Dr. John Watson’s day blends into half-finished cups of tea, emails and half-glimpses of the paper.
Sherlock’s out. The good doctor occasionally imagines him walking every length of London, cheekbones reflecting the last of the light in the clouds.
And so John spends the evening ignoring rubbish programming on the telly, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair and wondering if he should put his phone on silent or keep it on in case Harry calls.
He doesn’t remember climbing into bed, but he’s there, looking up at the peeling paint on the ceiling and thinking, as he always does, that he should patch it up.
Long, delicate fingers run the length of John’s leg, skirting over the fabric of the blankets. Sherlock lies down carefully beside him, even though there’s technically not enough room in the bed for the two of them, and John didn’t hear him come in and up the steps.
“Do you mind?” A thick, cultured voice settles by the former captain’s ear.
“No, s’fine,” he mumbles in reply.
The detective’s hand continues to stroke John’s thigh, almost inconsequentially, while the smell of rain and wet pavement and fog seeps under the seal of a closed window.
Their breathing falls in together, the same soft, lengthened rhythm. John’s hard, hard in a way that he hasn’t felt since he was a teenager. In the midst of lazy afternoons, half-studying at his desk, still in his rugby shorts and thick socks, hand traveling downwards and head tilting backwards.
“…you’re quiet today,” the soldier ventures, shifting restlessly under the blankets.
“I’m observing. I like to watch,” comes the measured reply.
John wonders just how much he can actually see for all the blankets and linens, but the heat of Sherlock’s gaze only increases, until the good doctor’s ears are completely scarlet.
“Your hand is always so steady,” Sherlock offers, breath pooling around John’s collarbone.
“Shut up,” he answers, half-smirking and trying to wriggle his hand into his pants as subtly as possible.
“I don’t know why we’re whispering,” the taller man says, hand still drifting lazily back and forth on John’s thigh. “I like the way you moan, the way you breathe.”
The former captain finds himself almost whimpering, hand firmly gripping his cock and sinking further into the mattress.
“Finally,” comes the rumbled timbre, thick with relief.
“Madman,” he replies, shaking his head.
“Oh you bastard,” Sherlock says, purring, almost catlike.
It doesn’t take John long before he’s breathing in hard, hurried breaths, shoulders pushing into the bedding, eyes closed, with his face stuffed into the pillow.
When John’s chest stops heaving, the detective rises lithely from the linens, and moves carefully out the door.
The two of them don’t say anything else. Neither of them has to.