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[docwithablog]

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[docwithablog]

[ Naturally, he's the first to wake up.

They're lying pretty much in the exact same positions that last night left them in, bodies aligned, legs entangled, John's right arm tossed across Sherlock's midriff for good measure. The room reeks of sex and so do they, a harsh stench of cum and hour-old sweat, whatever pheromones are still sticking to their skin as a morning after present. John blinks a couple of times, blearily, a rather awful taste clinging to the roof of his mouth and to his tongue. The result of two consecutive rounds of shagging, very different experiences, but still within a span of hours and when did he last not just end up sleeping on the bloody sofa? He withdraws his arm from the broad expanse of Sherlock's chest, pushing up on his elbow and letting his eyes roam over the other man for a moment. It's a definite pinch-me moment, isn't it? He makes a face (his tongue feels like it's growing mould) and kicks off his underpants that never made it further than his ankles the night before, then rolls to the edge of the bed and sits up.

Okay, plan of action: Shower, after which he'll get dressed and go buy them breakfast. Unless sex somehow resets all the other man's internal clocks, he's got an hour and a half before Sherlock will even think about stirring (because it's half past nine and apparently John is the one whose internal clocks are reset by way of shagging), he's got time to fix up the entire flat if he felt like it, not that he does, mind you, though there are beetle pots that he should probably... consider...

Fifteen minutes later, he descends the stairs to his bedroom shrugging into a fresh shirt, having left all the dirty laundry on Sherlock's floor, because John's still going to be the one to wash it, grabbing only his jacket as he moves past (Sherlock hasn't moved, he's pretty much collapsed, the lazy sod) and running a hand through his still wet hair. He checked the fridge and found it for the most part occupied by a very wet hand which has undoubtedly ruined all their foodstuffs, so he'll just buy -- whatever they'll need to not contract a really nasty string of bacteria. Before leaving, he writes a note (at the grocer's) for Sherlock, should the miracle happen that he's up before John's back.

Then, he heads for the streets outside like it was any ordinary morning, when it is in fact a very extraordinary morning and the beetle pots better be prepared for when he gets back. Perhaps Sherlock better be, too. ]

[acuriousincident]

[ The sun wakes him, closer to midday than morning, slaps of light flitting through the window and straight onto his face. He frowns. Keeps his eyes closed for a moment and shifts, disoriented for only the barest moment before his mind kicks itself into gear. Wakefulness. Brainstem and thalamus, ANS. He stretches slowly, the feeling of dried cum on his skin turning his frown into a wince. God, the room smells like sex. His skin, his mouth, his... everything - feels like sex, like what they did last night, him and John, and oh God, did they have sex? His brain is looping on itself for the next several seconds and he sits up almost abruptly, eyes widening comically. John. John's... not here, obviously, because John doesn't sleep in and he may have left before morning, too, gone to sleep in his own room and whatnot - he flattens his hand against the mattress and no, there's definitely a lingering sense of warmth there, the imprint of John's body still visible against the sheets. Alright, then. Doesn't have to mean anything, of course, the man's not in his teens anymore and having sex twice within the span of a few hours - the kind of sex that tips your sexual identity on its head - would probably in itself be enough to knock him out.

He realises with some irritation that his breathing has accelerated and forces himself to relax, taking two deep breaths and composing himself as well as possible, considering that he's still got cum all over his lower body, John's scent seemingly stuck to his skin besides. Getting out of bed, he straightens up and listens for a moment. The flat is quiet, not even the sound of a newspaper being turned or clothes rustling, nothing. He's out, he manages to conclude, and the thought's a complex one. He doesn't linger at it.

Grabbing a towel, he heads for the bathroom, the door falling shut behind him just as he hears the frontdoor open, the sound of slightly irregular footsteps and grocery bags landing on the floor in the hallway with a dull thud. He's been at the grocer's, then. Alright. Going through his regular bathroom routines quickly, ending last in the shower with hot water spaying off some of last night's vestiges, he forcibly pushes all questions (doubts) aside. Sentiments. Regardless of what happens next, he'll keep ahead of them as he always does, yes, and getting clean is the first step in the process.

As he finishes up, pulling on a pair of fresh pyjama bottoms, a t-shirt and his bathrobe, he can hear the sounds of activity in the kitchen, John putting groceries away, probably doing his best to navigate around the hand in the fridge and the desiccated beetles on the cooker. He steps out, casting a quick glance at his bedroom. As an afterthought, he walks back and pushes the window open, letting in the morning air. Then, he heads for the kitchen, entering without addressing John straight away, gaze landing on the table and the small note still stuck to its surface. ]

Ah. [ He stands stock-still, just staring at it like an idiot. ] It wasn't exactly hard to figure out, you know.

[docwithablog]

[ The shower's on when he gets back, Sherlock finishing up in the bathroom while John drags his three and a half bags of groceries to the kitchen, knowing he'll have to work around the pot of burnt beetle bodies and whatever else Sherlock's got going on the nearby surfaces to fit in all the stuff he bought (there's dinner, too, he thought he could just as well kill two birds with one stone), seeing as it won't exactly fit in the fridge. He does briefly wonder what would actually happen if he just moved the hand and the disgustingly murky water out, but you don't ever want to mess with Mister Chemistry Graduate's experiments. He gets impossibly annoyed. Keyword: impossibly.

Instead John limits himself to pulling out the most relevant items for the time being, toast and fresh milk and butter, eggs, bacon's at the bottom of the second bag and he's not going to rummage around after it, they'll live. He collects the now one and a half remaining grocery bags in the corner, before turning around just in time to catch a glimpse of Sherlock, in his bathrobe, staring at John's apparently very offending note from earlier like he's managed to misspell any of the three altogether mundane words. Not exactly hard to figure out, he comments.

In response to which, John grabs the beetle pot and places it in the sink, turning on the water and waiting for it to fill, unidentifiable crisps and little pieces of beetle legs floating around in the surface. Lovely. With a shrug, he faces the other man and leans back against the counter, water still running behind his back. He could ask Mrs Hudson for room in her fridge, but that would entail having to talk to Mrs Hudson, of course. ]

Who knew where your head would be at?

[ Because, true, usually Sherlock's brain would come to this conclusion very much on its own, possibly even before you yourself had decided to leave the flat, but although buying groceries is nothing out of the ordinary, although even the beetle pot has possibly been seen before, this isn't business as usual and John needed to make sure they weren't heading for a repeat of the past month. That would be very unfortunate. And very unnecessary. ]

[acuriousincident]

[ Who knew. He leaves the note on the table, untouched, and gets seated by his microscope. The dishes are still here, of course, and the one he'd left out looks positively ripe. Then again, he's not exactly been diligent in keeping to his experimental framework, has he? The samples have been sitting here, out at room temperature ever since he left to pick John up. And afterwards, too, obviously. Probably doesn't quite merit a trip to Bart's, just to stare at the all-too-predictable after effects. He frowns. Reaches for a small piece of fabric, pressed between two slides and clips it onto the stage. He speaks without looking at John, voice low and relatively neutral. ]

So, you left to buy breakfast - implying, I'd say, that you're planning on cooking it. For us, going by the amount you've just put out. [ He frowns. Adjusts the focus slightly before continuing. ] Either you're content to leave things - [ Not the best word, granted, but his vocabulary seems a bit stumped when it comes to what's just happened between them. ] - as they are, whatever that implies, or you've chosen a needlessly complicated approach to making amends.

[ It's clearly a piece of curtain cloth, he thinks, eyebrows furrowing slightly. Traces of rubber polymer. Coated fabric. Re-coated at least twice. Not enough to block out the light 100 percent but close. Certainly, it would make the inside of a small, cramped living room seem even less inviting, wouldn't it? His head is running two, parallel tracks at the moment - the curtain-mystery (which, really, is not so much a mystery as a convenient source of distraction) and John, John who's looking at him right now, who said last night was nice.

He realises only now that John probably left a note for him to ensure that he knew he'd come back again. The thought makes something in his chest tighten. ]

[docwithablog]

[ With an only halfway exasperated expression, he listens to Sherlock -- deduce his way out of the very simple scenario that is John definitely planning on making them breakfast, yes, the both of them and no, not to leave things (really, that's an unfortunate terminology, Sherlock) as they are, but because he's bloody starving and he's willing to bet, Sherlock is, too. They put about equal amounts of effort into last night, after all. A grimace as the other man finishes his very long and very complicated sentence, before he turns around and shuts off the water, the sink flooded at the bottom, days' worth of dirt collecting in the drain. Once he's made them breakfast, he might find that he can't live in this filth and clean up. Maybe. ]

Unless you feel amends are in order, that's not what I'm doing, Sherlock. I'm going to stuff us with food, because we probably sweated out half our body weight and I'm not going to let you shrink into nothing now.

[ Perhaps he would have the day before yesterday, if nothing else then to enjoy the quiet for a bit, but now? Not a chance.

Turning around once more, he looks over at Sherlock sitting at his microscope, the way he always does when he's trying to figure stuff out, all those little elements he can tie together in his head which remains incredible to this day, trumped only by how incredibly dense the man can be in regards to -- well, pretty much all things human. John shakes his head and grabs the eggs and the butter, turning on the cooker and moving past Sherlock's back to fetch a pan. He's left with not even the slightest twinge of regret, it's nothing like their first, drunken kiss a month ago, really, it's nothing like that. Instead, it's pretty clear to him (crystal) that he doesn't fully understand what it is that's happened between them, he doesn't fully grasp the shift, but that's fine, because it was nice and he'd do it again, should the opportunity present itself (hopefully without sitting in detention for hours first with a bloke he panic-shagged in a cheap hotel, if you'd please).

Once the butter has sizzled, he cracks the eggs into the pan, whipping them up with the filling knife, caring very little about the texture of the mix. This is bachelor's food, confirmed. Apparently. ]

[acuriousincident]

[ So fine, no making amends. He stares at the threads in the microscope, realising that he ought to adjust the light and finding zero inclinations to actually do so. What does it matter, he already knows what this is, what he'll find if he looks any closer, where it'll end. It's a very different story, him and John, and the other man isn't making it any simpler for him; negations are, in this context, as efficient as non-answers, meaning not even a little, and he can feel himself growing irritated, even as he removes the slides, dumping them on the table carelessly. ]

That's a terrible assessment.

[ He straightens up in his seat, finally looking at John who's chosen this time to turn away to cook the eggs, a warm smell of melted butter drifting through the air. Gaze following the lines of his back, all the way up to his shoulder, he realises that there ought to be marks still, five in total. The thought immediately sparks up at least a dozen others, all very much related, and he looks away just to put them on hold, seeing as he's on the verge of actually abandoning his chair, just to pull the man's shirt down for a closer look.

With a sigh of frustration, he finally just waves a hand at John's back. ]

John. [ He hates the notes of confusion clearly audible in his voice but for god's sake, this isn't obvious to him at all and by the way, that's why he never does it - relationships - to begin with. Had it been anyone but John, he could have just left - or made them leave - but it's not and he doesn't want to. The eggs smell nice, too. Nice. He's starting to dislike that word rather vehemently. The deduction ought to be fairly straightforward - John's cooking for them because he doesn't want them to starve, meaning that he's certainly harbouring no ill feelings towards him since last night's activities - and he's not regretful about them, either. It ought to be straightforward, yes, but it isn't - because there remains a huge difference between John, being gracious about something he'd rather never repeat again - or John being generous because he's just that delighted about it. ] Just tell me what's going on.

[docwithablog]

[ The eggs are coming together rather nicely -- and wait, he told Sherlock it was nice, last night, didn't he? Perhaps not the clearest term to use, but it felt appropriate at the time, just open-ended and yet specific enough to really cover the entire -- thing. Now he's doing it, too. Sherlock, you utter cock. Just tell me what's going on, the other man says to him and there's a very audible note of desperation in his tone. He might sound indifferent to others, cold, irritated, to people who don't know him, meaning pretty much -- the world, yes, but John can tell the difference. This isn't Sherlock demanding something from some witness in a case, this is Sherlock asking him what the bloody hell happened and what will happen next. Between them. The cold facts, as if either coldness or factuality are of importance in relation to sleeping with your best friend. He sighs, puts the filling knife away and yanks the pan off the heat, before turning around and crossing his arms over his chest. Sherlock hasn't left his spot in front of his microscope, but the samples have been abandoned on the table and his one hand is still lingering in the air after a wave. Frustration, then. Sherlock's hands are always everywhere when he's frustrated. ]

Well, we shagged. We shagged and it was, if you ask me, very successful, very enjoyable, very pleasant. 10/10, would do again. [ A slight huff of breath and he catches Sherlock's eyes across the short distance between them. There's a heavy smell of eggs and butter in the air and it's somehow a very vulnerable moment, isn't it? They're putting themselves out there and anything could happen, absolutely anything. John frowns, then shakes his head slightly. ] I'm telling you, I'm fine with it, the next bit's not only up to me, though.

[ He recognises that he's quoting Sherlock's own phrasing back at him, the next bit, from last night, right? After John made him -- lick his palm, that was what he said. Can't help you with the next bit. He remembers. Oh, he remembers very well. Clearing his throat, he swallows something thick in his throat and blinks a couple of times, trying to make the mental image of Sherlock naked underneath him, hands... This is the drawback, of course, that he'll be running around with these sort of memories in his arsenal and they're bound to rear their heads at very inconvenient times, like the next time they talk to Lestrade, for example. That would be awkward. And also very welcome.

John likes the package. He'll take all of it. ]

[acuriousincident]

[ John adds on a handful of unnecessary (but oddly gratifying) adjectives, tells him it's fine, he's fine with it. The shag. There's a long moment of silence afterwards, during which Sherlock seriously contemplates simply shrugging it off, telling John to eat his eggs and just heading back to bed. The bed, which still reeks of sex. Yes, that would be a suitable self-punishment, wouldn't it, for landing himself (and John) in this situation to begin with. However, though this whole thing makes him deeply uncomfortable, he can't readily ignore what's John actually telling him - the next bit he says, in a clear throw-back to Sherlock's comment last night. Connect the dots. His gaze flickers sideways. The next bit. ]

You... don't mind. [ That's one conclusion, done away with. Next up. ] Well, of course you don't, you're hardly as straight as you usually proclaim. Though, when you say - would do again - [ Fingers doing quotation marks. ] - are you implying you'd do me - [ Pointing to himself here, just to clarify. ] - or some other, random fellow you pick up? In the case of the latter, I recommend you look around for somebody who's not your bloody copy, seeing as there are in fact more efficient ways to have sex with yourself.

[ With that, he gets up, feeling completely agitated, restless enough, even, to grab the filling knife and scrub the eggs around in the pan (uselessly, very) before dropping it to the counter and stalking off into the living room, pausing by the window behind his chair with his arms crossed. He probably ought to just stay around and listen to whatever John has to say to that, but in all honesty, he's quite concerned about what it might be, and he just doesn't like not knowing. It's very unfamiliar ground to him, though the possibilities aren't exactly endless, they're impossible to narrow down. It's like that time when he was 4 (and many times, after) and some older kid had suggested they climb up a tree to "touch the sky". That had been a very long, very tedious afternoon. Mycroft had thought him immensely stupid. ]

[docwithablog]

[ Sherlock proceeds to word vomit very spectacularly. He'll tell you he's doing his deduction trick, but in fact he's just letting out steam because he's uncertain and John -- John can take it. He doesn't mind this either. Listening to what the other man is inquiring, would you do me (?) or some other, random fellow (?), answer being the former, check, he follows him with his eyes as he grabs the filling knife and pushes the eggs very, very aimlessly around the pan and then stalks off into the living room. He's not even sticking around to hear what John has to say in response, it he? Grandly typical. Grandly. Rolling his eyes, John lets his arms drop to his sides and follows him into the other room, after having turned the heat off the cooker completely, finding him standing behind his chair, near the window and it reminds John very forcefully of the night before, before they'd gotten into bed and he'd kissed -- his neck, the long stretch of skin covering the man's upper spine and he'd pressed his hand to the small of his back and it had been fine. Physical contact. It had been... nice.

He takes a deep breath, rests his hands on his hips and speaks to Sherlock's back first: ]

I'm talking about you and me and the sex we should definitely make a habit of. [ Because he wants there to be a them, right? He wants a Sherlock and John rather than a Sherlock and his friend slash colleague slash partner, John. He wants them to be just -- Sherlock and John. Being friends was good, but this holds the potential to be better and if Sherlock doesn't think so, well, then he's endlessly more stupid than John ever gave him credit for. Which is saying something, really. He bites his lower lip a long moment, then decides to hell with the eggs and breakfast and marches across the room, stopping next to Sherlock's chair, only half a step behind the other man. He could make a joke about the both of them needing to be tested for STDs now, thanks to this random, other fellow that Sherlock is addressing, but the timing feels off, so instead he hesitates only a second before reaching out and placing his hand between Sherlock's shoulder blades, his back tense and unapproachable through the multiple layers of bathrobe and shirt, not that this has ever deterred John earlier in the script. ] You're free to prove me wrong, but I really don't see any problems with this, Sherlock.

[acuriousincident]

[ John follows him almost immediately and that alone is a relief because it's so familiar, it's the same as ever (ever, meaning the past one and a half year but it does sometimes seem like longer; no doubt, there's some connection here between the mind's temporal perception and event decoding slash management that he's not going to wonder about any further). We should definitely make a habit of it, John says, more or less, and he realises only now that those were the exact words he'd wanted to hear. Obviously, he could have figured that out if he'd had the time (the peace of mind) to properly think about it but as luck will have it, when it comes to things like this, his brain always act so stupidly deficient.

At the touch between his shoulder blades, he can feel himself visibly sag, tension leaving his upper body and settling very briefly in his hands, curling into fists for a second before uncurling again. He takes a moment longer to simply stare out of the window, thinking that it's so like John, this. Expecting things to be so simple. Sherlock knows habits - they're easily acquired, yes, but hard to be without. Certain habits, immensely so. He looks down, runs one hand through his hair quickly, then turns around slowly to face the other man. A slight smile and a raised eyebrow: ]

I'm not surprised. [ He finally just steps closer, reaching out and running his hand up John's side, his cable knit sweater slightly rough beneath his palm. He's warm, underneath. Well yes, obviously, seeing as he's not dead or undead or... He cuts that thought off before it runs away. ] Some risks, John, are extremely foolish. If we do this - [ His hand pauses, about to slide around, to the small of John's back. ] - then I won't hear any whinging when it goes haywire.

[ Though the words may be slightly harsh, there's an undercurrent of actual worry beneath because he knows what sort of life he leads, what his job requires and what it entails. John's accepted all of that before but they haven't actually... Well. To say there's been nothing to lose between them would be incredibly untrue, not to mention ridiculous. But surely, there's a difference still. Somewhere in the mix. ]

[docwithablog]

[ Turning around, fingers flexing into fists at his sides briefly before relaxing again, Sherlock sends him a small smile and a raised eyebrow, telling him about risks, about foolishness, about things going boom and it's sort of amusing how the other man addresses this like it's a phenomenon still to come, like it hasn't gone haywire from the beginning, like John wasn't strapped into a bloody bomb vest or gets kidnapped on a regular basis by Sherlock's own brother. Yes, it's sort of amusing how they're talking about their relationship like it hasn't been exactly like this (minus one single element, a very enjoyable element, too, but one element still) from the beginning. Well, that element and the resultant touching. They're doing well with the touching, he thinks and looks down at Sherlock's hand against his arm, sliding lower until it's making as if to pull him closer by the small of his back.

Sherlock asked him, back at the beginning, if he wanted to see more injuries and violent deaths and he'd been completely, utterly, brutally honest when he'd gasped out his oh God yes. Really, no filter, nothing. He'd embraced it without any restraints whatsoever and this, well, this is just an extension of that. He'd say the exact same thing all over again. However, he does elaborate when he replies, a slight smile at the corner of his mouth and both eyebrows raised: ]

With my nervous system, by medical assessment found to be shot, it's more likely I'll be cheering, you know.

[ John has lived and worked in the world's harshest, most dangerous environment, he knows danger, he knows what it looks like, how its consequences feels between your hands. He knows injury on a very personal scale and he knows death. Nothing (and he means absolutely nothing) Sherlock can dish out will be worse than the weight he still carries around in his army doctor title, minus perhaps Sherlock himself getting killed, that would be horrible and he's not going to think about it right now with Sherlock looking at him like that, but even Sherlock dying -- They'd have had this, nothing lasts forever and they'd have had their time, right?

This is their time. ]

[acuriousincident]

[ I'll be cheering. Sherlock stares at him, unable to keep himself from thinking through worst case scenarios and coming up blank with regards to John - he oughtn't be in any of them. It's fine that he likes risks, that he likes danger, that's how they're compatible, isn't it. John craves it. Sherlock craves excitement, the way his blood rushes faster and his mind takes flight in the face of something particularly devious. Drugs. War. Hardly the same at all, but John's still telling him that he's seen enough by far to know what he's agreeing to and at this point, Sherlock realises he's beyond trying to tell him differently. Why would he, anyway? See for yourself, then, if you must. If you're so attracted to risk. ]

If you do that, people will talk.

[ Spoken with a tilt of his mouth, as he leans down and kisses him, hand tightening against John's side. He tastes like a new day, John, and while Sherlock isn't naive enough to believe that this won't complicate things beyond imagination further down the road, he can't - for the moment - bring himself to care. It would have been easier, granted, if John had simply perceived what they did last night as another case of experimentation, a springboard to a much, much wider dating pool. Yes, it would have also left Sherlock quite... dissatisfied but surely, wounds like that are easily mended, if not just ignored into oblivion. He slips his hand to the small of John's back, flattening his palm against him and pulling him closer. It's a long kiss, slower than last night. The contrast between the physical now - the warmth of John's lips, the feel of his body close to his - and the sense of future, of catastrophic inability lingering in his mind - is odd.

If they do this enough, perhaps one will push away the other, to some dark corner where at least, they won't have to stare it in the face for many months (years - ah, he's not that stupid) to come. ]

[docwithablog]

[ People already do.

Since the start, people have assumed that they were a couple, that Sherlock was his boyfriend. They've assumed that John was gay. He has spent a whole lot of time creating a narrative that he now has to unravel and retell from scratch, not that he expects there'll be much of a revelation about it for anyone else, aside from himself (sure, he'll admit to being a tiny bit surprised still, scratch that, try with bloody well shell-shocked, if you think about it). It is exactly as Sherlock said back then, having ripped his bloody clothes off at the swimming pool, people do little else, in fact. They talk. So let them hear him cheer.

Then, Sherlock leans down and kisses him. It's a different sort of kiss than the one(s) they exchanged the night before, less thirsty, less needy, but even so it's also longer. Slower. The other man's arm comes around his back, palm flattened against the small of it and pulling him closer and John steps forward well into Sherlock's intimate sphere without a moment's hesitation. He'll have to get used to this (not exactly a difficult feat, he'll say so much), the physicality of it when they're usually working in each their separate areas, Planet Sherlock and Planet John, right? Supposedly he's been bridging that distance from the get-go, though, and the kissing is just an additional perk that he'll gladly take.

Reaching up, he rests his right hand against the jut of Sherlock's hipbone, prominent even through layers of pajamas bottoms and bathrobe, because he needs the breakfast that John will go make him in approximately half a minute. He draws back from the kiss, exhales deeply and smiles. Doesn't move away, not immediately - he expects Sherlock will be the first to go, he always is. ]

So, hungry?

[acuriousincident]

[ John draws back from the kiss and asks a stupid question but Sherlock lets it slide, lips feeling wet, almost over-stimulated. He shrugs lightly and steps away, out of John's reach for now, pulling his dressing gown closer around his body. He's not on a case, not particularly active and not particularly invested in keeping anything running. It'll run itself, his body, at least for a while (and hopefully, they won't be without a case much longer than that). He flops into his chair, the leather creaking slightly as he makes himself comfortable, shifting here and there, a tint of that hellish, inherent unrest making itself known already. He thinks about last night. Relaxes just a fraction, then remembers that John asked him a question. He cranes his neck, looking over at the other man. ]

Not especially. Tea would be fine.

[ He stretches out his legs. Lets his gaze slip away from John once again, wandering the ceiling aimlessly while he returns his thoughts to that curtain sample. Perhaps he'll be kind and text Lestrade the solution, though he did originally refuse to concern himself with the case; too unremarkable, completely commonplace. But possibly, just possibly, last night's left him in a somewhat more... charitable mood? Silly thought, that. Even if there's a chemical, stress-reducing effect associated with sexual pleasure, it's hardly going to affect you so many hours following the event. Perhaps he's just... not currently unhappy or overly bored.

Imagine that. ]