Conversational

It was quiet. Warm. Cozy. A familiar environment - his bed, the upstairs room, Baker Street. But, with an added weight beside him. Sherlock.

John had started awake sometime in the early hours, to find his flatmate peering down through the darkness at him, standing at his bedside.

"Mh? Sherlock? W'happened?" He'd moved to sit up, but Sherlock had shaken his head.

"I've solved it." He'd stood a moment more, each of them watching the other. John, sleepy and confused. Sherlock -...Well, it was always hard to tell, with Sherlock. But finally, he'd gestured to John, a curious sound in his chest. A wordless 'May I?'

John had blinked, one slow blink, and then finally he'd shrugged, shifted aside, and tugged the covers away. Invitation. One which Sherlock had taken easily, and they'd settled together without issue.

Sherlock had never been one for boundaries, and John had gotten used to it. This was just how things were, now. No need to complicate it with confusion or assumptions. Of course, they'd never quite been this close before, but it seemed a natural enough progression from the platonic closeness of flatmates - best friends - sharing a space together. And so they'd curled in close to each other and drifted together into sleep.

Now, there was dim light filtering through the window, bathing the room in dawn. They were still curled close. John, on his back, one arm stretched out to the side. Sherlock, on his side, in the crook of that arm, head on John's shoulder. Hair in John's nose.

It was nice, if he could be perfectly honest with himself. Cozy, yes. A proper word for it. He took a deep breath, easing wakefulness into his body through his lungs. On that breath came a lazy swirl of scents. Detergent, from the linens. Baking, from downstairs. The lingering smell of the city, through the cracked window.

But the strongest scent was that of Sherlock. A familiar enough blend of chemicals, one which had become a part of John's idea of home. Not that Sherlock - Christ, no, it was just that - Since they lived together of course, his smell was all over John's things. That was all. Right?

And suddenly his burgeoning consciousness was drawn south. Of course. Of bloody course. The first time they share a bed and John would wake up with - well.

It was only natural, of course. Yes, only natural. Nothing to be embarrassed about. Just the natural hormonal cycle of a healthy adult male. If Sherlock wanted to tease him about it he could very well sod off, the childish git.

And yet, as his thoughts shifted back to the man pressed along his side, and a vague breeze shifted his scent across John's nose again, there came a realization. Natural, yes. Unfueled?...

No.

"Mm." John startled at the sleep-roughened noise pressed into his chest, and he glanced down into the curls there.

"Morning." John ventured, lying entirely still. Not frozen. Not anxious. Processing. Refusing to make a move until he'd sorted everything.

It would be no use, really, trying to hide anything. Sherlock wasn't a mind reader, but they did live together. He knew John's intricacies well enough to have clear insight into his mind.

Still. Maybe John didn't want to deal with it just yet. "Need the loo, mate." No tremor in his voice. No desperate need to flee. It was too late already, he was under no delusion that he could do anything about it now.

"No you don't." Sherlock's voice slurred, still being dragged up out of a restful sleep. "Not for twenty more minutes."

"How -." John drew in a deep breath, and then let it out slowly, a long sigh.

There was quiet for a moment, and then Sherlock shifted, nuzzling a little deeper into John's chest. "You lie awake twenty minutes before it's urgent enough to override your comfort." He made no effort to sound alert. Sleep-hazed and perfectly content as such.

"Right." John still hadn't moved. Still hadn't had much reason for it. He took another breath, let out another long sigh, and closed his eyes.

The silence stretched, one minute, two, before Sherlock made a soft, contented noise. "You haven't fled."

"Yeah. Well. No reason, yeah? You already know everything. Maybe even more than I do, that's how it always goes."

Sherlock snuffled amusement, cheek pressing against John's chest again, another nuzzle. And then, another soft sound in his own chest, still amused but also pleased. "Harder to deduce anything without your expression. And yet, all too simple, with your heartbeat in my ear."

The detective stretched then, long limbs pushed out away from his core. When he settled again, his head returned to its place over the doctor's heart.

John still hadn't moved. Quiet, staring at the ceiling, contemplating. "Tell me then. What you know." No use making excuses, especially if he wasn't even sure what Sherlock could tell.

"Mm." Sherlock was still, quiet, bathing in the comfort of their closeness, it seemed. Finally, though, he murmured, "Natural. Not driven by anything in particular. Nothing to be embarrassed about. Without your expression, it's hard to know whether it remains undriven, or has become something else now." A subtle tilt of his head, press of his ear to John's chest, and an amused sigh as he relaxed again. "Something more, then."

John's heartbeat had quickened. Traitorous body, whispering its secrets into the detective's ear. John sighed. Still, he remained in place. Accepting. Unashamed. Nothing he regretted, anyway.

"The question then becomes. Is it just any body. Or. Specifically...?" Sherlock nuzzled again, curls brushing across John's neck and cheek, and the doctor sighed softly. Wistfully. "Ah. Specifically, then."

"I can leave it, Sherlock. It's nothing pressing." John closed his eyes. It was true, too. He felt the attraction, the desire, but it wasn't eager. Just a lazy thing, content and warm, quite like the morning so far. He was happy enough just for this. Didn't need to complicate it just for quick satisfaction.

Sherlock was quiet another moment, and then came another soft sound from his throat. He still hadn't bothered to open his eyes, to look up, to even clear the rumble of sleep from his voice. Unperturbed. "You're not the only one."

At this, John finally shifted, lifting his head to look down at the man curled against him. The man who also shifted, pulled his own head back, tipped it so he could finally meet John's gaze. And, carefully, rocked his hips forward to press the evidence of that admission into John's hip.

Suddenly there was no oxygen in his lungs, and John took a shuddering gasp to correct that. Stared for one moment, two, into Sherlock's eyes. And then slowly lowered his head back to his pillow and returned his gaze to the ceiling. His fingers fidgeted, one tapping at his collarbone, thumb and middle finger of the other hand tapping together in matching tempo. Sherlock returned his head to John's chest and closed his eyes again. Lazing. Content.

Cozy. Yes.

A few minutes later, John cleared his throat. "...Could actually use the loo now." And Sherlock chuckled, shifted, pulled away. But when John returned a few minutes later, Sherlock had remained. And so John slipped back into bed, slipped himself around his flatmate again, and lazily, contentedly, quietly, explored this new thing with him.