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Sherlock awakes to John’s tongue in his mouth.
Not an altogether unpleasant sensation—rather, quite the contrary—but unexpected, nonetheless. Particularly since they have never before kissed, or even indicated the desire to do so (at least to one another). Especially since John is so not gay, and Sherlock is gay but knows better than to pursue a straight man, no matter how many contradictory signals his friend has given him over the months they have shared a flat and their lives together. That way lies heartbreak and despair.
But back to the current situation, yes, John is definitely French kissing him (do they still call it that?), stretched alongside him on the lumpy bed they both occupy since it was far too late to catch the train back to London from the countryside where they have solved their latest case. They decided to share a hotel room out of necessity, but only one room with one bed could be had. After a hideously uncomfortable 17-hour stakeout and near freezing temps and a carpet filthy enough with stains of unknown origin to scare off even Sherlock, it convinced them that one of them taking the floor would be ridiculous and far too precious.
So, after stripping to their undergarments, they had collapsed on the bed and instantly fallen asleep, and now Sherlock is pressed up against John, whose hands are cradling Sherlock’s face, and he is licking into Sherlock’s mouth while making nummy sounds and Sherlock is already groaning with need.
John breathes his name between kisses. “Sherlock,” he murmurs. “Oh, god, yes, so good…”
Sherlock shivers, agreeing wholeheartedly, and angles his head to slot their lips more tightly together, rubbing one long pointed toe over John’s calf. But—but something isn’t right. John is acting strangely. Well, that is a given, the kissing primary evidence of that, but there is something more. It is as though John is here, but not present. His eyes are open, but it is as though they are blank, as though he is seeing some other scene in front of him.
And then it clicks. John is still asleep. He’s been prone to sleepwalk a time or two, but this is the first time Sherlock’s ever been privy to him sleep-kissing. Which also means, sadly, John is in no condition to give consent to this delicious sneak attack on Sherlock’s lips in the middle of the night. Sherlock needs to stop this…any moment now. Yes, soon, he will rally, and pull away, and gently push John back down on the mattress, and he will not then loom over him and remove his vest and pants and…and…
“Holy crap, Sherlock! What the actual fuck?”
“Ah, you’re awake,” Sherlock gasps. “I was just about to—”
John leaps out of bed. “What were you doing?”
Sherlock’s brows shoot upwards. “I assure you, I am an innocent bystander here. You were asleep. And dreaming, apparently. Good dream, I take it?” He is grateful that the dismal room is dark, because no doubt John would instantly see his body’s reaction to that luscious but all too brief kiss that he is even now cataloguing in his mind palace since it is likely to be the first, last, and only experience of its kind.
John looks both confused and horrified. “I what?”
“You were engaging in active dreaming. Very active,” he says with a cough, glancing at John’s obvious erection in his briefs, unable to look away.
John follows his glance and instantly covers himself with his hands. “Well, don’t stare, for Christ’s sake. Give a fella a break. I can’t help what I do when I’m sleeping, can I? Haven’t you ever woken up with a little wood in the middle of the night, mate?”
“I’d hardly call it little, mate.” Sherlock can’t help teasing John, even though he knows his friend must be mortified. He can practically hear John blushing over from his vantage point on the bed. “It’s fine, John. Really, it’s quite natural. You were probably dreaming about one of your many girlfriends and just had a normal, healthy reaction to the presence of another warm body in proximity to yours. For goodness’ sake, come back to bed. It’s freezing and I would appreciate the warmth.”
John quickly finds his jeans and sticks his legs into them, gingerly zipping them up over his bulge. “I don’t think that would be a good idea, Sherlock.”
Sherlock looks at him quizzically. “Why not?”
“Um, seriously? I just jumped you in my sleep! For which I heartly apologize. Doesn’t the possibility of that happening again concern you at all?” John runs a hand over his short, blond-gray hair, blowing out a breath.
Sherlock blinks slowly. “If it did, would I have invited you back to bed?”
Yes, he said that. He certainly did. And he believes he has shorted out John’s brain in the process because John is simply staring at him now, gaping. And while it isn’t a good idea to pursue a man who claims to be straight, what Sherlock also realizes is that John had groaned Sherlock’s name, not some random girlfriend’s. John’s unguarded mind had conjured a dream involving Sherlock and kisses, and that kiss was…well. Worth the risk.
“Do you know what today is, John?”
His friend, no doubt disconcerted by the abrupt change of subject, shakes his head. “Uh, no?”
Sherlock rises up on one elbow and drapes the other over one lean hip. He tilts a shoulder back so he’s all slim, dramatic S-curves, and considers his friend, speaking in the low baritone that he knows John responds to every time. John’s gaze, distracted, follows his movements, with a sort of banked hunger that simmers even in the dark.
“It’s the last few hours of Valentine’s Day, that’s what it is. And I have spent the past decade alone, not celebrating it, and pretending not to care. I don’t wish to do that any longer. I do care. I don’t want to be lonely this Valentine’s Day. Nor, I suspect, do you. You weren’t built for it, dear friend. You are meant to be held, and loved, and I propose that we start that side of our relationship on this auspicious occasion since I mean to begin as I intend to go on. What say you, John? As the old conversation hearts candy used to say, ‘Will you be mine?’”
John sputters, his mouth working, but nothing comes out. He seems as though he is searching for a way to object, and Sherlock braces for rejection. When it comes, Sherlock will laugh, say he was taking the piss, that he hadn’t meant any of it, and boy is John easy to tease. Ha ha.
“Sherlock? Are you saying? I mean, are you—are you suggesting we have sex?” His voice drops on the last word to a whisper, and it sounds unbearably arousing to Sherlock.
Well, it’s not an outright rejection, at least. “No. Anyone can have sex. I’m suggesting, that is, I’m hoping you might be interested in making love. And then a bit of cuddling, if you are so inclined. I like to have my hair petted too. My scalp is an erogenous zone. If you’re interested.”
John shifts from foot to foot, and his expression shifts with it. “It is?”
Sherlock nods.
John has stepped closer to the bed, though Sherlock is not sure if he realizes it yet.
“So, that time when you sprained your wrist, and you made me wash your hair for two weeks…Was that why you kept claiming your wrist still hurt even though you were clearly healed after only a week?”
Sherlock smothers a smile. “My secret is out.”
“Well. Aren’t you a naughty boy. But that was…nice. I mean, I didn’t mind. I-I like your hair. It’s kind of thick and silky.”
John has tucked his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, and the resulting cup of fabric in front is illuminating. He’s left the top button open, and it is almost sexier than Sherlock can bear.
His voice an erotic whisper, John takes another step towards Sherlock and says, “Are you? Naughty?”
Sherlock pulls the covers back, pats the mattress, and smiles invitingly. “Let’s find out together.”