Chapter Text
The clock at the bedside reads 3:38, and John’s been watching it turn over, minute after minute, since before it crossed the threshold of 3am. The flat is silent, and the street outside is almost as quiet. There’s no reason John should be awake. They haven’t got a case, but Sherlock’s been occupied for three days trying to disprove something he read in a recent issue of a medical journal John still gets, forwarded from the surgery, and his chemical apparatus have been occupying every surface of the flat. John had to eat breakfast and supper on the sofa the day before, while Sherlock poured over literature and statistics and molar calculations.
So it’s not worry that’s keeping him up, and it’s not adrenaline from the thrill of the chase, and it’s not a nightmare. He hasn’t had one of those in weeks. But there’s something in the stillness of this early morning that has John wide awake and staring at the ceiling.
The sound of the floorboards creaking alerts him to movement; the stair third from the top up to his bedroom makes that sound. Moments later, the doorknob turns, almost silently, and Sherlock eases the door open and peeks in. John turns over to look at him.
‘You, too?’ Sherlock asks, almost managing to whisper.
‘Me, too,’ John agrees, rubbing his face with both hands. Sherlock steps inside and closes the door behind him, and John lifts the edge of the duvet on the right side of the bed. Sherlock climbs in, cold feet against John’s ankles making him jerk away, and he cuddles up to John’s shoulder.
Sherlock, John was surprised to find, craved touch. He pretended to be above base human needs, but really he was just an incredible introvert. Once he had warmed up to John’s presence, he was constantly crowding him until John realised what he needed. Sherlock hadn’t even figured it out, being as oblivious to his own desires as he was sharp to pick up on other people’s, and the first time John had touched the back of his neck in a casual caress he’d nearly jumped out of his skin.
Now, he soaks up John’s affection like it might be snatched away at any moment. That takes John aback as well, but he gives what he can when he can.
Sherlock’s fingers sneak under the hem of John’s RAMC t-shirt, and John puts his hand over Sherlock’s.
‘I’m trying to sleep,’ he murmurs, but he’s as awake as ever.
‘You’re not,’ Sherlock says. ‘Your heart is beating above the resting rate— and yours is quite low, I might add, which makes it obvious when it’s up— and your breathing is deep. If you were trying to sleep, you’d at least be breathing shallower. And your skin is quite warm, which means you’ve been awake for a while.’
‘I’ve been lying in bed for a while,’ John counters, ‘and it was warm in my bed until you came in here with your icicle toes.’
Sherlock smiles, a shadow in the dark, and John rolls his eyes. ‘Don’t be deliberately obtuse,’ Sherlock says. ‘It might help, anyway.’
‘Fine,’ John says, ‘touch all you like, but if I do fall asleep you had better not be offended.’
Sherlock huffs. John releases his hand. Sherlock begins to rub his thumb back and forth across John’s belly, barely touching his navel, and John’s eyes slide closed. Sherlock smells like chemicals and John’s laundry liquid, like the old books in his bedroom, like his expensive shampoo. John can smell, under it all, the clean, faintly salty scent of his skin, and the green tea he drank, probably less than ten minutes ago. Sherlock’s breathing is slow and deep, content, and John can almost feel the weight of Sherlock’s gaze on his face. He smiles. Sherlock’s fingers caress the softening line of John’s abdomen, and John’s blood begins to heat.
He shifts, spreading his legs apart and opening his hands, palm up on the bed. Sherlock is tucked against his side, head on John’s bicep and thigh over John’s knee. He rubs his toes against the sole of John’s foot, and John pulls that foot away by a centimeter.
Sherlock moves now too, turning his head to kiss John’s shoulder through his t-shirt, and John feels a slow, steady pulse start in his groin. His cock thickens a little, just in response to the whisper of a promise. Sherlock shifts again, lifting up now to put his lips to John’s throat, and John tips his head back to give him room. Now the promise is more than a hint, and John’s nipples tighten and his breathing speeds up. Sherlock mouths at his neck, soft and then with a little bite of teeth, and John lets a little noise of encouragement escape him.
Sherlock pushes up on one elbow, leaning over John, and John parts his lips as Sherlock leans down to kiss him. John kisses him deeply, bringing his left hand up to curl his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, and licks slowly into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock’s hand on John’s belly slips down to his left thigh, and then up again between his legs to cup the swelling hardness there. John’s not entirely erect yet, but his cock is stiffening fast and Sherlock’s hand on it only speeds him along.
He grunts into the kiss, and Sherlock bites his lower lip and pulls back, stares at him intently for a moment, and then kisses him again, over and over, until John is pushing his hips up into Sherlock’s gentle grip. Sherlock squeezes him, fingers brushing against the weight of his balls, and John wants the barrier of his boxers between them to be gone.
Sherlock breaks the kiss and shifts down, nuzzling John’s right nipple with his nose, through his shirt. The soft scrape of fabric against the sensitive peak has John squirming, fingers tight in Sherlock’s curls, and Sherlock breathes out, warm through the shirt. He bites down with just enough pressure, calculated from John’s reactions in previous encounters, to make John groan aloud.
‘C’mere,’ John gasps, pulling Sherlock back up to kiss him, and pushing on his hip until he straddles John’s lap. John pulls his heels up to his arse, and Sherlock settles against his groin, his own erection hard and thick against John’s. Sherlock rocks slowly, sliding their cocks against one another, and John eats at his mouth until he’s quivering.
The only sound is the rustle of the duvet and the sheets, and the soft, wet noise of their kisses. It’s intensely erotic, sparking in John’s blood and making his cock twitch, and he moans again to disrupt the spell.
Then Sherlock is lifting himself up, and John lowers his knees to let Sherlock pull his boxers down. He kicks them off to the bottom of the bed, and his cock lies fat and heavy against his belly. Sherlock rubs his hand between them, cupping John’s balls, scratching his fingertips in the soft curls of hair, and John kisses the incredible line of his cheekbones, to behind his ear and down his neck.
Sherlock wrestles off his own bottoms— cotton, striped, actually John’s judging by how short they are and how they hang a little loose on Sherlock’s arse— and sits back down. In the time it took him to discard his pants, he also managed to find the tube of medical grade lubricant in John’s bedside table drawer, and his palm is slick and cool. He takes both their cocks in his hand, pushing his against John’s through the circle of his fingers that can’t quite close, and John grips his hips tight.
‘God, yes,’ he whispers, and Sherlock kisses the words from his mouth.
He sits up again, letting his own cock bob stiff and slippery between his thighs, and rubs the wet tip of John’s between his cheeks. His mouth falls half-open, his eyes half-shut, and John realises a half a second before he sinks down that he’s already slick and open back there, ready for John’s cock.
‘Christ,’ John hisses, as Sherlock takes him to the root, sitting back until his arse is against John’s hipbones. ‘Fuck, you’re incredible, what did you—?’
‘I was awake,’ Sherlock mutters, working his hips in a maddening circle that has John’s brain short-circuiting, ‘and I was thinking about you—‘ and now John has an image of Sherlock, in his bed, on his back, with his fingers inside himself, picturing John— ‘and it wasn’t really what I wanted, so I thought I’d come up and see if you were awake—‘
‘Fuck,’ John says again, digging his heels into the mattress to thrust up into Sherlock’s hot, welcoming body. ‘Do you even—?’
‘Yes,’ Sherlock says, grinning and planting his hands on John’s chest, ‘I know what I do to you, John, and I can’t get enough of it.’
John groans, steadying Sherlock on his lap again with both hands on his hips, and he curls his fingers under the curve of Sherlock’s arse as he guides him up and down. He can barely see in the low light from the streetlamp outside, but what he can see is the space between their bodies where his cock is sliding in and out of Sherlock’s arse, gleaming and bare, feeling so huge and hard and wonderful. He lets go of Sherlock’s hip with his left hand and curls it around his cock as it comes out, rubs it teasingly against Sherlock’s hole, and Sherlock gasps, ‘Ah!’ John pushes up again, arse off the bed, rocking Sherlock forward above him. Then, with that hand newly slippery, he curls his fingers around Sherlock’s cock and begins to stroke him.
It evokes a soft, desperate sound that comes from low in Sherlock’s throat, and Sherlock’s body twists in pleasure. John’s cock throbs, his balls tightening, and he starts to fuck in earnest, hammering up into Sherlock’s body and bouncing Sherlock ridiculously on his lap.
‘I’m not going to last,’ he warns, already feeling the warm, tingling feeling building in his balls and in the root of his cock.
‘Good,’ Sherlock says, ‘because I’m halfway there already, and I just need—‘ He breaks off.
‘Tell me,’ John hisses, twisting his wrist and jerking Sherlock faster. ‘Tell me what you need.’
‘Harder,’ Sherlock says, ‘and kiss me.’
‘Well get down here,’ John says, pushing on his back, and Sherlock folds until they are breathing each other’s air. John’s thighs burn with the effort of thrusting, and Sherlock meets him blow for blow, their hips coming together with a slap. John kisses him roughly, more teeth then tongue, and Sherlock moans.
‘Yes,’ he says, ‘yes, John, there,’ and comes, cock pulsing in John’s fist, spurting his load all over John’s belly. His whole body tightens in sympathy, arsehole squeezing John’s cock, and John needs to come so badly he can taste it. Sherlock groans, stunning and beautiful in his ecstasy, and John reaches his orgasm in a wave of pleasure, his back arching and his toes curling.
He holds Sherlock against his chest, shaking all over, and Sherlock pants hotly against his collarbone until he summons the coordination to lift his head with a luxurious sigh. John kisses the tip of his nose, and he smiles. When he lifts his hips, they both wince at the slick, wet slide of lube and come.
‘I ought to have planned for that,’ Sherlock breathes, rolling to the side.
John lifts his knees again to keep the duvet from touching him. ‘Shower?’ he offers, though he feels like he could fall asleep any second now.
‘Better do,’ Sherlock agrees. He gets up, throws the duvet back, and pulls John up by the hands.
The shower is warm and too small for the both of them, but Sherlock washes John’s front and his own backside efficiently and then bundles John into his towel and back down the hall to his bedroom. The pillows get damp when they lay down, and Sherlock’s hair will be a ridiculous mess in the morning, but John’s already half asleep when Sherlock mutters a complaint.
‘Needed that,’ he whispers, dozing.
‘I know,’ Sherlock whispers back.