Sherlock was laying in the living room in 221b, securely immersed in his Mind Palace. He was making his way through the corridors, up through stairways, entering rooms he hadn't known to exist that contained things he hadn't remembered experiencing, and soon found himself going deeper and deeper within, further and further down, thus venturing into the floors and rooms that contained the memories of his childhood.
Though he knew it was hardly the most logical of things, he decided to explore, opening every door within those halls and pushing through until he reached the very first floor. He didn't need to visit the basement; the basement was where he placed things to be deleted. He was sure though, that by the end of this trip back into his childhood, he'd have piles of things ready to be deleted.
As he began to delve into his childhood, he slowly remembered what his parents were like, through the images and small memory-centric videos that showed. He gazed at his parents in their younger years; his mother, tall, slim, red, curly hair, face littered with light freckles, eyes of a kaleidoscope blue-greenish-grey such as his, her face constantly set in a look of quiet indifference. He remembered that she wasn't one for cuddling or kisses, same went for the nannies.
As he went through, he realised his father was hardly ever around. The man was tall, a bit more on the pudgy side, dark, straight hair always combed back in a way that - now that he thought about it - was strangely Moriarty-esque, his face pale and drawn slightly, eyes of the darkest, coldest brown, his face constantly painted with a scowl of disappointment. He wasn't the man for family time, and Sherlock had a feeling that he just pro-created to create a heir to the Holmes fortune. He doubted that neither of them had planned on having him, and he hardly blamed them. Mycroft was always their favourite, especially to father.
On the subject of Mycroft, he slowly realised that - forgoing the nannies - Mycroft had been the one whom had cared for him the majority of his younger years. He lazily went through the memories he had with Mycroft, watching as the younger Mycroft helped his child self with homework, protected him from the many bullies as he went through school, and bandaged him whenever he fell. Oddly enough, he felt his heart constrict when he reached the rooms containing his eleventh year. He swallowed thickly as he watched the memory of his brother's departure for Uni, forcing him to be left with Mummy, Father and the nannies. Brows furrowing, that was when he remembered that that was the moment he'd began to resent his brother, pushing him away and holding it all back until it had turned into a feeling akin to loathing.
Lowering his steepled fingers, he opened his eyes and let out a sigh, nearly jumping when he heard a grunt and a door slam, as well as the slight crumpling of plastic as John came home. Peering over, he watched as John - obviously just back from Tescos - lugged bags of shopping into the kitchen and began to put things away, grumbling whenever he found a new specimen or petri dish within the cabinets or fridge.
After he was sure John was relatively finished storing away the shopping, he wiggled his toes in nervousness before calling out, "John?"
John huffed a moment, setting the kettle on and plopping a teabag into a cup as per his usual. Not seeing fit to turn around, he simply called back, "No, Sherlock, I won't fetch you a bloody pen. Get off your arse and get your own bloody pen." He certainly wasn't in the mood to fetch pens. He'd had another row in the shops with a chip and pin machine, he'd nearly dropped an entire bag of shopping when loading them into the cab, and he'd very nearly not had enough money to pay the cabbie. Damn Sherlock and his needs. .
Sherlock frowned slightly, his brow arching. John certainly sounded much more irritable than he had earlier that morni- wait, was he implying that he had a certain tone for when he needed him to fetch something? Oh, no, he surely did not have a specific tone just for that purpose. . Did he? He'd be sure to look into that later.
Shaking his head slightly, he replied, "John, I don't need you to fetch me a pen. Though, I would like you to come here," he admitted, fighting back a smirk when the shorter man did indeed find his way into the living room a few minutes later, jacket shed and tea in hand.
Settling himself into his chair and relaxing back against the Union Jack cushion, he took a sip of his tea before looking at Sherlock. Worry lined his forehead as he studied him. He looked - dare he say it - vulnerable. "What is it then, Sherlock?" he quipped.
Pursing his lips a moment, he gave them a slight lick to wet them before asking, "Have you ever been cuddled?"
John could honestly say that he was taken aback by the question. It was so simple, so domestic, so not Sherlock. "I- What kind of question is that, Sherlock? Of course I've been cuddled! Haven't you?" he asked, arching his brow slightly.
At the question, Sherlock lowered his eyes before shaking his head just marginally. He hadn't expected John to have such an outburst at a simple question, to mock him. He should have, but he hadn't. He swallowed thickly, feeling the ever embarrassing swell of heat in his cheeks.
John's eyes widened at that, having been watching just enough to notice the subtle shake of the man's head. One does learn a thing or two from living with Sherlock Holmes, after all. His fingers flexed against the smooth outer side of his cup as he processed this, and he replied a moment later, "You've /never/ been cuddled? You've got to be joking- your mother? They're certainly one for cuddles. It's instinct," he said in disbelief, frowning.
Sherlock shook his head again, his blush becoming all the more noticeable now, "She was never one for affection. With myself, or Mycroft. The best I ever received were chaste kisses on the cheek at family functions. Father was hardly the man for that. He was much too stern, but then again he was never around. Too busy with his work and all," explained Sherlock, peering up at him.
John listened in, sipping his tea as Sherlock went on. "Oh. Hm. Might explain a few things, then," he said easily, giving a slight nod.
Sherlock opened his mouth to ask what he'd meant by that, but then closed his mouth. He opened it again, turning his head up to look at him properly, "Would you show me?" he asked, his entire face blossoming in an entirely new shade of red.
For a moment, John looked to be taken aback by the question, but soon shrugged it off. Setting his tea aside, he hoisted himself up and made his way over, unceremoniously shoving Sherlock's legs aside before sitting down beside him. He then wrapped an arm around him and pulled him closer against his side, ignoring the look that blossomed on the detective's face.
After peering at him in slight disgust for a moment, Sherlock gradually relaxed and moved closer, and with even more slight tugging, soon ended up in the smaller man's lap, curling and wiggling in order to become comfortable. He soon had nuzzled against the other man's neck, emitting a sound of content that rumbled his chest and sounded slightly - just slightly - like a purr.
John was very much aware that this could be considered incriminating, considering for one that the detective was still in his dressing gown, the next that they were both male, also with John's continuously stating that he isn't gay, nor is he the man's date. His brow rose as he heard the sound, his arms curled around the taller, slimmer man. "Sherlock Holmes, did you just purr?" he asked in disbelief, a smirk curling his lips afterward.
Scoffing, his curls bounced as Sherlock shook his head, "Of course not, John. I made a sound of content, I did not purr, as you phrased it," he said haughtily, his lip stuck out slightly in a pout.
John couldn't help but start to chuckle at how childish the man was acting, "Whatever you say, but that sounded quite a bit like a purr," he teased, his shoulders shaking in his laughter.
His cheeks flushing yet again, he attempted to turn away but just ended up falling flat on his face on the floor beside the sofa. He groaned, grumbling and attempting to push himself up from where he lay.
This only succeeded in causing John to dissolve into even worse giggles, and that in itself provoked Sherlock to start laughing himself. After he'd stopped laughing, he peered up at John and asked, "Can we cuddle again sometime, John? I liked that. It was. . Nice," he told him, smiling slightly.
John nodded, still trying to catch his breath, "Of course, you daft sod. I wouldn't mind that, even if you do purr," he smirked.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, getting up to sit back onto the sofa. He turned to the smaller man and simply asked, "Tea?"
John feigned a groan, pushing himself up and fetching his now cold cup of tea. As he entered the kitchen, he looked back and rolled his eyes, "Of course, Sherlock. As you wish," he said only half sarcastically, grinning afterward.