A Turn of Phrase 3/8as_i_amDecember 31 2010, 05:50:40 UTC
At home, John feared things might turn a bit awkward, but instead they simply relaxed into a common, comfortable stupor. Sherlock changed into his pajamas and blue dressing gown and John stripped down to his jeans and button-up. A cup of tea and an hour or so of telly while sitting on the couch together eased things further. Sherlock fussed with his tea, never happy with it-there either wasn't enough milk, or too much, or it wasn't hot enough, or it was too hot. He got up several times. "Mummy never did it that way…" he muttered at his cup. John was used to this idiosyncrasy and ignored him.
Finally, he seemed content and drank his tea. The show they were watching ended. He turned to John.
"Can we, then?" He asked.
John smirked. "You're gagging for it, aren't you?"
"Yes." No pretense, just his pale, glimmering eyes focused in hard pinpoints on John's face.
"Well, it's a bit abrupt." John ran a hand through his own hair, deliberately. "But there's no sense in drawing it out. I am too, truth be told."
"Ask me."
"Ask you what?"
"Ask me to come to bed with you."
John opened his mouth, then hesitated and cleared his throat. "Sherlock, would you like to-"
"No." He sat forward, closing the space between them. "Say it that way," he demanded. "Ask me to come to bed with you. That turn of phrase arouses me."
John was only momentarily taken aback. Of course Sherlock would be blunt and ask for exactly what he wanted. "Sherlock," he dropped his voice, "can I take you to bed?"
A barely perceptible fluttering of his eyelashes. "Yes, John. I'd like to come to bed with you."
"Are you going to tell me what to say all night?"
"No, but I may ask you questions."
Upstairs in John's room, the lights off, in the comfort of the bed, Sherlock was all limbs and hard angles with soft spaces in between. He was also warm, which, although John knew better, he had somehow always thought he'd be cold to the touch and it seemed strange. His hands were warm. His lips, warm. His hair felt like silk and smelled like the rain.
"Your bed smells like you," Sherlock remarked. He turned his face to the side and breathed in against the pillow. A streetlight through the window fell stark and silvery across his face, bringing out the sharp lines of his cheekbones in hard relief.
"Should it smell like someone else?" John worked at the buttons on his shirt, hovering over him.
"I find it almost unbearably intimate." Sherlock looked up at him. His eyes glittered. "It intensifies my arousal."
"I can feel that." John smirked and nudged his thigh up between his.
"You look good in jeans."
"Thank you."
"You do have a nice arse."
"Thank you again." John finished off the last button on his shirt.
Finally, he seemed content and drank his tea. The show they were watching ended. He turned to John.
"Can we, then?" He asked.
John smirked. "You're gagging for it, aren't you?"
"Yes." No pretense, just his pale, glimmering eyes focused in hard pinpoints on John's face.
"Well, it's a bit abrupt." John ran a hand through his own hair, deliberately. "But there's no sense in drawing it out. I am too, truth be told."
"Ask me."
"Ask you what?"
"Ask me to come to bed with you."
John opened his mouth, then hesitated and cleared his throat. "Sherlock, would you like to-"
"No." He sat forward, closing the space between them. "Say it that way," he demanded. "Ask me to come to bed with you. That turn of phrase arouses me."
John was only momentarily taken aback. Of course Sherlock would be blunt and ask for exactly what he wanted. "Sherlock," he dropped his voice, "can I take you to bed?"
A barely perceptible fluttering of his eyelashes. "Yes, John. I'd like to come to bed with you."
"Are you going to tell me what to say all night?"
"No, but I may ask you questions."
Upstairs in John's room, the lights off, in the comfort of the bed, Sherlock was all limbs and hard angles with soft spaces in between. He was also warm, which, although John knew better, he had somehow always thought he'd be cold to the touch and it seemed strange. His hands were warm. His lips, warm. His hair felt like silk and smelled like the rain.
"Your bed smells like you," Sherlock remarked. He turned his face to the side and breathed in against the pillow. A streetlight through the window fell stark and silvery across his face, bringing out the sharp lines of his cheekbones in hard relief.
"Should it smell like someone else?" John worked at the buttons on his shirt, hovering over him.
"I find it almost unbearably intimate." Sherlock looked up at him. His eyes glittered. "It intensifies my arousal."
"I can feel that." John smirked and nudged his thigh up between his.
"You look good in jeans."
"Thank you."
"You do have a nice arse."
"Thank you again." John finished off the last button on his shirt.
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