Wakey Wakey
Jem's Bird

Illustration by Spacefall

Wakey Wakey by Spacefall - click for lj“Watson.”



“Mmmflg … go away.” I do not move my arm from over my face, even when a corner of my warm blanket lifts, allowing the cold air to chill my legs.

“Watson.” Holmes’ voice is quiet, insistent, almost melodic. A thin hand caresses my thigh, but it is too early, even for that. I bat his hand away, then throw my arm back across my face, even though I know it is a hopeless gesture.

“Come on, Watson, wake up.”

“I said go away, Holmes.”

The hand returns to my thigh, gently teasing my sensitive flesh with his fingertips. “Come on, old man. Time to get up.”

“Holmes, I’m barely three years your senior. If you call me ‘old man’ one more time –” Too late I realize that I have taken the bait, blearily sitting up and squinting up at my friend in the dark of the bedroom. “And what the bloody hell time is it, anyway?”

“Such language, Watson. It’s sex o’clock.”

“Six? But the sun isn’t up –” I paused. “One moment. What did you say?”

Sherlock Holmes smiles down at me, squeezing my thigh seductively. Despite the hour and my annoyance, I can feel a definite reaction from his caress, and I know that my resistance cannot last.

It never does.

“You couldn’t have waited until a civilized hour,” I sigh wearily, as Holmes slides into the bed beside me, his dressing gown discarded upon the floor.

“Whatever for? It’s not as if we’re going to be doing anything civilized,” he murmurs, his lips taking possession of my neck and collarbone.

Despite myself, I wrap my arms around him and pull him closer. “You’re awfully sure of yourself, Sherlock,” I whisper.

“And you are far too coy, my dear John. Tell me to go away and I shall.”

“I already told you to go away. Twice,” I say, but hold him all the more closely to my breast as we exchange fierce kisses.

He manages to wriggle out of my grasp, and sits up, his grey eyes twinkling mischievously. “Do you wish me to go away?”

I sigh heavily. I know I have lost, but only in this small sport of our wordplay, where I could never hope to win in any case. What I have gained is much more pleasant, and so it is with no real sense of defeat that I draw him into my arms once more, willingly surrendering to his kiss. “I would never wish to turn you away from my bed,” I tell him, and then my mouth is too busy for words; my mother taught me never to speak with my mouth full, although I daresay she had not foreseen this eventuality. I push the idea from my mind; it is far too early in the morning to worry about such things. Perhaps I shall be able to sleep later on, I think, but when our bodies join together, all rational thought leaves my mind.

Much later, as my lover snores gently beside me, I stroke a lock of coal-black hair away from the aristocratic brow and smile to myself.

“Sex o’clock,” I mutter. “Terrible, terrible pun. Sherlock Holmes, you are an incurable wanton.”

“Thank you, Watson,” he yawns, and rolls back to sleep.



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