As John snuggled closer into Sherlock's neck he drank in the smell of the consulting detective's hair. John hated the smell of cigarette smoke – his mother had smoked – but on Sherlock he found it intoxicating. Sherlock made an effort to never let John see him smoke but once John had looked down from the window of 221B and watched the thin threads of grey blue smoke curl up from the shadow of Holmes's dark head as he huddled in the rain of a dying evening. That had been the night Sherlock had kissed him for the first time. John realised that he had found the secret to the Sherlock's scent – clinging to his suits, the tips of his fingers and the space behind his ear. Rain water. It had an odd depth above the expected clearness - as though he had absorbed the city and the streets around him. And Sherlock was hardly one for aftershave or cologne, although John knew for a fact that there was a bottle of perfume the colour of Stradivarius concealed in the war zone of their bathroom cabinet sent by Mycroft, that very easily cost a more than a couple of weeks wages. He snuggled yet closer as he felt the late autumn light pitch through the windows of the house. He felt himself relax deeper into his half sleep and closer his eyes slowly.

'John. Are you snuggling?' John almost jumped out of the bed at the sound of Sherlock's voice. He scrabbled around in the covers for a few seconds trying to untangle himself from the swarm of blankets he had insisted on swathing the bed in last night to keep Sherlock's bony frame warm. John managed to turn round finally and couldn't stop a smile as he saw the detective. Sherlock was lying there – fully clothed in a two piece suit with a shirt that although tight fitting was starting to show signs of creasing – with his eyes shut. 'If you are snuggling John,' Sherlock intoned still flat on his back, eyes closed. 'I think I'm going to ask you to stop as you've already soaked the right side of my collar with saliva.' John peered over the side of Sherlock to look.

'I can't see anythi-'

'My right John. Always my right.' Sherlock interrupted, eyes still clamped shut. John blushed pink as he saw the dark stain left on the iron grey of the collar where he had enthusiastically either dribbled or chewed on the warm material.

'No need to go all pink John I was just giving you fair warning-'

'I'm not blushing-'

'Yes you are John.'

'How can you bloody tell – your eyes are closed!'

'I know you are John. Don't argue with me, I know you too well.' With this Sherlock crossed his arms and relaxed further into John's pillows. John flashed him a couple of v-signs before he froze as he was caught by Sherlock's response – 'Bit immature don't you think?' John huffed down next to him and peered over him.

'How are you doing that, have you got you're eyes open?'

'Magic. Now shut up.' Sherlock unfolded his arms and placed one round the considerably warmer John, who settled in to the crook of the offered arm. 'Sorry about your suit,' John broke the silence. 'But actually what the hell are you wearing it for – it's Sunday.'

'I didn't know I couldn't wear a suit on Sunday. What odd laws we do have in this country now.' Sherlock's deadpan reply. John huffed again.

'You know what I mean and to my memory you weren't wearing anything last night.'

'Magic again John.' Sherlock turned on his side, his eyes still closed, and laced his tapering fingers together around the small of John's back and brought his doctor closer to him. 'So shut up.'