Jo awoke with her face nestled into Sherlock’s curls, her hands as always splayd out, one over his chest and the over his flat abdomen. She took a breath in, inhaling the soft fruity smell of her very expensive salon shampoo and conditioner that he was obviously still stealing despite the ‘talk’ they’d had a couple of nights ago.
They’d only been together… well, sleeping together, for about three weeks, but their relationship had gone from already deeply intimate, and far beyond the realms of simple flat-mates, to positively symbiotic, and she already had her guesses as to why that was.
The medical report that had landed on Jo’s desk, by special black-suited-courier, no less, after her second meeting with Mycroft had spelt out Sherlock’s issues - mild Asperger's, compounded by what the Government psychologist had described as ‘social stigma in childhood’. But, despite knowing what she was getting into, there was no denying her attraction to this irritating, stubborn, arrogant, narcissistic, sweet, brilliant, adorable man. And well, what she lost in bunches of flowers and recited sonnets, she made up for in no-nonsense friendship, and frankly incredible sex.
And really, she wasn’t the best catch herself. Still a little stocky from her time in the military (she was aiming for ‘athletic’, but with her height…), and scarred shoulder and leg from that god-awful night in Kandahar, she wouldn’t be qualifying for any beauty contests anytime soon. But Sherlock didn’t see any of that. She hadn’t quite grasped yet what it was he did see, but she was grateful to whatever deity was out there that whatever he did see seemed worthy of the rapt attention he poured on her...Well, when there wasn’t a case, obviously; but it was a welcome relief at times, despite the highs it made her feel.
She placed a soft kiss into the back of Sherlock’s neck as he also awoke and couldn’t resist the straying of her lower hand downwards to receive a soft baritone ‘mmmm’. She had just pressed her self closer and was considering if she could handle another round after the night before when Sherlock seemed to awaken all at once.
“St Barts said they may have an entire corpse for me today! What time is it?”
Jo groaned. “Umm, eight thirty… and you were thinking of keeping it there, weren’t you?” she asked, turning her attention to his waist, instead.
“Our kitchen table is quite sturdy enough… I would imagine a stress threshold of at least 400 pounds.”
Jo guffed a breath of laughter into Sherlock’s hair. “Don’t. Bring. It. Home - I BEG you!” But the covers were already being pulled back and Sherlock was springing out of bed, muttering something about not being able to recreate domestic electricity surges in a hospital lab.
She watched his naked arse bend over as he grabbed yesterday’s towel and head for the bathroom.
“I don’t want Frankenstein on the kitchen table! It’ll put me off my toast!” Jo called out as she heard the bathroom door close.
She heard it open again, only for Sherlock to reply scathingly, “Frankenstein was the creator! The creature didn’t have a name!” and tut loudly.
Jo smirked to herself and leaned over to Sherlock’s bedside cabinet which she’d adopted as her own; she took a drink of her water and pulled out her morning pills.
Jo was nothing if not meticulous about medication. As a doctor one of the biggest killers to those already under care was medication management and dosage errors, so it had become part of her psyche now to check, check and check again… So the slight discoloration in her usual brand of progesterone pill, and the strangely chalky texture to it, made her stop.
They’d only been together… well, sleeping together, for about three weeks, but their relationship had gone from already deeply intimate, and far beyond the realms of simple flat-mates, to positively symbiotic, and she already had her guesses as to why that was.
The medical report that had landed on Jo’s desk, by special black-suited-courier, no less, after her second meeting with Mycroft had spelt out Sherlock’s issues - mild Asperger's, compounded by what the Government psychologist had described as ‘social stigma in childhood’. But, despite knowing what she was getting into, there was no denying her attraction to this irritating, stubborn, arrogant, narcissistic, sweet, brilliant, adorable man. And well, what she lost in bunches of flowers and recited sonnets, she made up for in no-nonsense friendship, and frankly incredible sex.
And really, she wasn’t the best catch herself. Still a little stocky from her time in the military (she was aiming for ‘athletic’, but with her height…), and scarred shoulder and leg from that god-awful night in Kandahar, she wouldn’t be qualifying for any beauty contests anytime soon. But Sherlock didn’t see any of that. She hadn’t quite grasped yet what it was he did see, but she was grateful to whatever deity was out there that whatever he did see seemed worthy of the rapt attention he poured on her...Well, when there wasn’t a case, obviously; but it was a welcome relief at times, despite the highs it made her feel.
She placed a soft kiss into the back of Sherlock’s neck as he also awoke and couldn’t resist the straying of her lower hand downwards to receive a soft baritone ‘mmmm’. She had just pressed her self closer and was considering if she could handle another round after the night before when Sherlock seemed to awaken all at once.
“St Barts said they may have an entire corpse for me today! What time is it?”
Jo groaned. “Umm, eight thirty… and you were thinking of keeping it there, weren’t you?” she asked, turning her attention to his waist, instead.
“Our kitchen table is quite sturdy enough… I would imagine a stress threshold of at least 400 pounds.”
Jo guffed a breath of laughter into Sherlock’s hair. “Don’t. Bring. It. Home - I BEG you!” But the covers were already being pulled back and Sherlock was springing out of bed, muttering something about not being able to recreate domestic electricity surges in a hospital lab.
She watched his naked arse bend over as he grabbed yesterday’s towel and head for the bathroom.
“I don’t want Frankenstein on the kitchen table! It’ll put me off my toast!” Jo called out as she heard the bathroom door close.
She heard it open again, only for Sherlock to reply scathingly, “Frankenstein was the creator! The creature didn’t have a name!” and tut loudly.
Jo smirked to herself and leaned over to Sherlock’s bedside cabinet which she’d adopted as her own; she took a drink of her water and pulled out her morning pills.
Jo was nothing if not meticulous about medication. As a doctor one of the biggest killers to those already under care was medication management and dosage errors, so it had become part of her psyche now to check, check and check again… So the slight discoloration in her usual brand of progesterone pill, and the strangely chalky texture to it, made her stop.
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