Work Text:
Beep.
The phone’s notification is alarmingly loud in the silent room, nothing other than the breathing from the two men in the bed. They were tangled up in each other, but had drifted apart during the night.
The tall, skinny man is on his front with the duvet rucked up around his waist, his mottled and scarred back exposed. The shorter, broader man is on his back his arms above his head, his chest moving up and down evenly.
This one is always the early riser. Awoken with nary a cause, he’s always up at the smallest noise or change in environment. Unlike his lover, who could sleep through a tornado- that is, if he chose to sleep at all.
On this particular morning, the shorter man- John is his name- wakes without a sound at the noise of the phone. His head turns towards where it rests on the opposite bedside table.
He’s not tired, he was throughly exhausted from their activities the night before. Yes, that was very pleasant indeed. He should probably check to make sure Sherlock is alright. Although he promised to vocalize any pain, he sometimes doesn’t know what’s good for him.
The phone beeps a second time, more insistently. Can a phone even cop an attitude from the same noise? It would seem so, John thinks.
John reaches across Sherlock and grabs the phone in his left hand. Settling his arm down around Sherlock, he pulls himself closer and opens up the text messages.
Lestrade
8:58
Body, female, blonde, skin on her face cut clean off.
9:03
You coming or not, we’d really like you on this one. I’d say it’s at least an 8.
The phone buzzes in his hand, an address to the body and its mystery.
“Sherlock.”
“Hmph.”
“Greg has a crime scene for you.”
“Mm.”
John places a kiss to his curls.
“Come on, gotta get up, love.”
“No,” Sherlock complains as he tries to bring the duvet to cover himself completely.
“It’s too late for us to be sleeping in anyway, its nine o'clock,” John says as he sits up.
“Too late for you,” Sherlock mumbles. He flips himself over and onto his side, gazing at John as the covers slip down to John’s waist.
John stretches his arms back behind his head, his back and shoulder popping as he does so. He lets out a pleased groan, Sherlock’s eyes watching the movement of muscles under golden skin.
“Food. I need food.”
“Mm, yes.”
John is always hungry the morning after.
John leaves the room and into the kitchen, not caring that he’s bare as the day he was born or that their poor old land lady could walk in at any moment.
Sherlock can smell the toaster working and last nights takeaway being heated up for a calorie-filled breakfast. He doesn’t want to get up, not at all. No matter how childish it sounds, it’s the truth.
The sheets are divine, he’s pleasantly sleepy, the room smells like them. Nothing could be better.
If only John would come back so he could curl back up against him and revel in each other.
“Sherlock, breakfast’s ready. Gotta get up,” John calls from the kitchen.
“Make me,” Sherlock almost whispers; he’s falling back asleep.
“Sorry, didn’t hear you.”
Subjecting himself to being awake, he says a bit louder, “Come over here and make me.”
Sherlock can practically hear the annoyed smile. Or was it an exasperated sigh? He isn’t sure, the two silences do sound very similar. But what he does hear is footsteps to his bedroom door.
Sherlock glances up to see John with a countenance with a mix of arousal and irritation. The fact that Sherlock is smugly smiling probably doesn’t make the situation any better.
After John’s internal conflict (another round or make Sherlock do something?), John seems to come to a decision. He strides over to where Sherlock is laying- who has been turning his body to follow John’s movements across the room, landing him on the back.
John covers Sherlock with himself, keeping his weight on his forearms and away from the body underneath him. “What do you want, Sherlock?” he asks. He places a kiss to the underside of his jaw, moving down his neck and to his chest.
Sherlock threads a hand through John’s short, bristly hair, keeping him in place. “This,” he breathes.
John comes back up and places a kiss to Sherlock’s lips, dry and chaste. Blue meets blue, pupils dilating. John whispers, “Well, you’re gonna have to wait for it.”
Before Sherlock can say anything, John jumps to the side and away from the bed, flinging the duvet off, and sneaking his arms underneath Sherlock’s knees and shoulders.
Sherlock lets out a startled cry, not expecting the assault. He soon realises that John is carrying him, bridal style. John carries him through the door and onto one of the kitchen chairs. “Got you up.”
“I hate you.”
“Love you, too.”