Fluffy Little Necrophilia Fic

"I could do that to you forever," Sherlock said softly, kissing his lover's temple.

John was dreamily drowsing against Sherlock's chest after some very lovely, very slow sex, so what he said next can be forgiven. Or taken with a grain of salt. Or perhaps just ignored, maybe that would be for the best.

"Well, not after I'm dead please...mmmm." Then the doctor chuckled to himself and snuggled a little deeper under the bed clothes.

Everything was quiet for awhile while two hearts beat, two bodies warmed each other, and at least one brain occupied itself intently.

Which, by now, the other brain can quite nearly feel.


The man in question said nothing.

"Sherlock. You're thinking about that, aren't you?"

The man being accused said nothing.

"Sherlock, stop it. Stop thinking about my dead body. And sex. Even for you that's beyond—beyond—well it's just beyond."

Sherlock being nothing more and nothing less than Sherlock, did not deny what he was thinking, but he did feel compelled to clarify. Sherlock always feels obliged to inform, elucidate, make clear.

Whether you damn well want him to or not.

"I wasn't thinking of sex with your dead body, per se, John."

The good doctor sighed. It was his fault. He knows that. He started it and he's regretting it already. But he's prepared. You have to be. If you live with Sherlock Holmes there is nothing, absolutely nothing—from your granny's knickers to the way you sit on the toilet—that is sacred. Nothing. Zero. Zilch.


"I'll listen to whatever you're going to say, but if you paused just then hoping I would prompt you for more? Well you will be waiting until I am dead. Just so you know."

It shouldn't technically be possible to feel your lover smile when your head is pillowed on his chest, but it is possible just the same. John smiled in return and Sherlock felt the curve of lips against his skin. Unconsciously his hand drifted up, to stroke John's hair.

"It's just that…you made me think."

"Blame me will you?"

"No, I just mean…when you said that, the first thought I had was 'What if John died and I hadn't kissed him that day?'"

Pillowed on your lover's chest you can also feel a smile turn to a frown.

"And of course that made me think about kissing you. If you'd died. Because John? I would. I very much would. I wouldn't be able to stop. I don't think I could make myself st—"

John lifted his head, put a hand over Sherlock's mouth. "Stop. Stop. I'm not…and you're not…and no one has to think about last kisses or—"

With a groan Sherlock slid down into the bedcovers and shut John up—and himself—the best way he knew how.

.. ..

A little while later they were in much the same post-coital positions, looking quite fetching with similar post-coital glows.

Again John started with the drowsy talking. He probably shouldn't talk when he's half asleep. Really. "You'd just kiss me, mmmm?"

Sherlock said nothing.

John opened his eyes. "I mean that's where it'd stop, right?"

The man being asked said nothing.

"Sherlock. I can hear you thinking. Stop it."

The detective laughed softly, this time letting long fingers stroke slowly over John's shoulder. "I want you to notice that you're the one bringing this up. Over and over. Then you blame me for all sorts of unspeakably filthy thoughts."

John ignored this very true assertion and lifted his head again. "You wouldn't do it. Would you? Even if we hadn't had sex for weeks before I'd died? It'd just be a kiss. That's where you'd stop, right?"

Again Sherlock slid down into the bed, until he was face to face with his lover. "Do you really want to know?"

John frowned. Then nodded.

"Are you sure?"

John bit his lip. Then nodded.

"Because I'm about to tell you."

John's face went dark and scowly. And he nodded.

"So you're sure you want to know whether I'd have sex with your after you had shed your mortal coil? If I'd touch your body after you had gone to your great reward? If I'd crawl on top and have a go?"

So help him, John was actually breathing a little heavier suddenly—

"Okay, here goes—"

—and this confused the good doctor so much—

"Well, I'd—"

—that he sort of shrieked a little, bounded out of bed, and fled buck naked to the shower, where he stayed with the hottest water he could stand for the next thirty minutes.

Sherlock, meantime, giggled himself off into a very nice nap.