Unfailing
After one particular incident involving the couch and too little clothes, Mrs Hudson knows better than to enter her boys' flat without knocking when the doors are closed. However, that is only because Mrs Hudson possesses a modicum of propriety where it concerns Sherlock and John that Mycroft Holmes (just to name one example) entirely lacks.
So when John wakes – Sherlock curled around his right side with his head on John's chest – because there is the sound of someone entering the bedroom behind the kitchen, John is pretty sure that it's not Mrs Hudson. She is known to catch a glimpse every now and again (nothing too explicit – she is a romantic at heart, after all, and her boys aren't all that explicit most of the time, anyway), but she definitely wouldn't go as far as enter their bedroom. John also knows that steps on the stairs would register with Sherlock even while asleep, and the fact that Sherlock doesn't so much as move a muscle can only mean that whoever has just walked in is not a threat.
The two sharp knocks on the doorframe (of the kind that would be created by wood on wood) make him sigh deeply. A similar, softer knock on the floor follows a second later. Mycroft's umbrella.
Sherlock doesn't move. "Piss of, Mycroft."
It occurs to John that they haven't seen Mycroft since he brought Sherlock's papers a couple of days after his return, and even though the brothers still don't behave very brotherly towards each other, John also remembers the look of pride and relief flickering briefly over Mycroft's face that day.
He blinks his eyes open. This look on Mycroft's face is something else.
"Sherlock," is all Mycroft says, but it is enough.
Sherlock rolls off John, ignoring completely that they are both naked and the movement is pulling the sheet that is covering them even further down their bodies, and props himself up on his elbows. He takes one short look at his brother.
"She is stable?" he asks.
"Yes." Mycroft smiles the smile that is reserved for Sherlock for when he thinks his little brother isn't behaving in the manner that the situation would warrant. "And improving."
John pushes himself into a sitting position. There is really only one person the two could be talking about. The marginal relaxing of Sherlock's muscles is just visible enough to confirm that suspicion.
Mycroft continues. "But she asked to see you." His eyes flicker to John. "And John."
Sherlock's relaxation makes way for vague annoyance. He releases a breath.
"You cannot evade her calls forever, Sherlock."
Sherlock frowns at his blanket. "Is she even ill?" he finally asks and misses Mycroft's brief flash of disappointment. John doesn't miss it.
"Her doctors don't expect her to survive another attack like this one," Mycroft says and he visibly takes satisfaction from Sherlock's expression as his head snaps around to return the calculating look. He sighs. "Would you just… for once in your life…"
Sherlock breaks the eye contact and eventually nods, uncomfortably.
John has watched the exchange silently, and now something of an accord appears to have been found. He clears his throat and reaches for his bathrobe that lies on the floor next to the bed. It's one thing for him to be naked in Sherlock's presence; his brother is a different matter entirely. The nakedness has sneaked into their lives like everything else, and after the first sexual contact, there was little need for modesty in their own bed (usually, anyway). There is a somewhat regular sex life between them, now, though most people would probably find it peculiar. More often than not, it results in John gaining release and Sherlock enjoying it by proxy and with kisses, his bodily needs not nearly as urgent. Mouths have joined the hands in pleasuring the partner eventually, and they both know that other things might become a topic at some point, since Sherlock has dropped a vague hint once during their love-making, and John's reaction has been apprehensive but potentially favourable.
John wraps himself in his robe quickly and walks around the bed to Sherlock's side, pausing briefly. "I'll just hop under the shower and then prepare tea." He keeps his eyes on Sherlock and waits for the other man to look up and confirm. When he does, he lays a calm hand on Sherlock's shoulder for a moment and smiles. He straightens and disappears into the bathroom.
The brothers remain silent and unmoving until they hear the sound of the running water.
"I suppose you're pleased with yourself," Sherlock finally grouches, and he doesn't need to clarify what he is talking about (and that it isn't their mother).
Mycroft almost bristles where he stands, but catches himself before it becomes too visible. "If you are referring to your current state of undress and the proximity to John, I can say that it is both a surprising and a very unsurprising thing to see."
Sherlock blinks and directs unexpectedly wide eyes at the man standing.
Mycroft sighs. "Sherlock… since you met him, it has always been either him or no one." He studies his brother for a long moment. "I admit I was not sure if that would be enough."
Sherlock scoffs and stares at his blanket again. "How tedious. As if sex is the be all and end all of a human being."
"It is not," Mycroft shoots back immediately. "And that was hardly what I was referring to." He allows a tiny smirk. "Though it does not appear to have affected you negatively."
Sherlock turns his head to scowl at him. The blanket is incredibly ineffective for that, unfortunately. "I thought caring wasn't an advantage," he spits, and his tone makes clear that he isn't merely speaking about himself, but also about Mycroft. Sherlock hasn't missed the fond look directed at both John and him on several occasions. The veiled approval he is on the receiving end of now only confirms that his brother… for all his failings and shortcomings… doesn't just worry. He cares.
Mycroft shifts and intently studies the spot where the tip of his umbrella twirls on the floor. "I believe John has successfully proven that it isn't necessarily a disadvantage, either." He looks up from a downturned face and holds Sherlock's eyes with his for a second. Then the moment is over, he straightens and turns to leave. "There will be a car to pick you and John up in one hour. Do resist the temptation of making a scene." He adds the last part only just before he closes the door.
Sherlock merely rolls his eyes and flops back onto the bed.
When he feels lips on his, he realises that he had closed his eyes and let his mind wander. He returns the soft kiss before opening his eyes again.
"Alright?" John asks, sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand gently rubbing Sherlock's arm.
Sherlock nods and sits. "Of course. You heard Mycroft. Mother is fine, though she does love to be dramatic."
John's lips twitch as he is transported back to the beginning of what was to be the best thing that ever happened to him. "Family trait, I guess," he says and snickers at Sherlock's indignation. He stands. "Get ready then. I want to know where the two of you get it from."
Sherlock can't help but huff a laugh. "Be careful what you wish for."
Sherlock indeed does resist the temptation of making a scene; he instead adopts an expression of icy disdain that conveys to everyone who dares to look at him that he is suffering their presence on the planet out of the sheer goodness of his heart.
John sits with him in the back of the sleek, black car and at first only watches the streets and buildings go by. Eventually, he can't help asking anymore. "What does it mean that your mother wants to see me?"
Sherlock sighs and picks at an invisible threat on his impeccable trousers. "Mother has dragged me to more psychologists than I can count when I was a child, trying desperately to find one that would not use any... unfavourable terms to describe my mental state." He huffs. "Mycroft of course has learned at an early age that concealing the emotional distance will make people like that back off. I never found it in myself to even care." He turns to look at John. "Mother always insisted that one day someone would prove them all wrong. I guess you're the one she was waiting for."
John clears his throat. "So... she knows, then." He isn't sure how to put it. It all seems inadequate. Sherlock is his friend. His dearest friend. Despite the most recent changes, that is still how he thinks of the man. He also knows that this isn't the word that most people would use. Most people would call them a couple. Then again, most people have used that term since long before there were any couple-y aspects in their relationship, aside from the cohabitation, the working together, the dinners, the inside jokes, the... Oh, who is he kidding? Most peoplehave been right from the beginning.
"I would expect so," Sherlock says. "She has expressed the wish to meet you for a long time, but I'm afraid the more recent developments will have rendered her somewhat... emotional."
John isn't sure he wants to know what 'emotional' means for a Holmes family member. He is familiar with Sherlock's emotions well enough – even Mycroft's, such as they are – but their mother...? He really isn't sure what to expect.
The first impression he gets when they enter the private hospital room is that of any other woman of her age. She maybe appears a bit more frail than most, but then again, she is Sherlock's mother, and he's sure the impression is deceiving.
Mycroft wordlessly moves from her bedside as Sherlock steps up to the bed, kisses her cheek and even allows her to cup his face and study him for a moment.
John feels like he is standing at attention with a polite, warm smile and waits to be introduced. Even while lying in a hospital bed with an IV in her arm and the wires of a cardiograph protruding from her chest, the woman oozes elegance and dignity. John finds that he cannot escape it.
After having indulged his mother, Sherlock straightens and turns to look at John, who picks up the cue and steps forward.
"Mother, I would like you to meet Doctor John Watson." His mother gracefully lets slide that Sherlock hasn't shown a particular interest in introducing John to her, prior to this moment.
John reaches for her offered hand and without thinking cups their handshake with his left hand as well. His smile widens as he looks into familiarly piercing eyes. "Mrs Holmes. It's a pleasure to meet you."
She smiles at him and immediately turns to look at Sherlock (without letting go of John's hand, though). "Sherlock," she says in a reprimanding tone. "He is absolutely lovely! For the life of me I cannot fathom why it would take you so long to have me meet your young man."
"My young man is war hero and doctor," Sherlock protests, his eyes trying not to dart towards where Mycroft is standing and no doubt smirking, the bastard. "And he is also several years older than I am."
She leans towards John a bit. "Always so sensitive, my Sherlock."
John grins. "And the best man I know," he adds, looking into her eyes. Because it's always a good idea to compliment children in front of their parents, because it's a gentle way to steer the conversation towards waters that annoy Sherlock less, but mostly because it's true. It also probably bears repeating to certain people; especially, if the snippets of Sherlock's childhood he has been told about in the car have hurt his mother as much as John suspects. Her brilliant son is a bloody annoying handful, but capable of so much good and bad that only makes it more amazing that he has ultimately chosen the good.
His assessment of Mrs Holmes' state of mind proves to be correct, as her reaction is to beam at him with teary eyes.
"Absolutely lovely," she repeats, nodding firmly at Sherlock.
Sherlock himself relaxes visibly and even smiles a bit in return. He should have known that John would know how to deal with family obligations.
Sherlock is considerably less affectionate that evening than usual.
Admittedly, affection is perhaps a questionable description for what Sherlock usually displays. Between cases, it takes some effort on John's part to direct Sherlock's restlessness elsewhere, but once he manages it, it's the tactile sensations that keep his mind occupied. During cases, there is – surprisingly – more affectionate behaviour on Sherlock's part, though he is hardly ever consciously aware of it. He might pet John absentmindedly like a cat for hours while his brain is working, only to suddenly jump up and run off to whatever it is he's figured out. Or he might grab John and use him as a pillow to drown out alien noises and thoughts, again, for hours, if John lets him. (Thankfully, for most of those scenarios, John can at least still use his laptop or watch telly.)
And then there are those rare moments where Sherlock consciously seeks the closeness. (Laptop and telly are not an option in such moments.)
Tonight, he is quiet, and his eyes drift away into space more often than not.
At first, John just thinks that maybe Sherlock is tired, but he soon comes to the conclusion that the man has probably merely more than reached his quota of sentiment he can deal with per day.
When John feels his eyes fall close and his head loll onto the back of the couch, he puts a calm hand on Sherlock's shoulder to get his attention. "You alright?"
Sherlock nods absently.
John tries a shot in the dark. "I think it's a good thing that she got to meet me," he says.
Sherlock's eyes clear up, and he looks up. "Seeing proof of my... capability of having emotions?"
John smiles crookedly. "Something like that."
"Parental sentiment," Sherlock murmurs and shrugs.
"Yes."
Sherlock remains quiet for a long time, and John thinks it's probably a good idea to stay around for that. "I think... I understand."
John smiles. "I know you do," he says, as if it's not extraordinary at all. It explains why Sherlock has been... mentally masticating all evening.
Sherlock blinks at him.
John stands and kisses the top of his head. "Don't stay up all night."
Sherlock doesn't smile, but it appears as if maybe there's room for a little more sentiment that day, after all.
He doesn't stay up all night, but it takes him several more hours before his restless mind is in need of rest in spite of itself.
John's sleeping form is welcoming and calming and he falls asleep within minutes.
When John wakes up the following morning, Sherlock is already lying awake and studying him. He smiles lazily. "Good morning."
"Why do you keep believing in my emotional capability despite your better judgement?"
John blinks. He's not sure he's awake enough for the third degree already. "Who says it's despite my better judgement?"
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "You can ask anyone who..."
"Who has lived and worked with you for as long as I have and enjoys it?"
"Your enjoyment might cloud your judgement."
John rubs his face. "No. Both our enjoyment merely means that you let me see more of you than anyone else." He sighs and his expression softens. "Sherlock... we both know you're not exactly a social butterfly. You don't like to deal with people, you don't like them to disturb your headspace, and most of the time you don't even notice they're anything other than data points. We all know that." He keeps his eyes firmly on Sherlock. "But I have seen you with Mrs Hudson, with your mother, Greg, even Molly or, God forbid, your brother. Just because you don't know what to do with the love you're feeling that doesn't mean that it's not there, does it?"
Sherlock thinks it over. "What makes you different? How could you see when even I couldn't?"
John grins cheerfully. "I have no idea."
The answer startles a chuckle out of Sherlock, but the smile fades soon. "I have disappointed her many times," he says quietly.
John just smiles. "She wasn't disappointed, yesterday."
"No, she wasn't. Thank you."
"I never thought I'd say that, because your ego definitely doesn't need it, but... don't sell yourself short."
Sherlock tries to hold back another laugh that eventually forces its way out, anyway.
John grins. "You're an idiot."
Sherlock half shrugs as if to convey that on emotional territory he wouldn't dream of arguing the point.
"You're an idiot for thinking that your emotions are worth less than someone else's," John continues, turning serious. "Your feelings are as crystal clear as your mind. The clarity with which you focus on a case is amazing, but just as amazingly clear are the feelings when you focus on me. It's quite flattering actually." He smirks benignly.
Sherlock blinks at him, wide-eyed.
"And..." John clears his throat and averts his eyes. "It's addictive. I know that... nothing else could ever do. Not after you. And that..." He purses his lips for a moment. "That's fucking scary, but I wouldn't have it any other way."
Sherlock stares for a long time. "Nobody but you could ever do."
The corner of John's mouth lifts. "Told you it was flattering." He reaches for Sherlock's right hand and clasps it between their chests. "Do not... ever... leave me behind like that again," he says, his voice firm and demanding. It takes a second, but when he realises that he hasn't ever actually asked for this earlier, he can't quite believe it.
Sherlock fidgets. "I can't promise to stay alive..."
"Not what I meant," John interrupts. "I doubt that your trick would work twice, but if something similar becomes necessary, again, you will let me know. Do you understand? Fuck the risk."
Sherlock smiles weakly and nods. "I understand."
John nods, satisfied and pushes himself upright. "We'll better get going, then..."
Sherlock takes a hold of John's hand when he tries to get out of bed, and John turns to look at him in askance.
Sherlock pulls John closer and into a kiss, sighing almost in relief when John follows his request. He keeps up the kissing for a while, then gradually manoeuvres John to lie between his legs, purposefully, making his intention clear.
John breaks the kiss. "Sherlock?"
Sherlock appears uncertain but determined. "I want to give you this."
John blinks, then frowns. "Sherlock... I... You're not a sacrificial lamb, and I'm not... going to let you lie there and think of England while I..." He really doesn't know how to put it. He has thought of this, of course he has, but...
Sherlock looks puzzled. "Being with you isn't a chore, John." John draws in a breath to reply, but Sherlock stops him with his fingers over his lips. "I don't always react the way you would expect a body to react, that doesn't mean that I gain no pleasure from what we're doing."
"I'm not sure I understand."
"Watching what your body is doing to you and experiencing what mine is doing to me is very pleasurable. You must know that, you've seen me react, after all."
John has to smirk. "You treat sex like it's a case," he states.
Sherlock shrugs. "You treat it like it's no more than an extension of us, which isn't entirely incorrect, but I'm sure normal people would disagree."
"I just... I don't want to do something you don't want."
"Have you known me to ask for something I didn't want?"
John grins. "Hell, no."
Sherlock shifts his hips. "Now, would you mind terribly fucking me?"
John snorted, amused. The erection that had only just started to make itself known during the kissing has diminished again, and he isn't at all sure if Sherlock's peculiar brand of prep talk works on him.
Sherlock rolls his eyes and just pulls John into another kiss. Talking is all good and well – and he does do it well – but right now, he needs and wants something physical and connecting, something... grounding. He doesn't know if his sex drive (such as it is) will take a liking to this kind of thing, or if it will remain on the analytical side. As far as he is concerned, it doesn't matter. He's sharing it with John, after all, and it is satisfying either way.
He smiles smugly into the kiss when he can feel John's body reacting.
John breaks the kiss but only lifts his head enough to speak. "You're awfully pleased with yourself, aren't you?"
"I don't hear you complaining." He leans up for another small kiss and turns serious. "I know we haven't discussed this, and if it truly is something you don't want to do, I'm not going to make you."
John may have made an exception for Sherlock in his sexual identity, but it might very well be that this is a boundary he is not willing to cross.
John considers the question, then smirks, despite the questions still buzzing in his mind. He leans in closer to Sherlock's ear and growls, "Make me, Sherlock? We both know you couldn't take me in a fight." Sherlock's low chuckle goes straight to his dick, and to his own surprise, so does his own display of alpha-male. That might... perhaps be useful to remember for another time.
Sherlock of course notices both. "Pulling rank, captain?"
John's grin grows. "Got something useful in this room?"
Of course he does. Sherlock nods his head towards the bedside table. "Naturally, doctor."
John presses a kiss to Sherlock's lips and rolls off him to get to the drawer. "Roleplaying now?"
"I don't have to roleplay; you are both my doctor and my captain." Sherlock stretches and finally puts his hands under his head and nonchalantly crosses his legs at the ankles.
John gets the condoms and lube that he really should have expected in the first place. They've probably been there for a long time. "I already know that you don't listen to my doctorly advice; maybe I should try giving you orders more often." He turns to look at Sherlock who is still stretched out on the bed and pauses for a second, just looking.
"Yes?" Sherlock says, looking both amused and pleased.
"Your completely unselfconscious self is a sight to behold."
Sherlock's expression softens. "It's been a long time since I've had something left to hide from you." Then he smirks. "Well. The things you can process, anyway."
John snorts and gestures towards Sherlock's crossed legs with the hand holding the paraphernalia. "Go on, then. Let's see if I can find something you might have a problem processing." He raises an eyebrow when Sherlock doesn't react immediately. "That's an order, detective."
They both keep a straight face for a second and then burst out laughing.
John puts the bottle and packet on the mattress and crawls over Sherlock's shaking body again. "Sorry. I just have to..." He sinks into a kiss, and Sherlock parts his legs without having to be ordered to again.
When the kiss ends, and John reaches for the bottle. "Ready?" he asks, moving to kneel between Sherlock's legs.
"Always, doctor." The tone is teasing, the look is trusting and open. No, more than open. Curious. Anticipating.
John considers getting right down to business, but as he warms the oily lube between his hands, the label on the bottle informing him that it may be used for erotic massage changes his mind. He starts with the thighs and massages firmly but slowly up and down, brushes by the interested but not yet overtly enthusiastic dick, up over the pubic hair and the stomach. He focuses on touch, experience... experimentation. This has... much more intention than their usual encounters. Those tend to just happen; they go where they go, and it's all fine.
This... is different. John isn't quite sure yet what to make of it, but he certainly likes how Sherlock relaxes under his touch, no doubt categorising every brush and angle.
Sherlock feels much like during their first kisses. They're close, him and John, so very close, and the touches are curious, sending a low, warm buzz through his body. He knows, just like during the early kisses, that the buzz might become more, or it might not, and it's all fine.
Eventually, John can't delay the inevitable anymore. He isn't quite sure what to expect. Oh, he knows that he wants to try this, but it's still something new. Something that for most people includes a certain barrier that needs crossing.
He crosses the first barrier and uses a finger to breach his... well, under the circumstances it is probably prudent to refer to the man as his lover. Despite the deep sigh, the open thighs and the consciously relaxing muscles, Sherlock still doesn't feel like his lover. He feels like... Sherlock. It's supposed to be enough, except that John likes to know where he stands with people. Usually, anyway. Maybe, though, just maybe… in this case, it's enough that he knows that he will stay.
He uses a second finger and then raises his eyes to look at Sherlock's face. The lips are slightly parted, and the eyes are closed, but John can clearly see that they are very busy behind the closed lids, most likely analysing and filing information. A low hum escapes Sherlock's throat, and John begins to think that this might turn out to be his thing after all. His trepidation is definitely on the decline.
Sherlock's dick is only half-hard, but Sherlock had been right earlier, John knows what this looks like, and it's the way Sherlock enjoys arousal without it overwhelming his mind. And yet… the doctor in John insists that it would ease their encounter were he to stimulate the penis in addition to the prostate, should Sherlock be even susceptible to the latter. Not everyone is and not to the same extent, after all. John tries to recall what he knows about erotic prostate massage while carefully angling his fingers to gently find it at the same time...
... And then the explosive groan that shoots from Sherlock's mouth sends all doctorly thoughts out the window. John's eyes fly to Sherlock's face again, and this time, the chest is heaving and the eyes are blown wide open.
John feels himself responding. At first, he only notices that his own breathing is speeding up, but when he brushes past the prostate again, the dick in his hand fills and hardens and doesn't seem like it needs any more additional attention at all. And Sherlock's dick isn't the only one that is suddenly very interested in the proceedings.
"Oh, God," John whispers.
Sherlock blindly grabs at the sheets, trying to find something to hold onto. John needs no conscious thought to reach for one hand with his second and clasp it tightly.
"John..." Sherlock says, his eyes once more closed and his voice sounding just as blind. His rational mind can no longer see and asks for the only thing that still makes sense. "John."
John moves his fingers in and out, leans forward to kiss the stomach, pelvis bone, thighs and hardened flesh. He adds a third finger and finds no resistance at all. The hand he is holding trembles, as do the thighs and gradually the rest of the body under his.
Sherlock pulls at the hand in his and at the bedspread, the movements uncoordinated. "John!" he demands in an imperious tone usually reserved for asking John to follow him on a chase, aside from the distinct shakiness. And perhaps that is what he is asking for, now, too.
John can't bring himself to let go of the hand, so he removes his fingers which earns him a whimper, and then he unwraps (yes, he uses his teeth, but he's really careful, honest) and rolls on a condom one-handed.
He moves to cover Sherlock along the entire length of his body and looks into his sweaty and dazed face. "Ready?" He frowns at the position and peeks down. "Do you need... a pillow or something?"
Sherlock chuckles, enough parts of his brain having returned for him to actually form a coherent sentence. "I believe that won't be necessary." He shifts and lifts one leg to go around John's back, while the other goes right over his shoulder, practically bending him in half.
Despite everything, John can feel a touch of nerves as he positions himself. He's aroused beyond reason, he knows that he wants it, and he knows that it's right, but decades of thinking a certain way are hard to ignore. He doesn't let it control him or make him hesitate, even. The rightness feels more right with every inch, and corny as it may be, he no longer has to question that Sherlock is his perfect other half.
Once Sherlock can feel John seated completely inside him, he takes a shuddering breath and opens his eyes to look into dark blue ones. "Alright?"
John's answering chuckle sounds maybe a tad hysterical. "Shouldn't that be my line?" he rasps.
Sherlock just smiles and, for once, doesn't point out what is so obvious to him.
John understands him anyway. He should have known that his reservations wouldn't go unnoticed. He leans in for a kiss, and the movement inadvertently shifts him inside Sherlock, making them both groan.
"Go on," Sherlock mumbles against his lips, and John complies.
John finds his mind wandering. It shouldn't feel so different from when he's done this with women, but somehow, it leaves him befuddled as well as curious. He wonders if that is because Sherlock is Sherlock or because he's a man.
"What does it feel like?" he breathes out, unable to keep the question back. It's funny. That question has never before entered his mind with anyone else. (This might actually be because Sherlock is a man, and he can't help but wonder...)
"Full and... igniting, as if you can touch every nerve from the inside out..." is Sherlock's scattered answer.
John imagines it, imagines what it would be like to feel someone so close and intimately, and it sends a rush through him. Curiosity, fascination... and the incredible truth that Sherlock would even allow feeling it.
"And... surprising..." Sherlock continues to say whichever word comes to mind, first. "Surprising how I can find any kind of contact pleasurable... much less this kind... just because it's you."
A sob snaps John's chest and he leans down for a kiss. His thrusts are somewhat limited from that angle, but he can't seem to stop.
Sherlock runs a hand through John's damp hair. "Or perhaps not surprising at all."
John laughs. Yes. Sherlock can probably read him like an open book and might or might not formulate his answers according to what he sees, but... since Sherlock is someone who truly does dislike touch in general, John is inclined to believe him.
He can see a drop of sweat drip from his forehead and onto Sherlock's cheek and brushes it off. "Let's do this right, then, shall we?"
Sherlock's answering cheeky grin really only deserves one answer. John moves more upright and hunches to get a better angle and then moves Sherlock's second leg over his shoulder too. He uses his hands to rub and massage the thighs, over arse and stomach, up to the chest and nipples and then back again. He doesn't want to brag, but he does know what he's doing, here, after all. And seeing how Sherlock's expression shows how he is happily cataloguing the plethora of sensations, his efforts appear to be well received.
Sherlock's dick very much looks like it is interested in release and not just in humming arousal as it sometimes is, so John reaches for it and pumps it with the long, even strokes he knows Sherlock likes, and Sherlock arches into his touch, undulating his whole body with abandon and no restraint or calculation.
New things being as inveigling to Sherlock as they are, it doesn't take long for him to be pulled under, and when he comes undone and spills onto his stomach, John catches himself thinking that it would be a marvellous thing for them to just merge into one person, even if it meant getting lost in Sherlock's mind palace, and he follows him (where Sherlock leads, John follows) after a few more sharp, deep thrusts, all thoughts gone.
The thoughts eventually – and gradually – return together with somewhat more regular breathing and heartbeat, and John carefully pulls out of Sherlock and props himself up on his arm to kiss him. "Be right back. Don't move," he murmurs and heads for the bathroom.
"You say that as if I were even inclined to do so..." Sherlock's voice follows him.
John returns moderately cleaned up and holding a washcloth to do the same for Sherlock. He carelessly throws the cloth onto the floor (it will still be there later) and lies back down, his head pillowed on Sherlock's chest, extending their late morning some more.
"What brought this on?" John wants to know after a long, comfortable while of wandering hands.
Sherlock's hand in John's hair stops its caressing for a moment and then just cradles the head close to his chest. "I know I'm not easy," he finally says. "I am demanding and I don't always know how to return your affections so that you would understand what I feel. And there are days where I am unable to return anything at all. Days where I disappoint you."
John remains silent but runs calming fingers over Sherlock's stomach. It's not like this is news to him...
"I just want you to know that it will always be you."
John sighs and props himself up on his elbow. "I know that, Sherlock. And I know you, and if you were anyone else, neither of us would be here. I told you there was no need for sacrifices."
Sherlock's grin is decidedly wolfish, and he chuckles darkly. "Sacrifice, was it? I'm afraid you desecrated my oblation by throwing it onto the floor in a wet rag. We might have to repeat the ceremony at your convenience."
John hides his face behind his hand, giggles and peeks through the fingers at a widely grinning Sherlock. "You're an idiot."
"Perhaps."
John leans in for a kiss. "But I love you."
Sherlock smiles and pulls him into another kiss. "And I you."
John's lip twitches. "Could it be that visiting your mother has rendered you somewhat sentimental?"
Sherlock scoffs. "Hardly."
John just snickers and kisses Sherlock's forehead. "So," he says, decisively, and sits. "Now that his highness has been thoroughly shagged as requested, may I get up?"
Sherlock stretches like a cat in the sun. "His highness might even require breakfast."
"Huh," John huffs and gets up. "I should shag you more often, then, if it gets you to eat properly." He grins. "I'm going to hit the shower. Don't think you'll get out of eating, afterwards, though."
Sherlock chuckles and watches the door for a moment longer after it closes.
Then he is alone with his mind, and he sighs, relaxing even more than orgasm can provide for him. Much as he loves John, his mind needs time on its own to rearrange and file information. He knows what happens to him when he doesn't allow himself that time, and it's not pretty. His mind breaking under the strain of wuthering and uncontrolled information is what used to drive him into drugs.
At first, it was all kind of information, simply because his mind isn't designed for the untrained user. Later, it was information pertaining to emotional matters; when he could no longer process emotional input, he would flee into artificial relief.
Now, there is John. John channels his emotions. He lets Sherlock feel them without them losing their designated and logical spot in his mind or attempting to overtake others.
His rare emotions are now mostly crystal clear and orderly. And if there ever is one that makes his inner compass needle jump, John is beside him to unfailingly point north.
No, not necessarily an advantage...
John steps out of the bathroom and finds Sherlock no longer post-orgasmically relaxed, but calm and at peace. He smiles.
... But definitely not a disadvantage, either.
END
120313
AN: I think I'll end this story here, for now. I might get back to this universe and add a little situation or whatever I can think of if something pops up (be that a particular case or a personal issue).
You can make requests for this 'verse if you like, and they might prompt something, but I can't promise you that they will... ;)
Thanks for the ride :) Leave a comment on the way out, please :)