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[docwithablog]

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[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. ]