Morning Routine
Title: Morning Routine
Author: jaune_chat
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,008
Spoilers: none
Warnings: voyeurism (auditory voyeurism), masturbation
Disclaimer: I certainly don’t own Sherlock.
Notes: Written for speccygeekgrrl’s Five Acts for the acts: “sharing a bed/attention.”
Summary: A blizzard in London forces John and Sherlock to share a bed to conserve heat. John wakes up to Sherlock’s morning routine.
John stirred as a noise intruded on his consciousness. His nose was freezing, and he remembered that the heat was barely managing to compensate for the blizzard outside. A blizzard, in London. Grand. Transportation was at a virtual standstill, and while a few cases were likely to come out of such a disaster once Scotland Yard was able to function again, they were all likely to be “of the completely sordid and uninteresting sort,” according to Sherlock.
John stretched slightly, and realized he didn’t hit his head on the wall as usual. Nor were his sheets usually this soft. A thought percolated through his still sleeping brain - that would be because he was in Sherlock’s bed. Because with the flat just barely above freezing, there was no point in both of them shivering in their own rooms when they could conserve heat and both sleep warm in Sherlock’s grandly oversized bed.
He had made the offer logically, and John really saw no reason to refuse. Sherlock would no sooner try something fresh than he would stir from the flat in this weather; he’d made his preferences for relationshiptional solitude quite clear on the second day of their acquaintance. Still, John had stayed awake later than normal, just trying to get used to the different bed. It had been so strange. Sherlock, who when sulking on the sofa could take up more room than was actually available, slept like an effigy in a tomb, flat on his back with his arms crossed over his chest, instantly asleep because he had nothing to occupy that over-active mind. Shrugging, John had managed to doze off a little bit later.
So what was that noise? John opened one eye a slit, and could see morning light trying to spill through a crack in the curtains. No help there, as the sound was coming from the bed behind him. It was a susurrating, both cloth and… flesh, and-.
Oh. God. John’s eyes flew open as his brain leapt into full wakefulness. Sherlock was wanking off right next to him. Then came the most horrible decision, to say something or not? Ignore it and pretend to be asleep to preserve Sherlock’s privacy? Or say something to him to spare them both the embarrassment of Sherlock climaxing next to his flatmate?
“I know you’re awake, John.”
Well, at least the decision was out of John’s hands. And Sherlock still wasn’t stopping, dear Lord.
“So are you,” John said carefully, keeping his face towards the wall, and not where the heat of Sherlock’s body pressed up against him. His eyebrows shot up when he realized, from a few inadvertent twitches, that Sherlock couldn’t be wearing a thing. He had when John fell asleep last night, of that he was certain.
“You’ll pardon me; I prefer to take care of myself in the morning.”
“Apparently,” John said in a strangled voice, screwing his eyes shut. Was Sherlock growing even warmer next to him? It felt like it. His hand was slowing down sporadically, stroking longer and slower, with occasional pauses. Was he stopping to fondle his balls? John did that sometimes… His eyes flew open at that thought, and John wondered if he could contort himself to bang his head on the headboard somehow.
Sherlock just merrily continued wanking himself as John felt sweat breaking out on his forehead.
“I thought you didn’t do sex,” John asked finally, after an awkwardly long pause only punctuated by some faint, muffled noises deep in Sherlock’s chest.
“I don’t do relationships. I couldn’t possibly give a partner the kind of attention necessary for a relationship to be a success,” Sherlock said, not missing a beat in his stroking. John was privately impressed by his ability to keep up a coherent conversation.
“And if you can’t have a total success, you don’t bother trying,” John said positively.
“There’s no point in being second rate.” Sherlock voice hitched slightly at John’s statement.
“So… what? You take care of, of yourself like you eat, just enough to keep yourself from being too distracted by… needs?” John asked. This was the strangest conversation he’d ever had with Sherlock, and that was saying something.
Sherlock definitely moaned, though softly, and his strokes sped up. “Yes, that’s it, precisely.”
Oh bloody hell, were John’s observations actually turning Sherlock on? That would be just like him.
“I don’t suppose it occurred to you I might find this more than a little awkward?” John asked blandly.
“Irrelevant. I wasn’t about to wank off in the bathroom considering the temperature in there. I’d never climax,” Sherlock said logically.
“So you’d rather do it here.”
“Yes.”
“In your own warm bed.”
“Of course.”
“With me in it.”
“I must admit, you do provide a different kind of stimulation, John.”
Blushing and furious, John turned over violently only to see Sherlock suddenly arc back in a clean bow, his expression sweet with pleasure, as his hips stuttered to a halt under the covers.
Rubbing sweat from his head, John didn’t quite totally avert his eyes as Sherlock’s hand emerged from under the sheets to toss tissues in the dustbin. The bed felt furnace hot, and John was feeling a decided tightness in his own boxers.
“Good morning, John,” Sherlock said casually, cleaning his fingers fastidiously before lacing them behind his head.
“You-.” John stopped, unable to even formulate an adequate expression. He wasn’t certain if he wanted to scream or crawl into a hole or maybe take care of his own growing problem. Which Sherlock could undoubtedly tell.
“If you need to tend to yourself, do feel free. I am not subjecting myself to the flat until I must. I can think from here well enough.”
John felt his face going hot as he flushed red, and a tingle at his groin at Sherlock’s self-satisfied expression. Sighing in relief and defeat, John sank down in the warm bed and slipped his hand beneath the band of his boxers, as Sherlock’s sidelong knowing glances spurred him through a very different morning routine.
Author: jaune_chat
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,008
Spoilers: none
Warnings: voyeurism (auditory voyeurism), masturbation
Disclaimer: I certainly don’t own Sherlock.
Notes: Written for speccygeekgrrl’s Five Acts for the acts: “sharing a bed/attention.”
Summary: A blizzard in London forces John and Sherlock to share a bed to conserve heat. John wakes up to Sherlock’s morning routine.
John stirred as a noise intruded on his consciousness. His nose was freezing, and he remembered that the heat was barely managing to compensate for the blizzard outside. A blizzard, in London. Grand. Transportation was at a virtual standstill, and while a few cases were likely to come out of such a disaster once Scotland Yard was able to function again, they were all likely to be “of the completely sordid and uninteresting sort,” according to Sherlock.
John stretched slightly, and realized he didn’t hit his head on the wall as usual. Nor were his sheets usually this soft. A thought percolated through his still sleeping brain - that would be because he was in Sherlock’s bed. Because with the flat just barely above freezing, there was no point in both of them shivering in their own rooms when they could conserve heat and both sleep warm in Sherlock’s grandly oversized bed.
He had made the offer logically, and John really saw no reason to refuse. Sherlock would no sooner try something fresh than he would stir from the flat in this weather; he’d made his preferences for relationshiptional solitude quite clear on the second day of their acquaintance. Still, John had stayed awake later than normal, just trying to get used to the different bed. It had been so strange. Sherlock, who when sulking on the sofa could take up more room than was actually available, slept like an effigy in a tomb, flat on his back with his arms crossed over his chest, instantly asleep because he had nothing to occupy that over-active mind. Shrugging, John had managed to doze off a little bit later.
So what was that noise? John opened one eye a slit, and could see morning light trying to spill through a crack in the curtains. No help there, as the sound was coming from the bed behind him. It was a susurrating, both cloth and… flesh, and-.
Oh. God. John’s eyes flew open as his brain leapt into full wakefulness. Sherlock was wanking off right next to him. Then came the most horrible decision, to say something or not? Ignore it and pretend to be asleep to preserve Sherlock’s privacy? Or say something to him to spare them both the embarrassment of Sherlock climaxing next to his flatmate?
“I know you’re awake, John.”
Well, at least the decision was out of John’s hands. And Sherlock still wasn’t stopping, dear Lord.
“So are you,” John said carefully, keeping his face towards the wall, and not where the heat of Sherlock’s body pressed up against him. His eyebrows shot up when he realized, from a few inadvertent twitches, that Sherlock couldn’t be wearing a thing. He had when John fell asleep last night, of that he was certain.
“You’ll pardon me; I prefer to take care of myself in the morning.”
“Apparently,” John said in a strangled voice, screwing his eyes shut. Was Sherlock growing even warmer next to him? It felt like it. His hand was slowing down sporadically, stroking longer and slower, with occasional pauses. Was he stopping to fondle his balls? John did that sometimes… His eyes flew open at that thought, and John wondered if he could contort himself to bang his head on the headboard somehow.
Sherlock just merrily continued wanking himself as John felt sweat breaking out on his forehead.
“I thought you didn’t do sex,” John asked finally, after an awkwardly long pause only punctuated by some faint, muffled noises deep in Sherlock’s chest.
“I don’t do relationships. I couldn’t possibly give a partner the kind of attention necessary for a relationship to be a success,” Sherlock said, not missing a beat in his stroking. John was privately impressed by his ability to keep up a coherent conversation.
“And if you can’t have a total success, you don’t bother trying,” John said positively.
“There’s no point in being second rate.” Sherlock voice hitched slightly at John’s statement.
“So… what? You take care of, of yourself like you eat, just enough to keep yourself from being too distracted by… needs?” John asked. This was the strangest conversation he’d ever had with Sherlock, and that was saying something.
Sherlock definitely moaned, though softly, and his strokes sped up. “Yes, that’s it, precisely.”
Oh bloody hell, were John’s observations actually turning Sherlock on? That would be just like him.
“I don’t suppose it occurred to you I might find this more than a little awkward?” John asked blandly.
“Irrelevant. I wasn’t about to wank off in the bathroom considering the temperature in there. I’d never climax,” Sherlock said logically.
“So you’d rather do it here.”
“Yes.”
“In your own warm bed.”
“Of course.”
“With me in it.”
“I must admit, you do provide a different kind of stimulation, John.”
Blushing and furious, John turned over violently only to see Sherlock suddenly arc back in a clean bow, his expression sweet with pleasure, as his hips stuttered to a halt under the covers.
Rubbing sweat from his head, John didn’t quite totally avert his eyes as Sherlock’s hand emerged from under the sheets to toss tissues in the dustbin. The bed felt furnace hot, and John was feeling a decided tightness in his own boxers.
“Good morning, John,” Sherlock said casually, cleaning his fingers fastidiously before lacing them behind his head.
“You-.” John stopped, unable to even formulate an adequate expression. He wasn’t certain if he wanted to scream or crawl into a hole or maybe take care of his own growing problem. Which Sherlock could undoubtedly tell.
“If you need to tend to yourself, do feel free. I am not subjecting myself to the flat until I must. I can think from here well enough.”
John felt his face going hot as he flushed red, and a tingle at his groin at Sherlock’s self-satisfied expression. Sighing in relief and defeat, John sank down in the warm bed and slipped his hand beneath the band of his boxers, as Sherlock’s sidelong knowing glances spurred him through a very different morning routine.