Title: Just the Morning
Word Count: 615
Summary: John knows what Sherlock likes.
Notes: Written for . Prompt: neck kisses.
Sherlock smells delicious in the mornings, like freshly laundered cotton. It’s rare for John to wake and find Sherlock still beside him — his lover is normally too restless for a lie-in — but when he does he savors it, curling around Sherlock and inhaling the scent of his morning-warm skin.
John brushes his lips on Sherlock’s hair and slips an arm under Sherlock’s so he can hold him around the chest. He does it lightly, so not to wake him. Sherlock rarely sleeps naked, but when he does, like this morning, John loves to trace his fingertips over Sherlock’s chest, through his sparse chest hair, over his collar bones. He loves to feel Sherlock’s heart beating, whether he presses his palm to Sherlock’s chest or lets his fingers rest on Sherlock’s neck, over his artery. He loves to feel Sherlock breathe, the rise and fall of his ribcage in a slow steady rhythm. He loves to stroke Sherlock’s lean arms, his strong shoulders, his slender throat.
John can pinpoint the exact moment Sherlock wakes, though it’s a subtle change most mornings: just an inhalation and a shift from one part of his hip to another. He doesn’t press back against John’s body if John is spooning him or forward if they’re face to face, but just relaxes into him, like a child in a pair of trusted arms. If they’re face to face and John kisses him he’ll kiss back, lightly, lazily, letting his lips catch against John’s.
If they’re spooning, which they often are because John loves to hold Sherlock like this, Sherlock’s long body tucked into his, perhaps Sherlock will stroke John’s arm as John touches him, or brush his toes against John’s leg. But he will always, always tilt his head in invitation.
John knows what Sherlock likes.
He starts at the base, where Sherlock’s neck meets his shoulder, sometimes with a nibble but more often with a slow, lingering lick. He likes to use the flat of his tongue here, slow and lazy, and alternate it with brushing his nose through Sherlock’s hair. He likes to stroke Sherlock’s chest as well, his sleep-warmed skin and hardening nipples, or scratch his fingernails over Sherlock’s stomach if he’s in a playful mood. He loves when this makes Sherlock jerk and glare at John over his shoulder, because that often means Sherlock will flip over, push John beneath him, give him a good thorough snogging — and more, if they have time, leaving John buzzing with satisfaction before the day begins.
But if Sherlock just purrs and smiles, John keeps kissing him. He nibbles his way slowly up Sherlock’s neck, over the artery if they’re lying the right way, until Sherlock twitches and moans. Perhaps he’ll trace Sherlock’s ear with his tongue, or kiss along his jaw — but mostly he’ll concentrate on Sherlock’s neck, the long pale column of his throat, the slight jut of his adam’s apple and the sweet hollow that makes Sherlock whimper when John kisses it.
They don’t even need to shag on mornings like this, when John loses himself in the comforting fragrance of Sherlock’s neck, the slight scratch of his morning beard, the way Sherlock’s pulse races under his lips. It makes Sherlock lazy as a housecat, and he’s so agreeable when John’s shown him how much he’s adored.
What he loves most, though, what makes him hope for this lazy, lovely mornings, is that when he’s done paying tribute to Sherlock’s neck he can bury his face in the warm curve, and Sherlock will reach back and touch his hair, and they’ll lie there, warm and happy, and they don’t need to say a word.