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It’s been hot lately, a record heat wave in London. Their flat has no air-con of course, but they’ve gotten fans to sit in the windows to do what good they can blowing the scorching air around. It helps a bit. John has moved from his bedroom where the heat is truly horrifying to catch what sleep he can on the sofa. Even stripped to his pants, he’s still uncomfortably warm. It’s like a trip back to Afghanistan, and he dreams all night of shifting sands, shouting, and the ever-present fear that coats the lungs in war zones. His bedding is twisted around his middle when he wakes to the oppressive, sticky dark, a cry in his throat. He isn’t alone.
The very air currents moving thickly in the room seem to shift and bend around the dark figure sitting nearby. Of course it’s Sherlock, why did John imagine it to be anyone else? It’s never truly a blackout in the middle of London, and he watches as the shadowy form of his flatmate languidly extends one arm his way. Time shifts and draws out as John thinks Sherlock might be about to lay his fingers on him. He’s mildly disappointed when he feels a glass of ice water pressed into his hand, wet from the drops of condensation running down the sides. John drinks half of it down in one go.
"Thanks. Did I wake you?" John asks running the back of a hand over his damp forehead.
"Couldn’t sleep," Sherlock replies quietly. He seems to be watching John intently, but the faint glow from the street lamp behind casts a halo over his tumbled curls, leaving his face in silhouette.
"Was I … did I make noise?" John isn’t quite sure how to phrase it. Was I screaming like a madman, or Am I broken beyond all hope? just doesn’t seem good for casual conversation starters between mates. And yet . . . there’s an intimacy in the dark, a feeling that anything might be said … or done in the cover of the night that wouldn’t be allowed in the bold light of day.
"A bit." Sherlock tells him. "You were having a nightmare. Do you want to talk about it?" He’s so matter of fact like this is fine, like it’s normal to be having night terrors after all this time.
"There’s not much to tell. I was trapped in a combat zone under fire, and …" John pauses to take a shuddering breath. "It does no good to dwell on it." He chuckles at himself shaking his head. "This heat doesn’t help."
"No. It’s been unusually tropical," Sherlock agrees. He comes forward from the chair until he’s on his knees before John.
"May I?" he asks.
John has no idea what he’s asking, but he nods mutely. Sherlock reaches down, and plucks an ice cube from his drained glass. He takes the ice and draws it slowly over the back of John’s neck. The feeling is electric, the sudden cold jolting down his spine like heat lightning. Sherlock, ignoring John’s shudder, continues to paint lines back and forth over his nape and across the top of his shoulders. John sucks in his breath amazed at how good this feels. Slowly, Sherlock moves the bit of ice to trail across his throat and slide over his collar bones. John lets his head drop back, and moans. He can’t help it.
Sherlock bends forward, and follows the path of the ice water with the very tip of his tongue. When his full lips make contact with the hollow at John’s throat, John’s cock engorges quite suddenly.
Some sound, primal and low, makes its way from of the back of John’s throat as Sherlock kisses a path along his jaw to reach his mouth. Sherlock pauses as if this liberty is a boundary he’s not willing to cross without complete consent. Maybe he’s just waiting to be invited. John groans, and reaches up to grab a fistful of Sherlock’s impossible hair as he drags their mouths together. The first taste of Sherlock is something wild and spicy, almost overwhelming, much like John’s first curry. Sherlock is tentative to start, merely responding to John’s onslaught, but then he turns the tables - takes control of the kiss, dipping, sliding, and devouring John in a tsunami of sensation.
When Sherlock pulls back and whispers “My room is cooler” in John’s ear, he might as well have said My room is the promised land. John stands, and lets Sherlock pull him through the shadows to the cool, quiet of his bedroom. The white sheets lay stretched out in the faint light like a beach at the seashore. Sherlock tugs him down and John follows, feeling like he has dived into waves and the sound of the window fan is the ocean crashing over them.