Sherlock woke to light filtering in through the curtains of his room. Curled in his arms was John, his short blond hairs glittering in the light, and the shadows of his eyelashes sweeping gracefully across his cheeks. His features were slack with sleep, making the lines around his eyes less pronounced. During the night he had curled up into Sherlock, hands clasping Sherlock’s arm and one leg slung greedily over Sherlock’s hip. The sleeve of Sherlock’s grey sleepshirt fluttered with every exhale.
Sherlock watched John sleeping for as long as he could until his bladder wouldn’t let him anymore (always transport). Carefully extracting himself from the sleeping man, Sherlock exited the bed. He was surprised to find that he’d slept an entire eight hours. The last time he’d slept that long without it being the result of a solved case, was when he was in rehab where sleep was the least boring activity there.
He quickly washed up because he didn’t want John to wake up without him in the bed—he knew that though John seemed to be the one exhibiting all the confidence in this relationship, underneath it all, John was afraid Sherlock would change his mind. (Idiot. John was the best thing to happen to him. Even Mycroft said so.) Examining the scruff on his face (2 days from being a beard; by tonight the kink in the hairs would tickle his neck every time he moved), he decided to quickly shave it because he wanted to feel John’s stubble scrape across his skin when they kissed.
When Sherlock re-entered the bedroom, John was rolled on his side, back to the doorway. He looked to still be asleep, but Sherlock could see the tension in John’s neck and hear his shallow breaths move in and out at a rate 1.25 times quicker than normal. He could practically hear the gears grinding as John tried to put his thoughts together and rapidly barreled to the wrong conclusion. Approaching his bedmate, Sherlock leaned over to curl his body over John’s. “I can hear you compiling counterfactual perceptions, attaining an invalid culmination,” he grumbled. “You’re an idiot and you’re prematurely panicking for absolutely no solid reason.”
John melted with relief under Sherlock and rolled onto his back so his boyfriend (reminder to self: we need to discuss labels) could lie across his chest. With a fond look at the man above him, he swept the curly locks of hair that hung over Sherlock’s face in this position. “And you’re using too many big words for this time of the morning.”
Sherlock made a face. “Well, I’m not the one assuming that I would change my mind about a romantic relationship in the morning despite the massive amounts of evidence pointing to the contrary,” he sniffed.
“Of course not,” John shot back dryly, a sleepy smile softening his words.
“You were!” Sherlock furrowed a brow indignantly. “I don’t know why you would think that. I thoroughly enjoyed our snogging last night, and before that I had propositioned you—poorly, I admit, but did nonetheless—so I am absolutely confused why you would assume that because I was not in bed when you awoke, it obviously meant that I had changed my mind. Ergo, you are an idiot.”
“Yes, I am an idiot.” John nodded gravely. “A stupid man who desperately wants to snog you and then shag your brains out on this bed.”
Sherlock lost his bluster at these words. He wasn’t sure if he was more pleased or embarrassed by John’s words, and it culminated in a rush of blood to both his genitals and cheeks. He wasn’t sure which one was winning. John grinned roguishly below him. “We should, um, breakfast.” Sherlock’s voice cracked and stumbled on the last word and he scrambled to the safety of the solid floor, away from the soft skin and dense muscle of the gorgeous man in his bed.
John let out an amused chuckle and sat up. “Sherlock suggesting food? This is a turn of events.” He eyed Sherlock’s wide eyes and flushed cheeks, followed by a long, lingering glance at the man’s crotch. “Aw, come here, Love. I didn’t mean to make you nervous. Like I said, we’ll go at the pace you like. But you can’t expect me not to tease you every once in awhile. I happen to find it incredibly hot that you’re a virgin.” He wrapped his arms loosely around Sherlock’s waist, bringing him back to the edge of the bed and burrowing his face into the thin man’s chest. “And even more so, that you’re mine.” He punctuated the statement with a gentle nip to Sherlock’s skin making him jump a little.
“It’s um, it’s alright. I was just uh, thinking that you would like some breakfast. Isn’t that what boyfriends do? Feed them up? Like you said at Angelo’s that first night?” John pulled his head back in surprise to look up at Sherlock. He was met with a tentative yet assertive look.
“Well, not all boyfriends do. People show they care in different ways. That’s just one way partners can show it. But if you’re offering, I’m not going to say no. A good fry-up sounds good about now.”
Sherlock gave him a condescending look. “By breakfast, I meant that you would make it. I was merely mentioning it to you so you would remember.”
John chuckled at the familiar Sherlock-ness of the statement—it was good to know that the bumbling Sherlock was merely making an appearance, not a permanent new facet to Sherlock’s personality. As adorable as it was, John knew Sherlock was more comfortable when imperious and in control. “Yes, yes, of course. Heaven forbid you set foot in the kitchen to actually cook something edible.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I will be waiting in the sitting room.”
By the time John finished cooking breakfast—including a plate for Sherlock; the git wasn’t getting out of eating just yet—Sherlock had moved from the couch, his bored façade not quite up to the standard it usually was, and was hanging around the kitchen getting in John’s way. “You know, there are perfectly serviceable chairs at the table you could sit on instead of being underfoot when I’m cooking.” Sherlock sat in one and looked expectantly at John. “What?”
Sherlock shrugged. “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do. Is it customary to make small talk with one’s new partner?”
John couldn’t help a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It was so adorable how Sherlock was trying to be all couple-y yet still treating it like a business function, all stiff and trying to follow the rules of etiquette in an effort to make a good impression. He placed a plate in front of Sherlock, kissing his forehead as he leant over. “Like I said, treat us like we always are. I’m not expecting you to do anything—well, not cheat on me, I suppose—” Sherlock looked at John, appalled that such an idea had even crossed his mind. (Reminder to ask John about all past relationships, in particular, cheating partners. Then track said partners down and have a swift and threatening chat.) “But remember, you and I are still Sherlock and John. Just with added physical intimacy.”
Sherlock nodded gravely. He picked up his fork and then put it back down, reaching out his left hand across the top of the table. John looked at it and then reached his right hand out to clasp them together. With a small smile, Sherlock picked his fork up again and began eating little bites (John could tell that he was hoping the increased amount of bites would distract him from noticing that Sherlock only ate a third of it, but he had to pick his battles.).
After breakfast, Sherlock was getting anxious, tapping his hands on the furniture as he passed them while pacing around the living room. “Jawwwn, why are there no murders today?”
“Maybe they’re all taking the day off to celebrate our first snog together,” John replied impishly.
Sherlock groaned. “Stop being stupid and help me; I’m so incredibly, ridiculously, unbearably bored.”
John pushed his laptop aside from where he’d been working on it in his lap. “Okay, come here, you big baby. Don’t give me that look; you’re 20 seconds away from throwing a toddler tantrum. Here, how about we snog for a bit. That might loosen you up.”
“How do you expect a few kisses to ‘loosen me up’?” Sherlock gave John a distasteful look. “There is no ‘OFF’ switch on m—.” Turns out there was, and it involved a pair of John’s lips pressed to the rosy pink pair of Sherlock’s. John gently introduced a flicker of tongue and cupped Sherlock’s cheeks between his hands. He tried to keep one step ahead of Sherlock’s train of thought—if there even was one right now; it appeared all coherent thought may have been lost, as was the obvious path of his diction—pushing and pulling, teasing and licking the pliant mouth above him. He finally released Sherlock’s lips to begin leaving kisses along one sharp cheekbone and up to his temple. Then, carding his fingers through the soft curls on Sherlock’s head, John began making his way down the long, pale neck. It was like kissing acres and acres of creamy silk, the smooth skin practically melting into the curve of John’s lips. Giving into temptation, John sucked a mark on the bare collarbone revealed by the opening of Sherlock’s bathrobe. Encouraged by Sherlock’s breathy gasp and his own possessive nature, he left another one right under Sherlock’s jaw. Pulling away to admire the new mark, John was distracted by the pleasure on Sherlock’s face; the swollen lips, flushed cheeks, and half-lidded eyes. What could be seen of his eyes was almost entirely pupil, with a thin ring of blue and gold flecks. “God, you’re beautiful,” he breathed out reverently.
“Mmm,” was Sherlock’s dazed reply. He reached his large hands out to John, dragging him up to his body and slowly grinding his erection into the smaller man. John let out a long, low groan. Sherlock did it again, the feel of John’s jumper pressing against his pants-clad erection pulling an equally long and even lower groan from his own chest. He could vaguely feel John’s own erection pressing into his thigh, but was too overcome with sensation to do much about it besides grind his hips into John again. John slipped his hand between them before Sherlock could initiate a fourth grind, and covered his hand over the burning member trapped in the taller man’s pants. “Oh! Oh, John,” Sherlock whispered, eyes falling closed. He forced his eyes back open to look down and take in the image of John’s hand cupping his swollen erection. The contrast between John’s short, tan fingers and Sherlock’s pale skin broken by the black silk and bulging erection would forever be ingrained in his memory. He would think about this moment for days after, lying on the sofa pretending to reorganize his mind palace.
Then John applied even pressure and twisted his palm. The drag of pressure made Sherlock’s breath stutter, and suddenly he was coming. The sticky feel of semen darkened a spot on the front of his pants as his legs collapsed, giving his body over to gravity. John caught him on the way down and cradled him in his lap, combing the curls away from his face as Sherlock’s ability to breathe slowly returned. His penis was rapidly softening, leaving the wet fabric to cling to his body. He could feel the first tendrils of shame begin to edge in on his consciousness. He hadn’t even lasted three minutes! What a cripplingly embarrassing first orgasm in front of John; he was a bloody teenager who couldn’t even hold off until his penis was out of his pants. He turned his face away from John’s body and the hands carding through his hair, but John simply turned him back, until the younger man gradually registered the soft words John was murmuring. “Oh, that was beautiful. Absolutely gorgeous. I will never forget the look on your face. You are breathtaking when you’re coming. You beautiful man.”
The words evoked a spot of warmth in his chest again, a familiar reminder to all those previous times when John had protected or defended him, and Sherlock had (then) been obliviously confused about that resulting twist of warmth. The warmth in his chest now grew and spread like fire on steel wool, jumping his nerve endings and leaving them glowing with heat. John loved him. John loved him. He felt iridescently happy. Like nothing could touch him; nothing could ruin him. He looked up at John and whatever was projected on his face made John smile and kiss him softly.
Abruptly, Sherlock became sharply aware of the distinct pressure of a rigid length poking into him. John, perfect John, read his facial expression and cut off his panic. “It’s alright, Sherlock. I’m not expecting anything. It’s just a response to having you in my lap. Or really, anywhere in the room.” He gave Sherlock an earnest smile. “I can’t really help it. You’re so bloody gorgeous and graceful. I know you hate it when I repeat myself, but I just can’t stop saying it. You’re beautiful.”
Sherlock replied shyly, “No, it’s alright. I like it. No one’s called me that. Well, if they do, it’s followed by It’s too bad you’re a rude, arrogant twit. And then Piss off.” John laughed, the corner of his eyes crinkling, and head thrown back. John was beautiful too. “You’re beautiful too. When you laugh. Your eyes do a squinty thing and you get a crease between your eyes right there. No, don’t look at me like that. I like it. Your white teeth contrast with the tan of your face, and your laugh sounds so happy. It makes you beautiful.”
“Who knew Sherlock was a romantic?” John teased him.
Sherlock made a face. “Don’t ever associate me with that word again, or I will burn holes in all your jumpers.”
“You were going to do that at some point anyways,” John pointed out.
“For science, obviously. But this would be for revenge.”
John giggled. “And then I would make you go out and buy me more.”
“But at least they’d be nice jumpers. Blue ones to bring out your eyes. And a nice grey one for lounging around on Sundays. And a cream one. They’d all have to be cashmere, of course, because then they’d be comfortable for me to feel against my skin.”
“Because we are worried about if they please your skin even though I’m the one who’s going to be wearing them.” John shot back. “And Oi, my jumpers are perfectly fine. Just because you buy me ones that cost more than my paycheck doesn’t make them better. These are comfortable.”
Sherlock sniffed. “Now that you are my boyfriend, am I not allowed to insult your clothing choice, even if it’s atrocious?”
“Yes.” John nodded stubbornly. He grinned. “Oh, I think I’m going to enjoy this.”
Sherlock swatted his chest him playfully. “Shut it.”