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John loves the quiet mornings after cases when they wake in each other’s arms, often naked and bruised and a little bit stiff from whatever foot chase caught them their latest criminal, hair messy and breath stale. Because mornings like this one are perfect. Sherlock tangles their limbs impossibly further and presses his face to John’s neck, breathing him in with a contented sigh, his lashes tickling John’s skin. The soft morning light filtering in through the gap in their bedroom curtains highlights the strands of auburn woven through Sherlock’s curls and the faint threads of silver beginning to appear at his temples. Everything is still and John considers himself the luckiest man on the planet.
Eventually, they roll from their bed, donning their dressing gowns and puttering about, Sherlock hunched over his microscope with John fixing the tea because it always tastes better that way. Blog posts are finished (Your title is ridiculous, John), tissue samples dissolved in acids of varying pH levels (Sherlock, at least put some gloves on, please), and kisses freely given as they dance around each other, fingers lingering, eyes soft. John manages to convince Sherlock to eat, taking the chair beside him and feeding him by hand, shivering whenever Sherlock’s tongue laps at the pads of his fingers or his lips suckle John’s thumbs just a little longer than necessary. Sherlock tips his head back whenever John walks by, lashes fluttering as John strokes his curls and kisses down the long column of his neck, hand slipping beneath the folds of his dressing gown to stroke his chest, light and teasing.
About midday, Sherlock pauses, rising from his perch in the kitchen to pull John over to the sofa for a cuddle, fingers tracing the outline of John’s scar, head tucked under John’s chin. He murmurs about the case, recounting the details to John’s sternum, letting out an occasional hum or purr when John toys with the curls at his naps or traces his fingers along the knobs of Sherlock’s spine. Once he’s had his fix, he leaves, returning to his experiment with an air of calm about him and John’s heart melts a little more in his chest.
As the day wears on, the touches grow longer, the gazes more heated, the smiles taking on a sinful edge. John knows that the quiet days are filled with a low buzz of arousal and a quiet sense of intimacy, everything else put aside to make room for just the two of them. It’s an unspoken rule; a tradition all their own.
When the sky grows dark and the street lamps flicker to life, John pulls Sherlock from the kitchen, leading him down the hall. After a day like this, they just need to be close. Some nights, they shower, bodies lathered with soap and pressed together under the gentle stream of water. Other nights, they set out candles and draw a bath, John reclined against Sherlock’s chest, his short legs just touching the end of the tub while Sherlock’s long limbs hang over the sides. Most nights, they fall back into bed, peeling off their dressing gowns to cover each other in soft kisses and murmured praises, coming together and falling apart.
It’s brilliant and perfect and easy and them.
But most of all, John loves the quiet nights filled with breathless keens and throaty moans, the slick slide of skin echoing through the room, their fingers intertwined and their bodies moving as one. Because nights like this are something that he never thought he would have. Sherlock wraps his legs around John’s waist, bringing them impossibly closer, and presses his face to John’s neck, breathing him in with a desperate whine, his lips damp against John’s skin. The shimmering moonlight filtering in through the gap in their bedroom curtains highlights the bruises John sucks into Sherlock’s skin and paints his body in shades of silver from head to toe. Sherlock shivers and comes undone, John following on his heels, holding him close. Everything is still and John is so grateful that he found the courage to try again.