docwithablog

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[ It's raining.

The flat is cold and damp, wind coming in through cracks in the window frame. He doesn't feel any of it, not the coldness, not the wetness, because John's so incredibly hot against him, all warm, naked skin. His mouth is a furnace as they kiss and Sherlock's holding onto him with enough strength to leave marks on his arms and shoulders (there'll be nothing there in the aftermath, he knows, just as he knows he's making this up, it's nothing, it's nothing). Outside the window, a flash of lightning springs across the sky, a clap of thunder following immediately after. It's right above us he thinks, just as John pushes his hard cock between his thighs, leaving a smear of wetness in its wake.

He gasps. Writhes beneath the other man, spreading his legs and holding on. He can't possibly go away now, that would be incredibly, unforgivably rude, but all the same, Sherlock clings to him and throws his head back. John's a rude person, after all. If he wants to leave, he'll leave. And knowing what's coming, he couldn't bear it now, not when he's given himself over.

Just this once, he thinks. John reaches down and fondles his cock, long, heavy strokes and he moans out his name because he might as well, there's no one around to hear (no one, absolutely no one). The rain seems to grow heavier. He pulls the other man closer and waits for him to just do it, do it, it's not like they'll have another go, it won't matter to anyone because even Sherlock is gone these days, there's much too little left to leave a lasting impact.

Besides, judging by the rain outside, they'll be drowning by the end of it. ]

[ It's the shuffling that wakes him up. The restlessness. Sherlock's usually a pretty courteous bed partner in terms of moving about, John's learned at this point -- which is ironic, considering how the man's the least courteous person you could imagine in any other state of consciousness. As it is, it's the way he's tossing and turning that makes John blink against the utter darkness of the bedroom, noticing only after one-two-three seconds how Sherlock's duvet has slipped down his torso, heaping across his lap and thighs. Bad dream? He pushes himself up on one elbow, frowning.

Then, the man -- throws his head back, his back arching slightly in the process and he's gasping and -- oh, John thinks. Oh. Good dream.

He makes a facial expression that it's very good the other man can't see, the shadows eating it up, before rolling onto his other side, turning his back on Sherlock's writhing, whimpering self with that very odd uncertainty of -- not really knowing what to do. With how little Sherlock sleeps these days, he's loathe to wake him, to be honest, but at the same time -- it's really just very awkward lying here, listening to him getting himself off. Very awkward, very -- yes. John shifts a bit. Shifts some more.

John, Sherlock proceeds to -- moan.

His entire body goes into freeze. After which, it does something else entirely and both his eyebrows go up, as if to mirror -- it. Did Sherlock just -- moan -- his name? Did he really -- did he -- did -- fuck. He rolls over again, stares at the long-limbed shape of the other man intently. Jesus Christ, Sherlock Holmes. For God's sake. Sherlock writhes some more, not helping matters whatsoever. So, John makes a decision. ]

Sherlock?

[ God, it's good, it's - they're very close and there's softness underneath his back, softness and an inexplicable ache that he can't understand right now, can't be bothered -

Sherlock, says John but his lips aren't moving and why would he - for a second, all Sherlock can think is no, please but then, the dream dissipates too fast for his mind to remain in that blessed in-between, the point when real and un-real contain no true dichotomies. His eyes snap open, breathing fast and his entire body tense, the heat in his abdomen and groin remaining even beyond the dreamscape. He lies on his back, hands clenching desperately in the sheets, as he blinks himself awake and realises that he's... he's...

Oh.

He's next to John and John's just woken him up, supposedly because...

Sherlock freezes. Lies perfectly, rigidly still, aside from his chest rising and falling erratically with each new intake of breath. ]

[ He shouldn't have. He can tell from the moment Sherlock's name leaves his lips that he simply -- shouldn't have. This feeling of utter dread is only substantiated by the expression on Sherlock's face, when his eyes flutter open (dusty grey in the darkness, murky, no bright blues or greens or those other colours his irises can take) and he stays frozen on the mattress, his chest rising and falling rapidly. John shouldn't have woken him up. He should have left or he should have stayed, but he should have let him sleep, dream.

Shit.

Swallowing heavily, he licks his lips and tries not to shift about too much, although his cock is still decently interested in the entire -- thing (Sherlock's voice when he called his name, supposedly, dark and husky and desperate and and and), hoists himself up on his elbow again, looking off to the side. ]

Sorry, I -- [ A pause. Clearing his throat, he braves the stillness and glances over at Sherlock, furtively. ] Sorry.

[ Oh, nononono no, no, John wasn't supposed to - and he's sharing his bed, why would his mind and body be so terrible, so utterly terrible? Sherlock can't move for a very long moment, his body stiff as a board (everywhere, naturally, everywhere) and his thoughts racing. He's never indulged - he's never indulged for a reason and while moaning out your best friend's name during a sex dream hasn't been on top of his list, it's definitely ranked up there right now with the very best reasons to stay. Celibate. He blinks. Blinks some more. Shifts, restlessly, wanting nothing more than a shower.

A very cold shower.

John's apologising, however, and that means he has to say something, even if all he wants to do is cover beneath the sheets until everything just goes away. He can't ruin all of it, not now, not when John's finally moved back in with him, with things going so well. He shuts his eyes. Breathes in, out, shakily, a cold slap of panic spreading all the way down his spine. It takes care of his erection, at least, if nothing else. ]

Not your fault. [ His voice is hoarse. ] It's - uh.

[ Swallow. ]

It's just - I should probably go and, uh - [ Apparently, stringing together a coherent sentence is now officially beyond him. ] - I'll go sleep on the - yes.

[ He rolls out of the bed blindly, banging his feet against the bedside table as he snatches up his duvet single-handily. He doesn't look at John. He can't possibly. ]

Yeah, can you not -- [ John hears himself speak, before he can seize any real control of what's coming out of his mouth and as such, the continuation of his request does take him somewhat by surprise, as he sits up completely. ] -- do that. Sleep on the -- [ Sherlock's snatching up his duvet with one hand, very much on the way to fleeing the room blindly and John honestly doesn't think he should do that, it occurs to him somewhat belatedly. He thinks Sherlock should stay right here, in this bed, with John and not -- run from it, whatever it is, not like John's got a bloody clue, is it? A sex dream, apparently, about him, obviously, but other than that, yeah, no. ] -- sofa, I mean. Can you -- [ Oh, come on, he's a doctor, for crying out loud, sex isn't a topic he has any issues with whatsoever, unless apparently he's talking to his best friend about it and that's odd, too, isn't it? Mates talk about these things, right? Mates, yes. Sherlock and him, no. ] -- do whatever you need doing and then, come back here?

[ Because although his cock is behaving itself now, finally, he'll have to face the fact that Sherlock made him hard less than a minute ago, just by moaning his name and he knew Sherlock was -- amazing, incredible, fantastic, right, but that's still on another scale. That's -- something else. And maybe they should, well, talk about that.

Hell, John doesn't know. ]

[ He pauses in the doorway, dragging the duvet on the floor. John asks him not to do that (sleep on the sofa, yes, good of him to clarify), then asks him to do - something (whatever needs doing, oh, for God's sake) - and come back.

Come back.

He stands completely still, muscles tense all the way from his feet to his neck. Whilst the dream has deserted him very efficiently, the traces of it linger - the smell of John (so much clearer this time which, no wonder, seeing as the man was right next to him oh god oh god), the touch of his fingers. The... rest. He grimaces, staring straight ahead, John's words hanging between them in the stillness. The trouble is, he thinks, he doesn't even know what he's just given up, unwillingly. He doesn't know how much, either. But to be fair, if he leaves for the sitting room, he'll probably just end up smoking half a pack of cigarettes, by himself, getting absolutely nowhere with his thoughts because this... isn't... his... area.

None of it, really.

He clears his throat. ]

All right.

[ Dropping the duvet without further ado, he shifts from foot to foot for a few seconds. Then, his brain takes the instinctual route and he's heading for the bathroom before he can properly think it over, slamming the door shut behind him and pulling off his pyjamas frantically. He more or less springs into the shower, turning on the water and letting it hit him, hard and fast and freezing cold. ]

[ All right, says Sherlock and heads for the bathroom, the shower turning on in there within seconds, basically. John eases down on his back in the bed and stares up at the ceiling, trying to figure out what the hell is going on. Well, it's really very simple, isn't it -- Sherlock just had a sex dream about him and John found out. Good, great, shit. He covers his face with his hands, blinking against his palms rapidly and breathing, hard. Since when does Sherlock Holmes even care enough about sex to dream about it? John honestly thought -- but apparently, evidently -- and about John, for God's sake.

The sound of his own name, moaned, keeps ringing in his ears, Sherlock's voice -- obviously, it was his voice, but deeper (like it isn't deep enough already), huskier, needier, if that's even a word, he's lost all sense of grammar, hasn't he. Sherlock did that, congrats. Bloody congrats all around, John's cock might deserve the acknowledgement, too, with how fast it was to react. Frankly, he can't remember when he last got hard so quickly... then again, John hasn't cared much about sex since... Yes. Wonderful.

Then, he thinks about them. About how he's been sleeping in Sherlock's bed for the past three and a half weeks (he could probably stop doing that with some effect, except he doesn't want to), how -- close they've become after Sherlock's return, everything exactly as it were, just tighter, tighter, tighter. Then, he thinks about Sherlock, whether Sherlock is -- whether Sherlock likes -- and how does John -- feel, on the other hand?

He lets his hands drop to his sides, settling nicely on top of his duvet while he listens to the shower running, imagining Sherlock under the spray, naked and okay, no, not going there. Thank you. Thank you very much. It's fine, now he waits. ]

[ It takes him at least five minutes to properly return to himself and when he does, he immediately regrets it. So, now John knows. And in the worst way possible, too, considering. The man's in his bed and they don't even properly understand why - suddenly, Sherlock's body decides to make it 100 percent more complicated? He frowns, body trembling slightly from the cold. He should sleep on the sofa, really, and then tomorrow, they should re-establish John in the upstairs bedroom as has surely - surely - been the plan all along. Eventually. When they were... done, navigating this odd in-between, bridging before and onward.

The thought makes his stomach churn in all the wrong ways. He sighs. Turns off the water and dries off, glad that he won't have to be careful about the stitches on his back any longer. He throws a passing glance at his pyjamas and decides that putting them back on, potential wet spots be damned, far outranks going into his bedroom starkers, wearing nothing but a towel. Wouldn't want to... scare the man off. God, he's been managing not to do that since the day they met, since jumping off a root in front of him and now, this? How much more strain can John be expected to handle?

Getting dressed quickly, he stares at himself in the mirror for a moment (too pale, too many cigarettes, too little food and his hair's all over the place, nice) before shutting off the light and heading back to the bedroom. He picks up the duvet on the way, then pauses near the window (looking out, first, just checking, just being safe) before turning towards the bed. Then, he just. Stands there. Looks at John, feeling lost. ]

You - can we forget about that, please.

[ When Sherlock returns to the bedroom, hair absolutely everywhere, bouncing like -- what, some very happy cuts of fleece, John follows him with his eyes, his way around the room, pausing by the window because he still needs to check the perimeter and John has old soldier buddies who still do the same, years later, many years later, so perhaps that's to be expected. How he can't shake it off, the mission, the field. After a brief moment of John looking at Sherlock looking out, the other man turns around and meets his gaze, just standing there and looking very embarrassed and very lost and John frowns a bit, until Sherlock speaks. Can we forget about that, please?

Um. Well. John's frown softens into something else. Can't rightly see his own face, can he, but it feels rather complaisant, rather kind and John's not a very kind person, is he, but Sherlock seems to bring it out in him, nonetheless. He's done so from the get-go. A slight shake of his head and John rolls onto his side, facing the other man's side of the bed. He can certainly try, Sherlock. For you. ]

Sure. [ A slow intake of breath, filling his lungs, blinking the opposite wall in and out of focus. ] Just get to bed.

[ He's lying rather close to the middle, but he doesn't inch to the side, although it would have left Sherlock with more room to lie down on. If the other man wants space, he'll have to say so, John's in no hurry to get away. No hurry. Another frown, deeper this time. Maybe he should consider the implications of that, but honestly -- if not minding their closeness sets the bar, he has no idea where on the scale getting a pop-up hard-on is to be found. Neither is he particularly interested in figuring it out either, not right now.

Now's not the time. ]

[ Just get to bed says John, facing Sherlock's side of the bed and lying very much in the middle of everything. Despite his mortification, Sherlock can't help but note how John's being disgusted or freaked out seems very much contra-indicated by his actions. Had he been someone else, someone preoccupied with showing kindness or (worse) forbearance, perhaps it would have simply been an expression of polite acceptance. But John doesn't do those. He very simply doesn't. He'd sleep somewhere else if he didn't want to sleep next to Sherlock, that's that. And consequently, he must still want to.

Sherlock stares at him for a few seconds, expression blank. He doesn't know what's going on or why and he's freezing cold from the shower, muscles trembling lightly in his thighs and arms. There's a feeling of emptiness in his stomach, like he's been gutted and left with a giant hole for all to see; the thought makes him want to either run from the room or jump from the window (the latter option somewhat preferable mainly for the finality of it).

Instead, however, he shuffles back to his side of the bed and gets in, wrapping himself up in the duvet. He doesn't look at John, keeping his back to him. He wonders if perhaps he should... lie as close to the edge as possible, to give John enough room to -- but no, this is his bed and if John insists on staying despite Sherlock having wet dreams about him (oh god), he'll have to figure out his own rules of proximity in the face of it. Shutting his eyes firmly, Sherlock lies there, on his side, breathing too quickly still and shivering periodically. It's pretty pathetic, all around. ]

[ It's by way of a shuffle that the other man eventually complies, moving around the bed and lying down on his own side of it, their shoulders mere inches from brushing with how John's claimed the middle and -- well, the rest. It's quiet. They don't say anything which is really a rarity between them, in Sherlock's case especially. Sometimes I don't speak for days on end, he'd warned John at Bart's, back then, but John's honestly still waiting for him to some day shut up, right? Now, with his back turned, he's like some dumb larva in its duvet-cocoon and John just watches what little he can see of his shoulders like this (upper edge of his shoulder blades, scarring from badly healed injuries, indents from those intermediate stitches John did a month ago), duvet hiding most of his back from view. He's wrapped himself up good.

Even so, he's periodically shivering and his breathing doesn't truly settle either and after a while of listening to him being a proper idiot, John takes a deep breath and shifts closer, until he's practically pushing himself up against the other man's back, lots of fabric between them, two duvets and half a pillow, because John pulls his with him, but the closeness is very real, very tangible regardless. John can feel Sherlock's shoulders rise and fall with every shallow intake of air. In comparison, his own breathing is slightly more controlled, forcibly so. Let's hope there are no more surprise boners tonight or they're both fucked, perhaps literally. Perhaps. Shit.

He closes his eyes. Sherlock smells cool and fresh this close. Only a brief moment's hesitation and John throws his arm over the other man's waist without curling it or actually holding him, because -- come on, but just -- yeah, the signal value of it... It's fine, it says, probably better than words could ever manage, too.

It's all good, Sherlock. ]

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psl.

the eighth.

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