The first thing I know is a burst of sunlight hitting my closed eyes and I groan quietly. Sitting up slowly, I look around Sherlock's room. On the floor near the door, I see my shirt, which Sherlock had torn in his impatient efforts to get it off my body. Some buttons lay scattered across the wooden floor and the big tear in the shoulder of the shirt makes me blush to myself. After the shirt, there's a mixed trail of other articles of mine and Sherlock's clothing.
"We didn't even make it to the bed," I mutter to myself, and Sherlock, who I thought was asleep, chuckles deeply in his chest.
I jump slightly. "Jesus," I breathe.
Sherlock only laughs louder.
I chance a glance at Sherlock and am relieved to see that his eyes are closed. I take advantage of the rare opportunity to study him.
One of the bed sheets is strewn carefully across his legs and covers some of his hip bones, but the v of his pelvic bone is visible. It's all angles in the pale sunlight and I linger a minute to appreciate the beauty of it. Sighing, I progress to his lean chest. The muscle is wrapped delicately around his long bones and though he looks skinny, I know that he is, in fact, very strong.
My mind wanders to a moment from last night, after Sherlock had somehow managed to rip my clothes off, he'd eased me onto the bed and had grinded his pelvis into mine, and I'd gasped in appreciation. He then placed his elbows on either side of me and kissed me as though he couldn't get enough while my mind was sent reeling, his sweet toxic breath filling my skull with images of fantasy and pleasure. His lips had been soft, but vicious as he fiercely kissed me. I bit down on his lip and tasted his blood, and an impossibly sexy low growl had ripped from his throat; and it tasted of Earl Grey tea and peppermint. He was everywhere: in my head, on my lips, brushing his lips against my throat, kissing my fingertips, grasping my arms hard enough to leave bruises. His arms had scooped me up to pull me closer to him and had locked me there, his arms like iron bars, as though he intended to keep me forever.
A shudder runs down my spine and chills my skin as I remember.
"You're staring, John," he murmurs with his eyes still closed, his voice soft and rumbly in his chest.
His dark eyelashes cast long shadows across the planes of his cheekbones, and his cupid's bow shaped lips move ever so slightly as he speaks. The curly locks of his hair outline his pale face in a halo of black, and I am reminded of an avenging angel striving to outlive God Himself, so as to have the last laugh.
"John."
I sigh. "Yes, Sherlock?"
"I'm hungry. Get me food, give me energy," he mumbles, stirring in the sheets, and opens his eyes to look at me.
I smile. "Then get it yourself; I'm not your housekeeper," I tell him in a rather terrible imitation of Mrs. Hudson.
Sherlock bursts into a fit of roaring laughter and I feel it through the bed. He goes on for a moment, thinking, then booms into euphoric laughter again.
I laugh and smile at him; I've always loved his euphoria after a night together because rarely do I ever get to see it on a regular basis.
"Oh God," he sighs, still smiling. He then looks down on himself. "I need clothes," he says ruefully, sad about it. He lays there for a moment, thinking, then sits up, dragging the entire sheet with him as he wraps it around himself.
"Come along, John. Let us go badger Mrs. Hudson to make breakfast."
I laugh and grab Sherlock's blue robe off of the floor on my way out. My bare feet pad down the hall after Sherlock and halfway into the kitchen does an idea pop up into my mind: I step onto the trail of Sherlock's sheet and it's yanked down to his waist. He yelps and struggles to gather it up, glancing towards the wide open windows in the living room. Laughing, I let him go, and after a sly skeptical look over his shoulder, he walks into the kitchen.
"Tea?" he asks, snatching the kettle and turning to the sink to fill it up.
"Tea would be lovely, thanks." I wander to the refrigerator and investigate my options. I'm so immersed in picking out what to eat that I don't hear Sherlock sneak up on me until I hear a cracking sound and a sharp, stinging pain on my bottom.
"Ah, Jesus!" I cry and whip around, rubbing my bottom as I glare at him.
Sherlock stands there smiling at me teasingly with his eyes alight. "I've been told the resemblance is astonishing," he remarks as I catch a glimpse of his riding crop being hidden discreetly behind his back.
Fighting the urge to smile, I stare daggers at him and bite back a string of profanities that had been on their way out past my lips. "I'm going to get dressed," I tell him severely and point my finger at him as i walk out the kitchen, rubbing my throbbing bottom.
And in the midst of picking out a shirt, I hear the doorbell ring. Single ring, maximum pressure just under the half second: a case.
Struggling to quickly button up my shirt and throw on a sweater, I distantly hear Lestrade's voice coming from the living room.
"YES!" bellows Sherlock and there's a jump, as though he's jumped in pure jubilation.
"What is it?" I ask as I emerge out of the hall with my shoelaces trailing behind me.
"There's been a murder, John, and according to Lestrade the body was found in a secluded part of Richmond Park." Grinning like a child on Christmas, he dashes to his room to put clothes on.
"Yeah, looks to be some sort of ritualistic killing," Lestrade tells me, nodding. "You boys want to come with us?"
"Not in a police car, we'll be right behind you," Sherlock calls down the hall.
Lestrade nods. "Anderson's on this one."
"Not Anderson!" groans Sherlock as he walks up to us, looking at something on his phone.
"Yes, Anderson, so behave yourself."
Sherlock sighs. "Oh dull."
Leaving, Lestrade smiles and waves over his shoulder as he heads downstairs.
"Has the kettle boiled? I'm starving."
"Not now, John! Not when there's a body and a murderer to catch!" he yells enthusiastically and dashes down the stairs.
I stand there for a minute, staring longingly at the kettle on the stove but my curiosity for the case outweighs my hunger and with a sigh, I bound down the stairs after him.