Sometimes, John can’t believe that he’s really dating Sherlock. It’s been a dream so long – unconfessed to anyone, even when everyone and their mother seemed to clue into it – that it could, technically, be just another fantasy. Maybe one criminal or another got him, he’s been put into a coma for medical reasons, and his brain decided to entertain itself the all-too-common way.
But that’s just the semi-philosophical self-defeating thoughts John is prone to – until Sherlock notices and kisses them away. He always notices, bless him, only ever oblivious in his life to his blogger’s affections, and that only because “I’m biased, John, I've always been biased, what if I was projecting? You weren’t exactly forthcoming, you know.”
“Yeah well, you shot me down before I even properly tried, so.” John shrugs, letting their memories make the point for him. He might not have the best track record in relationships (though basically every failure in the past was due to conflicting priorities, until Sherlock finally became his only one), but John Watson would always, always respect anyone’s boundaries. Even when he very much couldn’t get the person out of his mind.
It’s an argument they rehash every now and then – so much time lost, and sometimes it feels like a physical burden, all the missed love, left to simmer between them, that they won’t ever be able to catch up with. That always ends in feverish kisses and, unless an eight or higher comes knocking, some brilliant lovemaking. Which is the reason neither is eager to settle it once and for all.
Sherlock’s experiments now extend to ‘how many times can they both cum in a row’ and ‘which touches draw the most interesting sounds out of John’ and many other studies in which his partner is all too eager to participate. But this doesn’t mean they’ve been ‘scandalising Mrs. Hudson’ (as a very smug Harry likes to say since they shared their relationship) all the time, letting the rest of their life crumble.
For one thing, Mrs. Hudson is far from scandalised – she said they could always come to her for suggestions, if they wanted, “because what you find on computers nowadays are mostly things that never worked for anyone. Tried and true, that’s my motto.” She didn’t even ask them to contribute to further soundproofing the flat, “Just make it worth the expense, you two.”
For another, even if they now have higher standards of what’s worth rushing to check, because there are other ways to weather the sleuth’s boredom, there’s no way that Sherlock would just drop the consulting altogether. London’s unsolved crimes would pile up, which would lead to Greg developing semi-permanent headaches, which would lead to a very annoyed Mycroft, which would lead to…uh, possibly a war or two. That’s another thing that makes life feel like a dream, lately. The inspector finally divorced…and the elder Holmes sibling swept him off his feet like a bloody princess in one of these godawful romances the wife left everywhere (Greg’s own words, once he was brilliantly drunk). But most of all, Sherlock wouldn’t be the man he is – the man John fell in love with – if he retired just to keep John in bed all day, as pleasant as that sounds.
Which still meant week-long cases with only a little napping in between - because time was of the essence, and because Sherlock didn’t know how to turn his brain off when a puzzle was nagging him, and he would just glare if John suggested he had an idea. These led invariably to crashing for at least 18 hours, or more. Sometimes even on the sofa, if his stubborn love couldn’t be bothered, but John tried to move him to their bed at some point. Thankfully, once Sherlock was back in the land of the living – and had some food in him, because insomnia wasn’t the only flaw they were working on – it was also, invariably, time to catch up on all the missed affection with some brilliant sex.
The only inconvenience in such a plan was that John always woke earlier than his overtaxed love. Hours earlier. Partly because he had enough common sense to snatch longer naps, and partly because his military training wouldn’t let him hibernate like the detective was prone to do. And his erection awakened with him, raging at having been ignored, and knowing it was its turn now – or at least, it better be very soon.
John tried everything. Taking the edge off in the shower, getting up to cook for his sure to be ravenous partner, distracting himself with everything from cat videos to thriller books. Nothing worked too well. It didn’t help that Sherlock asleep was a sight to inspire a Baroque sculptor, all languid lines and scattered curls. Or, in the simpler terms John would use when he was not trying (and failing) at poetry, utterly pornographic.
Which was the reason he, brave as always, decided to broach the subject one day, when no case was actually in sight, and his love was starting to be restless. “This might sound weird,” he said, getting up from his armchair to play with his sulky partner’s curls.
The sleuth turned around on the sofa, to face him, eyes sparkly. “Finally something interesting then?”
“Depends on your point of view, I suppose.” John shrugged. “You know when you finally sleep after cases that get to be a tad too long?”
“Don’t tease me with things that are still so far away,” the consulting detective whined.
John chuckled. “Well, teasing is a bit what I am talking about, love. Even if you obviously don’t mean to be, you’re a terrible tease when you’re all angelic and yet somehow sensuous when you sleep, and when I wake up I’m terribly tempted to do all manner of things to you. I know it’s not exactly common, but – well, would you mind terribly if I…indulged? I promise, I’ll do my best to be gentle and not wake you up. I know you need your rest.”
“Are you honestly asking if I mind undoubtedly having wonderful wet dreams, and giving you as much pleasure as I’m able? Seriously John, you could have helped yourself all this time and I’d only have been grateful,” Sherlock replied, raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah, well, I’ve been brought up better than to just assume. For right now, though…do you prefer that I find you some cat videos to distract you, or are you going to bug Molly for body parts?”
Molly was kind enough to yield 7 different ears that day, from related and unrelated people. John privately suspected that Sherlock’s experiment was more of a guessing game, but knew better than to mention it.
Two weeks later, an interesting case finally came along – it seemed like ‘just a runaway teenager’ at first, but the things they discovered made John’s blood boil and his stomach roll. If, for once, Greg hadn’t managed to come along, he probably wouldn’t have any suspect to arrest – and John wouldn’t have lost sleep over it.
At the end of it, though, they were all properly knackered; that’s what taking down criminal rings will do to you. They stumbled together into a shower, the urge to get clean after what they’d seen even stronger than thirst or sleep, and afterwards almost rolled into bed, throwing a bath towel on it because even just drying required energies they simply didn’t have at the moment.
They fell asleep tangled, Sherlock’s arm slung around John’s torso, one of John’s ankles slipping between his lover’s, bodies curled against each other. The world wasn’t welcome in their little cocoon. Each other’s warmth and breath was enough, this time, to ward away the nightmares, despite the horrors of the day.
About twelve hours later, if he had to judge from the angle of the rays striping down his lover’s face and the duvet, John woke up. That was the second thought, though…okay, more like seventh... , because in his sleep, he’d ended up nuzzling Sherlock, his head resting on the other’s shoulder, and so opening his eyes he was treated to a close up of a half-open mouth, designed by Eros himself. John actually bit his own lips, before remembering he didn’t need to deny himself anymore.
He started moving, slowly, carefully, his hand weaving with his partner’s and angling it gently away. That gave John the space needed to roll over and straddle his sleeping beauty. It seemed to take forever, as he stopped many times to check that the sleuth’s breath was still even. He would hate for his own lust to rob the detective of some much-needed rest.
Once the position was more or less to his liking, John guided Sherlock’s hand to rest on his naked arse. He repressed a moan. Yes. This was a very good start. As a way to stop himself from going out of control – which would result undoubtedly in a premature awakening of his love – John started dropping soft kisses and tiny licks wherever he could easily reach, tracing constellations and love messages, and then following them up with one single finger pad.
Then, slowly, he lowered himself down, finally brushing his cock against Sherlock’s now less sleepy one. Once again, John mouthed against a pec to stop himself from moaning loudly. In moments, he’d started a rhythm, up and down, side by side, hips rolling. When his love’s breaths turned into a low moan, John stilled immediately. It wasn’t the first time the detective talked in his sleep, though. When the body under him remained slack – apart from a couple of abortive thrusts, his lover clearly displeased with the sudden stop – the blogger smiled to himself. A gentle pat on a hip, and he indulged the both of them again.
As slow as he was being, the orgasm took John by surprise, sneaking on him sudden and breath-stealing. As soon as he found his bearings again, at least enough to realise that Sherlock was still softly thrusting against him, the blogger slithered down further under the covers, and eagerly started to lap at Sherlock’s groin. His own cum always tasted lovely for some reason, when mixed with his lover’s skin. But that wasn’t what he was really after. It was a bit awkward doing so under the covers, blindly, but somehow it made everything even more intense. More erotic. The taste, smell, and feel of his beloved’s cock, when he managed to latch on it. The contours he traced with his tongue. The first bead of precum in his mouth.
He hummed to himself, which never failed to arouse Sherlock further. Knowing his love was entirely at his mercy sent another frisson through him. Not that he would ever do anything Sherlock didn’t like, but – this abandon somehow hit all his buttons.
And he gave back with eagerness – his lover’s orgasm soon proof that John could pleasure him even without the sense he relied most on. Nothing more than a sigh signalled it, so the doctor had accomplished his mission. Pleasure without awakening. Slowly, he backed away and managed to leave the bed raising the duvet only minimally, so that the warm cocoon around Sherlock wouldn’t be disturbed.
John went to get himself some breakfast with a proud smile on his face.
Hours later, a sheet-clad detective trailed in the kitchen. “You could have,” he started, but then saw his partner’s grin. “Oh. You did!”
His blogger nodded.
“I’m a bit disappointed that I don’t remember that dream,” Sherlock said, pouting.
“Let’s get some food in you…and then you can have a full re-enactment for the sake of your mind palace archives.”