John lays on the couch. His feet are propped up on the cushion, his head lays quite comfortably on the union jack pillow. His eyes are closed. He's relaxing—a moment he doesn't often get in the hustle and bustle of his life. Sherlock is out. He's unsure where, and he feels almost guilty for not being alongside him, but he doesn't let it bother him too much. He's enjoying the moment, however fleeting it is.
He wiggles his toes and smiles at nothing. It's nice.
He listens to himself breathing. He listens to his own heart. His hands lay flat on his chest. He thinks about Sarah. He thinks about Janette. He thinks about some of the other women as well, the ones he's seen naked, the ones he's seen in compromising positions. He smirks, self-satisfied. He thinks about the times he's put them into compromising positions. He misses being in compromising positions himself. Life with Sherlock Holmes leaves little time for such activity.
He finds his hands sliding down his torso. He should feel guilty about the stirring in his stomach, the one that travels downward, into his hips, but he doesn't. He follows it with his hands, taking slow, deep breaths. In through his nose, out through his mouth. In, out. In, out. He unzips the fly of his pants, gulping involuntarily. But he doesn't touch himself. He pulls his hands back behind his head, laying on them comfortably. His imagination is getting away from him, but he's doing little to reel it back in.
He isn't alarmed, for some reason, to hear footsteps on the stairs just outside. He can tell whose they are. He's learned them, studied them, memorized them. He knows just how heavy Sherlock's feet fall on the wooden stairs. He doesn't move. His body won't allow him to. He can hear Sherlock enter the flat wordlessly. He can hear him stripping off his coat and scarf, taking off his blazer and shoes. He can hear him flop into the chair before the fire.
He still doesn't move.
He still doesn't say a word.
He doesn't know how it happens, but suddenly he can feel Sherlock's presence. John knows that Sherlock is standing over him, possibly examining him, more likely observing him, but he still won't budge. He still won't open his eyes.
He can sense Sherlock's movements, slow and graceful. Sherlock's hands are hovering over him, just barely. Sherlock's long, slender fingers are somewhere near his head, near his neck, near his arms. "John." Sherlock purrs. John doesn't reply. He smirks. He likes the way Sherlock's voice sounds when it murmurs his name. The visions of ladies in compromising positions easily dissolves away when Sherlock murmur's his name.
He can feel Sherlock coming closer. He can feel his breath, warm and shaking, against his cheek. He is surprisingly unalarmed to feel Sherlock's lips upon his. They are a soft presence, barely noticeable, like the fluttering of eyelashes against the skin. It is he who presses harder, presses deeper, makes the gentle grazing of lips a real kiss. Sherlock doesn't back away. John can feel him gulp, but he parts his lips just so and their tongues collide. Their mouths are moving slowly, as though each of them are enjoying every delicate caress their lips make against one another.
Quite suddenly he can feel Sherlock's long body laying atop him. He's hyper aware of Sherlock's stomach pressed against his, of the way their hips are touching, of the feeling of Sherlock's thigh between his. His hands are moving, roving over Sherlock's dark curls, down the slope of his long neck. He is feeling the groove of Sherlock's spine beneath the flimsy silk shirt he wears. Sherlock's hips urge themselves forward, the friction causing him to gasp into John's mouth. John brings his hands back up and around, reaching for the buttons of Sherlock's shirt. More, his mind seems to be screaming, More.
Sherlock lifts himself just slightly, enough for John to slowly unbutton each button of the shirt he wears. John enjoys the feeling, knowing what lays beneath. At the last button, he slides the shirt off of Sherlock's shoulders. He lets his fingers dance on Sherlock's bare skin, tracing gentle lines up his sides and around his back. Sherlock is quivering. John can feel it as he flattens his hands against the small of Sherlock's back, .
He still hasn't opened his eyes.
Sherlock presses kisses to the corners of John's mouth. His lips travel over John's jaw. They are butterfly kisses against his neck. He feels the nibble of Sherlock's teeth against his throat, and his back arches in pleasant response. Sherlock laughs a throaty laugh against his neck, and the feel of his breath causes John's excitement to grow. Sherlock is unbuttoning the button of John's shirt. Each button he undoes, he presses his lips to John's skin. The lower he goes, the longer each kiss seems to last. John begins to feel the warmth of Sherlock's tongue grazing over his stomach. When his mouth leaves each spot, he feels the tender chill of the flat's breeze. It doesn't bother him in the least.
John tangles his hand in Sherlock's hair as their lips collide once again. He flattens Sherlock's body against his, and the heat from his body is almost too much to bear. His hands slip down Sherlock's back, beneath the waist of Sherlock's pants. He gives Sherlock's ass a good squeeze with both hands. He smiles into his lips when Sherlock emits a throaty moan.
Sherlock's mouth begins to explore. He delicately runs his tongue over John's hips. He nibbles them accordingly. Sherlock's hands are slowly running down the length of John's body, grasping at hips, sliding down his thighs. John is biting down on his lip, feeling Sherlock's fingers slip beneath the waistband of John's underpants. The index fingers slide across his pelvis, slow and soft, barely touching his skin. The fingers have grabbed hold of both his pants and his underpants. They've started pulling both downward, making sharp tugs on each side, one at a time. "John." Sherlock breathes.
John snaps upright. He looks around the room—it's his. He's in his bed. The sun is shining through the window. He feels groggy, unsettled. He squints at Sherlock—he's dressed, even suited in his coat and scarf. He looks annoyed. "I nearly shoved you off of your bed attempting to wake you." he says with a sniff. "We have an appointment, with a client in Watford. You have half an hour."
"Watford…" John repeats.
"Yes, Watford. I'll leave you to it." Sherlock replies, stalking out of the bedroom. John listens to Sherlock's footsteps go down the stairs. He blinks at the sunlight in his room. He squints again. A dream, he thinks. He shuts his eyes and falls back into bed, rubbing at his eyelids. He lays for a moment, wondering what exactly having a dream of Sherlock and him together means, but not for long. Sherlock is already yelling up the stairs at him, complaining. "You haven't even moved yet! John, if I'm able to dress and be ready to leave before you, something's amiss."
He rolls his eyes. He sits upright once again, swinging his legs off the side of the bed and standing. His mind is still reeling, but he ignores the nagging of consciousness. He smiles at the vision in his head, vivid and almost real. He laughs at the idea of Sherlock, downstairs pacing, in comparison to the slow, seductive Sherlock of his dream.
He almost wishes he hadn't opened his eyes.