It was a quiet, cold night the first time John took Sherlock into what would become their bed. They had just capped off a quick, two day case with an impromptu visit to Angelo's. They'd shared a bottle of wine and picked food off each other's plate's, forks clicking softly together. Walking home, snowflakes dotted Sherlock's scarf and John's hair. Their cheeks grew pink and rosy with the cold. Their hands bumped together a handful of times before John laced their fingers together, squeezed Sherlock's hand ever so gently, and brushed his thumb lightly over the back of Sherlock's knuckles.
They'd arrived home soon after, and tripped up the seventeen steps into their flat, one pulled after the other, their hands still joined. John eased Sherlock's scarf from his neck and Sherlock brought John his slippers. Sherlock made two mugs of tea and John started a fire in the hearth. They settled into their respective armchairs, sipped their drinks, and laughed about the case; words weaving easily between the two until their mugs were empty and the fire had died out.
John moved first, hauling himself from his chair to clear their empty, tea-stained mugs. He paused in the doorway to the kitchen, leaning his shoulder against the wall, and stared, breathlessly captivated by how vulnerable Sherlock looked lit by the flickering embers of the fire. After a while, Sherlock turned his head and looked back, his eyebrows furrowing as he caught John staring.
They gravitated toward each other without a word, their bodies meeting half-way between the kitchen and their armchairs. Sherlock tucked himself against John, burrowing his face against the smaller man's shoulder, his lanky arms dangling loosely at his sides. John slowly brought his arms up and draped them on either side of Sherlock's neck, his fingers drawing a shiver from the taller man as they brushed against the nape of his neck. Eventually, they drew apart, laced their fingers together, and with a gentle tug and a warm smile, John led them up to his room.
John was the first to wake the next morning, his chest pressed firmly against Sherlock's back. Their legs had tangled together sometime during the night, and his arm was draped across Sherlock's waist. A broad smile spread across John's face as he settled back in, rolling even closer to Sherlock, tucking his face against the back of his neck. "What have I ever done," he murmured, pausing to press a gentle kiss into the hair curling at Sherlock's nape, "my whole life, to deserve you?"
Sherlock stirred in his arms, turning his head back to blink blearily at John. "Everything," he whispered, a sleep slack smile curling the ends of his lips. "Everything you've ever done brought you here. To me."
John hummed in agreement, and slid his hand up to cup Sherlock's cheek. Slowly, he leaned forward and pressed their lips together, his eyes fluttering shut as Sherlock's warm, dry mouth moved against his.
Hours later, they'd rise and start their day. John would fry up eggs and toast while Sherlock showered. John would leave for a shift at the clinic and kiss Sherlock's forehead on his way out the door. But all that mattered, in that moment, to the two men curled up in the second bedroom of 221B Baker Street, was the fact that, somehow, despite everything that had happened, they had come together. And for them, that was enough; for them, it was everything.
This was inspired by a post from perlockholmes on tumblr.
