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It's in the semi-darkness of the kitchen that John begins their ritual. As Sherlock discards his coat on the table and drops into his chair to work on his mind palace, John reaches blindly for the fridge handle and stows away their leftovers. He shrugs his own jacket over his arm and tugs his gloves off with his teeth, taking Sherlock's coat with him to the pegs by the door. John makes his way to the bedroom and Sherlock rises silently to follow, shutting the door behind them.
With comfortable familiarity, John turns to face his lover. His eyes are level with collarbones and satiny lapels. Sherlock runs his hands over John's arms, reaching his hands and holding them limply as he tilts his head down. John exhales as Sherlock's lips brush his jaw, and he pulls him in closer so he can wrap his arms around the man properly. Sherlock rests his forehead on John's shoulder and John is suddenly faced with all that skin, the pale skin stretched over the seventh cervical vertebrae at the nape of Sherlock's neck so vulnerable and soft. John pulls back and turns Sherlock around so he can slip his dinner jacket off of his shoulders as Sherlock slides a hand down his own front making light work of the shirt buttons.
John gently attacks his shoulders with warm hands as Sherlock shakes his hair out of its slicked restraints in relief like a dog whipping snow from its coat. John had been its tamer only hours before, checking both sides for flyaway curls before stepping back with a hum.
"You'll do," he'd said, spinning Sherlock around and out the door before he could check his reflection in the mirror. It didn't do to be late to important undercover charity dinners and subsequently, important chases with criminals.
"You'll do," he says now, lips parting against the dipped freckled skin in-between Sherlock's shoulder blades. Sherlock turns to face him and brings his forehead down to rest against John's.
"John..." he murmurs quietly, the rest of the world narrowing sharply before him.
The strength of the kiss knocks their teeth together with a soft clunk, and Sherlock takes John's hands from where they're flat against his chest and in one hand tangles them at the small of John's back. He guides John backwards to the door and John whimpers softly as Sherlock nips at the bone protruding from his shirt collar and a knee ends up between his thighs. As John's clothes join Sherlock's on the carpet and he slips slowly down the door, John's knees buckle after the long chase and somehow Sherlock is in his lap and their limbs are everywhere. John finally has Sherlock splayed beneath him, all knees akimbo and hair desperately trying to stay where it was styled but not really succeeding too grandly at all. Sherlock links his fingers together and raises his arms above his head luxuriously, nuzzling into the crook of his elbow as John huffs warm breath over his nipple. He plants kisses slowly, adoringly, along each rib in turn.
A smile contorts the laughter that bubbles softly from John's throat as he mouths against Sherlock's blood-warm skin words of gratitude and praise.
" - amazing tonight."
(He's amazing every night)
"Just - spectacular and - no, but tonight - you were -"
Sherlock moans - John can just see the end of his nose where it's squished beneath the arms thrown up over his face.
"J - sh - shut up - "
He sounds drunk, woozy on posh charity-dinner champagne and chase-highs and the way John's weight is pressed up against him (couldn't be any closer).
John tries to get to the little pink tip of his exposed ear but doesn't quite manage it - ends up with his lips crushed against the carpet in the triangle of sherlock's neck, shoulder and arms, a squared plus b squared equals c squared and Sherlock wraps an arm around him, pupils quick and bright when he opens his eyes.
"Bed..."
John's second sock makes it to the floor just as Sherlock bundles him onto the bed, running his hands out across John's arm-span so he can clasp their fingers together. John arches against the covers as Sherlock rocks against him. "You - ahh Christ -" Sherlock huffs, "weren't - so bad" he manages, reaching between them to hold both their erections and silencing John's cries with his mouth. Soon Sherlock has to relinquish John's lips - it's getting progressively harder to focus on the kissing, each desperate press of Sherlock's mouth less and less precise as John's hand joins his and they begin to stroke in earnest.
It doesn't take more than a few moments before Sherlock has to abandon his own efforts and let John take over, hands clutching at the bedcovers and leaning heavily into John's shoulders as he loses himself. John smiles through his panting breaths, surging up to press his open mouth to Sherlock's forehead and feeling the frown lines with his lips as Sherlock's face crumples and he comes.
John’s free hand work it’s way up Sherlock’s body and into his hair, catching the curls that are draping into his own eyes, their faces almost touching. He rolls them over so as to get a better look at Sherlock’s flushed face and giddy expression before leaning his weight over his body and whispering into the warm shell of his ear.
Sherlock squeezes his eyes tight and heaves a sigh as his heart rate settles back into its steady thrum. He reaches blindly for John’s hand and raises it to his lips, pressing long kisses to each knuckle. When he opens his eyes, there are tears shining in them, tears that John doesn’t know what to do with, doesn’t know where to put, so he does the only thing he can think of and mouths them away, the warmth of his wet mouth shocking against the thin skin beneath Sherlock’s eyes.
"I know."
*
Sherlock wakes early with itchy eyes and cramp in the arm that is underneath John’s neck. John is facing him, curled loosely in the foetal position and making the smallest noises that Sherlock could ever of possibly imagined him capable of (and Sherlock has a very active imagination when it comes to John). Sherlock listens, straining to hear, eyes narrowed and ears alert. He wants to know where John goes when he dreams, wants to know if he’s ever in them. It scares him, all this feeling. He knows he’s completely and utterly at this man’s mercy. He doesn’t know if he could bear to lose him, having only just found him. He hopes he never has to find out.
It’s still very early but Sherlock knows that John will wake soon. He can’t wait, but at the same time he is dreading it. He abhors the morning routine that separates them, Sherlock at the sink with a razor while John showers and dresses in his work clothes (he doesn’t cycle there anymore). For the moment, Sherlock allows himself to bask in the quiet of the morning.
John's breathy laughter does a few thing. First of all, it startles Sherlock out of his head, but also it makes the man’s eyes crinkle and his brows raise and Sherlock wants to spend his whole life categorising the ways in which John Watson's smile fluctuates, how his lips press together firmly, and his teeth chew through his bottom lip (the study would depend on a variety of factors, of course, mood, situation, who he is with and whether he has anything to hide).
“What?” (Next to consider, is the reason behind John’s amusement in the first place, and Sherlock berates himself for not wondering this sooner, though he forgives himself - getting lost in John Watson is something he is rather prone to doing).
“What? Nothing - it’s - you’re staring at me, Sherlock, um, and it was just that - ” laughter rumbles through his body again as Sherlock narrows his eyes. “Just ah - a strange way to wake up, that’s - that’s all love, I’m not teasing you I promise.” He sighs as his giggles slow and oh isn’t it just glorious that Sherlock should be here, right now in this moment to even watch John Watson giggle at all!
John is sitting up, and stretching, and Sherlock will never tire of this. Suddenly it’s very important to Sherlock that he should say something, and that he should say it now, should some lurgy-infected patient or speeding motorist or pen knife-wielding thug take John from him before he has the chance.
“I love you!”
The words chase themselves out of his mouth and the decision to say them has been made before he can change his mind. John stops, mid neck-crick, and it’s almost comical, almost, except that it’s not, not even a little, because John never expected those words from this man, not out-loud anyway, and he is shocked, and flattered, and also a bit head over heels himself.
John smiles, and takes Sherlock’s hand in his and says “I know."