Some mornings, John wakes up alone.

However unusual this may be, it doesn't bother him. There are only two things that account for this- either Sherlock got an early call about a case that he deemed unimportant enough to let John sleep through- or he never actually came to bed at all. Which means he's been up all night pacing about the flat. The latter occurrence has become extremely rare since the two of them started sharing what used to be Sherlock's room. Few and far between are the nights when John falls asleep without arms around him.

The memory of telling Mrs. Hudson that there would now only be one bedroom needed in 221b is one he's very fond of. Firstly, there was the sheer excitement in her smile, and the pride in her eyes when she looked at them (the lack of surprise in her reaction is something he should have seen coming). His favourite bit had been the promise of it all- that their happiness was only just beginning to grow. That's what Mrs. Hudson had said. Sherlock had smiled- beamed, really, and kissed her on the forehead.

"It's my favourite thing in the world, your smile." John had murmured as Sherlock crawled into bed with him that evening.

"My smile? Really, John. I had hoped you'd be more creative."

Needless to say, he'd been inspired to get very creative after that.

Now, many months later, John stares absentmindedly at the pillow where the owner of that smile rests. Or usually does. Right now, it's undisturbed. Which means that Sherlock is still up, or otherwise passed out in some remarkably graceful pose on the sofa. That's why waking up alone doesn't bother him too much. One of his other favourite things about Sherlock is how innocent outright angelic he looks when he's asleep (even more so than usual). Unfortunately (if you can call it unfortunate), sleeping in the same bed as Sherlock has provided him with what is quite possibly the best sleep of his life. Usually he's the one who more than likely gets looked at during the wee hours of the night. It's seriously cut down on his time to observe the sleeping patterns of consulting detectives.

John suddenly becomes aware that his alarm clock has been blaring for more than five minutes. He rolls over, unusually sluggish and uneager to get up at all. Maybe he can skip work. Despite his desire to stay abed, he gets up, showers, shaves and dresses before heading to see what his boyfriend (that still sounds strange) is up to.

It's just as he thought. Sherlock is out cold, sprawled across the sofa, still in yesterday's clothes. John pauses for a moment to take in the sight of the completely dormant man. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, his one pale forearm hanging in the air beside him, the other resting on his chest. It's an uncommon thing to see- even when he's been up all night; he almost never falls asleep so early in the morning. He usually makes it until noon at least before disappearing up to bed. But being with John "has close to completely normalised his circadian rhythms". Or so he'd said. Here he is, at his most vulnerable, all because of John.

There's truth in that, John muses. He smiles slightly and pads off into the kitchen to make breakfast, unaware that Sherlock's eyes are now open and following him.

As soon as John rounds the corner, he flies into action, kicking off his shoes quickly and silently. He carefully stalks his unsuspecting prey into the other room, ready to pounce. Right as John opens the fridge, the forearms he was just admiring encircle his waist, and a mop of curls tickling his neck as Sherlock's head falls heavily onto his shoulder. Warm breath soaks into his jumper, and he can feel a small smile pressed into his back. John shuts the refrigerator door, orange juice in hand and whispers,

"Morning love."

"mmm." Sherlock replies, refusing to let go, even as John crosses the room, allowing himself to be dragged across the floor, his sock feet sliding easily. There's no comment on his behaviour- it's no secret how clingy he gets when he's this tired.

"What had you up all night?" John asks idly. "You did say you'd be a while, but you never ended up coming to bed at all." He's not upset. Curious- a little concerned, maybe. Not concerned enough to interrupt his toast-making ritual.

"Renovations." Comes the answer, still muffled.

"Renovations?" The toast is finished.

"New wing in the mind palace, still under construction." Sherlock finally lifts his head so that his lips are level with John's ear. "Bit of a rush, needed to get it finished before-"

"Before..?" The butter knife in John's hand pauses mid-swipe. Sherlock abruptly lets go and drifts back towards the door.

"Before I got bored. These things can get tedious, I lose interest, whole castles erode and fall into the sea." He flops back onto the sofa, withdraws a pen from his pocket and begins to incessantly tap the end against his leg, all while staring intently at a stack of index cards on the table. John partially ignores him, leaning on the doorjamb while he eats his toast, waiting for the coffee to brew. He glances at the clock, which has stopped, presumably during the night (it was working yesterday), at the time of 2:14. Two. Fourteen.

"Sherlock, what's today's date?"

"Hm?"

"It's the fourteenth, isn't it?"

"Yes, I believe it is."

"Hm."

Valentine's Day. Their first one as a couple, and it appears that they've both completely forgotten. Sherlock of course has never been the sentimental type, but still...

"D'you ever worry you'll run out of space?" John breaks the silence a while later, when he's finished with his coffee and is checking his e-mail.

"Space, where?"

"In your brain, for your mind palace. You'd better be careful how much you try and store up there, you might start losing the important things."

"What important things are there to lose? All the important things are already in my mind palace."

"Oh, I don't know, your family? Your parents? Mycroft?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes derisively.

"Alright, how about Molly? Mrs. Hudson?"

There's no eye-roll, only a neutral blink.

"Me? What if you put so much useless information up there that one day I just get pushed out?" He knows that's an incredibly silly thing to say, or even think, but it's Valentine's Day, he woke up alone, and his better half seems more concerned with what may very well be the encyclopedia of plant life for all he knows. And Sherlock gives him a look that says 'don't be ridiculous', but not to the tune of 'don't be ridiculous darling, I'd never let that happen' but more along the lines of 'don't be ridiculous John, do you even know how these things work?'.

"Well, I'm going to be late." He glares, shutting his laptop and reaching for his jacket, only to remember that his wallet is still in the bedroom. When he goes to get it, Sherlock's pen stops tapping, and he launches for the stack of index cards he's been so focused on. He snatches one and begins to scribble frantically. By the time the army doctor steps into view, his detective is right where he'd been left, his pen having resumed its rhythm, one that is not unlike a funeral march. John dons his jacket, nods goodbye to Sherlock, and whisks of into the cold February morning. He hails a cab and proceeds to mentally beat himself up for overreacting to something as trivial as waking up alone on Valentine's Day when he himself took a good long while to realise that's what had happened.

While he's doing that, he bleakly notices the explosions of red and pink decorating almost every shop window the cab drives by. It only succeeds at making him wonder how he could have forgotten such a seemingly obvious thing. Being single is a good excuse; there's no point in celebrating when you've got no one to celebrate with. But this year he's got Sherlock- someone with whom he's got more cause to celebrate a holiday dedicated to love than he ever has. So now that he's remembered, the least he can do is try and make something out of today. Of course, buying flowers (or anything that will eventually die) is completely out of the question.

"Flowers? Why would someone give flowers to represent love? 'Here's something that may look good and smell nice now, but just you wait, it'll wither and die soon enough.'" is exactly what Sherlock had said the one and only time John had ever bought him flowers. He can't imagine coming home with any sort of stuffed animal for fear he'll get laughed at. Chocolate? It's hard to think of a downside to chocolate, although he's certain there must be one.

By the time the cab ride is over, John is feeling utterly defeated. He steps out once more into the dull and harsh morning (fitting), shutting the cab door with more force than is strictly necessary, an reaches for his wallet. Except it's not in his jacket. He pulls out what looks to be an index card, just as he's remembering that his wallet is in his trousers. He pays the cabbie and then finally reads what he instantly recognises to be Sherlock's untidy scrawl:

I would delete everything else before I let myself forget you.

And if he wasn't already late for work, He would get another cab back to Baker Street and start making up for the fact that he hasn't got a bloody clue what to buy Sherlock for Valentine's Day. He stands there in the street for a moment, trying to discern whether or not he can justifiably go home now and then call in sick.

He ends up going to work anyway. But by the thirteenth patient (also known as it's still half an hour until lunch), he's folded and unfolded that card so many times it's beginning to rip in two. He's distracted, and apparently it shows, because instead of another non-lethal case of the common cold walking through the door, it's Sarah, asking him if he's feeling alright. He takes the out, and even though he's lying just so he can get back to his boyfriend (it sounds less strange all of a sudden) he doesn't really think he'll lose much sleep over it. On his way home, he sends Sherlock a text:

I got your note. I'm coming home.

What took you so long?

I couldn't just skip out on work.

But you have.

He's halfway there when he gets another message:

You'd better not be bringing me flowers.

John stops at a shop and buys the biggest box of chocolate he can find.

When he gets home, he's grinning from ear to ear. He almost doesn't see the card (just like the one in his pocket) that's been taped to the front door.

Come along John, I've been waiting a long time for you.

There's a much deeper truth in those words, deeper than even Sherlock might have known.

I've been waiting a long time for you.

So have I, John thinks. He pulls the card off the door and puts it in his pocket with the other one. When he steps inside, he's a bit relieved to find that Mrs. Hudson is nowhere to be seen. Of course he loves her dearly, but trading pleasantries with his landlady is the last thing on his mind right now. He practically runs up the stairs, skipping steps as he does, and finally, he's there. The lights are off in the hallway and all the doors are closed. For a moment, he wonders if he's being pranked. It honestly wouldn't surprise him.

"Sherlock?"

"In the kitchen, John."

Sherlock isn't in the kitchen. John catches a glimpse of him sliding the far door closed, but what he really notices is the slew of index cards, stuck to various things around the room. The first one is on a jar of honey, which is exactly where it was from this morning when he made toast.

Bee mine.

And as if that wasn't enough to crack him up, the next one is on a jar of eyeballs:

Eye love you.

He's still laughing when he sees another one, sitting on the microscope by the dissected pig's heart that's part of Sherlock's latest experiment:

You'll always have my heart.

It's still a pun, but John is no longer laughing. His smile, however, stays put. When he turns towards the sliding door, there are two more cards, hanging on strings, right at his eye level.

I'm sorry I let you wake up alone.

If it is your wish, you will never have to wake up alone again.

Of all the people he could have picked, John has picked the sweetest of the lot. But of course, Sherlock rarely ever shows this side of himself. It's no small thing that John has this in writing. Not just the sweet part, but the offer that John is definitely going to take him up on. He pulls them from their strings and puts them in the stack he's now collected.

There are only two more, both of them stuck to the sliding door. He can't even be bothered to wonder what he'll find behind it just yet.

John Watson, you keep me right.

You are the best thing that has ever happened to me.

He would get shown up on Valentine's Day by Sherlock Holmes of all people. Not to mention the fact that this is the most emotional he's gotten about this holiday. Ever.

He opens the door, and Sherlock is there, smiling softly, his arms open to John, who gladly steps into the embrace.

"Sherlock, you-"

"Oh, you brought me chocolate! Excellent choice, much better than flowers anyway." Sherlock grins as soon as he sees the box, taking it from John's hands and tearing into it eagerly.

"Well I mean, it's nothing compared to this." John is still staring at the stack of cards in his hands, and then Sherlock hands him one more.

I built this for you.

"What?" He looks up at Sherlock, who, with a mouth full of chocolate, just points towards the sofa.

The wall that would usually house Sherlock's map of evidence is covered in John. That is to say pictures, sketches and words, all pinned up and connected by strings. One whole section looks to be drawings that Sherlock has done, just of John's eyes. Another part of it is just photographs of nothing but his collection of 'ghastly Christmas jumpers' as Sherlock once described it. But it's all there. Anything and everything pertaining to John has all been spread across the living room wall. And at the bottom of this mural is a post it note on which is written:

The John Watson Wing of the Sherlock Holmes Mind Palace.

Before Sherlock can shove yet another chocolate in his mouth, he is very nearly tackled to the floor. John finds his hands, lacing their fingers together and kissing him slowly. Sherlock responds in kind, and before long, they're half naked and properly snogging when John whispers,

"It goes both ways, you know. I may be the best thing that's ever happened to you, and you are most certainly the best thing that's ever happened to me."

Sherlock drags him to bed, and they barely leave it for the rest of the day.

Some mornings, John wakes up alone.

This isn't one of those mornings. His eyes flutter open to the sight of Sherlock curled up next to him, still sound asleep. It's a good ten minutes of perfect silence before he finally stirs.

"Morning love." John breathes.

"mmm."

"Sleep well?"

"Very. I've got a whole new place to go to in my dreams. The scenery's lovely." There's a mischievous smile in Sherlock's sleepy gaze. "What do you want to do today?"

"I want the grand tour." John smirks. "Take me to your mind palace."