The next three days have them fairly well consumed in a case. Not a dangerous one, but it offers many opportunities for Sherlock to admire his companion in a new light. Sherlock watches as John exercises his wit and performs some deductions, but best of all: he exhibits his strength by forcing the suspect against the wall and threatening him in a low tone.
Sherlock has burdened himself with the task of figuring out if he could give John everything in life that he deserves. He's come to the conclusion that, no, John is far too good for someone like him, but he shocks himself with his desire to work harder to be worthy of him nonetheless.
When they arrive home the evening that the case finishes, Sherlock doesn't even need to mention that John should come to his room once he's changed; sleeping after a case - especially a long one such as this - is a given even outside of this experiment that he has no idea how to end. The truth of the matter is that Sherlock didn't outline too many parameters of the study because he wasn't certain what he was looking for. It was mostly just how they reacted to each other's presence, so it's difficult to decide when it's done. Especially because he doesn't want to go back to sleeping without John by his side.
John doesn't comment on the video camera at the end of the bed, nor much of anything as he settles. He's pretty exhausted and he doesn't feel the need to pretend that he doesn't understand Sherlock's routine by now.
"Night, Sherlock," he says on a yawn, lying on his back with his head turned towards the door as usual.
"Goodnight," Sherlock agrees, placing his phone on the nightstand, turning off the lamp, and settling on his right side facing John.
The next thing Sherlock registers is sitting in his chair next to a blazing fireplace in their living room. John is standing not too far from him wearing jeans, a brown belt, a plaid button-up, and a red cardigan. John's hands are in his pockets and he's calmly looking at Sherlock.
Sherlock spends enough time in his Mind Palace with this John to recognize him straight away, but he's uncertain why he's here.
"You did well today," John praises.
Sherlock turns his head slightly in confusion, "Thank you?"
"I mean it. Utterly brilliant," he continues, "I could watch you solve crimes all day and be perfectly happy."
"Why are you doing this?"
Mind Palace John removes his hands from his pockets as he steps smoothly toward Sherlock's chair, walking around it in a slow circle, "Come on," he chides in good humor, "you love when I compliment you, and I love to do it. There's no harm."
"Okay," he says, at a loss for other words.
"Would you like to know what else I love to do?" There's a mischievous glint in John's eyes as he continues his circle towards the back of the chair again, almost like he knows something that Sherlock doesn't, but that can't be possible can it? A version of John that he created cannot know things that Sherlock himself does not. Without waiting for an answer, John leans down behind Sherlock to whisper in his right ear, "I love to think about you after. Think about how brilliant you are as I touch myself, alone in my room and wishing for you to catch me in the act. To deduce me with that brilliant brain of yours and realize just how long and very thoroughly I am yours."
Sherlock's breath hitches as his cock responds to the words, filling at the same time as his desire for this man does.
John stands and slowly comes back around the chair so that they are face to face. He keeps eye contact as he places his knees on either side of Sherlock's hips, his hands on the other man's shoulders. And then he continues in a soft seduction.
"I think about your curls and how I'd love to grab hold of them and tug just enough to cause pleasure, not pain," he says, threading a hand in to the curls to demonstrate. Sherlock moans at the oddly delicious feeling of the slight tug on his roots.
"I think about your cheekbones and The Woman's words echo in my mind, about how she could cut herself on them," he continues while reverently tracing them with his thumbs, "I long to try."
John moves his face lower so that their mouths are a mere breath away, his words coming to rest on his lips as Sherlock longs for the press of them against his own, "I think about your lips and how they would feel against mine," he whispers, "I think about how swollen I could get them from kissing you for so long. Because I would, Sherlock," it comes out as both a promise and a threat simultaneously, "I fear I wouldn't be able to ever stop kissing them if you gave me the chance. Would you let me?"
"Yes, John," Sherlock breathes out heavily, longing to bridge the small gap between them.
John smirks in triumph, his hands coming up to frame Sherlock's face as he slowly moves his mouth yet closer. He stops when their lips just barely touch, a teasing caress that promises more but isn't nearly enough, "I know you would," he whispers before pulling back.
While Sherlock moans in disappointment, John is already moving his face to the right side of Sherlock's neck, his hands falling away again.
"I think about this freckle," he says of the mark near his adam's apple, "and about how sensitive you must be near it," he places a light kiss to it and causes another moan to be ripped unwillingly from the lanky man below him.
"John, please," he begs, though he's not entirely certain what he's begging for. It doesn't even matter.
"I know," he agrees, "Soon," but then he continues moving his attention downwards, running his hands over his chest, "I think about your chest; about how your sheet hardly covers it and your shirts do little more than the sheet."
John hisses in arousal, his hips moving in a small circle as they attempt to gain any friction on the hot, proud erection that he's sporting. Sherlock lets out another moan in sympathy, his hips lifting to try to satisfy the aching in his own trousers, but John's body isn't near enough. Sherlock grabs his hips instinctively and brings him down to offer them both a bit of relief. They moan as their cocks connect through the layers of clothing that still separate them.
John places his hands over Sherlock's before rising on his knees again, breaking the contact below, "I think about your hands," he pants, eyes practically afire with desire as he looks at Sherlock hungrily, "your graceful, beautiful hands. I think of them on my body, touching everywhere. They would map out every detail as you deduce what I like most, and you would play me with the same incredible knowledge you possess of your violin. Oh, how you would make me sing for you."
Sherlock moans as John undulates above him, still too far away to actually feel him beyond the hands that grip his tightly. John throws his head back and bites his lower lip, possibly trying to control himself, though it seems impossible at the moment.
"John, please," he begs again, more adamant this time as his cock aches to be touched again.
John's eyes meet his again and he hears his name from that familiar voice, but John's mouth hadn't moved. Sherlock's brow furrows in absolute confusion; it shouldn't be possible, so what does it mean?
From Sherlock's bed in the dark room, the real John is wrestling with both of their bodies. Sherlock is practically frotting against him while he seemingly calls out to John on sinful moans, and John can't quite bring himself to pull away from him as he rubs their hard cocks together.
"Sherlock," he tries again, half imploring, half moaning.
"Please," Sherlock moans again, left hand tightening on his hip and pulling him somehow closer for a roll of hips.
John moans and lifts his right hand to Sherlock's cheek, his face pressed desperately to Sherlock's, "God, Sherlock, yes," he agrees, "If you wake up and…" he stops suddenly as Sherlock rolls his hips again, "Fuck," he swears, "wake up you bastard."
In his mind, Sherlock keeps hearing words in John's voice but the John above him hasn't moved his mouth at all, has simply frozen staring at him hungrily. When he feels a hand on his left cheek without John moving his arm, he is shocked to realize that maybe - just maybe - the noises and touches are coming from outside of his mind, which would mean…
"John," he breathes in revelation as his eyes open.
"Oh thank God, there you are," John mutters, flushed with arousal.
Sherlock quickly takes stock of their positioning: bodies pressed flush against each other - including their hard cocks connected through flimsy pajama bottoms - with Sherlock's left hand grasping John's hip while John's right hand rests on his cheek. He realizes that he feels just as desperate for this man as he did in his dream, and judging by John's pupils blown wide and his body practically thrumming against his, he wants this, too.
Sherlock locks eyes with him a bit guiltily, unsure what to do now that his consciousness has reclaimed its hold. To his horror, Sherlock's hips thrust forward of their own volition, reminding both men that their erections have not abated one iota. They both moan and John can't help himself as he dives in to claim Sherlock's lips with his own, his right hand moving from his cheek to the back of his head to hold him tight. Sherlock moans deep in his throat as John pulls slightly at his hair, same as in his dream.
John growls possessively as he moves that same hand firmly down the other man's body to grab at his left thigh. He pulls Sherlock's leg up and over his a bit while slotting his own right leg further between his, bringing their cocks closer.
As they rut, they grow frustrated. It is a fantastic level of torture, but it's not nearly enough for either man. John leads Sherlock's body onto his back with his mere presence, and Sherlock follows willingly as he wraps his legs around John's waist instinctively.
John fumbles with the layers that are still so frustratingly in the way. He moves them just enough for their cocks to connect and grasp them both in his left hand. John thrusts against Sherlock and in to his own hand as Sherlock bows his back, his head tipping back in ecstasy. John leans down and sucks at the freckle to the right of Sherlock's adam's apple as he brings them both to mind-shattering, life-altering orgasms.
John falls to the left, bringing Sherlock with him so that they're cuddled together on their sides once more. He kisses Sherlock's mouth tenderly as they both fight to regain their breath.
"That was amazing," John breathes out reverently while smiling.
"Was it?" Sherlock huffs a bit, uncertain how this will affect their relationship now that the haze of lust has been lifted. He's scared to lose this man because of one stupid wet dream.
John looks at him curiously, "Of course it was. You disagree?"
Sherlock shakes his head sadly, "No, but…"
"But what next?" John finishes for him knowingly, "But was it a mistake? But will it happen again? But do we regret it?"
"Do you regret it?" Sherlock asks honestly, unable to hide the fear in his eyes.
John kisses him again, "Not one moment," he assures.
"How?" He asks honestly, still wary about this not meaning to John what it meant to him.
"Because," he pauses briefly to examine his eyes, coming to a conclusion, "I love you, you idiot."
Sherlock knows this from the other night when he questioned John in his sleep, but to hear him say it of his own conscious freewill is everything. He can't say the words yet himself; has never said them to another person, but he feels it so strongly within the very fiber of his being. He kisses John hard, hoping he'll get the message all the same. John's glowing smile and knowing eyes when they separate tell him that he understands, and for now it's enough.
They simply stare at each other, exchanging light kisses for awhile until John yawns. They're suddenly very aware that it's still the middle of the night.
"Your presence sent my body in to a wet dream," Sherlock states in wonder, and John recognizes that tone.
"Oh God, please, Sherlock," he whines, hiding his face against Sherlock's, "Do not turn our newly discovered sex life in to an experiment right now. Just…stay," he says as he pulls him close again, "and sleep."
"And then we can try again?" Sherlock asks hopefully, a bit shy.
John chuckles, "Yes, Sherlock. And I'll even sweeten the deal by agreeing to whatever experiment you're working out in your head if you just, please, let me get a few more hours of sleep."
After a few moments, Sherlock agrees with a smile, "I think you'll enjoy what I come up with."
John simply chuckles sleepily in agreement, too near the edge of unconsciousness to form words, and pulls Sherlock more solidly against him.
A/N: For not imagining this ever really happening, I had a pretty great time writing this and thinking up ideas.
Now, I know I left the door open for a part 3 of the series with this ending (which purposefully echos the end of "The Cure for Snoring"), but experiments of their sex life will really not happen from me. I'm not creative enough (or good enough, quite honestly) to imagine a whole slew of those. So just go ahead and let your imagination run wild with the idea ;)
Anyway, thank you so much for taking the time to read this; I hope you were able to find some enjoyment here.
As always, I would love to hear your thoughts via comment or constructive criticism!
Follow me on Tumblr at goddess-of-the-night04 for an easy way to keep up with any new stories from me or just to chat; I'd love hear from you :)