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John wakes up on November first with an odd feeling. He should be remembering something. He rolls over, smack into Sherlock, who’s curled up, shrimp-like, on John’s right side. Nope, that he remembers. He’ll never forget it.
“Mmmmmm..” Sherlock stirs at the impact, stretching out, and his whole body moves back against John’s. John pulls away at the the sheet, wanting to be as close as he can. He gets it out of the way, and curls against Sherlock’s warm, pale skin.
As he’s pressing his face into the nape of Sherlock’s neck, he realizes that there is something, quite literally, between them.
It’s that damned kilt.
“You let me go to sleep with the kilt on, Sherlock?” John is suddenly unreasonably annoyed. The bloody thing is itchy against him, especially on his very sensitive morning erection, and it’s also the only barrier between them. John starts to scrabble at the waistband.
“No!” Sherlock rolls over to face him and grabs his hands, “Keep it.”
“It’s itchy.”
Instead of responding, Sherlock, in one smooth movement, pins John’s hands up over his head and props himself up on his elbow.
John thinks he should be a lot less sure about this position, but as Sherlock closes the gap between them and sinks his soft lips onto John’s mouth, he forgets about thinking. And itching. The kiss is slow and gentle and warm, and John is squirming before Sherlock breaks it.
“Can I have this off now, please?” John doesn’t feel petulant any more, really, but he would like very much to be naked.
“Oh, I think not.” Sherlock shifts up on to his knees, still pinning both of John’s hands with one of his. John rolls, perforce, onto his back.
“What are you planning, Sherlock?”
“I was interrupted yesterday by your… trick, John, and I would like to finish what I started.”
Does he really mean what John thinks he means? John’s skin flushes with anticipation. Sherlock is above him, a little pink and a lot tousled, his other hand is moving down John’s chest, skimming over his ribs and settling in the hollow of his belly. Sherlock kisses him again, then, and John is flying, the only thing holding him to earth the pressure of Sherlock’s two hands.
When they stop, John’s dazed, and Sherlock’s pupils are so dilated that John can only see a faint rim of colour. They look at each other and find each other there, no uncertainty, no questioning, no power plays. For a still moment, there is only the knowledge that they are all in all to each other and always will be.
“I…” John doesn’t want to break the silence, but he does anyway.
“Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Just yes.” And then Sherlock has let go of John’s hands and moved back to straddle his knees, face smug.
John is bringing his arms down, but Sherlock shakes his head.
“Leave them there or I’ll stop.”
“You’re not doing anything.”
“I will be.” Sherlock’s voice disappears into that low, low register.
“Showoff.”
“Oh yes. I intend to absorb your attention for quite some time.”
As he says this, Sherlock puts his hands on John’s thighs and runs them up under the rumpled kilt until they are, dangerously, on each side of John’s hard cock. His long thumbs are teasing that sensitive crease between body and leg, and John’s cock jumps with anticipation.
John props his head up to watch, admiring Sherlock’s shoulders, arms, and chest. He looks down, a little tentative still about seeing a hard cock—one that’s not his—for the first time, but it ends up being an exciting sight, almost not odd at all. He starts to take stock of it, but Sherlock suddenly flips the kilt up, exposing John’s cock to the cool air, and John can’t focus. Sherlock bends over and breathes the length of him, mouth so close that John can feel the heat from his body.
“Suppose you tell me what happened the last time you wore a kilt, John.”
“Fuck off.” There is no heat in this response.
“No harm in trying,” Sherlock says this from about two millimetres away from the head of his cock, “You can tell me. I won’t laugh.”
John grits his teeth.
“I’ll bloody call the UN and report you for torture if you don’t… if you don’t…”
Sherlock has moved back down to the join of John’s legs. He sets his tongue at the base of John’s cock and, in one movement, licks it from root to tip.
“Oh, Christ.”
Sherlock’s tongue swirls around the glans, wet and smooth. His hand is cupping John’s balls, one finger pressing gently underneath.
“I can be trusted, you know.” The last word is slightly muffled as he slides his lips over the head.
“Umf.” John disagrees, sort of, but is unsure about whether it’s really fair play calling someone a liar in this particular situation.
Then Sherlock starts sliding his mouth along John’s length, sucking judiciously, and John forgets everything but the slick warm pressure. Sherlock’s hands are moving too, gently, and John breathes in to the spiralling pleasure, letting it mount slowly. He was already halfway there when he woke up in bed with this man, and it’s not going to take much longer before he just spills over the edge.
Just as he is opening his mouth to say something, Sherlock pulls away from him, and John gasps despite himself. Sherlock kisses his way up to John’s mouth, fitting their bodies together in a tangle of skin and sensation. Their cocks are rubbing together, damp with excitement, and the thrust of their tongues parallels the thrust of their hips. They are both breathing harshly.
“Look at me, John” Sherlock commands. As he obeys, John is lost. He cries out, and then so is Sherlock, pressing his forehead to John’s and letting himself be overtaken.
They come down, crushed against each other in sweaty, boneless peace. Sherlock has collapsed into the crook of John’s arm and his curls are tickling John’s scar.
After a while, John realizes that he is still wearing the… he doesn’t exactly want to say “damned”, but it is awfully itchy, not to mention sticky… kilt.
“Sherlock, I am taking this kilt off now.”
“I had rather planned on making you wear it for the rest of your natural life, John.”
“I see. Does that mean I’m only interesting to you when I have it on?”
Sherlock pauses, and John has a horrible sinking feeling that he is actually thinking about this answer.
“Never mind. I don’t want to know. I am not going to ask any questions.” John’s sometimes-bad habit of pushing things aside is going to be useful in this… in whatever this situation is.
Sherlock turns over and props himself on his elbows. He looks at John. He’s not smiling.
“I don’t want to know the truth right now if it’s bad news, Sherlock. Lie back down.”
Sherlock has still not said anything. John is beginning to panic.
Finally, Sherlock breathes in and opens his mouth.
“I mean it, Sherlock.”
When he speaks, Sherlock’s voice is very quiet.
“This is going to cause so many problems, John.”
John pushes Sherlock away and sits up. He gets the kilt off and throws it on the floor.
“Right. I’m for the shower, then.”
“John!”
John wheels around, back rigid.
“John, love is dangerous.”
“Then delete it, you bastard, if that’s what you want.”
“I don’t want to.” This very softly.
John shakes his head. Sherlock looks very young sitting naked on the bed.
“Do you even know what you want?” John scales his tone down a bit, is more gentle.
“You.” Sherlock’s breath catches.
John’s heart catches.
“It’s going to cause so many problems, Sherlock.” John says as he steps forward.
“Mycroft will be unbearable.” Sherlock takes his hand.
“Anderson will be more unbearable.” John pulls Sherlock into his arms.
“That’s rather a plus than otherwise” comes Sherlock’s muffled voice.
“And what about that kilt?” John really needs to know.
“If you tell me what happened in Edinburgh I’ll have it burned.”
John hesitates.
“If I tell you what happened in Edinburgh you’ll wear it for me,” he offers.
A pause. Sherlock’s curiosity is clearly warring with his dignity.
“Very well.”
“Sherlock?”
“What?”
“Nothing happened in Edinburgh.”
“Pathetic. Lying already.”
“Sherlock?”
“What?”
“You’re a prat.”
“I love you too, John.”