A/N: I was having Reichenbach feels again last week and attempted another angsty post-Reichenbach fic, though I couldn't get get through it. Instead, this fluffy thing with the sole purpose of comforting my own weepy mood was created while I was half-asleep. This one is for all the people who are not over Reichenbach. Enjoy. (Another fanfic in this fandom? I really am obsessed.)
"John."
Through the heavy fog of sleep, John was roused by a deep yet sharp call of his name, quite uncomfortably directly next to his ear.
"Nrgh."
Last night, he and Sherlock had chased a criminal throughout the night, as per their usual activity. Chasing, as in literally on their feet, running around blocks, hell the whole city probably. They barely stopped to take a breather during that particular marathon unless absolutely necessary, which was usually not the luxury they had when there was a homicidal bloke on the run. Anyway, John reasoned this was a perfectly reasonable excuse for him to not acknowledge his morning call. But being ever gracious and just generally not-adorable-but-just-nice, he deemed a brief grunt was a more than enough response.
"John."
This time, the demand for his full consciousness and attention was followed by a poke to his side. He swore to whatever was up there that he should be given a bloody award for even having the idea of sharing his bed with an insomniac, bloody-hyper-and-won't-stay-still-for-thirty-seconds, bloody pain in the arse, one of a kind consulting detective. However lovely the man could be, good sleep was not an advantage he was offered.
"Hmrpgh."
John put a force behind his grunt to counter Sherlock's own effort to emphasize his name, in attempt to wake John up for God knows what. As if an added force to his name calling would miraculously serve Sherlock a fresh and very much awake John Watson in a platter. Well, he should damn learn now he would not.
"Jo-"
Before Sherlock could finish another command guised in his name, John managed to cut him off (which is quite a feat, seeing how his name only contained one syllable) by throwing his hand to cover Sherlock's mouth. How he had managed to do this skilfully and accurately under the sheer weight of sleep he would never know, but bless his trained body to be so efficient in shutting Sherlock up even in a half-asleep state.
"Shh."
Under the palm of his hand, he could feel Sherlock's lips trying to form words once again, insistent in his endeavour to steal John's whole attention away from the sweet seduction of sleep. So, John applied his secret move (though he knew not really, when you live with one Sherlock Holmes), 100% foolproof, to drag his annoying yet sweet partner down with him to the magical land of dreams. He hooked his feet on top of Sherlock's, pinning the detective's two legs down, and scooted with great difficulty towards him and propped half of his body weight on top. John felt Sherlock's body lose its tension under him, a conditioned response John had nurtured whenever their two bodies were tangled together in bed that kicked in slowly yet surely. Bless Pavlov and his dogs.
Knowing he had obtained triumph, John peeled away his hand from Sherlock's mouth and tucked it to the side of said detective's torso, effectively trapping him from making any movement. And with him snuggling into the curve Sherlock's neck, they made the perfect image defining cuddling down to its smallest particle of aaww-inducing sweetness.
When a reluctant arm finally draped around his shoulder, John drifted back to sleep under the comforting weight. The warmth of the body under-around-next to him ensured that he wasn't alone, even when his consciousness started to fade away. John Watson was safe. He was home.
Although he may not see, he knew an indulgent smile was tugging at the corner of Sherlock's mouth. The detective finally relented and made an effort to go back to sleep, if only to humour his dear, dear John. An hour of oblivion spent with his blogger cradled in his arms would be an hour well wasted, after all.
All was peaceful.
All was sound.