Fiction: Of Beds and Borders
Title: Of Beds and Borders
Author: fanbot
Characters: Sherlock/John (budding relationship)
Rating: PG -13
Nothing graphic, no warnings
Summary: Post first-time, things are still being sorted out.
Self-Proofed but Unbetaed. Please gently point out any errors.
John rose slowly from a dream of an Arabian tent filled with soft cushions and smooth textures. He drifted in the twilight between sleep and wake, wanting to stay in the tented world of safe luxury yet somehow knowing there was an important reason to wake up. In the end his bladder decided for him. He shifted his hand and found smooth sheets under his fingers.
The last event before going to sleep came back to him.
John opened his eyes in a room that was at once familiar and unfamiliar. He’d been in Sherlock Holmes’ room many times, but he’d never slept there. He also realized he’d never seen it with the lights off at night. The street lights were brighter through the curtains here then in his own room one floor up. The refrigerator in the kitchen kicked on, humming to himself. The sound was muffled through the closed door.
A movement behind him called his attention to what, or rather who, he’d been avoiding thinking about.
“It’s just after midnight,” Sherlock murmured. “I don’t suppose you’d want the encore now?”
John sat up and turned to face Sherlock. In the dim room, he was no more than a slim shape under the covers, pale face on dark blue sheets. John could see that Sherlock had put on his pajamas at some point, which only called attention to his own nakedness.
John coughed. He was not completely sure how he felt about the tentative sexual experimentation that they had indulged in hours before. “The plan was for just a nap.”
“You were so deeply asleep, I felt to wrong to wake you.”
John couldn’t read Sherlock. “Um, thanks. I have to go to the loo. I’ll… I’ll just go up to bed. Have to work tomorrow. After all."
He swung his legs off the bed and looked around in the dark for his clothes.
“They’re on the chair by the bed, John. Come back if you wish. I know my bed is more comfortable than yours.”
John picked up his neatly-folded clothes and hesitated for a second. The covers on his side of the bed were thrown back and the high-quality Egyptian cotton sheets still warm. Sherlock lay on his side, one arm under his head and curled up over it, his long fingers woven in his hair. His other hand lay casually on the bed. Suddenly, John wanted very much to be touched by him.
“Um… later. It’s a bit quick to go to sleeping with you from…”
Sherlock chuckled. “From a very satisfying encounter which appeared mutual. I understand, John. Just know you are welcome back any time.”
John felt himself blush and covered with a joke. “I may come back just for the bed.”
“What ever you decide. Good night, John.”
The next morning, John’s alarm woke him. He slapped it off in irritation. The second half of his night certainly hadn’t been as nice as the first. He was an army man who was trained to sleep where he stopped. The bed in his room came with the flat. It was clean and serviceable. Now, after one five hour sleep in Sherlock’s bed, he was very aware of the sag in the middle, the cotton instead of feather pillow, and the fact it was a single width. He even found himself aggravated by the common cotton sheets.
Annoyed that the his good day of contemplating what was a most pleasant sexual encounter with anticipation of more had turned into a fixation about the quality of his bed, John practically stomped downstairs.
Holmes was already up and typing busily at his laptop. John called a good morning, earning only an appraising glance and grunt from Sherlock.
Typical.
John ate his breakfast and went to work.
When he came home that evening, Sherlock was in the same position, except he was dressed. The kitchen table sported a dish of what appeared to be metal fragments in chicken fat, and the day’s newspaper and correspondence were scattered about.
“Is there still Thai in the fridge or did you eat it?” John called to his flatmate.
“All yours,” Sherlock called, not looking up from his computer.
John cautiously pulled out the takeout box and heated it in the microwave. He sat in the living room and opened his own laptop. As Sherlock had warned upon their first meeting, he would sometimes go days without speaking. John was used to this and normally did not mind, but for heaven’s sake, they had shared an orgasm the day before.
“Sherlock?”
Grunt.
“Are we… okay?”
“Humm?”
“I mean, we, yesterday,… Oh never mind.”
Sherlock sighed and pulled his attention from his laptop. “John. Yesterday we had sex. I am perfectly okay. Apart from the uncomfortable rest of the night you spent in your own bed, you appear okay.”
“How did you… Never mind. So… good.”
“Yes, good,” Sherlock murmured, but was already back in his virtual space.
John cleaned up the flat and watched an animated film about a toy cowboy and spaceman which caused Sherlock to shake his head and put on his headphones to shut it out.
When the cheery buddy film was over, John turned to smile at Sherlock, but his flatmate had slipped off to his bedroom at some point. For some reason, this left John feeling very lonely. He checked his e-mail one more time, turned off the television and lamps as he did every night, but hesitated at the bottom of the stairs. Light shone from under Sherlock’s door. Hadn’t he welcomed John back any time?
With a shake of his head, John headed upstairs.
What greeted him when he turned on the lights in his room completely threw him off.
In place of the off-kilter iron headboard and warped dresser, there was a cherry wood, full-sized sleigh bed and a matching dresser. The bed was neatly made, the covers drawn invitingly back, and, of all things, a single mint sat on the pillow. As his mind tried to wrap itself around the transformation of his bedroom, he recognized the mint as having accompanied the takeout he’d had for dinner.
Wonderingly, John ran his hand over the burgundy sheets. They were the same smooth thread count as Sherlock’s.
Sherlock. How had he done this? Why had he done this?
John pelted down the stairs. He was not surprised to hear Sherlock call for him to come in before he knocked.
Sherlock sat aside his book and looked calmly at the raving doctor in his doorway.
“Why, Sherlock? My bed was perfectly…”
“It was not perfectly serviceable.”
John crossed his arms, waiting to hear him out.
Sherlock ticked off points on his fingers. “You understandably suffer from nightmares. If you slept more soundly you would have fewer. The mattress pains your shoulder in wet weather and there are only one or two positions in which you can actually sleep. It creaks no end as you get in and out of it so there is no way you can ever actually sneak downstairs if needed. And…” Sherlock paused. “I’ve made my point.”
John advanced on the bed. “And what, Sherlock? You have to have more of a reason for such trouble and expense. If these things bothered you, you would have come up with a solution long ago.”
Sherlock cleared his throat, but would not look up at John.
“Right then. Have it taken back. I will kip on the couch tonight. Do I need to go out back to retrieve my old bed from the rubbish heap?” John turned away.
“I wanted to make certain that if you came to my bed is was for my company and not just for the bed,” Sherlock confessed in a rush. John stopped with his hand on the doorframe, his back to Sherlock. “Your bed is in the basement. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson can entice someone to rent the dank room if it is partly furnished. I will take care of it tomorrow.”
John stood there a minute more, looking at but not seeing the darkened flat. He said over his shoulder, “how long do you have to return it?”
Sherlock sounded defeated. “One week, but I will tend to it tomorrow.”
“Humm,” said John. “Maybe we should keep it. After all, I do put up with a lot from you. And you did destroy my favorite chair last month. I must admit I did sleep well yesterday. Funny what a difference a quality mattress can make.”
“My gift to you, John.”
John smiled. He’d teased Sherlock long enough. “There is another reason to keep it. In case you want to join me in my bed some night. Good night, Sherlock.”
If John Watson had turned around at that moment, he would have seen the great Sherlock Holmes utterly flabbergasted. He was half way up the stairs when the rare sound of Sherlock’s merry laugh followed him.
Now you can read how they got into bed.
Author: fanbot
Characters: Sherlock/John (budding relationship)
Rating: PG -13
Nothing graphic, no warnings
Summary: Post first-time, things are still being sorted out.
Self-Proofed but Unbetaed. Please gently point out any errors.
John rose slowly from a dream of an Arabian tent filled with soft cushions and smooth textures. He drifted in the twilight between sleep and wake, wanting to stay in the tented world of safe luxury yet somehow knowing there was an important reason to wake up. In the end his bladder decided for him. He shifted his hand and found smooth sheets under his fingers.
The last event before going to sleep came back to him.
John opened his eyes in a room that was at once familiar and unfamiliar. He’d been in Sherlock Holmes’ room many times, but he’d never slept there. He also realized he’d never seen it with the lights off at night. The street lights were brighter through the curtains here then in his own room one floor up. The refrigerator in the kitchen kicked on, humming to himself. The sound was muffled through the closed door.
A movement behind him called his attention to what, or rather who, he’d been avoiding thinking about.
“It’s just after midnight,” Sherlock murmured. “I don’t suppose you’d want the encore now?”
John sat up and turned to face Sherlock. In the dim room, he was no more than a slim shape under the covers, pale face on dark blue sheets. John could see that Sherlock had put on his pajamas at some point, which only called attention to his own nakedness.
John coughed. He was not completely sure how he felt about the tentative sexual experimentation that they had indulged in hours before. “The plan was for just a nap.”
“You were so deeply asleep, I felt to wrong to wake you.”
John couldn’t read Sherlock. “Um, thanks. I have to go to the loo. I’ll… I’ll just go up to bed. Have to work tomorrow. After all."
He swung his legs off the bed and looked around in the dark for his clothes.
“They’re on the chair by the bed, John. Come back if you wish. I know my bed is more comfortable than yours.”
John picked up his neatly-folded clothes and hesitated for a second. The covers on his side of the bed were thrown back and the high-quality Egyptian cotton sheets still warm. Sherlock lay on his side, one arm under his head and curled up over it, his long fingers woven in his hair. His other hand lay casually on the bed. Suddenly, John wanted very much to be touched by him.
“Um… later. It’s a bit quick to go to sleeping with you from…”
Sherlock chuckled. “From a very satisfying encounter which appeared mutual. I understand, John. Just know you are welcome back any time.”
John felt himself blush and covered with a joke. “I may come back just for the bed.”
“What ever you decide. Good night, John.”
The next morning, John’s alarm woke him. He slapped it off in irritation. The second half of his night certainly hadn’t been as nice as the first. He was an army man who was trained to sleep where he stopped. The bed in his room came with the flat. It was clean and serviceable. Now, after one five hour sleep in Sherlock’s bed, he was very aware of the sag in the middle, the cotton instead of feather pillow, and the fact it was a single width. He even found himself aggravated by the common cotton sheets.
Annoyed that the his good day of contemplating what was a most pleasant sexual encounter with anticipation of more had turned into a fixation about the quality of his bed, John practically stomped downstairs.
Holmes was already up and typing busily at his laptop. John called a good morning, earning only an appraising glance and grunt from Sherlock.
Typical.
John ate his breakfast and went to work.
When he came home that evening, Sherlock was in the same position, except he was dressed. The kitchen table sported a dish of what appeared to be metal fragments in chicken fat, and the day’s newspaper and correspondence were scattered about.
“Is there still Thai in the fridge or did you eat it?” John called to his flatmate.
“All yours,” Sherlock called, not looking up from his computer.
John cautiously pulled out the takeout box and heated it in the microwave. He sat in the living room and opened his own laptop. As Sherlock had warned upon their first meeting, he would sometimes go days without speaking. John was used to this and normally did not mind, but for heaven’s sake, they had shared an orgasm the day before.
“Sherlock?”
Grunt.
“Are we… okay?”
“Humm?”
“I mean, we, yesterday,… Oh never mind.”
Sherlock sighed and pulled his attention from his laptop. “John. Yesterday we had sex. I am perfectly okay. Apart from the uncomfortable rest of the night you spent in your own bed, you appear okay.”
“How did you… Never mind. So… good.”
“Yes, good,” Sherlock murmured, but was already back in his virtual space.
John cleaned up the flat and watched an animated film about a toy cowboy and spaceman which caused Sherlock to shake his head and put on his headphones to shut it out.
When the cheery buddy film was over, John turned to smile at Sherlock, but his flatmate had slipped off to his bedroom at some point. For some reason, this left John feeling very lonely. He checked his e-mail one more time, turned off the television and lamps as he did every night, but hesitated at the bottom of the stairs. Light shone from under Sherlock’s door. Hadn’t he welcomed John back any time?
With a shake of his head, John headed upstairs.
What greeted him when he turned on the lights in his room completely threw him off.
In place of the off-kilter iron headboard and warped dresser, there was a cherry wood, full-sized sleigh bed and a matching dresser. The bed was neatly made, the covers drawn invitingly back, and, of all things, a single mint sat on the pillow. As his mind tried to wrap itself around the transformation of his bedroom, he recognized the mint as having accompanied the takeout he’d had for dinner.
Wonderingly, John ran his hand over the burgundy sheets. They were the same smooth thread count as Sherlock’s.
Sherlock. How had he done this? Why had he done this?
John pelted down the stairs. He was not surprised to hear Sherlock call for him to come in before he knocked.
Sherlock sat aside his book and looked calmly at the raving doctor in his doorway.
“Why, Sherlock? My bed was perfectly…”
“It was not perfectly serviceable.”
John crossed his arms, waiting to hear him out.
Sherlock ticked off points on his fingers. “You understandably suffer from nightmares. If you slept more soundly you would have fewer. The mattress pains your shoulder in wet weather and there are only one or two positions in which you can actually sleep. It creaks no end as you get in and out of it so there is no way you can ever actually sneak downstairs if needed. And…” Sherlock paused. “I’ve made my point.”
John advanced on the bed. “And what, Sherlock? You have to have more of a reason for such trouble and expense. If these things bothered you, you would have come up with a solution long ago.”
Sherlock cleared his throat, but would not look up at John.
“Right then. Have it taken back. I will kip on the couch tonight. Do I need to go out back to retrieve my old bed from the rubbish heap?” John turned away.
“I wanted to make certain that if you came to my bed is was for my company and not just for the bed,” Sherlock confessed in a rush. John stopped with his hand on the doorframe, his back to Sherlock. “Your bed is in the basement. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson can entice someone to rent the dank room if it is partly furnished. I will take care of it tomorrow.”
John stood there a minute more, looking at but not seeing the darkened flat. He said over his shoulder, “how long do you have to return it?”
Sherlock sounded defeated. “One week, but I will tend to it tomorrow.”
“Humm,” said John. “Maybe we should keep it. After all, I do put up with a lot from you. And you did destroy my favorite chair last month. I must admit I did sleep well yesterday. Funny what a difference a quality mattress can make.”
“My gift to you, John.”
John smiled. He’d teased Sherlock long enough. “There is another reason to keep it. In case you want to join me in my bed some night. Good night, Sherlock.”
If John Watson had turned around at that moment, he would have seen the great Sherlock Holmes utterly flabbergasted. He was half way up the stairs when the rare sound of Sherlock’s merry laugh followed him.
Now you can read how they got into bed.