If John had thought the sight of Sherlock losing himself in the sensations of fucking John to be the most beautiful thing ever, he was not at all prepared for the sight of Sherlock climaxing. It was... Well, it was glorious, the way his body tensed, the arch of his body, the broken quality of his voice, and God, oh God, were those tears. As soon as he was draped over John, the army doctor wrapped his arms around him, holding him close and turning his head to kiss some of the tears away. He felt warm, and sticky, and more than a little sore in places he'd never been sore in, but it didn't matter. None of it did. Only this. There was something horribly intimate about the way Sherlock was still inside of him, softening, reinforcing the fact that this was not just a fuck. John exhaled, deeply, tightening his arms around Sherlock.
"Well," he began, not too surprised at the rough quality of his own voice, "That's it, then. I'm gay. Possibly bisexual. Certainly not straight." He smiled a little, wryly, as he experimentally clenched around Sherlock again. Mm, yeah, that felt way too good to be wrong. "You okay?" he continued, voice softening a little as he ran a hair through Sherlock's sweat-damp hair.
Sherlock didn't think he would appear 'beautiful' during the act of climaxing, and now that he was coming back to reality, he felt... well, a bit embarrassed, really. But John didn't say anything about that, about the tears or any of it, he just seemed to know exactly what to do by wrapping his arms around Sherlock and holding him close. His breath starting to slow and even out, Sherlock closed his eyes when he felt John's lips on his cheeks, where the tears had slipped out. He couldn't deny the strong urge to just simply be close to his partner, and he buried his face in John's neck, partially out of embarrassment, but mostly out of the need for affection. It wasn't like him normally, of course, and later, he'll probably blame it on the post-orgasmic haze he found himself in. No, this wasn't just a fuck... and to be completely honest, that scared him. But he didn't speak of that, simply listened to John when he spoke first.
Sherlock huffed quietly, his words slightly muffled as he spoke against John's skin. "Don't try to label yourself, John," he said in a low voice that was also rough, and hoarse. "It's pointless to try and conform to society's standards here, when it is just you and I. People are idiots, anyway." The smirk was evident on his lips, however, when he spoke again after a slight pause. "Obviously you're not completely straight, of course." Then he gasped in surprise when John clenched around him, mostly because he was much more oversensitive now than he'd thought. So, reluctantly, and carefully, he finally pulled out of John, but he did not move away from him, despite the fact they were both sticky, sweaty, and becoming a bit overheated. "Fine," he murmured, almost automatically and a little bit defensively, to John's question, as he settled his head on his friend's chest, just below his chin. His eyes slipped closed again, and it would be easy for him to drift off to sleep, something the sleep-deprived man probably needed, anyway. But then his voice softened with a quiet sigh. "It was... good, John."
It helped, somewhat, to hear Sherlock rationalize away his sexuality crisis. It was stupid, he knew it, but John couldn't help but feel somewhat on edge about it, still. He was a man's man, a military man, and his sister was already out (and proud, much to the dismay of their parents). John didn't feel gay... Then again, he had no idea what that was supposed to feel like, did he? He felt like himself, just... better. Happier, now that he got to act on his true feelings towards Sherlock. The sex helped, too. God, it was good sex. Really bloody good, better than he had ever anticipated. With its own ups and downs, of course, but what kind of sex wasn't? And they were learning, weren't they?
At Sherlock's last words, something warm and seemingly endless burst inside of John's chest, and just like that, he didn't care about labels or proper explanations. All there was, was this; Sherlock in his arms, post-sex haze of bliss, everything falling into place. They'd be alright. They'd be just fine. "Good." John cleared his throat, feeling quite emotional all of a sudden. "Yeah, that's... good. Glad to hear it." Stop talking, John. He smiled at himself, and sighed after a moment. "Come on. Let's get cleaned up."
It was in Sherlock's nature to be clinical and cold about even something as warm and intimate as sex, but his brain has yet to fully come back online. It was fascinating, how easily John could shut off his busy mind like this, with such a primitive, base act, and he's likely to examine that in further detail... but later. Right now, although he's still a bit overwhelmed and scared by everything that happened, by how empty and content and simply good he feels, he has no pressing need to stress over it all. It was amazing, the differences between how one is effected when penetrating someone else, or being penetrated by them. He's not yet sure which is technically 'better,' or if he prefers one over the other, as he's almost completely gone in this simple need to cuddle with John Watson.
But John's words do make him stir, because they make sense, and it will not be as comfortable once all that sweat and cum dries on their bodies. So, with a slight harrumphing sound escaping his lips grudgingly, he manages to push himself up and off John... only to collapse unceremoniously onto his stomach on the empty bed beside him. God, it already felt sore and ached a little just to make that small movement. Clearly, getting himself up and out of bed was completely out of the question. "Bring a towel from the bathroom, John," he ordered in a lazy drawl instead, his eyes heavy lidded as he gestured idly toward said bathroom, as if the good doctor needed that extra bit of help in finding it.
Unbelievable... Or perhaps very believable, considering who it involved. John, for his part, had some difficulties of his own, sitting up and shifting over to sit on the edge of the bed. Fuck, but he was sore, and sticky in a way which seemed sexy before, but now was just... sticky. Looking over his shoulder at the collapsed heap of Sherlock Holmes, he briefly considered telling the other man who was probably experiencing the most discomfort at the moment... but he couldn't bring himself to do it. There was something painfully endearing about the almost helpless, exhausted way Sherlock was lying there. Shaking his head, John carefully stood up, wincing at his first step. This had better not always be the case, he thought grumpily, making his way over to the bathroom.
He took his time cleaning himself up before returning to the bedroom with a warm, wet cloth, and a towel, as requested. Sitting down on the bed, he gently but thoroughly began to clean up his friend-turned-lover before drying him off with the towel, softly urging him to lie on his back, go on, almost done... Once he was, he discarded the cloth and towel onto the floor for later consideration, and lay down next to Sherlock. For a moment, he did nothing, just watched him, taking in the sight of him, processing what had happened. He still didn't know what he liked best, being on the top or bottom... Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe it just had to involve Sherlock, and it would be good. Leaning over, he dropped a kiss on the other man's shoulder, murmuring, "Better?"
"Well," he began, not too surprised at the rough quality of his own voice, "That's it, then. I'm gay. Possibly bisexual. Certainly not straight." He smiled a little, wryly, as he experimentally clenched around Sherlock again. Mm, yeah, that felt way too good to be wrong. "You okay?" he continued, voice softening a little as he ran a hair through Sherlock's sweat-damp hair.
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Sherlock huffed quietly, his words slightly muffled as he spoke against John's skin. "Don't try to label yourself, John," he said in a low voice that was also rough, and hoarse. "It's pointless to try and conform to society's standards here, when it is just you and I. People are idiots, anyway." The smirk was evident on his lips, however, when he spoke again after a slight pause. "Obviously you're not completely straight, of course." Then he gasped in surprise when John clenched around him, mostly because he was much more oversensitive now than he'd thought. So, reluctantly, and carefully, he finally pulled out of John, but he did not move away from him, despite the fact they were both sticky, sweaty, and becoming a bit overheated. "Fine," he murmured, almost automatically and a little bit defensively, to John's question, as he settled his head on his friend's chest, just below his chin. His eyes slipped closed again, and it would be easy for him to drift off to sleep, something the sleep-deprived man probably needed, anyway. But then his voice softened with a quiet sigh. "It was... good, John."
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At Sherlock's last words, something warm and seemingly endless burst inside of John's chest, and just like that, he didn't care about labels or proper explanations. All there was, was this; Sherlock in his arms, post-sex haze of bliss, everything falling into place. They'd be alright. They'd be just fine. "Good." John cleared his throat, feeling quite emotional all of a sudden. "Yeah, that's... good. Glad to hear it." Stop talking, John. He smiled at himself, and sighed after a moment. "Come on. Let's get cleaned up."
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But John's words do make him stir, because they make sense, and it will not be as comfortable once all that sweat and cum dries on their bodies. So, with a slight harrumphing sound escaping his lips grudgingly, he manages to push himself up and off John... only to collapse unceremoniously onto his stomach on the empty bed beside him. God, it already felt sore and ached a little just to make that small movement. Clearly, getting himself up and out of bed was completely out of the question. "Bring a towel from the bathroom, John," he ordered in a lazy drawl instead, his eyes heavy lidded as he gestured idly toward said bathroom, as if the good doctor needed that extra bit of help in finding it.
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He took his time cleaning himself up before returning to the bedroom with a warm, wet cloth, and a towel, as requested. Sitting down on the bed, he gently but thoroughly began to clean up his friend-turned-lover before drying him off with the towel, softly urging him to lie on his back, go on, almost done... Once he was, he discarded the cloth and towel onto the floor for later consideration, and lay down next to Sherlock. For a moment, he did nothing, just watched him, taking in the sight of him, processing what had happened. He still didn't know what he liked best, being on the top or bottom... Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe it just had to involve Sherlock, and it would be good. Leaning over, he dropped a kiss on the other man's shoulder, murmuring, "Better?"
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