Title: On This Harvest Moon
Word Count: 8500
Summary: Real love is every day.
Notes: Written for this prompt from : John/Sherlock as parents who have neglected their sex life. They’ve been caring for their children and every time they try to get it on, somebody has had a nightmare and wants to sleep with them (and other such occurances). Or maybe they’re so tired that by the time they get to bed they’re just not up for it etc etc. Then Mycroft comes along and takes the children to stay at his/on holiday/whatever, and John and Sherlock have the best m*thaf*ckin’ sex they’ve ever had because they’ve been waiting so long!
As he walked along at Sherlock’s side, Zoe’s pushchair rattling on the pavement and Robin dancing ahead with excitement before he ran back to grab John’s hand, John thought he’d known parenthood would involve sacrifices but had never thought that sacrifice would include his relationship with Sherlock. They were more like flatmates now than they’d been before that first kiss, except now they slept in the same bed.
He loved Sherlock. He knew he would always love Sherlock. He loved their family, but somehow, somewhere, he and Sherlock had lost sight of each other because the children loomed so large.
“You’re thinking,” Sherlock said.
“About what?” Sherlock turned his keen gaze on John.
“You,” John said.
Sherlock smiled. “I won’t ask, then.”
John smiled back and took Robin’s hand again when the boy ran back to them at the sounds of children in the schoolyard. “We’re here,” he told Robin.
“Daddy,” Robin said and reached for Sherlock’s hand too. “Don’t forget to get me.”
“Never, darling,” Sherlock said. He knelt to look into Robin’s eyes. “Zoe and I will wait for you right outside the gate.” He hugged Robin and Robin kissed him, and then John stooped for a hug and a kiss as well.
“Have a good day, Robby love.” He added, “I see Christopher. You know one person already.”
“Christopher!” Robin shouted and ran into the schoolyard — then stopped, waved to them, and shouted, “Bye, Daddy! Bye, Daddy! Bye, Zoe!” before he ran to join his friend.
“I want to wait until the bell rings,” Sherlock said.
“I thought you might.” John did, too.
“Do you think it’ll be a problem that he already knows how to read?”
“Let’s hope not. Does his teacher know?”
“Oh, yes. He read an entire book to her. Of course, it was a picture book, but she was still quite impressed.”
“Eventually you’ll have to stop leaving your forensics journals lying about,” John said, and the bell rang and the teachers came out to line up the children and take them inside. John leaned against the fence, hoping Robin would look and wave one more time, but he was occupied with being a student now.
“I will, eventually,” Sherlock said and exhaled. “Ready?”
“I think so.” Still, they lingered, like several other parents around the yard, until the children were inside, and then Sherlock turned the pushchair and they began the walk home. John peeked into the chair and saw Zoe was asleep, and had Sherlock stop the chair so he could lift Zoe out. It seemed to him he didn’t get to play with the baby half enough, since she was asleep most of the time he was home.
I’m missing my family, he thought. I miss the game, I miss being a lover, but I’m missing being a dad, too.
He glanced at Sherlock. Sherlock looked thoughtful and leaned on the pushchair as they walked. “Sherlock.”
“We’ve never really talked about getting married.”
Sherlock shrugged as if this were only to be expected. “Did I tell you Robin’s teacher called me Mr. Watson?”
“Doctor and Mister Watson. I like it.” He leaned on the pushchair again. “Then we’d all have the same name.”
“If we got married?”
“Mm,” said Sherlock with a nod.
“Hm.” He shifted Zoe to his right arm — his left one still tired out easily. “Sherlock Watson-Holmes,” he tried and Sherlock’s mouth quirked in amusement.
“In this neighborhood I’m just quiet Mr. Watson, the stay-at-home dad. I rather like being that person. It’s surprisingly pleasant, being peaceful.”
“Sometimes,” John said and cleared his throat. “Sometimes I find it hard to believe you’ve never got bored.”
“Oh, I’ve been bored,” said Sherlock. “Fortunately when I get bored, Robin has a question or Zoe wakes up from her nap, and there’s no time to be bored anymore. I’ve just enough work to keep my brain limber, and the rest of the time I’m Daddy.” He was quiet. “I miss the field work sometimes. Chasing after a suspect, digging through a skip, watching an experiment develop right before my eyes … I miss that.”
“We can afford a nanny, if you want to go back to work.”
“And miss something important?”
John frowned at his feet. “I miss things. Important, unimportant. I miss them.”
“I sent you that video when Zoe started crawling.”
“I know, but I could have been there and seen it for myself.”
“Do you want to change places?” Sherlock said. “You stay at home and I go back to work?”
John studied him. “I don’t know.” Sherlock nodded and resumed walking, then stopped and looked back when John didn’t join him. John said, “I want to get married,” and Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up.
“Are you proposing or just stating a fact?”
“I think I’m proposing. I’d get down on one knee but I’m holding the baby.”
Sherlock smiled — not a small one, not a hesitant one, not his aren’t-I-harmless one, but a real one, lovely and wide. “All right,” he said and by now John had caught up to him. “I accept.” He kissed John, and when Zoe stirred and whimpered he kissed her too, gently on the back of her head.
Really, John thought when they let it be known they were engaged, by now no one should have been surprised. They’d been together nearly a decade. They had two children. Marriage felt like natural progression, the right step to take, like writing a will and choosing guardians. (Mycroft. Sherlock scowled but still admitted that out of everyone they knew, Mycroft would take care of the children best. He was very fond of them, though hardly the kind to get down to their level and play with them like Lestrade or Sarah, but they weren’t intimidated by him or shy around him in any way. When John and Sherlock asked him to be the children’s guardian, Mycroft had actually looked away and said, “There’s something in my eye,” and then said yes.)
Once they’d endured the exclamations and wonder, the questions of what they planned to do arose. “Registry office?” John said, bewildered, and Sherlock shrugged, not interested.
“I see no reason to get married in a church,” he said. “Must we have a reception?”
“Yes,” John said at once. “We have to have a party. People come to weddings for the party.”
“You’ll have a proper reception,” said Mycroft. “And a honeymoon.”
“We couldn’t leave the children that long,” said John. Even if they found a nanny before the wedding — there was a promising girl, a student named Mary, who got along with Robin right away and was gentle with Zoe — a week or more was a very long time to be apart.
“Nonsense.” Mycroft was imperious. “A marriage needs a honeymoon, even if there are no surprises left.” He took out his mobile and tapped at the keyboard. “Do you prefer the tropics or the Aegean? Sherlock likes the Aegean.”
“Sherlock,” John appealed to him. “Tell him.”
Sherlock leaned his head on his hand. “Mycroft, I feel I should tell you. I do like the Aegean.”
They hired Mary, after she was thoroughly vetted by both Sherlock and Mycroft’s people. There was nothing shady in her past, not even a dubious love affair, and her credentials were impeccable. The children liked her. It was enough for John and Sherlock.
They took the books out of the spare room to fix it up for her, had her spend more and more hours with the children, just playing at first, then doing things like giving them supper and putting them to bed, and finally moved her in.
“We could, you know,” said John as they lay in bed the night that Mary was safely installed in her room. She had helped them put the children to bed, and they had chatted around the kitchen table for a while before John and Sherlock excused themselves.
“We could what?”
John said deliberately, “Make. Love.”
“Make love,” Sherlock said with a chuckle.
“We could. If the children wake up Mary will tend to them.”
“She’s still a stranger. Less of one, but a stranger nonetheless.”
John propped himself on his elbows. “Sherlock, do you know how long it’s been since we’ve had sex?”
Sherlock frowned. “No.”
“Neither do I.”
“That’s very bad, isn’t it?”
John inhaled and said, “Yes. If neither of us can remember how long it’s been, it’s very bad.”
Sherlock turned onto his side and laid his hand on John’s chest. “Do you want to do something ridiculously old-fashioned?”
“What?” John said cautiously.
“Wait until our wedding night.”
“Sherlock, that’s two more weeks.”
“Exactly. It’s only two more weeks. The children will be with Mycroft and we’ll be in the hotel, so neither of us will be listening for noises from down the hall, and we will be a little tired but we will also have just got married …” He traced his fingers over John’s chest. “And we’ll make it brilliant. We’ll make it like the first time.”
“Our first time was not that brilliant,” said John, smiling at him. It had only got better as they came to know each other, what they liked, what they needed.
“An idealized first time, then.”
“And I’ve had you,” John said. “Many times.”
“That’s a very romantic way of putting it,” said Sherlock and kissed him. “I want to wait until our wedding night. Please.”
“It must really be important to you if you said please.”
“John,” Sherlock said patiently and John stroked his cheek, still smiling.
“It’s ridiculously old-fashioned,” he said and Sherlock kissed him again, smiling too. “At least it’s only two more weeks. Be glad I love you,” he added as Sherlock relaxed beside him.
“Oh, I am,” Sherlock said and kissed John’s shoulder.
The wedding was simple. Sherlock was handsome and lean in a tailored suit, and John just hoped he didn’t look frumpy by comparison.
It was rather amazing to push a wedding ring onto Sherlock’s finger, to kiss him in front of all these people, to hold each other tight and bury their faces in each other’s necks while the guests applauded. “We’re getting our lifetime,” Sherlock whispered and John held him even tighter.
The reception was not simple. John looked at the acres of tables, piled with food and decorations, and felt overwhelmed and out of place until Sherlock squeezed his hand and gave him a wink.
One other bow they made to tradition was a first dance. John chose the least sentimental song he could find that was still about love, and led Sherlock onto the dance floor, blushing with nerves when everyone else cleared away. He put his arms around Sherlock and Sherlock put his around John’s neck, and they smiled at each other as they swayed.
“First dance as a married couple,” John remarked.
“We’ve never danced much,” Sherlock said. “This may have to change, though.”
“Oh? You like it that much?” He dipped Sherlock, getting a laugh in response, and kissed him when they were upright again.
“Any excuse to be in your arms, John,” Sherlock said softly and lay his head on John’s shoulder.
Finally it was time to kiss the children good night and thank their family and friends, and leave the reception hall for their room. Sherlock looked melancholy as he undid his tie in the elevator, and John rubbed his back.
“We’ve never spent a night apart from them,” Sherlock said.
“They’ll be fine. Mary and Mycroft are with them.” He rubbed his hand up between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. “You should call Mycroft if you’re worried.”
“I’m not worried.” He was quiet. “I’ll probably call in the morning.”
“Sherlock,” John said gently and pulled him down so he could kiss Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock held his face and stayed bent over him, and while they didn’t kiss it was so gentle and intimate that John felt a shiver of disappointment when the elevator came to a stop and the doors slid open.
He kept an arm around Sherlock as they walked down the hall to their room, and Sherlock ran his fingers over John’s back and kissed his hair. John unlocked the door and said, “I’m not carrying you over the threshold.”
“Oh, thank you,” Sherlock said fervently and kissed him, deep and dirty, before manhandling him inside.
John dismissed the opulence of their room with a glance — gold and white, their luggage waiting for them to take to the airport in the morning — to focus entirely on the bed, which was enormous, soft and billowy, and just waiting to be despoiled. He pushed Sherlock onto it and Sherlock smirked at him, his dark hair and dark suit beautiful against the white bedding and his pale skin. John crawled up his body and kissed his mouth, and whispered, “Hello,” with a slight smile.
“Hello,” Sherlock whispered, fingers twisting into John’s hair. “I seem to recall marrying you earlier today.”
“Yes,” John agreed, “I remember that distinctly. Well, perhaps not distinctly, some bits are a blur–”
Sherlock kissed him, breathing in through his nose to make the kiss last longer, and John melted into him. They kissed frequently, sweetly, gently, but it seemed months since they had kissed like this, like there was nothing in the world but the taste and scent and feel of them, Sherlock’s cool mouth and slowly exploring tongue making John shiver all the way down his spine.
“Wedding night, John,” Sherlock said when they finally paused, and John kissed him between his brows.
“Wedding night.” He began to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt with deliberate care. Sherlock closed his eyes and arched his body.
“John,” he breathed, fingers raking through John’s hair, and John kissed him again, his fingers slipping into Sherlock’s shirt to touch his skin. Sherlock always looked like he should be cool and smooth as marble but he was warm, delightfully so, and so responsive, nipples hardening under John’s fingertips and heartbeat increasing, turning that pale skin ruddy.
Sherlock held John by his shoulders and turned him onto his back, and latched his mouth onto John’s neck with a ferocity that made John gasp his name. Sherlock ran his fingers soothingly through John’s hair as he sucked John’s neck, his tongue smoothing over the faint teeth marks John knew were going to leave bruises tomorrow. John laid his hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck and moaned as Sherlock licked up his neck to his ear. He whispered, “I want us to always remember this,” and licked John’s earlobe.
“It’s our wedding night,” John said and focused on Sherlock, already feeling hazy with lust. “Of course we’ll remember it.”
Sherlock shook his head like John wasn’t quite hearing what he was saying, and then kissed John again, his mouth slanting over John’s like they were made to fit together this way. He lid his hand down John’s arm and joined their fingers, and held John’s hand as he slid off John’s tie and unbuttoned his shirt.
John heard himself moaning Sherlock’s name as Sherlock bared his body. He clenched his fingers around Sherlock’s rhythmically, and laughed with surprise when Sherlock’s tongue dipped into his navel. Sherlock licked down his stomach as he unzipped John’s trousers, and John’s breath caught in his chest when Sherlock licked him through his underwear. He grabbed Sherlock’s shoulder.
“Patience,” Sherlock whispered and John squeezed his shoulder in reply. He ran his hand over Sherlock’s hair, letting the dark curls catch on his fingertips.
Sherlock finished undressing him, shoes falling with a thunk-thunk, tailored trousers tossed carelessly aside, and knelt between John’s legs, his hands on John’s hips. He dipped his head and licked John’s cock slowly, getting him slick, and when John was gasping and kneading his shoulder, guided him into his mouth.
John groaned and closed his eyes because the sight of Sherlock’s mouth surrounding him was almost more than he could bear, and then opened them again because it was only “almost.” Sherlock’s eyes met his, bright and wide, and John grabbed his hand and squeezed it tight.
Sherlock pulled off with a pop and wiped his thumb over his lips. It made John shiver, and he sat up so he could pull Sherlock to him and kiss his mouth — no longer cool, now hot and salty. Sherlock shrugged off his jacket and shirt as they kissed, John helping as much has he could without removing his mouth from Sherlock’s, and ran his hands over Sherlock’s fine skin.
He turned Sherlock onto his back and stroked him through his trousers until Sherlock’s chest hitched and he pulled his mouth away to whisper, “Now, John.”
“Now, what?” John said, smiling as he undid the zip, slow and teasing.
“John.” He swallowed. “Fuck me.”
“God, I love it when you’re demanding.” John dropped a kiss on his hip before rising to find their toiletries bag.
When he came back to bed Sherlock had stripped off the rest of his clothes and turned back the bedding, and lay naked on the white sheets, his pale body flushed and trembling. “John,” he said and took hold of John’s forearms to pull him close. John braced himself on his hands and kissed Sherlock, his mouth, his throat, his chest. He turned Sherlock over and kissed his back, down his supple spine.
“John,” Sherlock said again, voice low and rough, and pushed back his hips. John kissed his back again, knelt up and spent a moment to lubricate his fingers.
Sherlock was tight and hot, and he grunted as John stroked into him, his arms trembling. He gasped John’s name, and gasped it louder when John bent to lick up the perspiration gathering between his shoulder blades.
“Honeymoon suite,” John whispered to the back of Sherlock’s neck. “We’re insulated. Be noisy.” Sherlock moaned and John smiled before gently biting his neck. He got onto his knees and pulled Sherlock to him, fitting them together, Sherlock’s long legs folded on either side of his. “Is this all right?”
“Yes,” Sherlock said, “yes, God, yes.” He reached back to shove a hand into John’s hair and turned his head, seeking John’s mouth. John kissed him and reached between them to guide his cock into Sherlock’s slick, waiting body.
Sherlock groaned, his fingers deep in John’s hair, and pressed his face against John’s neck. He held his body still as John pushed into him, and then exhaled, fingers loosening their grip, as John began to slowly thrust. Sherlock moved in response, his stomach shivering under John’s steadying hand, and panted for breath against John’s neck.
“John,” he said after what felt like far too short a time (and maybe he could feel John’s arm start to tremble, maybe he just wanted to draw this out), “John, I want you on your back.” John kissed his shoulder and let Sherlock pull off, watching him with greedy eyes as Sherlock moved aside so he could lie flat. Sherlock knelt over him and got him slick again, and John held his hips as Sherlock lowered himself onto John’s body.
Watching Sherlock suck him was almost enough to bring him off — watching Sherlock ride him, lean muscles flexing, skin sheened with perspiration, was even more so. His lips curled and his head fell back, and John wrapped a fist around his cock and stroked him hard as Sherlock reached back to balance himself on John’s thighs.
John pushed himself upright and kissed Sherlock’s throat and tongued his nipples until Sherlock’s fingers clutched at his hair, and then held Sherlock’s head and kissed him, kissed him deep and wet, pushing into Sherlock as Sherlock rocked to meet him.
He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist and tumbled them over, Sherlock’s legs going willingly over his shoulders and hands wrapping around his biceps, and John pushed into him again, slowly, eyes never leaving Sherlock’s as Sherlock quietly moaned and dug his fingers into John’s arms.
Now he moved with purpose, all that patience and waiting and letting other matters come first giving them this, this night, this pleasure, this joy in each other, his beautiful lover moaning nonsense as John drove into him, his face with that yearning, desperate look that meant he was so close, so close. John wrapped a hand around him and bent to kiss him, stroking him as he fucked. Sherlock shoved into his hand and pushed his tongue deep into John’s mouth — and then Sherlock moaned, “John!” and shuddered hard as he finished, twisting himself up to demand another kiss.
John stopped his hips and brought his hand to his mouth. He licked his palm and smiled when Sherlock shivered. He took Sherlock’s hand and laced their fingers together, and held it as he rocked his hips and Sherlock moved smoothly beneath him. He leaned on his elbows so he could frame Sherlock’s face with his other hand, and when he ran his thumb over Sherlock’s lips Sherlock’s tongue flicked out to lick the tip.
He was shivering as he finished, Sherlock’s fingers clutching his. He dropped his head against Sherlock’s neck, gulping air. Sherlock gently disengaged their hands so he could stroke John’s back and play with his ears.
“Do you remember the first time? Oh, of course you do. Not so brilliant, you called it. You held my hips so hard you left bruises.”
John inhaled, remembering he had a vocabulary. “You were too thin. You still are.” He moved off Sherlock as much as Sherlock’s embrace allowed. “What brought that to mind?”
“Oh, beginnings. We’ve had quite a few. We met, we started having sex … you always made me come to you and then one night you came to me. I’ve never quite understood what changed.”
John had to think a moment. The first time they had sex — and John never thought of it as making love, that came later — it was rough and fast and fueled by adrenaline, life-affirming rather than passionate. I’m alive. You’re alive. Don’t ever die on me. I won’t.
He knew he loved Sherlock then, even so, that this infuriating, clever, strange man had him in a way no one else had or would — but even then he was convinced that Sherlock was incapable or uninterested in loving anyone. It wasn’t until weeks later, when they were having sex regularly but still never saying anything about it to each other, that Sherlock said out of nowhere –they weren’t even in bed, John was putting the kettle on and Sherlock was poring over the paper when he looked up and said, “I always thought it was a romantic conceit but I’ve come to realize, John, it is different when you love someone,” and went back to reading.
It was like having the wind knocked out of him, and all John could do was stand there and blink at him stupidly until the kettle started whistling.
Sherlock was not effusive in his affections. Half the time John said, “I love you,” all he got in response was a smile. It bothered him at first, until he realized that this was one area where what Sherlock did was far more important than what he said. And Sherlock had been saying “I love you” silently for years, before that first desperate kiss in the Baker Street flat, before the first time Sherlock gently kissed his scars, before he stopped feeling self-conscious about taking John’s hand.
Sherlock told the children he loved them often, but it was different with the children — they didn’t see love in the hours Sherlock spent caring for them, even if John did. John knew that Sherlock’s texts of “Supper’s in the fridge, just cook it for half an hour,” or “Should I bring you a warmer coat? The weather’s turned vile,” came from love as much as any passionate declaration. More so, really. Someone can swear they’ll cross the deepest oceans and most burning deserts for you but are rarely called upon to do so.
Real love, John thought, is someone knowing exactly how you like your tea, or making sure your feet are warm when you sleep, or rubbing your back when you wake, gasping, from dreamed memories that never quite let you go, or recording a movie so you can watch it together later, even if later doesn’t come for weeks.
Real love, John thought, is every day.
He said, “You said you loved me. Well, as near as you’ve ever come, and I’m not saying that to complain. It changed things. It changed me. Maybe it changed you too, maybe you had changed before then and I didn’t notice, but you said that and everything was different.”
“We’re always changing,” Sherlock murmured. “Became lovers, became fathers … and now we’re married. I wonder what this is going to bring.”
“Nothing new, really,” John said. Sherlock huffed and John raised his head to look at him. Sherlock had the sleepy look of a contented cat, and his lips were still tender from kisses. John kissed him gently. “We tend the children, we make a living …”
“Only we’re married now.”
“Yes.” He moved onto his back and took Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock raised their hands to his mouth and kissed the back of John’s, and held them both to his chest.
“You look tired,” Sherlock said. “You haven’t been sleeping enough, despite the shift change.”
“Pre-wedding jitters,” said John and lay his head on Sherlock’s chest when Sherlock curled an arm around him. “And a baby with very regular and early hours.”
“Mm,” Sherlock said. He kissed John’s hair. “Sleep.”
“Five minutes,” said John and closed his eyes.
John woke what felt like hours later, to see Sherlock had ordered room service and was watching telly as he ate. The television was muted, subtitles playing, and Sherlock snorted as the dialogue took a turn for the ridiculous. John shook his head to wake himself up more and said, “Sherlock?”
“Oh, good, you’re awake. The kitchen has a special honeymooner’s breakfast. Do you want a muffin?”
“Okay,” said John and sat up slowly. His shoulder ached from activity, and his back had a twinge, and he couldn’t remember being this contented in months. He took the muffin and mimosa in a champagne flute that Sherlock gave him, and leaned back against the pillows.
“What I meant was,” Sherlock said, and John looked at him over his muffin, “I want us to remember the feeling.”
“The feeling,” John said.
“Of wanting to be together more than anything else. I think we’ve lost it. I’ve always had a low sex drive,” he said frankly, “but I want you, you know. I need you.”
“Thank you,” John said and hoped he didn’t look smug.
“There’s been so much else to distract us. You work so hard.” He kissed John’s shoulder. “Sometimes I just want to let you sleep.”
“And sometimes you’re completely worn out and I just want to let you sleep,” John said and kissed him back. “And once or twice we’ve tried to have sex and you’ve fallen asleep.”
“Sorry about that.” He sipped his mimosa and gave the glass an odd look. “I’m not sure I like this. Oh! Strawberries.” He picked up a bowl and took out a plump red berry, so sweet-smelling it made John’s mouth water. “You like these.”
“Very much,” said John, and tried not to laugh when Sherlock held the berry in front of his mouth. He held Sherlock’s gaze as he bit into the strawberry, and didn’t look away as he chewed and swallowed.
Sherlock said softly, watching him eat, “It’ll be easier now that we have Mary.”
“I hope so.” He said, as Sherlock thoughtfully ate a strawberry, “I don’t want to grow distant from you. I don’t want to lose you just because we’ve drifted apart.”
“We were headed that way.”
“Is that why you asked me to marry you? To keep me?”
“No,” said John, then, “Yes. In a way. I suppose I wanted something more than just an unspoken promise.”
Sherlock smiled as he picked up another muffin. “If all you needed was a wedding ring we could have skipped that party.”
“I don’t need a wedding ring,” John said.
“Now I’m completely confused,” said Sherlock, though he sounded more amused than anything else, and John suspected Sherlock knew what he was saying better than John did himself.
John ate a strawberry. He said, “I’m always afraid you’re going to grow bored, Sherlock. Bored of me.”
Sherlock put down the muffing and champagne flute, moved the tray back to its table and straddled John’s legs. John put his hands on Sherlock’s slim, pajama-clad hips and Sherlock took his face in both hands. “I,” Sherlock said, slowly and firmly, “will never grow bored of you.”
“Sherlock,” said John, embarrassed, and Sherlock brushed his thumbs over John’s lips.
“Mycroft was wrong.”
“About what?” He propped himself up on his elbows as Sherlock rolled off John and stripped off the pajamas. “Wrong about what, Sherlock?”
Sherlock got under the duvet. “About there being no surprises left. There are plenty of surprises left.” John pulled Sherlock on top of him and Sherlock leaned into John and kissed him, his tongue sliding lazily into John’s mouth. John lay back and pulled Sherlock with him so that they sprawled across the bed, kissing leisurely, touching lightly. “Being happy is a constant surprise.”