A/N: So sorry for not updating on time yesterday! Life got in the way, as it very well may do again. As my own little form of apology you have this nice, long romantic smut and then later I will also upload a second fluffy piece tonight as well!
I'm doing a lot this time of year between theatre program, college applications and my day-to-day school work so at times life will throw me a curve ball... but I promise I will always try and make it up to all of you :)
Thanks to mboutwell7, iamjohnlocked18, Sendai and .5 for their wonderful reviews! Special thanks to TheReturned for everything really, including her awesome shout out to me in her work Forgive Me. Everyone go read that gem, you will not regret it in the slightest :D
Hope you enjoy, leave a review (you can yell at me I'm totally okay with that) if you so please! Thanks for reading!
The Morning Brings the Sun – Part Two
Before there was John, this infinitely fascinating man with a disregard for proper pin-machine etiquette, who spread jam like chocolate, who wore preposterous jumpers like they were made for royalty… before John, Sherlock had never slept with anyone. Yes, of course he had participated in sexual relationships in the past, but there was never a body in his bed for more than an hour or two.
He had never slept, in the literal sense of the word, with anyone.
No one warming one side of a pillow, no one whose scent would remain longer than their physical being, no one whose breathe played on his skin in the middle of the night. No one to hide their nose in his hair, kiss his neck like it was a delicacy, have their arm wrapped possessively around his body like it had always belonged there. Before John, no one had stayed with him to do those things which now sent idiotic trembles down his body, all focusing in the base of his spine and causing his back to arch.
Sherlock had been sleeping soundly, dreaming of… something. He couldn't remember and decided he didn't want to; this reality was better than a false dream.
Johns fingers were making those stubbornly slow motions on the pale skin covering the length of Sherlock's chest, and when the calloused pads found his already tightened nipple the gasp lying on his tongue erupted from his mouth like a smoke from a cigarette. It was light and quiet but he knew John heard it, couldn't miss it even if the cars outside their bedroom window were beginning to wake like monsters sent to capture them, bring them back to reality. They'd ignore them. Eventually they'd leave.
As quickly as it began, these feathering kisses and nips John was subjecting his neck to became too much for Sherlock. The feeling of that breathe, that air from deep inside John, on his ear, on his skin, on his jaw was like the song that everything alive would sing; it was a song of wild promises, soft murmurs and cutting shivers. As quickly as it began, it was too much. Sherlock's system was overloaded, as it often was when he was held in these strong arms – by hands which had killed and protected, helped and healed.
He turned, wanting that torturous breath, those lips, that being on him and inside him. Johns lips were there, chapped in the most interesting of ways. Sherlock ran his tongue over the bottom, feeling the lines and tasting the sleep. He wanted John to feel as possessed as he did, wanted him to feel as weighted down by sentiment and emotion – so foreign, so damnably confusing – that he melted into it like metal melted in a blow-torch.
Capturing that bottom lip in his, Sherlock sucked lightly and bit, not enough to hurt but enough to draw out a groan. It made the detective tremble as if the sound itself had run fingers down his sides. John was above him now but in no way was he leading, not yet. One long-fingered hand held onto the short ash-blonde hair like a vice, the other moved up and down that muscled chest like it was searching for some secret passage-way.
Their tongues made lazy sweeps, slow waves forward and back like twin seas searching for their shores. They matched the motions of their hands as their completely individual and unique fingerprints painted one another in evidence; someone had cherished this skin and made it their own.
If someone put fingerprint powder on John's body, they would see the evidence of Sherlock's touch alone, vice versa.
Falling into one another was like drowning, the air between them had grown hot with sweat, tangible and deep. They were helpless but to gasp for it, to try and draw it in like it was something intense and elusive; electric and eclectic all at once. Sherlock's fingers traced patterns on John's hip, the muscle there tightening under the assault of firework nerve endings. He kissed the underside of that strong chin, felt the low rumble as it slid up his lover's neck.
His head fell back heavy on the pillow, icy eyes blown wide, watching equally dilated sea-blue. There was a slow moment of watchfulness, the early sun just peeking through to play shadows on Sherlock's angles, lighting his body with an almost ethereal glow that could have brought John to his knees, if he wasn't already there. When he saw Sherlock's eyes narrow into cat-like, animal knowledge and felt those dexterous fingers – fingers which had taken bodies apart, had held test tubes like weapons, had touched more dead things that John cared to remember – move against his pelvis and that course hair just below, he wanted to weep or growl, he couldn't be sure which. With a strangled groan his hips bucked involuntarily, moving his almost painfully hard cock into that palm, self-lubricated and oh so ready for release.
Sherlock had other ideas.
His fingers retracted, leaving John thinking he was truly going to cry with disappointment. Then he felt Sherlock stretch under him, lazy and slow – infuriatingly slow; when did he get so good at this method of torture? – moving his arm out beyond them to rummage through the bedside table. John was busy kissing and licking his way in and out of that perfect collar-bone, paying homage to the dip in the middle of that long neck. Suddenly he heard the rip of a foil and he bit down on the pale skin. Sherlock's back arches, brushing their hips against one another. When the man below him fell back down, John's body followed like they had become a permanent part of one another. Which, to the doctor, wasn't terribly far from the whole truth; Sherlock was in his blood as easily as the cells and the water and the oxygen, in his body as easily as muscles and lungs and his heart.
The groan was ripped from his lungs as he felt sly, unendingly clever fingers wrap themselves around him, stroking and running a single finger over the tip. The gasp was involuntary as the protection was rolled onto him, finality as well as promise.
Suddenly Sherlock was attacking his mouth, laying siege and dominating like some like of tyrannical lover; John was lost to it all, surrendered without a fight. The man had the ability to break down any kind of defense like it was crepe paper, like it was thin glass; all you needed to do was blow on it and it;d come tumbling down like cardboard. As John moved their bodies together, feeling their sweat, salty-sweet, feeling their erections rub against one another with a white-hot intensity that left him feeling urgent and wild; Sherlock's back arched once again, causing a more firm stroke of cock on cock. It was suffocating from the inside and the outside, gasps and ragged breathes seemingly the only way to inhale without choking.
John could feel himself trembling – that intermittent tremor never shook under stress, never when he held a gun, but his whole body shook now as he held Sherlock. He ignored it as he ran his hands down that lean body, feeling those ribs, hips, thighs he's kissed; John was heady and dazed from realization after realization: Sherlock let me touch him, let me kiss him, let me feel him, let me – then, with deep, satisfied groans vibrating out from both sets of lungs, he was wrapped in velvet heat.
Stroking as slow and as gentle as his body allowed, he felt himself enveloped, felt the tightness around him like some burning, beautiful vice. "John, fu-" before Sherlock could finish his mouth was captured by the doctors, kissed hard and fast; reduced to only strangled moans and high-pitched hums with every thrust. The sound of his name said so desperately, coming from that insanely precise and posh mouth, ran marathons 'round John's mind, repeating over and over again – or was Sherlock doing it out loud?
He didn't care, couldn't think of anything but prolonging, anything but releasing, anything but time simply standing still so he could watch that ecstasy on his lovers face as he thrust in completely. When his cock made contact with Sherlock's prostate, the detective dug nails into John's arm, the other hand made a crumpled mess of the bed sheet.
"Johnjohnjohnjohn" it was like a prayer or a plea, perhaps both at once, out of that perfect mouth.
There was the wet sound of body on body, mixed now with the moans and sounds of both men as the speed intensified, as the pressure building within their already trembling muscles and bones. John could feel himself losing the battle to keep his orgasm at bay, felt it clawing in his gut for that torturous release. He brought one hand to the swollen cock before him, stroking in time. Rolling his thumb over the sensitized head, he watched those icy, all-seeing eyes roll back and close on a deep, laborious groan. He needed, needed Sherlock to come with him, needed to see that look of utter thoughtlessness on his constantly thinking face. John needed to see the evidence of Sherlock Holmes' complete and utter mindlessness; needed to be reminded he was the one who could affect him this way. John needed-
"Bloody hell… Sher… Sherlock I can't, I'm-" he gasped for air as the orgasm ripped through his being like a bullet of almost painful pleasure, eyes closed tight. He opened them quickly when he heard Sherlock cry an uncharacteristic expletive along with his name, and leaned down to capture that opened mouth if only to taste his name on that tongue as his lover came undone and completely together all at once.
As he felt the body below him still, the orgasm nearly through and the shudders nearly gone, John moved his lips off of Sherlock only slightly, their noses still colliding at the tip as if they were afraid to break contact. Looking into those eyes that were always either green or blue or silver with quick spots of hazel, those unendingly fascinating eyes which saw every detail with stunning clarity, John was never so in love with a stare, with a soul. Kisses those reddened lips once more he said it, whispered it on a breathe with his eyes open so Sherlock could taste, feel, see, know the truth of the words and finally believe them.
John felt that morning light on his back, felt that pumping heart below his own, felt their sweat dissolve into the air to play on the breeze seeping in from the cracked window.
John felt warm, alive, like he had found the sun in a lab room of a hospital and went home with it, hadn't let it go since.
John felt it all when that long-fingered, beautiful hand rested on his cheek and he tasted, felt, saw those words he longed for whispered back to him from cupids-bow lips.
Sherlock felt all that and more.