The moment right after sex is the one John likes best.
Well, that's not true; the sex itself is the one he likes best, really – but the moments right after it, those he cherishes.
Because everything is warm, soft, and relaxed; when their breathing has slowed back down to a relaxed rhythm and their bodies are still buzzing, but not seeking completion, looking for release, gasping for pleasure. That is when they can kiss, speak through quiet moans into each other’s mouths that mean ‘I want you’, without actually needing to use the words.
He likes it best because Sherlock is quiet; his beautiful, full mouth – like a woman’s, red and swollen, how was John so blessed – relaxed, lips pressing to John’s, releasing, chasing John again. As much as John adores hearing Sherlock speak, voice the breath taking workings of his phenomenal mind, there are times when he just needs him to be quiet, needs his mouth to be otherwise occupied.
Sometimes, though, it doesn't happen. Sometimes John’s pretty fantasy is shattered; like now.
They're lying in bed, on their sides, facing each other, nude except for the bed sheets that cover the lower half of their bodies. The room is warm and smells of them; it's really late at night, but John has lost track of time.
“This has become rather easy for you,” Sherlock’s voice rumbles, as he burrows his face in the pillow a little, licks his upper lip after another lazy, passionate kiss.
“Mmmmh?,” John asks, crawling his hand down on the mattress and reaching towards him, with closed eyes, to kiss that sinful mouth again. “What has become easy?”
“You always have me whenever you want.”
John goes back to lying on his side, watching him. Sherlock licks the kiss from his lips.
“Hmmm,” John only says. His eyelids are at half mast, his head pleasantly fuzzy; he hopes Sherlock will shut up soon because right now it's not the time for talking.
“Hmm. Move your arm,” he growls softly. With his nose he nudges at the arm that Sherlock set down on the mattress in front of his chest to keep himself propped up on his side. Sherlock does as he's asked, and when he gets his arm out of the way and over his side his left pectoral is exposed; John leans down, towards the nipple that's begging to be kissed and bitten – that's what he's been doing to it not even an hour ago – and kisses it, takes it into his mouth, licks all around it and gently bites, gently nibbles at it.
“Ah!” Sherlock closes his eyes; John laves his nipple softly for a few moments, then pushes with his chin against Sherlock’s chest to make him lie down on his back, half-climbs on top of him, still latching onto the nipple, sucking from it.
“Ah. John,” Sherlock moans again. His strong chest arches up beautifully from the bed, head thrown back on the soft white pillow; he breathes into it for a few more seconds – his hand goes on John’s head, his fingers rake gently through his hair and John knows he's watching. Then the hand moves again, and tentatively pushes at John's forehead to make him let go.
“This is what I mean.” Sherlock resumes his speech. “You just have me, whenever you want. Do whatever you want with me.”
John stops. Looks up at him from down over his ribcage.
“Because you don't want it as well?”
“Of course I do,” Sherlock says, with the roll of his eyes he reserves for when John is stating the absolute, most evident obvious.
John leaves his eyes half-open, doesn't fight the mistiness in favour of becoming more alert, because when he gets like this Sherlock tends to speak in riddles, leaves sentences half-built and inconclusive, sometimes even berates John for not understanding but ultimately, nothing comes from it: he forgets about it the day after, or when a new case comes, or when he starts a new experiment – and John has learnt that the whole exercise is just not worth the effort it requires on his part.
He moves back up Sherlock’s body, until he's over him, eyes to eyes, mouth to mouth.
“You always come,” he murmurs on Sherlock’s lips, low, husky. Kisses him; slow, warm, push, pull, a deep inhale, a light bite on the plush lower lip. When it's done, Sherlock looks up at him, blue eyes penetrating even in the darkness, and nods.
"I always come."
John can't help but smile, proudly, a bit bashfully perhaps. He's always surprised at how much he still likes to be told that he does a good job in bed.
"But still. It's way too easy, John!”
The spell is broken. John drops his forehead back onto Sherlock's chest, sighs loudly.
"It's true, John! We'll get bored soon. Our marriage will grow stale."
"Our marriage will not grow stale!", John counters, exasperated. "Jesus, Sherlock. Where do you even find-"
"We need to role play."
The words hang between them; resonate like the chimes of a very big, very thunderous church bell. John blinks, narrows his eyes; chews on the inside of his lower lip.
"Yes, John. Role play. You know what that is. And I'm sure you've done it before - likely plenty of times..." The sentence ends with an echo of a question, and his eyes stare into John's meaningfully.
"I'm not discussing my past sexual encounters with you."
"Right. So you've done it. So you know. We should do it."
Slowly, John sits up, takes a deep breath. Role play? He didn't think Sherlock would be into that; he doesn't even know where Sherlock got the idea, in fact. He isn't sure he wants to know.
"Just once? Just to try.” Sherlock’s voice's no longer snappy now, gone back to his usual, low, seduce-John-in-bed timbre. And as usual, it works; John lets it seduce him. It's not that he doesn't like what Sherlock's proposing, anyway - he's just surprised, is all.
"And what are you thinking of-"
"I want you to want me again."
John frowns. "Sherlock, I do want you-"
"No, " Sherlock purrs, pulls himself up to half-sit on the bed so he's close to John. "I want you to seduce me. As if you don't know me. As if we're strangers." He leans closer to John, nuzzles with his nose against John's mouth, his cheek. His voice is velvet, hot smooth honey when he speaks.
"As if you have to woo me…impress me, so you can have my body."
Fuck. If that wasn't some very vivid image, indeed. John closes his eyes, while Sherlock is still breathing hot on his face, and feels that he's become hard almost instantly at just that mere handful of words.
"And how-" he tries to speak, has to clear his throat. "How do you suggest we do it, hmm?"
Sherlock kisses him, light, but with his full mouth pressed firm against John's thirsty lips.
"We go out....meet somewhere? One of those bars people like so much. I'll dress up...wait for you at the counter..."
John closes his eyes, while Sherlock's mouth hovers over his as if to kiss, breathes hot breaths on his already incensed skin. He pictures the scenario in his head - a posh bar, Sherlock in his dark grey suit, the one with the black shirt worn underneath that makes his body look incredible, all narrow waist and strong thighs and the outline of nipples under the shirt - leaning on the counter, sipping on a glass of wine while all eyes are on him, people probably thinking he is indeed a prostitute, a luxury expensive escort anybody can hire and take home to touch and undress and-
Sherlock's mouth closes. He lifts his head straight. "No?"
"We're not doing that. We're not role playing in a bar. With people. No."
"I said no." John's voice is firm, his tone final. He feels his body burn, his muscles all tense - he's a terribly jealous partner, and so he isn't surprised at the onslaught of possessiveness that particular thought of Sherlock has caused in him.
Sherlock raises wide eyes on him.
“John. It’s only pretending. Don’t be absurd.”
John clears his throat. He knows he’s being absurd, thank you very much; he’s thinking ‘we’re pretending, but what if someone gets your attention before me?’, and he perfectly knows how utterly ridiculous and stupid that sounds. He can't help looking down, at Sherlock's hand on the mattress, at the white gold ring on his finger, feeling the irrational need to reassure himself that Sherlock is his husband, belongs to him.
Which is why I shouldn’t have to win him for myself all over again.
“It’s just that…it’s you”, is what John blurts finally, after all his internal musing.
Definitely the wrong thing to say.
Sherlock’s eyes are wide and piqued, shining with irritation.
“It’s me, so you don’t have to make an effort. Is this what you mean?”
He pushes away the bed sheet with a sharp movement of his hand, and turns around, giving his back to John, and hides his face in the pillow. His messy black curls are the only thing John can make out on the white of the pillow and duvet; honestly, he’s surprised Sherlock is still in bed, and has not got up and left in a huff.
“Hey.” He murmurs, scooting closer to Sherlock’s back, just a couple of inches. “Hey. That’s not what I meant. You know it.” He tries to touch Sherlock’s flank, but receives a rigid intake of breath in response; John gentles his hand, slides it slowly up Sherlock’s naked shoulder.
“I’m sorry. Hey? That’s not what I meant at all. You know it’s not.” Sherlock’s eyes stay closed shut. John looks at the outline of the dark eyelashes on his cheek, and sighs. He married Sherlock, all of him, including his tantrums – and he will ride this one, too, and come out victorious. He hopes.
He strokes Sherlock’s curls away from his nape, and murmurs low in his ear.
“We’ll go out tomorrow. Somewhere nice. You can dress up, and look your usual stunning self, and then we'll see if I don't find a new way to persuade you out of all those tight clothes.”
Through the darkness, he can see Sherlock’s mouth stretch in a smile.