![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
holmesticemods posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
holmesticeTitle: This is not a love song (but it is a love story)
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tsuki_no_hana
Author:janesgravity
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock
Rating: R
Warnings: None
Summary: Fluff. Er. Naked fluff. But. Fluff.
John used to hate rainy Sunday afternoons. Hated the way they dragged on, the way they made the landscape and the skyline wash out grey no matter where he was. Time would slow down and thicken on days like these, making the gun he kept in a drawer loom large in his mind.
He got through them, somehow - Sunday after Sunday after Sunday, one after the other.
And then. And then - and John’s well aware of the cliche - he met a man who changed his life. Turned it upside down, inside out and sideways in all of the best and worst ways.
And now, it’s raining, and it’s Sunday afternoon and John can’t remember a time he felt this content and settled in his skin.
He stretches on the bed, idly pushing at the messy sheets with his foot.
Sherlock grumbles from where he’s resting his head on John’s stomach, his hair a dark shock against John’s skin.
“Lazy,” John says, his voice full of warm affection as he pushes a hand through Sherlock’s dark, unruly curls.
“You moved” Sherlock replies his tone indignant as he turns his head under John’s hand.
John just snorts, and digs his blunt fingernails into Sherlock’s scalp the way he likes it. Sherlock closes his eyes and pushes his head up into John’s hand, humming contentedly.
John lets his eyes roam as his hand feels the bumps and contours of Sherlock’s skull under his hand. He’s pale and lean, like he always is, with sudden and shocking blooms of colour shaped like John’s fingers and John’s teeth on his stomach, over his hips, in the distracting curve of his lower back …
He glances out the window again, listening to the steady beat of the rain, lulling and soothing.
Sherlock grumbles and twitches, bumping at John’s hand. “Cold,” he says, when John lets his hand drop to the mattress, watching as Sherlock battles the duvet up from the end of the bed, covering them both.
It’s dark under the covers, a warm cave of rumpled sheets and what seems like miles of skin as Sherlock moves John about until he’s happy - settled between John’s legs, his elbows propped up on the pillow. John grins, moving his legs until his knees bracket Sherlock’s hips, nudging at him.
Sherlock smiles down at him, the smile that only John sees - the one that warms his eyes and fills in every crease and line of his face. John reaches up, touching the thin skin at the corner of one eye: “Your eyes are the same colour as the rain,” he says, before he can process the thought.
“That makes absolutely no sense,” Sherlock replies, shifting and shuffling so his next words are a breath on John’s neck. “It’s impossible … ridiculous … sentiment.”
John says nothing but a low laugh escapes as he tangles his hands in Sherlock’s hair again, shamelessly tilting his neck so Sherlock can visit and revisit the most sensitive spots - some already with raising red marks, some still untouched.
Sherlock as a man, as a lover and even as a detective, has his faults but one thing John can never fault him in, is he is extremely thorough.
He groans softly as Sherlock places small, dry kisses along the line of John’s jaw, tracking a familiar path. He presses one kiss to the corner of John’s mouth, pausing as John turns his head and they meet with a slow, long, lazy, rainy Sunday afternoon kiss.
There may be no more than this: they spent the morning buried in each other after waking too early for a Sunday where there are no cases, no jobs - nowhere either of them needed to be. And now John feels sated and comfortable; happy if there’s no more than this: kissing Sherlock for as long as he can before they run out of air and space between them under the duvet, the rain falling heavier and heavier, knocking against the glass of the bedroom window.
“It might be … sentiment,” John manages as Sherlock bites lightly into his collarbone before moving to trace the shape of John’s scar with his tongue. “But … it’s, it’s ah, true.”
“Mmmm … “ is all he hears, Sherlock’s voice muffled against John’s skin and John sighs, closing his eyes and giving himself over to the inevitable sensory overload: the sound of the rain against the window; the feel of Sherlock against his skin, and the impression that Sunday afternoon is stretching out just for them.
Sherlock seems content to revisit his favourite parts of John’s body, occasionally sinking his teeth in but more often just pressing his lips against sensitive, secret areas.
John drifts on the currents of it under the warmth of the duvet. He notes somewhat idly that he’s not going to get hard again - it would take a bloody miracle after this morning - but neither he nor Sherlock seem to care, content as they are to just … be.
Occasionally he pushes a lazy hand through Sherlock’s hair, just to keep a point of contact as he languishes in the rarefied atmosphere of having all of Sherlock’s focus - a rare and heady thing.
His eyes fly open when Sherlock nips hard at the skin over his hipbone.
“Ow! What was that for?”
“Because you’re going to sleep on me,” Sherlock says, his voice muffled. John lifts the heavy cover and mock-glares at Sherlock’s self-satisfied smile.
“I am not - well, I’m not now.”
Sherlock says nothing, moving again so he’s eye to eye with John.
“Hello,” he says, gravely, but his eyes are shining and John has to bite his lip to swallow the laugh that wants to bubble up from … where?
“Oh,” he says softly as he moves his hands to Sherlock’s back, tracing the line of his spine and the span of his shoulderblades.
“That’s what it is.”
Sherlock raises an eyebrow in silent query but doesn’t say anything.
“It’s … been a year. You’ve been back for a year.”
He lies still, as Sherlock searches his face, his eyes opaque in the fading light of the day.
John reaches up, tracing a line fanning out from Sherlock’s eye.
“And your eyes are still the same colour as the rain.”
Recipient:
tsuki_no_hanaAuthor:
janesgravityCharacters/Pairings: John/Sherlock
Rating: R
Warnings: None
Summary: Fluff. Er. Naked fluff. But. Fluff.
John used to hate rainy Sunday afternoons. Hated the way they dragged on, the way they made the landscape and the skyline wash out grey no matter where he was. Time would slow down and thicken on days like these, making the gun he kept in a drawer loom large in his mind.
He got through them, somehow - Sunday after Sunday after Sunday, one after the other.
And then. And then - and John’s well aware of the cliche - he met a man who changed his life. Turned it upside down, inside out and sideways in all of the best and worst ways.
And now, it’s raining, and it’s Sunday afternoon and John can’t remember a time he felt this content and settled in his skin.
He stretches on the bed, idly pushing at the messy sheets with his foot.
Sherlock grumbles from where he’s resting his head on John’s stomach, his hair a dark shock against John’s skin.
“Lazy,” John says, his voice full of warm affection as he pushes a hand through Sherlock’s dark, unruly curls.
“You moved” Sherlock replies his tone indignant as he turns his head under John’s hand.
John just snorts, and digs his blunt fingernails into Sherlock’s scalp the way he likes it. Sherlock closes his eyes and pushes his head up into John’s hand, humming contentedly.
John lets his eyes roam as his hand feels the bumps and contours of Sherlock’s skull under his hand. He’s pale and lean, like he always is, with sudden and shocking blooms of colour shaped like John’s fingers and John’s teeth on his stomach, over his hips, in the distracting curve of his lower back …
He glances out the window again, listening to the steady beat of the rain, lulling and soothing.
Sherlock grumbles and twitches, bumping at John’s hand. “Cold,” he says, when John lets his hand drop to the mattress, watching as Sherlock battles the duvet up from the end of the bed, covering them both.
It’s dark under the covers, a warm cave of rumpled sheets and what seems like miles of skin as Sherlock moves John about until he’s happy - settled between John’s legs, his elbows propped up on the pillow. John grins, moving his legs until his knees bracket Sherlock’s hips, nudging at him.
Sherlock smiles down at him, the smile that only John sees - the one that warms his eyes and fills in every crease and line of his face. John reaches up, touching the thin skin at the corner of one eye: “Your eyes are the same colour as the rain,” he says, before he can process the thought.
“That makes absolutely no sense,” Sherlock replies, shifting and shuffling so his next words are a breath on John’s neck. “It’s impossible … ridiculous … sentiment.”
John says nothing but a low laugh escapes as he tangles his hands in Sherlock’s hair again, shamelessly tilting his neck so Sherlock can visit and revisit the most sensitive spots - some already with raising red marks, some still untouched.
Sherlock as a man, as a lover and even as a detective, has his faults but one thing John can never fault him in, is he is extremely thorough.
He groans softly as Sherlock places small, dry kisses along the line of John’s jaw, tracking a familiar path. He presses one kiss to the corner of John’s mouth, pausing as John turns his head and they meet with a slow, long, lazy, rainy Sunday afternoon kiss.
There may be no more than this: they spent the morning buried in each other after waking too early for a Sunday where there are no cases, no jobs - nowhere either of them needed to be. And now John feels sated and comfortable; happy if there’s no more than this: kissing Sherlock for as long as he can before they run out of air and space between them under the duvet, the rain falling heavier and heavier, knocking against the glass of the bedroom window.
“It might be … sentiment,” John manages as Sherlock bites lightly into his collarbone before moving to trace the shape of John’s scar with his tongue. “But … it’s, it’s ah, true.”
“Mmmm … “ is all he hears, Sherlock’s voice muffled against John’s skin and John sighs, closing his eyes and giving himself over to the inevitable sensory overload: the sound of the rain against the window; the feel of Sherlock against his skin, and the impression that Sunday afternoon is stretching out just for them.
Sherlock seems content to revisit his favourite parts of John’s body, occasionally sinking his teeth in but more often just pressing his lips against sensitive, secret areas.
John drifts on the currents of it under the warmth of the duvet. He notes somewhat idly that he’s not going to get hard again - it would take a bloody miracle after this morning - but neither he nor Sherlock seem to care, content as they are to just … be.
Occasionally he pushes a lazy hand through Sherlock’s hair, just to keep a point of contact as he languishes in the rarefied atmosphere of having all of Sherlock’s focus - a rare and heady thing.
His eyes fly open when Sherlock nips hard at the skin over his hipbone.
“Ow! What was that for?”
“Because you’re going to sleep on me,” Sherlock says, his voice muffled. John lifts the heavy cover and mock-glares at Sherlock’s self-satisfied smile.
“I am not - well, I’m not now.”
Sherlock says nothing, moving again so he’s eye to eye with John.
“Hello,” he says, gravely, but his eyes are shining and John has to bite his lip to swallow the laugh that wants to bubble up from … where?
“Oh,” he says softly as he moves his hands to Sherlock’s back, tracing the line of his spine and the span of his shoulderblades.
“That’s what it is.”
Sherlock raises an eyebrow in silent query but doesn’t say anything.
“It’s … been a year. You’ve been back for a year.”
He lies still, as Sherlock searches his face, his eyes opaque in the fading light of the day.
John reaches up, tracing a line fanning out from Sherlock’s eye.
“And your eyes are still the same colour as the rain.”
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-06-05 04:42 pm (UTC)And I don't care if it's illogical or sentimental, John is absolutely right. Sherlock's eyes are the colour of rain.
Thank you so very much!
no subject
Date: 2012-06-05 04:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-05 07:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-05 10:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-05 10:35 pm (UTC)I've got a huge soft spot for fluff, but it has to be interesting and emotive, like this is. Not just like "yay they're cuddling and calling each other awkward pet names", which is what a lot of people seem to think fluff is.
This was so lovely, I'm still thrilled by it. I can't wait to find out who wrote it :D
no subject
Date: 2012-06-05 11:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-07 01:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-10 06:24 am (UTC)