Facts: Slightest creak of aged metallic springs. Pillow of medium firmness, synthetic filling. Barely noticeable sway of a cheap but well maintained metal frame.
Conclusion: A bed, not his own.
Facts: Very hungry.
Conclusion: Long case. Difficult case. Exhilarating case. Solved case.
Facts: Cool air against his skin, layers of blankets to compensate. Serviceable cotton sheets, no fabric softener. Faint scent of a familiar bargain detergent still clinging to the cloth.
Conclusion: The bed of a practical man on a budget. Possibly military, would need visual on corners to confirm.
Facts: Warmth at his back. Scent of aftershave and coconut shampoo. Tight weight across his waist. Puff of hot breath on his neck.
Sherlock opened his eyes and confirmed that he was in John’s room, gauged the time by the slant of sunlight filtering through the windows, and swirled through a number of theories regarding the most recent case as it related to the fractal web that was the Moriarty case. There were leads to be followed and theories to prove or disprove, and why hadn’t he checked up on those before he fell asleep in a bed not his own and with his flatmate wrapped around his back?
Facts: While he woke up quickly as compared to some there were still those fuzzy moments during which he forgot. He forgot how the case turned. He forgot that bullets were flying. He forgot that John had to kill someone. He forgot that he had to kill someone. He forgot how long it took to mop up the mess with Lestrade.
Conclusion: They staggered in looking like death warmed over, according to Mrs. Hudson. John had stumbled when he caught his leg the wrong way—he had fallen hard during the fight and an impressive bruise was likely coloring from hip to knee—and Sherlock had caught him before he fell into the wall. Once Mrs. Hudson confirmed that neither of them were dying she had gone, and then when Sherlock was helping John to his room.
The endorphins draining, the hunger and nicotine high catching up to him, Sherlock lost most of his ‘solved’ energy by the time they reached John’s door. He felt tired and was already planning on a light snack to appease his body while he tied off some loose ends prior to finally passing out for half a day, but then he had gotten... distracted. He was annoyingly puzzled over how exactly it had started—he’d never paid that much mind to the distracting tribulations that was human interaction beyond that which lead to knife wounds and poisoned whiskey. Whatever had just happened with John didn’t fit any variation of the standard templates for human romance, but then again, not a lot about Sherlock’s interaction with his flatmate fit a standard template.
Facts: Something unidentified had happened and then there was a tongue in his mouth.
Conclusion: It was not altogether unpleasant.
Facts: Once the initial uncertainty vanished things had gotten, for lack of a better descriptor, steamy. At some point Sherlock had roughly pulled John forward by the collar and John had threaded his fingers through Sherlock’s wavy hair. John had pulled them back until he could sag against the wall which Sherlock pressed him into while kissing him with embarrassingly sloppy fervor. John had grabbed the other man by the belt and yanked him closer. The feeling of John’s bare fingers curling around the top of his slacks just above his hipbone had caused a shiver to run through Sherlock’s body.
Conclusion: They hadn’t gotten as far as they might have if exhaustion hadn’t cut the strings, but they certainly got far enough.
They had shed their outer coats, shoes, and Sherlock had lost his gloves and scarf, but the rest of their clothing remained in its place if slightly more rumpled than it had been. Too exhausted to make the trip to his room, or perhaps for other less practical reasons, Sherlock had climbed under the covers with John. They fell asleep before they could discuss what had just happened.
Sherlock breathed in through his mouth, out through his nose, and stared at the wall. He didn’t feel particularly inclined to get up just yet—he told himself it was because he’d only been asleep for six hours and he needed more REM to be at full sharpness—so he turned over observations and possibilities in his head while he waited for the other man to stir. John woke up slowly, much more slowly than Sherlock did, complete with odd half-asleep mumblings and shifting in position. He never let go of Sherlock’s waist.
Finally there was a greater puff of warm breath against the back of Sherlock’s neck and then, presumably, John opened his eyes to the sight of dark hair filling his vision. Sherlock could read the reflexive tension in the arm holding him as John worked through the same conclusions that he had, though of course John’s process was slower. At last, John broke the silence.
“Well, then,” was all he said.
Sherlock’s mind swarmed with the possibilities of how this would play out. He rolled onto his back so that they could look at each other. John’s arm lifted to allow the movement and then settled back across his stomach. Sherlock took the continued physical contact as a good sign though he wasn’t sure what it was a good sign for.
“That was fascinating,” Sherlock said to the ceiling.
John rolled his eyes and snorted and gave him that look. The exasperated look that said he wasn’t sure what to make of Sherlock Holmes and that he didn’t think it likely that he ever would. Sherlock’s expression was a mirror, though with its own flavor, as John was a riddle he thought solved but then the puzzle would twist and morph and he’d see a new side of it.
They lay there for a while sizing each other up. John propped himself up on his elbow—other arm still a comforting presence across Sherlock’s waist and why was it comforting—and let out a long drawn out sigh.
“So. ‘Fascinating’. Care to elaborate?”
There was the tone. The ‘I’ve heard you call five day corpses with their brains splattered on the walls fascinating and I’m about to be cross with you aren’t I’ tone.
“Yes. It is fascinating how the endorphins flooding both our systems caused—“
John sat up. The arm was no longer laying across Sherlock’s stomach. “You’re being deliberately thick now, aren’t you?”
Sherlock stared back. “I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.”
There was a pregnant pause and then John cast a critical eye down Sherlock’s prone form. Sherlock glanced down. In the course of twisting onto his back his shirt had been pulled up revealing a few centimeters of bare skin. John looked back at the other man’s face with a curious glint in his eyes. It was something Sherlock often caught sight of when John was diagnosing an injury or cause of death, and he wondered if John saw some bruise of medical note on his bared midriff.
Then John suddenly leaned down and planted an open-mouthed kiss just below Sherlock’s navel. It was hot and wet and there was just enough scraping of canines to make it very, very interesting. Sherlock felt his breath hitch, his eyelids fluttered, and he arched his back into that questing mouth. The contact only lasted a few seconds, and then John was straightening with a very satisfied smirk on his face.
A majority of the misguided suitors he’d had throughout the years seemed to think that Sherlock’s mind would stop and stand still during the time they were together. They didn’t seem to realize that Sherlock’s thought process never stopped, and more importantly, he didn’t want it to. The concept of his head emptying for any amount of time was frankly frightening and he’d certainly never willing give it up for some dalliance, just as he’d never give up the late night calls from Lestrade, the hours spent bent over a microscope, or any other element of the thrill of the chase.
Sherlock seriously doubted that John would ever consider making such a preposterous request. Furthermore, while the ideas never stopped swirling, at that moment a significant number were focused on ways to make John flush and shudder like that. Sherlock didn’t find the possibility unfavorable.
“What?” Sherlock asked. Revelations about this new dimension to their relationship aside, he still felt a little annoyed that he’d given anyone control, even if it was only for a moment and if that control had been relinquished to the one man he’d trust with it. Mostly though he felt warm in the face.
“Just checking to see if you are in fact human,” John responded dryly. He threw in another eye-roll for good measure and then climbed over Sherlock, groaning and rubbing his back as he did. “What dangerous nonsense are you dragging me into today?”
It was Sherlock’s turn to smirk. “Don’t act as though you don’t enjoy it.”
The glance John spared over his shoulder was decidedly speculative. “Yes. I think I might.”
Facts: The game had changed.
Conclusion: He would not be bored.