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A Right Sap

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“Christ, your hair is a wreck,” John says, his voice raspy and sleep-touched as he shuffles beneath the mound of blankets, drawing himself closer to Sherlock. “Who knew your hair could look that disheveled?”

Sherlock makes no move to get closer to John, instead smushing the right side of his face down into his pillow and blinking, annoyed, at his bedmate. “I shant be talked to like this in my own bed,” he returns, voice equally laden with slumber.

John smiles, a sweet tipping of his lips, and then presses his mouth into a line as he glances up and down the covered length of Sherlock’s body. The mid-morning light cuts through the miniscule cracks in Sherlock’s curtains, giving the room a soft, gray glow. It’s the sort of light that lends itself to quiet morning confessions and delicate, revealing kisses, the sort of light that contains the promise of the day.

John sighs, teeth worrying at his bottom lip. “So.”

Sherlock wriggles his knees forward until he’s curled in a near fetal position, his patellas touching John’s warm thighs. They’re the both of them a bit sweaty, sticky beneath the blankets, but neither makes a move to divest himself of any. They’re too close to perfect, at the moment.

Sherlock’s hand drifts over and his fore and middle finger lightly graze the nub of John’s left nipple beneath the sheets. “So.”

John rolls his eyes at Sherlock and then reaches out to curve his warm right palm against Sherlock’s shoulder. “Where’d the condom end up?”

His shoulders lift against the bed. “Does it matter?”

“Well, if I were you I wouldn’t want a pool of spunk drying to my bedroom floor, but then that’s me.”

“Hmph.”

“I’m just saying if we’re going to make a habit out of this, we-”

This?” Sherlock asks, tone piqued with curiosity, as though taking some sort of offense to the word.

John’s tongue comes out, touches his upper lip before sneaking back inside his mouth. “Yeah, this sleeping together business.”

One fluffy, charcoal brow–the one that is visible–curves to an interested peak. “You say that as though you assume that I would believe this to be a one-off.”

John snorts through his nose and turns onto his back, gaze focused on the ceiling. “Best friends don’t have one-offs, you berk. Best friends don’t say the things that you said to me and that I said to you and then have one another’s bits inside of each another and get to call it a one-off.”

Sherlock hums, delightedly. “That was fantastically convoluted.”

“Oh, shut up,” John grumbles, even though he’s grinning.

“No more condoms on the floor, then,” Sherlock chuckles, conceding to John’s original point. “Come back here,” Sherlock demands and John’s face does a funny thing, scrunches up as though he’s been caught unawares, as though he can’t quite believe what he’s just heard.

“Pardon?”

“Come back here,” Sherlock insists, a little whiny, his eyes all lit up and eager. He pats the vacant space between them. “This is the best part.”

“The best part of what?” John asks even as he struggles closer to Sherlock while keeping himself covered beneath the heavy duvet.

Sherlock grins and snakes a hand over John’s hip and tugs and tugs him close. “The morning. What I’ve been led to believe is called the afterglow.”

“The afterglow is after you come, Sherlock,” John corrects, good-naturedly. “When everything is all oxytocin and endorphins.”

“Oh, do shut up and enjoy a cuddle, would you?” And Sherlock brings his face close, close, close to John’s and bumps the tip of his nose against the tip of John’s nose and drags, back and forth. Sherlock Holmes gives John Watson eskimo kisses and something light and delicate and utterly profound opens within John.

It takes a moment to loosen his throat enough that he’s able to speak. “You know, I think…” But he can’t think, not really, he can’t get his brain out in front of what he needs to say. There’s a magnitude to this, a way to confer his point so that there are no gray areas, so that Sherlock understands. “Last night was…”

“Incredible,” Sherlock supplies, his voice rumbling through John’s body.

“No, I-”

“Incandescent,” he tries again, voice a bit louder.

“Sherlock, I-”

“Magnificent!” his voice booms and John sputters out a laugh, twists up onto his elbows and then clamps a palm over Sherlock’s mouth. Mirth dances in Sherlock’s eyes as he allows himself to be quieted and John just stares down at him, slips his free fingers around a few tousled curls and tugs.

They just look at one another for a moment. “It was… momentous, yeah?” Sherlock, silent, nods. “It was maybe… I think, something that you and I had been very close to- something we’d been on the verge of for a long time.”

Sherlock blinks.

“A long time, a very long time,” John laughs breathlessly. “And I suppose I just want you to know now, after all of this, because I think I should tell you that,” John takes a quick little sip of air and smiles down at Sherlock. “You’re it, for me. This is it.”

After a moment he peels his hand away, shrugs, and waits for Sherlock to respond. Primly, Sherlock clears his throat and presses his lips into a delicate purse. “I am afraid, John, that I’ll need you to be a bit more clear. A bit more concrete in your intent.”

John laughs loudly, a deep belly thing even as he rolls his eyes. “You complete and utter dick, I am stupidly besotted with your impossible arse, can’t see myself ever not being so, alright?”

“Mmm, not quite what I was looking for, but-”

“Yes, okay!” John says, laughs, falls back onto the pillow and tilts his head so that he’s looking at Sherlock. “I love you. I love you, Sherlock Holmes, most impossible, egotistical man on the damned planet, I love you. Yeah? Yeah? That what you wanted to hear?”

Sherlock plays at looking taken aback. “My, you don’t need to be so forceful about it.” And John growls and leans over and presses their mouths together, both of them a bit sleep-sour and neither caring.

“M’love you too,” Sherlock sighs into John’s open mouth and the words sound wonderful and surprised and he falls into the kiss, allows John to take him over with his smiling mouth. For a while there are the soft, slick sounds of their kisses, neither wanting to stop because the revelation has left the both of them a bit raw and dumbstruck. Sherlock’s warm, enormous palms cover John’s shoulders and hold him down against Sherlock, their sweat-slick bodies pressing against one another without hurry.

“Here I thought,” Sherlock says, as the kisses turn lighter, begin to peter away, “that my sexual prowess was about to be complimented. I hadn’t expected the whole love nonsense, but I have to say that was quite welcome as well.”

“Oh yeah?” John asks, leaving one, last kiss on the tip of Sherlock’s nose.

“If you wanted to compliment my sexual prowess however…”

“Tcha,” John huffs a laugh through his teeth, settling back against the pillow. “You’re a really good lay.”

“Ah, yes, well, thank you,” Sherlock laughs back and then wriggles over until he can sink his teeth gently into the meat of John’s shoulder. “Oh, and you are too, I suppose.”

“Don’t need to hear that,” John jokes. “Already know that.”

The right side of Sherlock’s mouth curls into a smile and he reaches over to lace his fingers with John’s. “And yet I am the one with the ego?”

“Oh shut up and enjoy your cuddle.”

“I would if you’d get over here!”

“I could not possibly be any closer to you. God, your hair really is a mess.”

“Why do I bother?” Sherlock says as he suddenly moves to gather a half-heartedly escaping John to his chest. They laugh as John resists his efforts, giggles petering out as Sherlock tucks him up and in, their bodies warm and quiet and against.

“No more condoms on the floor,” Sherlock affirms.

“Definitely not,” John hums in answer and they drift off, sweet and heavy in one another’s arms.