A/N: Heads up readers: I'm in a freaking good mood (yay!), have a freaking good (busy!) weekend ahead of me, and the weather outside is really. Freaking. Good (wearing my favorite sweater!).

So, in light of all this goodness in the world, I have started writing this monster of a smut fic!

(Next year I'll do a Pirate fic... I promise. Because I just loved this too much to hold it off)

It'll be two parts, one today and one Monday. I decided to take the weekend because I plan to end this with them actually doing-the-do. Which I haven't ever written before… Yeah? This is a bit of foreplay, which I quite like writing! Please enjoy, and I hope I leave you looking forward to Monday ;D

Warning: Sexy times; mature content.

The Morning Brings the Sun - Part 1

The morning light crept into the bedroom window like a haze, a fog. It rested in the air, light and mellow. There was the small sounds of a waking city, hushed tones of the morning doves hums and street pigeons coos. It penetrated ears like a distant song, quietly acoustic with flowing melody. John Watson blinked twice before closing his eyes languidly, not wanting to move from the entirely too comfortable spot he rested.

Some mornings there was that perfect balance of body, an almost liquid state of being where limbs melted into sheets and covers like they were one and the same. Mornings you didn't want to move, not because you didn't want to face the day but because you wanted to face the day from this exact position. You knew if you moved you'd lose the laziness. It'd slip past you like the tortoise to your hare. Mornings like this were few for the doctor, not because he was necessarily uncomfortable in this bed but because he was often pulled from it by a triple homicide or some particularly interesting kidnapping. More specifically, by Sherlock Holmes. In fact, as he snuggled his head further into the unbelievably inviting pillow, he rutted his nose further into the curls which laid before him and thought of all the ways he could keep this ethereal being in bed for the remainder of the day. Or at least the morning.

Sherlock's dark hair tickled the nostrils of the man behind him, forcing the blonde to turn his chin down and instead rest his forehead against the messy tendrils. They were nearly as soft and inviting as the pillow.

For a moment John just listened to the morning. He could both hear and feel the slight beating of his pulse points, the gentle breathing of his lover beside him, the cat's tail as it slaps the ground unconsciously. Simple sounds like this are things John can revel in. They juxtapose the memories he holds of hot abrasive suns, loud shouts of warning, the smells of blood and gun and death.

These mornings were simple, and simplicity was luxury John now indulged in when it presented itself.

Perhaps it was something in the air or the slight rustle of the sheet as Sherlock moved his foot subtly, but John's eyes finally opened. The dark blue irises battled the light, his eye-lids drooped slightly in lackadaisical heaviness. He saw the brunette wisps in front of him, connected to a long, arching neck which was connected to a long, lean body. The sheets cover was modest, leaving little to the imagination. John knew the slope that fell low under it was full and supple, had his hands run over it, had dug his fingers into it. He knew the arches and the muscles of this back held shadows and wonderful tastes.

John could feel himself growing warmer, getting harder, just from looking up and down Sherlock's back… the man made him while breaking him down at the same time.

He had an arm already slung around that thin waist, a possessive sleeping position that made him want to jump for joy. A month ago this wouldn't have been possible… trying to move as minutely as he could, just light enough to stir his lover but not enough to completely wake him just yet, John ran his fingers lightly over the skin beneath, the abdominal muscles which led to a teasingly prominent hip bone.

Moving his body closer, ever so slightly, he pushed his nose into those curls and inhaled the scent that was morning, ash, lavender, leftover sweat and pure Sherlock. It made Johns head swell, made him a bit dizzy. He kissed the crown softly, moving his body down so he could apply homage to that arched neck, worship those fascinatingly accented shoulder blades. He had just decided to kiss and lick every single freckle when he felt the body stir, heard Sherlock's deep moan, "John."

The sound of his name reverberated off of those still sleep-heavy lips, coming from deep inside a man who never said anything that wasn't important, was like a bolt of need striking through his nervous system, ending and bursting in his now hard cock. It made him all too hot all too quickly. It was like some wild thing inside him had come out of hibernation months too early, and he had to fight it off. He had to fight to keep it under control. John considered himself a solely pleasing lover, slow and teasing and drawing out the goose bumps. But being with Sherlock… everything was different.

With Sherlock, it felt like he was making love to something desperate for life, though that didn't make much sense. Perhaps it was the way that Sherlock's kisses seemed to draw the air right from his lungs, how he ran his tongue down Johns neck like it was laced with sugar and wine, how he grabbed hold to the his shoulders, his arse, his thighs as if they were the edge of some cliff. Being with Sherlock on a dial basis felt like always being at war. Making love to Sherlock, where it was only them, felt like the victory.

Trying to remain light, even with his heartbeat blaring in his ears like a foghorn and his breathing labored like he had run a marathon, John ran his hand more determinedly over the ridges of rib-bones. He wanted to taste every dip, bite every outline of bone but he also wanted to savor.

A gasp and another moan told John he was waking Sherlock up, bringing him sweetly out of a dreaming, languid state to a just as lazy state of awareness. Moving back up that finely built body to kiss and suck at that sensitive flesh which hid behind ear. His tongue peaked out to trace that crest, and now he heard a definite moan, felt the back arch against him. Sherlock was finally awake, aware. But John still wanted to explore.

Sucking the earlobe and laving at the side of that prominent jawline, feeling the bone beneath his tongue. This carnal knowledge should have blown his brain to pieces, shattered him but instead it built him up, made his body feel filled with everything… just everything. There was nothing he couldn't feel with Sherlock.

His hand was making circles on that flat chest, feeling the muscles moving under his calloused palm. The heartbeat under there was erratic and John smiled proudly as he nipped at the muscles in that white neck. His prick throbbed at the thought; he could make Sherlock's heart beat faster. He could scratch under that cold surface which the detective shielded himself from sentiment with, and cause it to melt like ice in his palm. It was like a drug; John was addicted to this power, this man, and these feelings.

Fingers graced over a tight nipple, and John swore he heard a light whimper. Slid down in a fine line to play at the hole of dipping belly-button, and John swore he felt hips buck stiffly. When those fingers began to slip beneath that sheet, feeling the first bit of that course, dark hair John knew without a doubt he had heard that impossibly deep voice whisper his name yet again.

Suddenly Sherlock turned, their lips slipping into one another, and now they were both awake, both fully aware. Both acutely aware of the wait their chests fell into one each other like the force of gravity was pushing from either side. Like there was nowhere else for them to land but atop one another.

They fell into place, fell into each other like they had been searching for years to find this one place.

And the sun only just rising.