John waves it away as nothing. Sherlock bites his tongue so hard it hurts. They head back upstairs and John collapses on the sofa, suddenly exhausted.
“They’re a really nice couple,” he says. “Tanya works and Nate stays home with Colin during the week. She’s some interior decorator, or something. Maybe we can get her to give our place a makeover.”
“There’s nothing wrong with our place,” Sherlock says. John smiles.
That night, the building is quiet.
*
“I can’t remember the last time we had sex,” John says a few days later. Sherlock looks at him from over his microscope.
“It was… um. Er,” Sherlock begins. Then he blinks. He can’t remember, either.
He can remember the first time they slept together, years ago, when Sherlock came back home. John had been shaking so hard, a bundle of emotion. He had shouted and cried and hit Sherlock hard enough to give him a bloody nose. Then he had hugged him, and kissed him, and continued to shake even when Sherlock kissed him and kissed him and moved against him. Sherlock thought John might very well shake out of his own skin.
John was nervous because he had never slept with a man. Sherlock was terrified because he had never slept with anyone. Everything was quiet. John was quiet except for his breathing. Sherlock didn’t think he’d be able to turn his mind off. Then he did, and he was enveloped with hot, liquid pleasure and it was no longer quiet.
That was then. Now. Now he can’t remember. He thinks it might have been… maybe a month - no. Longer than that. Definitely longer. Two? Three? He really can’t remember.
“We used to have it all the time,” he says. That’s not helping. John smirks, and that’s not helping, either.
“Honeymoon period.”
“What?” Sherlock asks.
“Never mind,” John says. “Although, our did last a while.”
“What’s a ‘honeymoon period’?” Sherlock asks.
“It’s a term to describe the start of a relationship,” John says. “When everything is going smoothly and you’re… crazy in love, or something. Typically you have a lot of sex.”
“Nothing went smoothly for us,” Sherlock says. It’s true. They fought all the time. They were kidnapped, stalked, nearly killed. Sherlock was stabbed, John faced a prison sentence that Mycroft managed to get him out of just in time. Sherlock isn’t sure what it means to be crazy in love. Nothing about his feelings for John have particularly changed. They’re still there, heavy, in his chest. Perhaps they’re more muted now, less intense. They’re warm and comforting rather than fast-paced and kind of frightening.
“Should we have sex?” Sherlock asks a few minutes later. “Is that what you’re getting at?”
“No,” John says. “Was just commenting. Unless you want to.”
“Maybe later,” Sherlock says, going back to his microscope. John nods and goes back to watching television.
*
Later comes. They go out for dinner on the other side of London. Sherlock pays, and they share a bottle of wine and desert. They snog in the back of the cab on the way home. John giggles against his lips, tongue tasting of wine.
They climb up the stairs and slip under the covers. John’s hand rests on Sherlock’s stomach, moving in small circles.
A few minutes after that, they’re fast asleep.
*
Another year later and Lestrade retires. Dimmock is promoted to Chief Inspector. Sherlock is glad to see the old, grumpy man that arrested him years ago gone, but Dimmock is more annoying than Lestrade ever was. Mostly because the next time Sherlock tries to get involved in a case, Dimmock has him escorted out of the building by security.
“I can’t have you snooping around here whenever you’d like,” he says. “Call ahead.”
“Tedious,” Sherlock snaps. The security guard fidgets awkwardly in the corner.
That evening John throws a blanket around Sherlock’s shoulders and lifts his legs gently. He slides under them before lowering them into his lap. He leans against the arm of the sofa with a sigh. Sherlock fidgets to get comfortable, pulling the blanket tighter around himself.
“They’re a really nice couple,” he says. “Tanya works and Nate stays home with Colin during the week. She’s some interior decorator, or something. Maybe we can get her to give our place a makeover.”
“There’s nothing wrong with our place,” Sherlock says. John smiles.
That night, the building is quiet.
*
“I can’t remember the last time we had sex,” John says a few days later. Sherlock looks at him from over his microscope.
“It was… um. Er,” Sherlock begins. Then he blinks. He can’t remember, either.
He can remember the first time they slept together, years ago, when Sherlock came back home. John had been shaking so hard, a bundle of emotion. He had shouted and cried and hit Sherlock hard enough to give him a bloody nose. Then he had hugged him, and kissed him, and continued to shake even when Sherlock kissed him and kissed him and moved against him. Sherlock thought John might very well shake out of his own skin.
John was nervous because he had never slept with a man. Sherlock was terrified because he had never slept with anyone. Everything was quiet. John was quiet except for his breathing. Sherlock didn’t think he’d be able to turn his mind off. Then he did, and he was enveloped with hot, liquid pleasure and it was no longer quiet.
That was then. Now. Now he can’t remember. He thinks it might have been… maybe a month - no. Longer than that. Definitely longer. Two? Three? He really can’t remember.
“We used to have it all the time,” he says. That’s not helping. John smirks, and that’s not helping, either.
“Honeymoon period.”
“What?” Sherlock asks.
“Never mind,” John says. “Although, our did last a while.”
“What’s a ‘honeymoon period’?” Sherlock asks.
“It’s a term to describe the start of a relationship,” John says. “When everything is going smoothly and you’re… crazy in love, or something. Typically you have a lot of sex.”
“Nothing went smoothly for us,” Sherlock says. It’s true. They fought all the time. They were kidnapped, stalked, nearly killed. Sherlock was stabbed, John faced a prison sentence that Mycroft managed to get him out of just in time. Sherlock isn’t sure what it means to be crazy in love. Nothing about his feelings for John have particularly changed. They’re still there, heavy, in his chest. Perhaps they’re more muted now, less intense. They’re warm and comforting rather than fast-paced and kind of frightening.
“Should we have sex?” Sherlock asks a few minutes later. “Is that what you’re getting at?”
“No,” John says. “Was just commenting. Unless you want to.”
“Maybe later,” Sherlock says, going back to his microscope. John nods and goes back to watching television.
*
Later comes. They go out for dinner on the other side of London. Sherlock pays, and they share a bottle of wine and desert. They snog in the back of the cab on the way home. John giggles against his lips, tongue tasting of wine.
They climb up the stairs and slip under the covers. John’s hand rests on Sherlock’s stomach, moving in small circles.
A few minutes after that, they’re fast asleep.
*
Another year later and Lestrade retires. Dimmock is promoted to Chief Inspector. Sherlock is glad to see the old, grumpy man that arrested him years ago gone, but Dimmock is more annoying than Lestrade ever was. Mostly because the next time Sherlock tries to get involved in a case, Dimmock has him escorted out of the building by security.
“I can’t have you snooping around here whenever you’d like,” he says. “Call ahead.”
“Tedious,” Sherlock snaps. The security guard fidgets awkwardly in the corner.
That evening John throws a blanket around Sherlock’s shoulders and lifts his legs gently. He slides under them before lowering them into his lap. He leans against the arm of the sofa with a sigh. Sherlock fidgets to get comfortable, pulling the blanket tighter around himself.
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