The cold, grey light of morning in London seeped through the cracks in the curtains, and Dr. John Watson stirred in his fitful sleep. Gradually becoming aware of an arm draped around him, cuddling him even, he realised that this was not a usual start to the day. No alarm clock had screeched his sleep to a halt. The events of last night slowly flooded back to the doctor, and John smiled as he pulled Sherlock's arm to him closer.
"Awake yet?" The duclet tones of John's newly returned flatmate disturbed the quiet peace of that Saturday morning. It was only 6.30, and most residents of London were sleeping off their hangovers or being jumped on by toddlers. Hands down, this was definitely the best way start the day. A mumbled reply was seemingly enough confirmation, and Sherlock leapt out of bed, throwing the curtains apart and gazing into the rain.
"Listen, about... last night... what? Did you...?" Eloquence failed John; this was far too early for this shit. He was straight, and he had kissed a man, and he was in love with a man, but still unquestionably straight. That completely worked out and made perfect sense.
"I came back, we kissed, we hugged and I slept here. You seemed to want the company." Sherlock began to fret again; was last night a fluke? Simply a by-product of returning? Staring out of the window purely to avoid eye contact, Sherlock added in his usual, aloof manner "If you want to forget it, I do understand, I believe you're having a minor sexuality crisis and may prefer to delete this simply to ease your understanding of the matter."
John sighed and rubbed his eyes blearily. Tea was needed. "Sherlock, sit down. You may be right about the crisis, but for future reference that is not how you approach an emotional matter, but I don't want to forget it. I'm just assuming that you do, considering how eager you are to get away from me today".
"No".
One word answers weren't really enough in this situation, but John was pretty happy that he got a verbal response; it wasn't unheard of for Sherlock to answer a question by leaving. "No to what? 'No' to you don't want to forget it? 'No' to you wanting to get away from me? 'No' to my refusal to delete last night? Come on Sherlock, I need a bit more than that".
"'No', I don't want to forget it, and 'No' to wanting to get away from you; I predicted the crisis, and wanted to provide you with an easy escape route. I understand that sexuality is often difficult for the individual to understand, particularly in circumstances as extreme as these, and I didn't want to pressure you." Sherlock turned and began to prowl towards the bed, towards his sleepy companion, lowering his voice to a murmur. "I am, however, delighted that you don't want to delete it, simply because.." He kissed John's forehead "I can't".
John visibly relaxed into the contact, reaching up for Sherlock as he clamboured back on to the bed. Punctuating his utterances with kisses on Sherlock's soft lips, John mumbled "How can... I be sure... that you... won't leave... again". Sherlock cupped his blogger's face, kissing him deeply, before leaning their foreheads together and looking into one anothers' eyes. "I won't. I promise. And you know that I'm not going to make a promise I won't keep."
Smiling at the reassurance, John leaned up for another deep, passionate kiss, pulling Sherlock into his lap. Feeling the younger man's "morning glory" against his stomach, John found himself wanting to be taken. The army is rife with homosexuality, so it wasn't as if John had never batted for the other team, but it was never on the recieving end. John always gave. Yet something in this beautiful, beautiful man made him want to change that. Holding his detective to him closer, John leant back, pulling Sherlock on top of him, never breaking the kiss. He reached down, cupping Sherlock's alabaster ass through the boxer briefs, feeling the man's cock harden considerably more at the contact.
Moans and mumbles escaped Sherlock's mouth as John's skilled hands massaged his backside, groaning into the kisses as his hips canted uncontrollably. It did not take a genius to realise that Sherlock was a virgin; as a matter of fact, John had been his first kiss. John's hands wandered to organs far more intimate, and Sherlock gasped audibly as John palmed him through the underwear. It wasn't until John slipped his hand under the waistline that he realised how incredibly big Sherlock was. His height was definitely reflected in his dick. Sliding his hand up and down, ever so gently, and with a feather light touch at the sensetive head, John could feel Sherlock getting more and more worked up. "How far... do you want to go?" John mumbled into Sherlock's ear before kissing the pulse point underneath it. "Everything. Anything. Oh, god, John, that feels... ugh... amazing."
Smiling at Sherlock, who could have quite easily been an advertisement for the epitome of pleasure at that point, John increased the pressure, pumping Sherlock before flipping him over and pounding on the painfully hard cock. "Ah... Fuck-yesjohnyesyesyes... Oh god, ohhh" Sherlock's whines felt like music to John's ears, each groan, grunt and inhalation sounding like a Mozart symphony. He knew that Sherlock would reach a crescendo soon, so began sucking him in earnest, inhaling him right to the base before licking the frenulum over and over again, all while pumping himself. This turned him on far too much. He could feel himself getting close, and judging by Sherlock's higher pitch and erratic breathing, the feeling was definitely mutual. With one final inhalation, Sherlock was plunged balls deep into the hot, wet cavern of John's mouth, and came hard, each burst of semen being drunk hungrily by John, like an alcoholic sucking the last drop out of the bottle. John's resilience, usually so strong, broke, and he finished messily over Sherlock before collapsing on his side, panting.
"Proof enough?"
Showered and dressed, John armed with a cup of English breakfast, the pair fell into their usual seats in the living room and planned how they would reveal Sherlock to the rest of their friends. Mrs Hudson was easily arranged; she arrived back at Baker Street only that afternoon, and slapped Sherlock hard enough to leave a hand print for hours afterwards. Lestrade, well, he deserved a bit of a shock after letting Donovan and Anderson poison his mind, so turning up unannounced at the Yard and demanding a case would do perfectly. It may have earned Sherlock another punch, but the looks on their faces; they made it completely worth the pain.
London was unnatturally peaceful. That was the conclusion in the post-Yard discussion. No interesting murders, no serial suicides, no cryptic messages. Just drunken brawls in pubs. Sherlock was bored. The cold cases Lestrade had been kind enough to provide them with, after the shock had subsided, were doing nothing to appease the quiet.
John, however, was.
The eating disorder that reared its ugly head after Sherlock's supposed death was in full swing; John rarely ate any more, and purged most of what he did. The conclusion was that John had an inferiority complex, worsened by Sherlock's death and fueled by his depression. Sherlock needed John to eat; the thin man seemed to grow fainter and fainter day by day. With nothing else to focus on, Sherlock designed games and tricks to get John to eat at least something once a day. His favourite by far was rewarding John with sexual favours for every plateful he finished. Bribery, yes, but effective. It was a month at Baker street before John regained his vigour, much longer to rebuild his soldier's physique.
Just as John was thinking he could get used to quiet, lazy mornings in bed, he was awoken abruptly by his partner bouncing atop the bed, positively glowing with glee. "Murder, is it?" John groaned, still in his morning stupor. With a nod, Sherlock flung some clothes towards John and ran to dress himself.
"The game, Dr Watson, is back on!"