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Dream a Little Dream (of Me)

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Obviously, Sherlock doesn’t keep a normal schedule.

It’s not that he’s some nocturnal creature failing to fit in with the rest of diurnal humanity – it’s that he has no set circadian rhythm. Instead, his rhythm is case based, as if even his base physiology denies the importance of stars and planets, orbits and rotations. The rise and fall of puzzles, the gentle light of logic waxing bright, the lengthening shadows of evidence explained – these are the markers and measures of his days.

And this would be tolerable.

Feasible.

If only he didn’t absolutely ignore all the baser needs of his transport.

To date, John has witnessed Sherlock in various states of physical mutiny, his body making one last stand against the driving whip of Sherlock’s intellect. The doctor has seen Sherlock in several situations of acute hunger and dehydration, food and water forgotten, their importance ignored for the duration of some great mental challenge, some tantalizing puzzle.

John, being what he is, has mitigated these self-negligent tendencies of Sherlock’s to the best of his not inconsiderable abilities. Thanks to his presence, the detective eats at least once a day when not on a case, and when on a case, John has figured out that tea and coffee – and even hot water with lemon in a pinch – can be coaxed past that acerbic mouth and down that long throat.

It’s gotten to be a fixture of their rather odd and indefinable relationship, this caretaking and caregiving – so much so that Sherlock now demands tea rather frequently of ‘his blogger,’ an imperious “John!” often calling the doctor to duty. John hears what isn’t being said, though, and sometimes the moments of eye contact as plates of take-away and mugs of lapsang souchong are handed over carry the flavor of appreciation, the aroma of gratitude.

But food and water are not the extent of the body’s needs.

And Sherlock, as has been established, will willfully ignore the wants of his flesh while awake and eschew sleep with a single-minded vigor until the pull to slumber is inescapable.

So.

That is how (and why) John comes home to 221B one late November evening, a time when most are awake and perhaps sitting down to a warm meal, to find the flat is dark and cold.

It’s not unusual for Sherlock to forget to turn on lights as he lies thinking, but it is unusual for the very frequently scantily attired detective to neglect the central heating.

John shakes his head as he steps into the darkened kitchen – maybe Sherlock went out? But no, he decides as he flicks on the lights and heads for the thermostat, Sherlock had just finished a case, some heady and intellectually thrilling affair that had involved copious amounts of research. John hadn’t been much involved, as there hadn’t been bodies for him to have simplistic opinions about or suspects and villains for him to comfort or intimidate.

Something to do with forgeries, he recalls.

Whatever it had been, it had completely absorbed Sherlock, providing a fitting arena for each and every one of his remarkable skills – and if John were to estimate how long Sherlock had been in case mode, he would hedge his bets towards eighty hours.

Obviously, Sherlock had solved it and succumbed to his body’s most pressing demand: sleep.

With a sigh, John sets the thermostat and heads back towards the kitchen, intent on some form of dinner for himself – the leftovers will keep for when Sherlock awakes and needs to satisfy his body’s hunger –

And that’s when John hears it: a soft sound, as of fabric rustling. He freezes in the living room and listens hard. The sound happens again, and then a new sound, some muffled vocal issue.

John frowns – it seems to be originating in Sherlock’s room – but that makes no sense, Sherlock sleeps like the dead when he finally gives in –

With a start, John recognizes his name in another soft and distant slur. Of course, he thinks after a moment. Sherlock is probably equal parts famished and exhausted – of course the git would try to get away with demanding some sort of room service.

The expression on John’s face should be annoyance, but it edges towards fondness far too readily.

He walks over and lifts his hand to knock when he hears his name again, this time much more clearly. “I’m coming,” he mutters, and then he opens the door to Sherlock’s room.

It’s dim, and at first John doesn’t know what he’s looking at. Sherlock lies supine, his skin flushed, the curls at his temples damp with sweat. Thinking he might have a fever (there is a Flu making its rounds this season) John steps forward –

“…John.

John stops in his tracks.

He wants to think it’s a – a fever dream. Or even a regular sort of dream. Or some sort of demand for attention.

But no; John’s eyes have adjusted to the room’s dim light, and he knows exactly what he’s looking at. Not to put too fine a point on it, it is, actually, a demand for attention.

John,” Sherlock moans, shifting his hips slowly, and every inch of movement exposes another symptom of this new facet of Sherlock’s physical self-inattention. Plush lips part as Sherlock’s head tilts back, exposing the pale vulnerability of his neck, white cotton sheets shift and pull tight against his chest, calling attention to his peaked nipples, and lower still folds of cloth shift and outline his – his –

John realizes after a moment that he has clamped his palm across his mouth and nose to muffle his startled gasp. After another moment, he realizes that it’s more than one gasp, it’s a series of them, his breathing and heart beat suddenly elevated, seemingly beyond his control.

This is bad, John knows.

There has been a – a closing of distance between the two of them now for quite some time. They live together, eat together, (sort of) work together. It’s strange and unorthodox and not a little bit codependent.

If John were still seeing his therapist there would be Raised Eyebrows.

But instead, John has been spending his time with Sherlock, and liking it more and more. Much more, in fact, than he had ever bargained. So much so, in fact, that time spent with other people had become just that. There was Sherlock, and there was Other People, and even John’s girlfriends had eventually fallen into this category.

The biggest complication, of course, was that John had found a surprising appreciation for Sherlock’s body growing to match his appreciation for his mind. That realization had been…tough. But, hard on its heels had come another unbidden thought: so what? If John liked Sherlock’s company, and Sherlock didn’t mind his, then what was the harm?

But this… this changes everything. The current body of evidence (ha!) suggests far more than mere tolerance on Sherlock’s part when it comes to John. It suggests something deeper, something base and animal. It suggests.

A whimper from the elegant sprawl of detective before him interrupts John’s frantic thinking. He bites his lip – he’s never heard such a desperate, needy sound issue from those lips, that throat – not even when Sherlock’s gasping for nicotine, aching for a case.

John finds, suddenly, that he is gasping and aching.

Sherlock arches against the sheets, a garbled cry pouring from him as he does so, and it could be ‘oh god’ followed by ‘John,’ but whatever it is, it is pure sex.

“Sherlock,” John whispers, because enough is enough. The man in front of him is in actual distress from desire, and he can see Sherlock’s cock straining for touch, friction, attention – anything – but Sherlock’s hands are fisted in the sheets.

Even in sleep, it seems Sherlock denies himself.

Well, hasn’t that always been John’s cue?

“Sherlock,” he says firmly, moving closer. “Sherlock, wake up.”

Sherlock thrashes once, and a raw sound escapes him (John has to breathe deeply through the desire that punches through to his core), then goes still.

Concerned, John steps forward and puts a hand to his shoulder. “Sherlock?”

The hand that shoots out catches John completely by surprise, and then, to his continuing shock, he’s being yanked down as Sherlock rolls over. Quite suddenly, he is under Sherlock, and Sherlock’s mouth is against his, lips clumsy with sleep, breath harsh and eyes still closed.

John breaks away for air and tries to say ‘Sherlock’ loudly and clearly, but it emerges as a breathless gasp. He tries again, between hungry kisses, not so much worried for himself, but concerned for the man sprawled over him.

Repetition does the trick, penetrating Sherlock’s exhaustion, and those lips pull away from John’s as mercurial eyes blink open. Confusion is written large, impossible to miss, mitigating the all-consuming arousal from just a few moments before.

“Hey,” John says, trying for levity, but he can feel the flush in his cheeks and lips, and knows it comes out with another intent. He realizes his arms are twined around Sherlock’s back – he loosens his hold, but does not relinquish it. He won’t prevent Sherlock from pulling away, but he certainly doesn’t want to encourage it.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice is deep, husky from sleep and ragged breathing, intonation pitched for perplexity. His darkened eyes rove across John’s face, frantic, as if trying read recent events there in bullet point format – and failing.

After a moment, John takes pity on the sleep-addled detective. “You were dreaming,” John offers. “I heard you – and –”

Sherlock’s eyes flicker shut. “Oh god.” The despair in that utterance scatters ice where his previous words had poured molten desire. “John – I –”

“You called my name,” John says simply. “I heard you,” he repeats.

Sherlock flinches. He seems incapable of any other movement, his body held rigidly above John’s, no longer touching.

“You want me?” John asks, because he needs to hear it, a clear and unmistakable ‘yes.’

“You needn’t worry, I won’t be –”

“For god’s sake just answer the bloody question.”

Sherlock stills, but his eyes open. This time, he seems more awake, more present, and when his eyes retrace their steps across John’s face, a kind of incredulity steals across his own features. His mouth softens into a silent ‘oh!’

“Really?” he asks John, who rolls his eyes at him. Sherlock hastens to add, “In that case, yes. Yes, I do.”

“Good.” John’s arms shift and tighten, bringing Sherlock down for a kiss.

It’s meant to be a quick kiss – there’s a lot to discuss, to John’s way of thinking – but it turns out that Sherlock’s is not the only body willing to take matters into its own hands: the kiss deepens and continues until they are both gasping against each other’s lips.

“We should – talk,” John manages as Sherlock shifts and kisses along his jaw, at first hesitantly, then with growing confidence. He finishes with an exploratory bite to John’s neck, eliciting a twitch from John’s cock.

“Now?” Sherlock asks, incredulous, but the effect is ruined by a gasp. John’s hand cupping him through his pajamas might have something to do with that.

“Sod that, no,” John says firmly. Sherlock’s hips grinding against his are definitely a factor in that response. “But after.”

“Of course,” Sherlock chokes out as John’s fingers slip up then down, creeping along the pale, taut skin of his belly towards his renewed erection. “Anything you want.”

“Anything?” John smirks as his fingers close around Sherlock, whose hips stutter at the touch, his breathing coming in little gasps. “Why don’t you show me what you were dreaming?”

“Oh god,” Sherlock says, and those words are back to coals and lava and electric lust.

“Was I touching you like this?” John starts a slow pull of friction, his fist a loose curl of pressure. It’s definitely a new feeling to be touching another man’s cock, but John finds it’s not as alien as he’d imagined it might be. Then again, late night and early morning fantasies had probably eased him past the worst of the first-time jitters, and currently his most pressing concern is coaxing as much pleasure from Sherlock’s body as he can – however he can.

“Oh – yes.” Sherlock shudders above him, arms shaking.

“What else?” He repeats the movement of his hand, a little faster, a little tighter. “What else did you dream?”

Sherlock blushes, and it takes a fair bit of control not to roll him over and pin him to the mattress with the sheer magnitude of his want – but John holds back and waits for Sherlock to articulate his desires. John’s never been in the position to make a dream come true before, and this promises to be mutually – ah – beneficial.

“What?” he urges when Sherlock has been still for several moments.

“I –” Sherlock swallows. “You let me suck you.”

John’s reply catches in his throat, and his hips jerk at the thought. Such uncomplicated little words, but string them together and say them in that voice… “Oh god,” he breathes.

“That’s how the dream usually starts,” Sherlock pants – John is still stroking him.

“Usually?” John asks. “You’ve had this dream before?”

“Yes.” Sherlock opens his eyes and looks into John’s. “John, I know you’re not –”

“Sod what I’m not,” John cuts in firmly. “I’m here, aren’t I?” The look in Sherlock’s face prompts to add, “I want to be here.”

With a low moan, Sherlock closes the distance again, another kiss given and taken, and then he slips down along the length of John’s body, unbuttoning as he goes, and while he’s busy with John’s zipper, socks, and shoes, John struggles out of his cuffs. He lies back and lifts his hips so Sherlock can divest him of trousers and pants.

The gleam in Sherlock’s eyes as he surveys his handiwork does a lot to undercut John’s momentary self-consciousness, and he relaxes into that regard, letting the tension in his muscles seep into the mattress beneath him.

Somewhere between ridding John of his multiple layers of garments, Sherlock shed his own tatty shirt, and when he leans down to inhale against the trail of dark golden hairs on John’s stomach, his skin slides teasingly against John’s cock. Sherlock’s hands drift to his hips, thumbs pushing circles into the skin, as if he could leave behind fingerprints so that other genius consulting detectives might know John’s taken.

Of course, that’s a silly thought – John knows there’s only one.

All thoughts are banished when Sherlock’s mouth closes around John’s cock, however, lips parting and taking the head while fingers brush against the foreskin. John gasps and arches as the slow press of wet heat suggests a different entrance –

But then Sherlock’s tongue, unrelenting and unforgiving in deduction, begins just so to take him apart in swirls and strokes. John pants and chokes back groans as Sherlock takes him deeper, swallows and works around him, an occasional whimper or muffled moan escaping him. John’s hips jerk, his legs thrash, and every last bit of him is desperate to fuck up into that hot mouth, Sherlock’s hot mouth, and oh –

“Sherlock,” John tries for a warning. He can feel his bollocks tightening, feel the sharp ache of his arousal peaking. “I –!” The rest of his warning is lost in a shout as he comes, and Sherlock surges forward, his nose pushing into John’s tawny curls, his throat and mouth coaxing John through each spasm of pleasure as he swallows and swallows –

“Oh god, Sherlock,” John gasps when he can form words again. “Oh god – you –” His arms are pulling Sherlock up before he consciously decides to, and then he’s kissing Sherlock, and every thought beyond touching and claiming and giving is gone, eradicated, deleted as the man panting into his mouth would say.

John lets his fingers find a nipple, and Sherlock’s gasp becomes a small quiver as that hand trails lower and lower, finding the leaking tip of Sherlock’s cock and still continuing lower. Sherlock makes a questioning sound, then a shocked moan erases it as John’s fingers cup and tease and fondle his balls.

“John –?”

John grins as he lifts his hand to his mouth and licks the palm, laving spit between his fingers and along the heel of his hand before he returns his attentions to Sherlock’s length.

“Oh!” Sherlock’s spine arches and this hips thrust his cock through the circle of John’s grasp. “Oh god!”

With his other hand, John brings Sherlock in for another kiss, groaning into those lips as he tastes himself in Sherlock’s mouth. He hooks a leg around Sherlock’s and urges him to thrust harder as he squeezes and slides along the heated length of him. “Come on,” he murmurs between messy kisses. Sweat makes their movements slick and sinful, their individual scents combining, tinted with arousal, and each ragged gasp pulls sex-laden air into their lungs where it saturates them. “Oh god Sherlock, I want to see you, come for me.”

“John,” Sherlock’s breath stutters out with a groan, his face a jumble of arousal and confusion, “I – I – please – I –”

This time, John listens to instinct and rolls them over, lets his weight press down against Sherlock, slips his other hand down to curl around Sherlock’s balls. When he presses his thumb against Sherlock’s perineum, he knows he’s got it – Sherlock keens at the touch, fucks up into John’s fist and then pushes back and down against his thumb.

When Sherlock comes, it’s with a shocked cry of pleasure, his body rigid then limp in surrender, and John lets the hot slick of semen smooth the last few strokes as Sherlock rides out the final waves of his orgasm.

They both collapse, sated and exultant, breathless and boneless.

 

Some time later, when the drugged haze of pleasure subsides, John finds he is on his back once more with two armfuls of consulting detective sprawled along and over him. Dark curls tickle his nose with each inhale. He can tell from Sherlock’s breathing and relaxed muscles that the man is asleep once more, this time deeply, no neglected erection to keep him from rest. John grins at the thought.

He knows they have a Conversation waiting for them when they are both awake and able again – but that’s not what has him excited and eager.

He can’t speak for Sherlock, but John knows he has had more than one dream that could bear some re-enactment…