John should not ever had agreed with staying at the room upstairs. First of all, it's upstairs. Why the hell would someone who limps take a room upstairs? Okay, he doesn't limps anymore, but he did when he moved in. Then, it have a frigging leak! Right above his bloody bed.
Being fair, the leaking just appeared during this afternoon, but Watson didn't saw it until bedtime. Marching downstairs nervously, Sherlock barely looks at him when he spoke:
"You can sleep in my bed."
"What?" John question, confused. He didn't ask for his bed, he was going to take the couch.
"The leak upstairs invalidates your bed, and I'm not using mine right now and I intend to continue not using it for the rest of the night. Therefore, you can have my bed."
John didn't have the patience neither the energy for discussing with Sherlock, so he didn't even asked how he knew about the leak. He just nodded his head and said "Thank you", entering Sherlock room and closing the door.
The room seemed extremely neat, considering it belonged to Sherlock. Although, Sherlock rarely uses his room. John throws his tired body over the bed, placing his blond head over one pillow and hugging another one. His shoes carelessly fell, hitting the ground with a loud sound. The smell of the sheets were just so comforting, the softness of the mattress itself just feels like clouds. He inhale the citric, musky smell once more and falls asleep.
In his dreams, he's holding Sherlock's chest instead of a pillow. He can feel the warm of his skin and the caring look above his head. Gently, he kiss just any part of what he can touch with his lips without moving, what could be Sherlock's neck, neck bones, shoulder or all at once. He can even sense the hand with its long fingers on the top of his head, stroking his hair calmly. Not much happens in his dream, just the blissful sleepiness accompanied by his best friend. Before he can wake up, John open his eyes inside his dreams and kiss Sherlock full lips, delighting himself on his cupid's arch, fingers tighten on the ebony locks.
John slowly turn aside on bed, waking up with the sunlight on his face. He forgot to close the damn curtains. He looks at the pillow he was hugging, now all drooled over. "Fuck", he thinks to himself. How he would explain that to Sherlock?
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