Fic- Mornings Like These
Title: Mornings Like These
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Category: Romance
Word Count: 557
Warnings: Shakespeare?
Summary: Written for this prompt on the BBC Kink Meme. Sherlock quotes from Shakespeare's Sonnets.
The first sensation he became aware of was warmth. His muddled mind swam just beneath the surface of consciousness. The warmth and softness encircled him, and it took John several minutes to become aware of the fact that he was lying in bed, and not, actually, floating in a warm cloud of blankets, supporting his weight.
The next sense to awaken was smell. The window had been left open, and it must have rained during the night, because gone was the heavy scent of the city fog. It was replaced with the clean, crisp smell of early morning, when the slight chill is something you can taste almost as much as you can feel. The flavor combined with the scent of slept-on down pillows, created a gentle haze around John’s head, very slightly punctuated by the tiniest tangy traces of something deeper, feral, suffused into the bed sheets.
John sighed, snuggling deeper into the covers. A delicious ache yawned its way through every muscle in his body. A stray thought bubbled to the surface. The sun should be bothering him. But the beam coming through the window carried tiny floating dust motes, their lazy patterns in the air synchronized with John’s soft, slow breathing. The brightness was a comfort, not a hindrance. He smiled sleepily.
“John.”
Ah. Sound.
It was a low breath of a whisper. More of a vibration than a voice, that John felt travel all the way to his toes. He shifted very slightly, hazily delighting in the way the comforter reformed around him, cradling him.
Sherlock was half sitting up, leaning on his hand and looking down at him. The blankets pooled around his naked torso and the sun lit up the outline of his hair, more unruly than John had ever seen it, making Sherlock look fuzzy around the edges. Surreal.
John “hmmm”d and closed his eyes, sinking slowly away. A hand with calloused fingers brushed against his cheek so lightly, for a moment John could have believed it was the sun’s doing. But then Sherlock’s deep, soft, rumbling voice washed over him, the tone somehow part of the pillows, and the morning, and the floating specs in the light.
“Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,
And each doth good turns now unto the other:
When that mine eye is famish'd for a look,
Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother,
With my love's picture then my eye doth feast
And to the painted banquet bids my heart;
Another time mine eye is my heart's guest
And in his thoughts of love doth share a part:
So, either by thy picture or my love,
Thyself away art resent still with me;
For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move,
And I am still with them and they with thee;
Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight
Awakes my heart to heart's and eye's delight.”
John opened his eyes a crack. He was nearly fully asleep again. “Beautiful,” he murmured, his voice muffled.
Sherlock’s smile was easy and fluid, but his eyes were like the bed sheets, fathomless, wild, debauched. He lay back down, resting his forehead against John’s.
“On mornings like these,” he said, lulling John deeper, and deeper, “I find I must leave words to the experts.”
John breathed and floated away.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Category: Romance
Word Count: 557
Warnings: Shakespeare?
Summary: Written for this prompt on the BBC Kink Meme. Sherlock quotes from Shakespeare's Sonnets.
The first sensation he became aware of was warmth. His muddled mind swam just beneath the surface of consciousness. The warmth and softness encircled him, and it took John several minutes to become aware of the fact that he was lying in bed, and not, actually, floating in a warm cloud of blankets, supporting his weight.
The next sense to awaken was smell. The window had been left open, and it must have rained during the night, because gone was the heavy scent of the city fog. It was replaced with the clean, crisp smell of early morning, when the slight chill is something you can taste almost as much as you can feel. The flavor combined with the scent of slept-on down pillows, created a gentle haze around John’s head, very slightly punctuated by the tiniest tangy traces of something deeper, feral, suffused into the bed sheets.
John sighed, snuggling deeper into the covers. A delicious ache yawned its way through every muscle in his body. A stray thought bubbled to the surface. The sun should be bothering him. But the beam coming through the window carried tiny floating dust motes, their lazy patterns in the air synchronized with John’s soft, slow breathing. The brightness was a comfort, not a hindrance. He smiled sleepily.
“John.”
Ah. Sound.
It was a low breath of a whisper. More of a vibration than a voice, that John felt travel all the way to his toes. He shifted very slightly, hazily delighting in the way the comforter reformed around him, cradling him.
Sherlock was half sitting up, leaning on his hand and looking down at him. The blankets pooled around his naked torso and the sun lit up the outline of his hair, more unruly than John had ever seen it, making Sherlock look fuzzy around the edges. Surreal.
John “hmmm”d and closed his eyes, sinking slowly away. A hand with calloused fingers brushed against his cheek so lightly, for a moment John could have believed it was the sun’s doing. But then Sherlock’s deep, soft, rumbling voice washed over him, the tone somehow part of the pillows, and the morning, and the floating specs in the light.
“Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,
And each doth good turns now unto the other:
When that mine eye is famish'd for a look,
Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother,
With my love's picture then my eye doth feast
And to the painted banquet bids my heart;
Another time mine eye is my heart's guest
And in his thoughts of love doth share a part:
So, either by thy picture or my love,
Thyself away art resent still with me;
For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move,
And I am still with them and they with thee;
Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight
Awakes my heart to heart's and eye's delight.”
John opened his eyes a crack. He was nearly fully asleep again. “Beautiful,” he murmured, his voice muffled.
Sherlock’s smile was easy and fluid, but his eyes were like the bed sheets, fathomless, wild, debauched. He lay back down, resting his forehead against John’s.
“On mornings like these,” he said, lulling John deeper, and deeper, “I find I must leave words to the experts.”
John breathed and floated away.