give it to me," Sherlock demanded.

John complied. He brought every skill at his disposal, from his surgeon's training to his own experience as the recipient of similar maneuvers, to give Sherlock what he hoped was an extraordinary oral wake-up call. His tongue and his lips moved steadily over the most sensitive parts of Sherlock's body, searching out the motion and the intensity that Sherlock liked the most. It never failed to amaze John, how different one person's body could be from another; while he preferred smooth, long strokes on his own cock, he had observed that Sherlock panted the most when his hands and mouth were erratic, unpredictable. He likes the unexpected, John told himself. And that is just like him, in every other regard.

Sherlock came rather quickly, all things considered – the lack of foreplay, the standing position, the interruptions to ask John questions – and John was gentle as Sherlock came down from the high, moving his mouth more and more slowly until he was barely sucking on Sherlock's cock. Sherlock shouted out unintelligible strings of words until the pulsations grew weaker and he had emptied himself of semen and stress. It was so relaxing, to stand there with his feet firmly on the ground, his hands interwoven in John's hair, to feel the deep satisfaction of the post-coital phase, that moment he always compared to the end of a piece of music, before the audience had begun to applaud, when the notes still lingered in the air and the final chords had marked the realisation of all that the music had been striving for, had anticipated. This was what it felt like, Sherlock thought, as he clung to John and almost sobbed with the raw sentiment of it all. It feels like the silence after the final notes, when my bow is still on the strings, and my instrument is still tucked under my chin, and I am waiting, waiting, for the tension of the moment to pass, so that I can put down my bow, swing the violin around by the neck, and finally stand, and bow, and bow again, to the audience's applause, no matter how few are listening.

"John?" Sherlock asked. "Are you listening?" John had leaned his head against Sherlock's stomach after Sherlock's orgasm, kissing around his lover's navel, tucking his tongue into the salty hole.

"Mmm," John murmured. "Yes. What, lo—" He caught himself before he could say it.

"Can you hear my heart?" Sherlock asked.

"I have a better grasp on what's happening in your stomach right now, to tell the truth," John said in a low voice, fascinated by the trail of hair that travelled up and down from Sherlock's navel.

"Come up here," Sherlock commanded, sliding his hands under John's shoulders so that he could pull him up into an embrace. "You're still dressed," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "We'll have to do something about that, soon."

"Soon," John said.

"Can you hear it now?" Sherlock asked.

"Your heartbeat? Yes, I can hear it." John pressed his ear against Sherlock's chest. There was something so childlike and precious about Sherlock wanting him to listen to his heart beat.

"I had this feeling," Sherlock began, "while you were –" he gestured, "down there. I felt like you were playing me."

"What do you mean, Sherlock?" John asked, puzzled.

"I mean – have you ever played a musical instrument? Oh, of course you have, clarinet."

"Marching band was hardly an illuminating experience," John joked.

"That's not the point," Sherlock said. "The point is – I felt as if you were playing me. How can I describe it? As if I were the violin and you were the musician, and you knew just how to get the right notes out of me, just how to get me where I needed to go, to build up the tension in exactly the right way –"

"Trial and error, Sher," John said, smiling despite himself at Sherlock's odd metaphor. "You do know that you just used a metaphor, don't you?" he asked.

"And?"

"Nothing. It's just very – romantic." John scratched the back of his head and pulled back to look Sherlock in the face. "I never thought you were the type to wax poetic," he admitted. Sherlock tensed in his arms. "Don't worry, Sherlock, I wasn't criticising you," John assured him. "I rather like this softer side of you."

"I was hardly soft," Sherlock said, deliberately drawing out the last word into a sexual innuendo.

"That you were decidedly not," John admitted. "Now, what do you say you let me sleep a little longer?"

"Only if you promise me that I get to wake you up in the same way."

"Done," John said, turning to the bed and pulling a very naked and very sated Sherlock down with him.

Note: I'm not able to post as regularly to this as I was able to before the New Year, but rest assured, I will continue because there is so much more to come, not the least of which is the Enchanted Island gala! As soon as I see the performance myself on Jan. 17th, I will have a better idea how to write it. So plan on this story continuing at least until then.

And thank you, thank you, for all of your kinds reviews and story alerts and favourites - so much fun to get, especially when I know that you are all so busy with the new series right now.

Love,

Emma