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Your Hair Could Be Purple, I Wouldn't Care

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Sherlock is vain. He'll deny it, say it's all transport, that he doesn't care at all what he looks like. He becomes horribly offended when John makes the suggestion that he might be, and flounce out of the room and not speak to John for - well, as long as he can bear not speaking to John, which isn't very long at all. Possibly a half an hour. John thinks usually about twenty minutes.

John sees through the protestations, though. He sees how often Sherlock checks his own reflection, how he pulls that single curl jauntily down above his right eyebrow. Sherlock enjoys expensively tailored clothes that highlight every curve and angle of his body to a degree that makes it hard for John to think sometimes; John is confident that at least 50% of the not eating thing has absolutely nothing to do with The Work and everything to do with how flat Sherlock wants his stomach to be; he preens like a peacock whenever John tells him he’s gorgeous - which is embarrassingly frequently - and he spends an enormous amount of time in the loo before they go anywhere, making sure his hair is perfectly tousled.

He also pays more money for a single haircut than John has for every haircut he’s ever gotten in his entire life. Whenever he goes to get his hair cut, John rolls his eyes and tells him he really doesn’t have to pay £150 for perfect hair, because he’d be gorgeous bald. And Sherlock usually rolls his eyes back and laughs, and jogs down the steps, and comes back two hours later with the same perfectly mussed curls he left with.

It looks the same to me.

No. It’s...better.

How is it better?

It’s just...it just is.

You paid £150 for someone to make your hair look exactly the same as it did before.

John. Shut up.

It’s an observation.

This is their habit. Sherlock gets his hair cut. John mocks him. They spar about it. So the day that Sherlock comes back from getting his hair cut, with unusually quiet footfalls up the steps, and slips into their bedroom without a word to John, he knows something’s off.

“Sherlock?” John calls from the sitting room, where he’s been half heartedly dusting the clutter.

No answer.

“Babe? Everything okay?” John’s usually likes Sherlock’s mercurial nature, even though it can sometimes be a serious pain in the arse. When Sherlock won’t talk to him, though, that can mean something’s actually wrong.

The bedroom door is shut, silence within. John knocks, apprehension making his shoulders tense. The life they live, he’s always half on a knife’s edge, ready for anything to be behind a closed door. He can shift from sitting in his chair reading a book peacefully to pounding his feet behind Sherlock’s down a dark alley, gun in hand, within seconds.

So he’s mentally prepared for anything as he turns the knob on the bedroom door, and swings it slowly open. Except for Sherlock, laying face down on the bed with a pillow over his head, kicking his feet on the mattress like a child having a temper tantrum.

“Sherlock?” John’s right on the edge of laughing, Sherlock looks so bloody childish and ridiculous, but he bites into his bottom lip and tries to hold it in.

“Go.away.John.” Muffled by the pillow, Sherlock’s voice is wavering. John wonders suddenly if he’s crying.

“What’s wrong?”

“GO.AWAY.”

“No, I’m not going to go away. You’re going to take your head out from that pillow, you immature little bugger, and you’re going to tell me what the problem is.” John sits down on the edge of the bed and puts his hand in the dip of Sherlock’s lower back. “Hey. Talk to me.”

Sherlock twists away, trying to dislodge John’s hand, but doesn’t remove the pillow from his head. “I said go away. I don’t want to…”

“Right, we're not doing this.” John grabs the pillow and tugs. As it comes away in his hands - he is much stronger than Sherlock, despite being three stone lighter - a little gasp of oh escapes him. He immediately regrets it, as Sherlock folds his arms over his head and curls away from from John.

“Goddammit John! I said leave me alone!"

Sherlock’s hair is...just a mess. It’s inches and inches shorter than he’s ever had it before, close cropped on the sides, and there are little patches where it’s nearly shaved. Random longer strands stick up here and there, and there’s an incongruously long chunk of hair remaining at the front.

John covers his mouth with both hands. He mustn’t laugh. He mustn’t laugh.

Sherlock’s back is to him, and he can feel the fury and humiliation radiating off of him. John tentatively puts a hand on his back, and while he flinches, he doesn’t move away.

“What happened?”

“I had a STUDENT. He was in training.” Sherlock snarls derisively.

“Oh, sweetheart.” John can’t help the bubble of laughter that follows his words, and Sherlock wrenches away.

“Don’t pity me, John. Just go away. I'm never leaving this room again."

“How about we fix it? I’ve got clippers in the loo, we’ll just...I’ll fix it.”

“There’s no way to fix it. It’s irreparable.” Sherlock’s curled in the smallest ball he can manage, his voice bordering on that manic intensity that always makes John huff in affectionate frustration.

“It’s hardly irreparable, Sherlock. It’s hair. It grows. Even if we don’t do anything about it, it’ll grow out.” John gets up off the bed, and gives Sherlock an affectionate slap on the arse. “Now get your whingy self up off the bed, stop pouting, and let me help you make it better.”

Sherlock rolls onto his back and stares at John with steely grey eyes. His hair looks even worse from this angle, like a poorly executed mohawk, and John bites into his tongue to keep himself from giggling again.

“What did you say to her when you saw it?”

Sherlock hisses through his teeth, and John is reminded vaguely of a dragon who's out of fire and just breathing smoke. “Him. I told him he was a useless scabby little lizard and he would never amount to anything, and that his boyfriend was cheating on him. It was the shoes, you see. Knew the minute I saw them.”

“Oh, Sherlock. Jesus. Was that really necessary?”

“He deserved it. Look what he did to me!” Sherlock’s gesturing wildly now, his fingers plucking up the sections of his hair that he can still get ahold of.

“Come here, my petulant, vindictive little thing. We’re going to fix it.”

John holds out his hand to Sherlock and Sherlock reluctantly takes it. John pulls him into the loo and grabs one of the stools from the kitchen. He sits Sherlock on it, and takes his clippers in hand, trying to figure out the best way to go about this.

“Alright, just...don’t fidget. It’s going to be quite a bit shorter, okay? I can’t fix it without cutting more off.”  

Sherlock sets his hands in his lap, his back ramrod straight, and lets out a deep breath. His voice is deadly serious. “I’m ready, John.”

John turns the clippers on, and begins. He buzzes the sides, the back, takes the scissors he uses to trim his own hair and evens out the lump of curls that were left at the front. He gently bends Sherlock's ears to trim the curve of his hairline behind, tilts his head forward to even up the ragged hairs at his nape, fingers grazing the back of his neck. Sherlock is silent and still during the entire process. Finally, John takes the soft bristled brush and sweeps the hairs off of Sherlock’s neck and face, puts the clippers and scissors on the sink, takes Sherlock's face between his hands and kisses him gently on the mouth.

“Alright, you’re done.”

Sherlock stands up and looks in the mirror. His hair is short and tidy, curls in tight waves against his scalp, the sides and back just a few centimeters long. It’s even again, the edges army precise. He stares and stares. It's a good haircut, objectively, but he doesn’t look like himself.

“Thank you for fixing it. I still miss my hair.” Sherlock’s voice takes on the coldly sullen tone that John can’t help smiling at. He’s like a teenager sometimes, truly.

“It’ll grow back.” John snakes his arms around Sherlock’s waist and gazes up at him. “I think you look handsome as hell.”

“You do?” Sherlock finally tears his eyes away from his own reflection and looks questioningly down at John.

“Oh, yeah.” He presses a kiss to Sherlock’s neck, drags his fingers down his sides and over the swell of his hipbones.

“I think I look strange. My head looks enormous.” Sherlock’s trying to ignore him, to remain stubbornly irritated.

“Nope. Handsome. Very chic.” Kiss to his neck. Collarbone. Underside of his jaw. Sherlock’s breath is quickening, even though he’s holding on to the facade of being supremely uninterested.

“My hair balances out my uncommonly sharp bone structure. Without it, I look...pointy.”

“You’re so vain. Shut up. It’ll grow. And you look absolutely gorgeous to me no matter what. You could be bald. Your hair could be purple. I wouldn’t care.” John can’t get enough of him when he’s like this. He doesn’t know why, god he doesn’t know. It should be annoying. It should be infuriating.

But Sherlock in a strop is the sexiest thing John’s ever seen. It makes his blood run scalding hot. He wants to push him up against walls, drag him to bed and shut that smart mouth. He wants to tear his shirt open, buttons skittering across the floors, and bite his skin until he’s wallpapered in tiny rectangles from John’s teeth. He wants to pull that pouting bottom lip into his mouth and suck on it until Sherlock’s panting and begging.

“John…that’s...um, good...” Sherlock’s hands slip up and rest on John’s stomach, his head rolling to the side to expose more of his neck to John’s hungry lips.

“Mmmm. God, you make me completely crazy. I would love you, I would want you, if you were entirely covered in hair or had none. If you were the sloppiest dresser on the planet. If you wore tutus every day. If you wore horrible 1970’s bellbottoms all the time. Wait, that might be kind of sexy...” John stops kissing Sherlock to mull that over, and Sherlock smacks him and grins.

“Go on. I’m enjoying this.”

“What I’m saying is I don’t give a flying fuck what you look like.” It’s true, it’s the truest thing he’s ever said. John cares so much less about the transport than Sherlock does. “You are the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen, and it has nothing whatsoever to do with your appearance.”

Sherlock throws his head back and laughs, the vibrations of it rumbling through John’s lips as he kisses Sherlock’s throat. “What does that mean?”

“It means - you ridiculous arse - that I love you because there’s no other way for me to be, and I think you’re gorgeous because I could never for one second think anything else. And this…” He backs up and runs his palms up and down Sherlock’s chest, over his face, smoothes his hair. “This is beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but it’s the opening act. It’s not the main attraction.”

“What’s the main attraction, then?”

“Christ, I hope you’re just flirting and you’re not really that thick.” John’s eyebrows knit together and he gives Sherlock that pained expression that means he doesn’t know exactly what to do with him anymore. His gaze drifts down Sherlock’s neck, as it so often does, and back up to catch his eyes. “Because I couldn’t even begin to enumerate all the reasons I love you and want you and think you’re gorgeous and amazing and brilliant and spend half the day thinking about you writhing on the bed calling out my name. So you’ll just have to settle for I love you.

Sherlock’s eyes fall closed, his expression relaxed and happy. “I’ll settle for that.”

John wraps his lips around one of the tendons in Sherlock’s neck - Oh, John, yes, please -  and sucks hard, hard enough to leave a mark, which is exactly what Sherlock always wants and what John always wants to give him. The bruises, the broken capillaries perfectly in the shape of John’s mouth, the evidence that Sherlock belongs to John Watson. Sherlock displays them, doesn’t wear as many scarves as he used to.

John catches him looking at them all the time, running a slender fingertip over the purplish red rings, shivering a little as he traces where John's mouth was on him. He touches them at crime scenes, when he's deducing, rolls the skin between his fingers and grins to himself. It's part of his vanity, showing the evidence of being taken, being owned.

“No. I want - oh John - to be sullen." Sherlock bites his lip, hands clutching at John's waist. He knows, knows John can't stop touching him, when he's pouting, angry vibrating bottom lip stick out, fingers tapping furiously against his elbows.

It’s a game now, and they both know it. Their eyes meet, acknowledging how they’re going to play this out. Sherlock will be sulky until he’s lost the ability to, which will happen fairly quickly. John will rattle him, break him open, lay him raw and desperate in the way that only he’s allowed to. Then he'll do the same to John. 

He takes Sherlock’s hand, bends it back, rubs his face into his palm and then licks a long wet trail from Sherlock’s wrist to the crease of his elbow. Sherlock inhales sharply, teeth gnawing at his lower lip, his eyes intense, watching the pink tip of John’s tongue mapping his veins, tracing over his freckles.

"Oh, do you? You want to be sulky and stroppy all day?” John lowers his eyelashes, looks up at Sherlock through them, laps at his wrist between words. “Go ahead. Sulk. I’ll still have you. I’ll hold you down to the bed, put that clever mouth of yours to much better use.”

“Jesus Christ, John.” Sherlock’s flushing, the hollows under his cheekbones going a lovely apple red, maroon streaks up his neck.

“I can think of so...many...things...for you to do with that perfect mouth. Shall I tell you one of them?” He sucks out a bruise on Sherlock’s wrist, the blood prickling up easily beneath translucently thin skin. Sherlock moans softly, fingers twitching at the pressure on his tendons, and his other arm flexes around John’s waist.

Sherlock purrs out an assenting noise and rubs his face into the side of John’s neck, all hot breath and stubble. Raking his fingers through Sherlock's newly shorn hair, John stretches up on his tiptoes and wraps his arms around Sherlock's neck. He still gets a thrill, a delicious warm tingle suffused throughout his body, at being this close to Sherlock. He tries to cover the shiver, doesn't quite.

Sherlock smiles crookedly, that secret smile that no one but John is ever graced with, and tightens both arms around John, pulling him up until his toes are barely skimming the floor. Kisses him hard, tongue tracing the soft inside of John's lips. They’re breathing in each other’s breath, bellies heaving into each other, ribs pressing together, John backing Sherlock up and boxing him against the hallway door, kissing and kissing and kissing, and neither of them even remember how this started, what they were doing before it was heat and tongues, and saliva on blushed skin, fingers frantically undoing buttons. The minutes stretch out shiveringly long and hot, swollen mouths gasping against each other and Sherlock’s tongue dipping into the curve where John’s neck meets his shoulder, John’s hands flat inside Sherlock’s trousers, rubbing up and down his thighs.

“God, I could fucking kiss you forever.” John murmurs against Sherlock’s mouth, drifting his lips across his cheek and over his jaw.

“I thought you were going to tell me what I could do with my smart mouth.” Sherlock twirls the very point of his tongue over John’s earlobe, then over the sensitive skin behind.

“Fuck, Sherlock. God, yeah...I was…” Shucking his shirt off his shoulders, John spins them so he’s the one against the door. He plays with a short lock of Sherlock’s hair, eyes roaming over his stubble raw lips and whispers, “Go down on me, baby.”

The look on Sherlock’s face is lethal - dark eyes flashing sparks, he licks his bottom lip slowly, letting his teeth linger before he lets it go with a pop. John thumbs over Sherlock’s cheek, presses his thumb against Sherlock’s lips, and Sherlock grins wickedly, opens his mouth and takes John’s thumb in, his tongue cupped around it. John pulls his thumb out and presses two fingers into Sherlock’s willing mouth, all the breath leaving his lungs at the sensation of Sherlock’s tongue rolling against his knuckles, at the sight of his flushed face and eager lips.

John languidly retracts his fingers, the tips of Sherlock’s tongue drifting over his fingertips, and pushes on his shoulders. “Go on, you beautiful thing. Those perfect lips belong around my cock.”

Molten desire pulsing through him with every heartbeat, Sherlock kisses his way down John’s bare stomach, his eyes never leaving John’s, and sinks to his knees on the tile floor. Long fingers spidering over John’s hips, over his unbuttoned jeans, Sherlock leans in and mouths over John’s erection, sucking gently, his teeth scraping over the fabric. John groans, knees giving out a little, and he clutches at Sherlock’s head.

“I can’t pull your hair anymore.” John laughs, and the intensity breaks for a moment.

Try.” Sherlock wraps his fingers around John’s hand and presses it hard into his head. Then he slides John’s jeans down over his thighs, runs his hands back up his legs, over the curve of his knees, taut muscles of his thighs, tugs his pants down, his erection bobbing free. “Oh, John…"

John sinks his fingers into Sherlock’s short hair as best he can and drags his head forward. Sherlock’s tongue is on him before the rest of his mouth, licking at the slit as his hand closes around the base and gently pulls John’s cock down to meet his lips. Nerves crackling, John shivers hard, bracing himself against the door and gripping the towel bar above his shoulder. The sight of Sherlock on his knees, his mouth around John’s cock, never fails to make him absolutely weak with desire. No one else will ever have, has ever had, Sherlock this way. The magnitude of that, understanding he alone in the world has the power to quell The Great Brain, subvert all that energy and quivering curiosity into raw desire, John can't ever comprehend how he's managed it. 

Sherlock is a wonder. And somehow he belongs body and soul to John Watson. 

His shoulders quake as Sherlock sinks his mouth all the way down John’s length, hollowing his cheeks and pulling, tongue lapping at the underside. His hands slip around to cup John’s arse, thumbs rubbing gentle circles. Those expressive lips contract and then loosen, rhythmically working over John’s cock, pulling at his foreskin, teasing the at the head, kissing the tip, and then sinking down and going tight around the base. Sherlock knows exactly how John likes it by now, times every single movement precisely, John thinks he’s probably memorised everything down to the second to give John maximum sensation.

“Oh fuck...Sherlock...Christ, that’s so good…” He can feel his cock throbbing against Sherlock’s tongue, the gentle touch of his teeth, the heat and tightness of his throat and his fingers automatically try to tangle in Sherlock’s curls, which aren’t there anymore.

Sherlock swallows, his tongue flexing as he does, and a crackling electricity ripples through John at the motion. His stomach muscles contract, body curving over Sherlock’s head, and suddenly he’s close, so close. Sherlock senses it, pulls off, his mouth wet and shining, a line of saliva running down his chin. He stares up at John with his swollen lips parted, looking wanton and destroyed, and John can’t take his eyes off him, breathing hard through those perfectbloodybeautifulwonderful lips, Sherlock’s own erection still trapped in his trousers. Now a blow job isn’t enough. John needs that body undulating underneath him, he needs to feel himself moving inside him. He needs Sherlock calling his name and clawing at his shoulders.

“You are the sexiest fucking creature. Get up.” John wraps his hands around Sherlock’s forearms and pulls him up, kicking off his own jeans and pants as he does. “God, baby, I need you, I need inside you. Right now.”

Sherlock swoops in with a warm wet kiss, tasting of John. They kiss softly for a moment, Sherlock petting gently at John’s hair, affectionate and slow, allowing John’s desperate desire to cool a bit. Sherlock breaks contact, sucking John’s bottom lip into his mouth as he pulls away. “Well, come on, then. I thought you were going to make me forget all about my hair...”

“You’re going to forget it, and everything else, with my cock in your arse and my fingers in that wicked mouth.” Sherlock sucks in a hitching breath as John reaches round and squeezes his arse, bites at his neck. “Oh, you like that. You’re so filthy, Sherlock. God, you love it. You’re gasping for it, aren’t you?”

“Fuck, yes.” Sherlock manhandles John into the bedroom and pushes him roughly onto the bed, still unmade and rumpled from Sherlock’s tantrum earlier. He shucks his own trousers and pants, and climbs over John like a predatory cat, sinewy and silent.

John props himself on his elbows, watching the progress of Sherlock up his body. He's heavy with desire, weighted to the bed, his blood thick in his veins. Sherlock dips his head and laps at John's thigh, nuzzles against his testicles, kisses his lower belly. All John can do is moan softly, his thighs falling open. There's a desperate tightness, every muscle in his lower body contracting, making his cock twitch and his arse clench.

Sherlock opens his mouth pornographically wide, the whole length of his tongue lapping over John's stomach, flat and wide over his nipples, collarbones, until he reaches the sweet soft hollow of John's throat and he presses a strangely chaste kiss there.

Sex is always this way with them, rarely one or the other, neither frantic and dirty or soft and sweet, but always both. Frenetic lust giving way to murmured promises, heating up again into pinned arms and rutting hips, before settling into each other's embrace and locking eyes, gazing at each other as whisperingly gentle as an evening summer breeze.

"I love you. You make everything else in the world seem so unimportant." Sherlock's voice is reverent, awed. He peppers John's neck and jaw with small kisses, lingering and tender.

"Even your hair?" John laughs breathlessly, one hand coming up and smoothing over Sherlock's sweaty shoulder.

Sherlock huffs out a quick laugh, rubs his face against John's cheek. "Even my hair."

John turns them slowly, slotting his knee in between Sherlock's legs and rolling over until Sherlock's on his back and John's half on top of him. His eyes follow his hand down the side of Sherlock's face, over the rise and fall of his chest, until John wraps his fingers around Sherlock's cock and starts working over him loosely.

Sherlock moans and arcs off the bed, the fingers of his left hand clutching the top of the headboard, the fingers of his right digging into the back of John's neck. He pumps his hips into John's hand, chest heaving, thighs trembling.

"Oh John, oh god, faster...please...yeah, oh god faster..." He's whimpering, grunting, the sounds he makes during sex so needful and beautiful that just listening to him sometimes tips John into orgasm.

John kisses his chest, runs his palm over the wet head of Sherlock's cock, smearing precome down his shaft, and slides his hand down to cradle his testicles. He squeezes gently, tugs just enough as he sinks his teeth into the skin around one pink perfect nipple.

"Oh fuck, John, fuck, harder -" Sherlock's thrashing, his knee coming up over John's hip, fingers clawing at the nape of John's neck and pushing his teeth deeper into Sherlock's chest.

John bites harder. He's drawn blood before. They have an understanding that John won't do that unless Sherlock explicitly says it's alright, but he does, frequently. He wants it now, John can tell. His own desire is spiraling. He wants inside, into the intimate heat of Sherlock's body.

"Please John, do it. I want you to," whispers Sherlock hoarsely, craning his neck to kiss to top of John's head.

John tightens his hold on Sherlock's cock, fingers dragging along his velvety foreskin as the precome dries with the friction, and bites into Sherlock's chest hard. Just as John feels the pop of Sherlock's skin snapping under his teeth and tastes the warm blood on his tongue, Sherlock moans deep in his throat and bucks his hips up, pulsing in John's hand, come splashing over his belly and slipping down his sides.

"Yeah baby, that's it, that's it, I've got you...Jesus fucking Christ, I love to watch you come." John laps at the fresh bite mark, and then at the wetness on Sherlock's stomach, the tastes of Sherlock's blood and come mingling in his mouth, salt and metal spreading across his palate, absorbing Sherlock into his bloodstream. He's immediately burning hotter, needs to be inside him now. He’s dizzy with it.

“Need to fuck you. Now.” He can hardly gasp out the words, reaching across Sherlock and fumbling for the lube, slopping it all over his fingers and Sherlock tries to catch his breath underneath him.

Sherlock’s still twitching through aftershocks when John pushes a finger into him, and then another. Sherlock makes a high pitched whine and bites into his lip, muscles clamping down around John’s fingers. He’s still bleeding. John rubs his lips across the bite, smearing blood onto his mouth, and kisses Sherlock deeply, thrusting his fingers into him.

“John…” Sherlock groans his name into his blood smeared mouth and John can’t wait any more.

"Need to fuck you,” he rasps out again, clamboring over Sherlock’s thighs and kneeling between them.

“Yeah, come on, John.” Sherlock bends his knees, lifts his hips, pulls John toward him. Flushed and mottled from his orgasm, his half hard cock laying maroon against his pale skin, blood still beading on his chest, he’s obscenely beautiful. Yet Sherlock’s eyes are actually what John can’t stop looking at. The want, the love, the raw affection beaming from them, it’s intoxicating.

“I never did anything to deserve you,” he says in a hush, working the lube over his cock and bending forward.

“You have done everything to deserve me, John. Everything. It’s I who doesn’t deserve you.” Sherlock smiles and strokes the side of John’s face, cradling his jaw. John turns and presses his lips to Sherlock’s palm, licks over the purpling bruise he left on Sherlock’s wrist.

“I love you.” John lines up and pushes in, feeling Sherlock’s body opening to him, and the sensation is so intense he has to grip Sherlock’s hip to steady himself. “Oh god oh god, you feel so good. I’m never going to last, baby.”

“Come on John, fuck me. Hard. I want it.” Sherlock loops his arms around John’s neck and pulls him forward. John braces himself with his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head, and sinks fully into the sweet warmth of Sherlock’s body.

He wants it to last, he wants to fuck him for hours, their sweaty bodies moving against each other, Sherlock’s baritone rumbling in his ear, their fingers locked together above Sherlock’s head. He can’t, though. Sherlock feels so good, and John’s practically drunk with arousal.

His head falls back, snapping his hips hard against the lovely curve of Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock’s hands are in his hair, and he’s whispering something, John doesn’t know what. The room goes grey, out of focus. All he can see is a ring of blood against pale skin and Sherlock’s plump lips moving under him, and suddenly he’s coming, stilling his hips, pressed into Sherlock as deep as he can get. He can’t breathe, and then he’s breathing too fast, everything’s too hot, his skin is too hot, and he’s just jerking and pulsing into Sherlock over and over. Milky white seeping out from around him onto the sheets as he breathes in hard, trying to get enough air to bring some blood back to his brain, and slowly collapses down onto Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock’s arms encircle John’s shoulders and stroke down his perspiring back. They lay that way for many minutes, until the weight of John on top of him becomes suffocating, and Sherlock rolls them to the side without breaking the embrace. Their legs tangle together and John nuzzles sleepily against Sherlock’s chest, making little snuffling noises that go straight to Sherlock’s soul. He holds John tighter. John licks his lips and sighs, draping an arm over Sherlock’s waist.

It never matters what time of day they make love, John always falls asleep. He crashes from the endorphins, becoming unintelligible seconds after they’re finished.

Sherlock traces with a fingertip John’s eyelids, his nose, the cleft of his chin. He kisses him lightly on the mouth and John responds drowsily, lips soft and kiss-swollen. There’s a throbbing feeling in his chest, and Sherlock looks down, surprised to see a ring of dried blood and smears of it across his breastbone. Oh. Right.

He disentangles himself from John, who whimpers in protest, but then falls slack against the pillow. Sherlock pads into the bathroom and takes stock of himself in the mirror, his newly cut hair frizzed and stuck out in odd little spikes, his face red and scratched, body covered in blood and semen. He grins at his reflection. This is exactly how he’d always like to look. Not perfect and put together. Thoroughly debauched by John Watson.

He washes the bite, cleans it with peroxide and then wets a flannel, rubs some soap onto it and wipes the blood and the come off of him, washes his face. He returns to the bedroom and gently wipes John down, too, who barely moves. Sherlock climbs in bed and tucks himself in beside John, who immediately rolls and bends and wraps himself to Sherlock’s side, humming contentedly.

Sherlock kisses John’s forehead and then reaches for his phone, still in his pants at the side of the bed. He can’t sleep, but he can’t stand to leave John’s side, either. He’ll return emails and check the blog while John mumbles in his sleep and curls against his body. Just as he swipes open his phone, John mutters something.

Sherlock leans closer to see if he can make it out.

“Mmmm...I like your hair...mmmm...short.” John smacks his lips and rubs his head against Sherlock’s stomach, and Sherlock knows he’s dreaming.

“Obviously, John.” Sherlock laughs and tightens his arm around John, the bite on his chest throbbing pleasantly. "Obviously."