i gave you what you wanted, but no more than just enough.

[docwithablog]

[ When he wakes up, it's ten hours later into the day, the clock reading twenty-three hundred hours and he's starving, his entire system begging him to fix himself something to eat, biscuits will do, really. Except, John's really very sure biscuits won't do, not with the amount of physical exercise he's been engaging in and how long it's been since he last ate, but maybe something relatively low effort will cut it. Beans on toast... Is he out of beans? God, he hopes he isn't out of beans.

Rolling slowly onto his back -- and then onto his other side, so he can swing his legs lazily out over the edge of the bed, John doesn't make great efforts to avoid waking up the other man, looks pretty comatose to him, after all. Still. A slight smile as he sits up, feet coming into contact with the floor, cool and bathing in shadows. Christ, he's knackered as well, his entire body feels like a 400 pound boulder.

The walk to the kitchen should be fun like this. ]

Comments

[docwithablog]

Don't do that. [ Whereas certain parts of him certainly like Khan's tone of voice, his dramatic -- Shakespearean MO that seems distantly familiar, mostly John just grimaces slightly and leans back against the headboard, pursing his lips a bit before adding a level: ] Don't act like you're my commanding officer, ordering me around. [ He hasn't had a commanding officer for years, well, not in rank at least -- and since Khan won't tell him what he does wherever it is he works, John will safely assume that the man doesn't outrank him, if only out of spite. Prove him wrong and he'll take it from there, sure, but here, now? No. Not buying it, not as long as it's all tied up on a feeling. Please. Stretching again, larger and louder this time, he turns his head to face Khan again, arms falling to his sides, fingers drumming against the sheets, soft almost inaudible thuds of fingertips against fabric. ] Or worse, like you're my bloody, what, guru, giving me existential advice.

[ A huff, borderline a scoff. A shake of his head. He leans his head back against the headboard and breathes out deeply, glancing up at the ceiling. It's almost midnight. They probably ought to sleep, the both of them. He's certain that come Monday when he's supposed to clock in for work again, it won't seem quite so -- what did the man call it, pitiful? If nothing else, Khan won't be around for comparison, because apparently everything loses to him. Yes, good, great. ]

Not in my bed.

[insuperiorstrength]

[ He doesn't react much to John's... tantrum? Disagreement? He looks at him for a moment longer, processing his words. Then, he looks away, disinterest clear in his voice: ]

You will listen or you won't.

[ And that's that. With a quick exhalation, he lies down on his back once more, arms by his side, gaze directed upwards. He doesn't put out the lights, choosing to leave it to John - it's a small courtesy, meant as compensation. He shifts slightly, remembering the feel of the other man's mouth around his cock, the feel of his mouth in general, against his shoulder, chest, stomach. The memory is like an electrical current, rushing through his blood and igniting his body. He leaves traces beneath his skin, does John Watson. It's an interesting experience, for a man who is, by design, completely untouchable.

Not his commanding officer, well no, not in this world. In another, he would have been, perhaps. He could have been. Khan doesn't much like the idea of that; if he'd been at war, he would have never noticed John. He would almost certainly have allowed him to die when, inevitably, he'd outlived his purpose on the battle field and he would have done so without ever knowing his name. Then, briefly, he wonders if maybe - just maybe - this is exactly why he's never met the other man in his own universe.

He frowns, hands clenching against the mattress on top of the duvet. ]

[docwithablog]

[ A frown. John glances over at Khan as the man lies down on his back, the irritation -- leveling out after a few seconds. You will listen or you won't, said Mr. Free Agent and sure, it's true, that. Most likely he'll consider the possibility of a new career change (in a row of others) and he'll dismiss it for the safer, more logical option of a steady, comfortable income, stable work from nine to five and free time enough to wait around for Sherlock to -- make his way back here already, damn it. And if not for him, then for Khan to show his stupid face once more, unpredictably and randomly from time to time. Weekend to weekend.

John shakes his head and turns off the lights, sliding into a horizontal position beneath the duvet, the shadows massive and suffocating around them as he opts to stay in his briefs and tank top, not like they'll be getting down and dirty a second round right now, after all. Half a minute passes in a tense sort of silence and he eventually sighs, rolls over on his side and shuffles closer to the other man, without reaching out, just -- closer. A bit closer still. He can smell him at this distance, the faint traces of sex and arousal and orgasm. Bet you, when John wakes up in the morning, both the smell and the man will be gone.

He doesn't even hesitate, slinging one arm across Khan's stomach. ]

[insuperiorstrength]

[ He closes his eyes when John turns the lights off, settling down and breathing deeply, evenly, the tension dropping slowly, gradually, from his muscles. A few seconds later, however, he can feel the way John shifts towards him in the darkness, the mattress moving beneath his weight as he drifts closer, closer --

When John throws his arm across his stomach, Khan tenses for the briefest moment, mostly in surprise. Partially... something else. Something warmer and more fragile, simultaneously. He thinks about his crew, waiting for him back home, about Marcus who is also waiting, the weapons, the war that is surely coming, a war that Earth has no chances of winning because victory amounts to more, infinitely more, than a well-stocked armoury.

He forces himself to stop thinking and, on a long and deep exhalation, touches his hand to John's wrist, just a quick brush of his fingers. Then, he finally relaxes enough to go to sleep, the quiet in the room broken only by the sound of John's steady breathing and cars passing by on the street, keeping the pulse of London going through the night. ]