Maintaining a Personal Life

Chapter Twenty

John shut his eyes, slipping into a blissful state of satisfied exhaustion as Sherlock collapsed on top of him, face still buried in John's neck and his chest still heaving with exertion. They stayed that way for some time, until the weight of another body slumped heavily atop John like a hot, sweaty blanket began to take its toll.

John shifted slightly, and then nudged Sherlock a little more insistently until the other man got the hint and moved off of John to allow him to breathe properly. Sherlock pulled out and rolled onto his back, stretching out beside John with their shoulders touching.

"Well. That was—" John laughed breathlessly when words escaped him completely, and Sherlock gave a low hum of agreement. The bedroom fell quiet and John shut his eyes, feeling drowsy and utterly sated. As it turned out, being fucked by Sherlock Holmes was every bit the borderline religious experience one might imagine. Any worries that something John had wanted for so long wouldn't live up to the inflated expectations built up by years of imagining were well put to rest. The reality was even better.

John was dimly aware of Sherlock getting up and cleaning off in the bathroom before returning to bed. John probably should have done the same, but call of sleep was lulling him too strongly. Sherlock's bed was plush and comfortable, a wasted luxury given how rarely he actually used it. John had designs to change that— if given his way, this bed would be seeing a great deal more action in the very near future.

"What you said before," Sherlock's voice cut through John's drowsiness, and John reluctantly pried his eyes back open. The lamp had been turned off, and Sherlock was resting on his back staring up at the ceiling. "You meant it."

It took John a moment to recall what Sherlock was talking about, and then he frowned as he propped up on one elbow to look at Sherlock properly. "Yeah, I did," John said quietly. "Course I did."

Sherlock swallowed. "Good. That's...good."

"Yeah, it is." John smiled slightly, shifting over to settle in Sherlock's space although he wasn't sure what the other man's policy was on 'cuddling'. This question was answered fairly immediately when Sherlock's arms wrapped around John and drew him tightly against his chest.

"What happened today, when Richards..." Sherlock began quietly after a long pause. "It will happen again. Those closest to me will always be a target, and you especially—"

"Is that supposed to put me off?" John asked with a small smile, shifting his head to find a comfortable spot to rest on the bony expanse of Sherlock's shoulder. Finding none, John simply tucked his face into the warm hollow of Sherlock's throat and shut his eyes.

"I suppose not," Sherlock allowed with what John could tell was a slight smile of his own as his cheek settled against the top of John's head. His hold on John relaxed slightly, one hand settling on John's back to keep him drawn in closely. "You do make a spectacularly difficult damsel in distress."

"Should have broken both his arms." John's words were blurred in a drowsy mumble against Sherlock's skin, and he could hear a soft chuckle rumbling low in Sherlock's throat. After a moment, John's mouth twitched into a slight smirk as he remarked, "Guess we should really be thanking him, though."

"Thank him?" Sherlock's voice was laden with distaste at the idea. "Why?"

"Well, here we are," John remarked, letting one hand splay across Sherlock's bare chest. "Thanks in part to that Moriarty-loving wanker."

Sherlock 'hmphed' at this, his own hand tracing thoughtfully up and down John's back. "We'd have gotten here eventually... Give or take a decade, perhaps."

John huffed a quiet laugh into Sherlock's neck, although the idea of more wasted years spent awkwardly dancing around their mutual attraction and tucking their feelings away behind the veil of platonic friendship was frankly repellent. "That's it, first thing in the morning we're sending him a fruit basket."

Sherlock's answering laugh was rich and deep, and he remarked with his mouth pressed to the top of John's head, "I suppose we could include a poisoned apple."

"I'd think knowing he helped us along would be poison enough," John said with a smile, brushing his lips against Sherlock's skin just because he could. "But that's not a bad idea."

It wasn't long before John's eyes fell shut again, and he slowly felt his awareness drifting away, lulled by the steady breathing of the man whose body he was currently tangled up with. The last conscious thought that crossed his mind was that it was worth dealing with a thousand Richards just to find himself here at the end of the day.

~The End