August 25, 2012

[not_a_hero]

After this post.



The morning came in slow, tugging on the edges of John's awareness in a lazy hum. Vaguely, he noticed the warm heat still pressed tightly against him. Sherlock. They were still tangled together, naked save for the white sheet that one of them had somehow twisted around their legs and waists. Sherlock was everywhere around him. He could taste him lingering in his mouth and his scent was everywhere. That pale skin was under his fingers and those large hands were cupping him close. Even once he was fully awake, John chose not to move, wanting this moment to last and not be shattered by the discussion they needed to have. The one that addressed what exactly they had done last night.

Sherlock slept better than he had in quite some time. It was more than just fatigue after physical exertion that had worn him down to restfulness. His whole self seemed simply to be lifted of a rather awkward burden that allowed deep, peaceful slumber the likes of which he had rarely had before. Even when he wasn’t aware of John as the warm presence that bled into the vagueness of physical boundaries, he was comforted by him being there. With sleep ending and the peace fading into the black, dreamless calm, Sherlock peeked his eyes open at John. It was easy to observe the tells of consciousness. He smirked, wiggling slightly against the sheet to unwind bones and muscles that rarely felt the prolonged weight of another body.

As Sherlock shifted, John relented to the movement, sniffing and blinking open his eyes only to press them shut again and hide his face against Sherlock's chest like it would wind the clock back a few hours. The skin between them stuck uncomfortably due to sweat and semen, but he was inclined to ignore it. "Good morning." He muttered, voice rough and half muffled by the detective's sternum.

Sherlock grunted his own reply. It was morning. It was good. He gave John’s hair a slow tussle as a chuckle brewed in his chest. “We smell,” he decided to inform him, following his hair against the grain to watch it flip back in order like conscripted dominos.

"Yeah. We kinda do." He shuddered at the sensation of those fingers in his hair, but giggled, keeping the nervous edge he felt down his spine out of it, luckily. Sherlock was still holding him. They hadn't ripped apart from one another and wandered back to separate corners with excuses and apologies. At least, not yet. "I told you we should have showered last night." John muttered with no real chiding in his tone. His hand, which had been resting over Sherlock's heart, found a collarbone blindly and stroked it absently.

“Wouldn’t have changed the soil of the sheets. At which point not only would resting have been delayed by hygiene but further by good housekeeping. I think my way worked fine as a temporary solution.” Sherlock kissed John’s head then began the trial of untangling himself. He liked being close, he didn’t mind the crustiness or the odors, but it was still not something he was used to. It wasn’t etiquette he was familiar with. No longer asleep, a shower and a piss were rather high on the to-do list.

John sat up in bed in the absence of his partner, watching Sherlock make his way towards the bathroom. Licking his lips, and trying to not focus too much on the full long line of Sherlock's naked body, the doctor tried to fumble for a careful question or sentence to find confirmation as to where they had now ended up, only to have it catch in his throat. Maybe it was better to wait until Sherlock was done cleaning up.

Sherlock didn’t take an inordinate amount of time to wash himself but certainly did a thorough job of it, a little paranoid there might be fluids dried somewhere in his hair. He didn’t need the time to think; he’d already considered everything he needed to. He left the bathroom in a towel, a second one laying on his head to later tackle the dripping curls as he walked to the closet to find a nice suit for the day. Normal routine. “You decided on breakfast here or in the dining room?”

John stared after him, lost in thought before shaking himself out of it. "Hm? Oh, uh, breakfast." Getting up, the doctor located his pants and tugged them on to make the short trek to the bathroom. "I don't care either way. Why don't you pick? I'll be right back." And with that he closed the door. Turning on the shower, John braced himself against the counter and stared at the sink as the WC filled with steam. Should he be feeling concerned? Or was he expecting far too much and overreacting? He pressed a hand over his mouth and frowned. Sherlock wasn't the type to do anything unnecessary, be that having sex with his best friend or catering to morning-after cliches. John cleared his throat, shoving off his pants once again and stepped into the shower properly, mechanically cleaning off as he wandered through his thoughts some more.

Sherlock entered the bathroom without a knock, helping himself as he always did, before closing it behind him. “You put your pants on,” he said, intonation not unlike that used when pointing out some clue in a case.

"Jesus!" John yelped from behind the curtain, and there was a clatter as he lost grip on the shampoo bottle in his fumbling between trying to wash his hair and grabbing for the fabric keeping him modest. Poking his head out, hair still soapy, John waved his hand at the detective. "Sherlock, so what? The shower's kind of occupied at the moment, if you didn't realize."

Sherlock pulled a face. “Modesty? Really? John, if you think I didn’t get a proper look or feel last night, I can assure you I did. And with mental recollection such as mine, do you really think you have anything left to hide?”

John opened and closed his mouth uselessly a few times before finally snapping his jaw shut and huffing indignantly as he ducked back behind the curtain. "Getting off with someone is a bit different then gawking at them in the shower. Can't this wait?"

Sherlock almost pouted a bit at that, picking up John’s pants from the floor. “Well, I’ll be sure to remember there’s a proper context for nudity around someone you’re getting off with. Wouldn’t want you to feel exposed.” He snapped the pants over the shower curtain rod by their elastic band.

From the shower there was a surprised sputter, then John opened the curtain fully, glowering and clutching the soaked red pants in his hand. Childishly, before Sherlock could say anything, he chucked the article of clothing at the other man.

Sherlock smirked, dodging them, but was still a little worried now by John’s behavior. He hadn’t really considered the context of the night before as ‘someone to get off with’ but either way, John was uncomfortable enough to cover himself in the morning. Perhaps Sherlock had been too forward? Pushed things too far too fast? He was likely to balls this up but it had seemed rather… understood… at the time. But now John put his pants on to walk ten feet to get naked behind a door. So really it was hard to tell. “Well, you won’t be getting those back,” he said, picking the soggy pants up before going back to the door. “Don’t doddle. I’m hungry.”

John scowled after him, closing the curtain as definitively as was possible and rinsing off the rest of the way in the most begrudging manner possible. But, under the hot water, his mood wavered and fell flat at his feet. Why was he so upset? Sherlock hadn't done anything wrong, not really. He groaned, pressing his hand to his head and carding his fingers through his hair. He was screwing this up and they'd barely had 24 hours together. Turning off the water slowly, John stepped out of the shower, tied a towel around his waist, and made his way out into his room. "...Sherlock?" He called hesitantly, half worried the detective would have left in the few minutes between their bickering and now.

Sherlock was sitting on the bed, waiting. He’d pulled the sheets and covers off but only to leave them bunched at the head of the bed in a pile. He regarded him over the steeple of his fingers. “Should I go ahead so you may change in private?”

John let out a pained breath and clicked his tongue. Okay, he deserved that. "...No." His hand came up to rub at his forehead. "No, just... Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to act like that."

“It’s fine.” Sherlock crossed his legs, leaning back on his wrists behind him. “It stands to reason that whatever is wrong is my doing. So what is it?”

Sherlock's understanding and acceptance of blame was almost enough to set his temper off again, but in frustration and heartache. "It wasn't something you did. I just... blew something out of proportion and took it out on you." He shifted his feet, rubbing his thumb absently over his knuckles.

Sherlock scowled. “’Something’ isn’t exactly helpful in a diagnosis. What did I get wrong?” Because John was perpetually on ‘bit not good’ duty. He was supposed to point these things out for him; help make him better than he was on his own.

"Nothing!" He said, frustration putting an edge to his words far stronger then he would have liked. "...It was nothing. I... I let my doubts and worries get to me for no good reason. It's not worth spending any time on."

Sherlock took a deep breath through his nose, holding it before letting it out slowly. It was naive to think everything would simply and easily fall into place after their confessions. And sex hadn’t done much to garner against doubts. It was rather disappointing, really. “I change my stance on the issue, then. I suppose as long as we agree it’s your problem and not mine, we can head down to eat.”

Sherlock's obvious disappointment struck John in the gut. "...I thought you wanted to forget about it. Just for a second." He finally admitted, not able to look at Sherlock. "And I was so busy fighting myself over it I got myself worked up. It was my own fault and it was stupid. Please forgive me?"

“Forget about it?” Sherlock‘s face creased with the utter ridiculousness of it. “After arranging a party of some extravagance, spending hours doting on you, flirting, ensuring your enjoyment, then following you into your room with no subtly in my intentions, confirming my love for you and having sex in your bed? John, you have reached a new level of idiocy once believed to belong solely to the likes of Anderson. You are an Anderson. The utter depths of stupidity you have plummeted to should be catalogued by historians for the betterment of future generations who can live by your example of how to be utterly and impossibly stupid.” Sherlock bounced off the bed, straightening his suit jacket. “You’re lucky I love you,” he added, should there still be any doubt. “I’m sure it’s a temporary ailment—a bug of brainlessness caught from last night’s rabble. You’ll be fine once you’ve had breakfast.”

Ouch. John bit back his wince through Sherlock's rant, knowing each thing he was being told was well deserved. His lips twitched occasionally, torn between insulted frowns and self deprecating smiles. Deciding not to say anything else for the moment, he nodded and turned to change, not making a deal over privacy this time at least. Once clothed, he allowed Sherlock to lead the way through the door.

Sherlock did, taking long strides. He really wasn’t all that hungry anymore. They were still on the wrong foot and he was rather unsure exactly how to get things back to the calm and happy feeling when he’d first woken up.

John jogged to keep up, mulling over a rather similar train of thought himself. It was his fault that all of this was screwed up, and he was determined to set it right. But as they made their way down the stairs and into the dining area, he couldn't decide what would be within the boundries he'd just thrown up in the face of their blooming intimacy. Once they had their food and sat down, John poked at his breakfast, still silent, and still thinking of a possible plan.

Sherlock moved his food around on his plate more so than ate it, conscious of how John did the same and of the awkwardness of silence between them. Sherlock was very good at silence. Normally it didn’t bother him in the slightest but for its context. He’d go to his own room after their meal. If John needed time alone, he could take it.

"..." Suddenly, John placed his mug of barely touched tea down rather harshly, sloshing the hot water. But he wasn't focused on that, instead standing with a determined look on his face and all his attention on Sherlock.

Sherlock sat straighter with the heavy fall of the mug, eyeing it then John with confusion.

"...Erm..." Okay, he hadn't thought much further than this. His expression wavers and his ears flush before he reset his jaw and made his way over to the other side of the table, standing in front of Sherlock.

Sherlock watched him, confusion never truly leaving his face. “Yes, John?”

"You said," He flushed. "...You said last night that you have loved me since the pool. Am I remembering that right?"

Sherlock smirked, leaning back in his chair with a surprising resurgence of comfort. “I’m surprised you remember anything about that particular moment in our activities. But yes.”

"Oh, don't look so smug." John said, but with no bite and a smile working its way back onto his lips. "I remembered because you said you figured I had fallen in love with you soon after."

Sherlock nods. “My best guess is sometime in the late summer of our first year. After New Zealand. Or just before.”

"...My break up with Sarah as your clue?"

“And that you never again had anything remotely akin to a serious relationship after her though the attachment itself to Sarah was not so deep as to be the cause of the casual nature of your love life.” Sherlock liked this, a conversation between the normal and the new.

John licked his lips and nodded, chuckling awkwardly. "Mrs. Hudson even said I was starting to pick girlfriends that looked like you, in the end." He meant it as a joke, but it sounded more like a confession.

“One of them had spots!” Sherlock professed loudly, affronted just for show. He chuckled and shook his head. “I did try not to notice. I didn’t want to hope. You’ve certainly been very clear in the past as to where your boundaries lie in love. Pity perhaps that I did the same. I was wrong. I had thought perhaps Miss Adler would do me some good in reminding myself that there were other people in the world who could be trusted and cared for but… hardly your replacement.”

John tries to not make a face at the mention of Irene. How she'd played with Sherlock's heart, even though in the end her own had gotten tangled up as well, was something he had always looked back on in regret; he could have stopped it, could have found a way to help more. "...If nothing else, she was rather blunt in how you and I saw one another. It was...enlightening, in a way..." He reached forward, hesitated, then cupped Sherlock's face between his hands. "It's not something I'm going to let go of now, though, now that I've found it."

Sherlock smiled almost shyly, so unaccustomed to the attention—least of all when he wanted it. He wrapped his fingers along John’s wrists. “I love you too much to let this fail. Whatever we call this.”

John let out a soft sound of heartache under his breath at such a confession from his friend. It was one thing to hear it between the sheets during overwhelming pleasure, another to say it again at the breakfast table. Uncaring if there were any other residents in the dining area, John ducked in and pressed a soft, simple kiss to Sherlock's lips in response, lingering there as he drew back.

Sherlock tightened his grip on his wrists as they kissed, smiling at the warmth that seemed to have returned in the spaces between them. “Are you my boyfriend, Dr. Watson?”

"Yes." John whispered, a silly smile on his lips. He leaned in again, muttering the answer onto Sherlock's mouth. "As long as you're mine, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock smirked, releasing John’s wrist to reach along the neck of his shirt to pull up John’s dog tags from underneath. No awkwardness, silence, or argument was going to change hard fact.

John slid his hands down to trace the chain, then finally rest on Sherlock's shoulders. He ducked down to press a kiss to the corner of Sherlock's smirk, then again on his nose, and finally forehead. This was how their morning should have gone from the start.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, buzzing once more with good feelings. “I have absolutely nothing on for today. You?”

"Nothing." He muttered, nuzzling his nose against Sherlock's "Except being with you in either 221B or my room for as much as possible."

"My room, then. We'll just end up lazying about on the bed all tangled together if we go back to yours."

"Nothing wrong with that."

"... No. Nothing at all." Sherlock agreed, tightening his arms around him.




*RP-ed via AIM by Niko and Em