This is the first Johnlock story I have ever written, so it may be a bit forced. It's also the first fic I've written in five years, so my writing may be a bit rusty. I appreciate and welcome constructive criticism with open arms. WARNING: This story has homosexual relationships in it. If you don't like it, don't read it and go stand in a corner being afraid of your close-mindedness. Thank you.
It was rare for it to snow a lot in London, but, yet, there it was. Big, fluffy pieces of cloud were falling through the sky, piling with the couple inches of snow that were already lying on the ground. The sidewalk was slippery, and John Watson had a fair amount of trouble balancing the groceries and himself. Not to mention that his fingers were freezing, so even then, he was quite surprised that he could hold the bags.
John knew that he could have taken a cab, but he really didn't feel like it. The store was close to 221B Baker Street, and finding a cab in this weather would be a nightmare. He was beginning to regret his decision, and he could feel his cheeks beginning to hurt from the cold wind. All he could focus on was the fact that in a few more blocks, he would be home. He could only hope that Sherlock remembered to keep the fireplace going, because he was looking forward to sitting on his chair, warming himself up.
He finally made it home and managed to open the door to the flat, which he thought a small miracle since his fingers were almost frostbitten. Climbing up the stairs to the flat, John was surprised that he couldn't hear a sound. Usually, he'd hear Sherlock working on one of his experiments, playing the violin, or typing away on his laptop. Opening the door, he could not see Sherlock at first, but then he noticed the curly, dark locks of his friend on the armrest of the couch.
Sherlock rarely slept, and John did not have the heart to wake him, so he put the groceries away and sat down in his arm chair by the fire, which had thankfully not gone out. He began to warm his hands, and he was so lost in his thoughts, that he jumped when a deep, groggy voice said, "You're back."
John looked over at Sherlock. "You said the police don't consult amateurs," he replied with a smirk.
Sherlock ignored him. "Want me to warm those up for you?" he asked John with a smile, as he watched him rub his hands together.
"That would be marvellous."
John walked over to the couch and sat down next to Sherlock, his knees touching the other man's thighs. Sherlock took John's hands and laid them on top of his chest. One hand covered John's hand and the other one stroked his freezing cheek.
"Poor you, having to go out in this weather. Why didn't you at least take a taxi back?"
"Couldn't find one," John replied through Sherlock's fingers which were stroking his lip.
Sherlock's eyes met his, and they both leaned forward just until their lips brushed together. Sherlock's hand moved over to the back of John's neck, and he stroked the short hair there. John began to let his hands roam around Sherlock's chest, but Sherlock's hand took his and put it over his heart. John could feel Sherlock's heartbeat, something that he thought he would never feel or hear again. But here was Sherlock, real, kissing him, and warm.
Sherlock pulled John closer to him, and slowly began to lie down on the sofa. He could feel John getting hard through his pants, but decided to ignore it. He was really way too tired to start anything right now; they had just finished a very complicated case of a triple-murder.
"John," Sherlock mumbled as John began to grind his hips against his, "not now... Tonight. But let me sleep now."
"You never let me sleep," John replied.
"You're too irresistible and I can hardly keep my hands to myself."
Sherlock scooted down just a little bit, letting John rest his weight against him.
Sherlock began to pull his lips away from John's, eliciting a small groan from John's. He looked up and saw John's puppy dog eyes staring at his.
"John, tonight, I promise."
"But I want it now."
"Too bad. You want me rested for tonight, don't you?"
"Well, that depends on what we're doing. I don't think I'm up for another case, Sherlock."
Sherlock smiled as his thigh ghosted along John's erection. "No, you're not."
John shifted up so his head could rest on Sherlock's chest. Hearing Sherlock's heartbeat, his breathing, the deep rumbles of the contented sounds he was making... John had never heard such a wonderful sound.
Sherlock pulled the blanket off the back of the couch, and draped it over himself and John. Wrapping his arms around John and pulling him closer, he let his eyes close. He felt John's hot breath through his shirt, and his chest rising and falling with his breathing. Giving into the moment, he allowed himself to fall asleep.
John shifted his hips so Sherlock could no longer be the tease he was. Seeing Sherlock sleep was one of the rarest, most wonderful things in his life. John could see how Sherlock's lips parted, see how the small worry lines on his forehead smoothed out, and hear the tiny little moans that Sherlock made in his sleep. Seeing Sherlock in this state was not something many people had seen, and he felt almost honoured to be allowed to experience it.
Looking at Sherlock's face, John realized the rarity of the situation. It is rare for it to snow too much in London. It is rare to see Sherlock Holmes asleep. It is rare for people to come back from the grave... but Sherlock Holmes had somehow managed to come back to John. And with that thought, John drifted off on top of his closest friend, colleague and lover.