I just can't get over these two being cuddly with each other. You can interpret this as an asexual relationship if you'd like, but that's not how I've written it. I'm always open to all interpretations! Please review!
Sherlock never kept a strict schedule on anything. For all his meticulous deductions and experiments and seemingly mad ravings, time was not an issue. He slept when he couldn't stand anymore, ate when he couldn't see from hunger, took a case whenever it was offered, and, to John's begrudging acceptance, played violin at all hours of the night to help himself think.
He certainly didn't keep a schedule on his physical contact with John. It could only be called "mixed messages"; Sherlock would be all over him one second, kissing him on the forehead and the cheeks, sitting in his lap, running him fingers through his hair; the next, he would be pushing him away, claiming that the inside of his head was too loud, or that he was working on a case.
"John."
Startled out of his thoughts, eyes wide, John looked up. Sherlock was standing in front of him, his hands on his hips, and his hair in a chaotic mess. His bathrobe (dressing gown, John could almost hear him correcting) was open, revealing a tattered shirt and equally tattered pajama bottoms. "Sher-"
"My hair is not a mess. It's perfectly fine." He pushed John's newspaper out of the way and sat in his lap in his armchair, draping his legs over one arm and leaning his head against John's shoulder. "Help me think."
John blinked. "Err-"
"What do you think the motive was?" Sherlock's voice was calm and level, but his hands were shaking slightly in his lap. He had to really be stuck to ask John anything.
Resting his chin on the top of Sherlock's head, John relished their moment of closeness and held Sherlock tighter. "His mother had cancer. The specialist wouldn't treat her because of the cost," he supplied, feeling a bit like Sherlock was the one who told him.
They sat in silence for a few minutes. John picked his paper up again, reading through the sports pages, his gaze moving back and forth between Sherlock's softly pouting lips and the small black words running across the page.
Eventually, Sherlock tensed, and John tensed as well, waiting for Sherlock to push off of him and pace around. But instead, Sherlock pulled his BlackBerry out of his dressing gown's pocket and sent a text to Lestrade. "Thank you, John," he murmured, relaxing into the doctor's hold and staring unseeingly at the newspaper.
"You're welcome." John folded his paper, grabbed the remote, and turned on the telly, moving methodically through trash television to find the news. "It's almost noon. Are you eating today?"
Sherlock shook his head. Oh well, John thought. It was worth a try. "Don't get up just yet," Sherlock mumbled, squeezing his eyes shut and wrapping his arms around John's waist. "It's too loud."
John made no effort to turn the volume down on the telly. He knew what Sherlock meant. "I'm sure we'll get another case sooner rather than later. Eating will take your mind off of it."
"Nothing will take my mind off of anything."
John nodded sympathetically, his hand gently finding its way under Sherlock's chin to tilt his head up and kiss him. "You haven't slept in a few days." John kissed him again, deeper. "You were too enthralled with the case." Sherlock breathed a bit heavier, resting his cheek against John's and sighing imperceptibly. "Why don't we go upstairs?"
Sherlock suddenly pulled away, and John couldn't help his groan of disappointment. It seemed the schedule had again changed, and the consulting detective's need for affection was sated for now; John leaned his head back against the back of the chair.
"Coming?"
John looked up into Sherlock's silvery eyes, then to his outstretched hand. "Yes, of course." He accepted Sherlock's hand, allowing himself to be dragged to the upstairs bedroom and manhandled into the bed. "Sherlock?"
"Hm?" Sherlock mumbled, lying on top of John and nuzzling into his chest.
Groaning a bit and shifting Sherlock to a more comfortable position, John kissed the top of his head and buried his nose into his curls. "How long do you think this is going to last?"
Stiffening, Sherlock looked up at John, his expression nervous. "I don't know. Do you want it to end?"
John paused, blinked, and smiled. "No, not this. Not us." He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's thin waist, squeezing him for a moment. "Just this."
"Oh." Sherlock relaxed a bit, closing his eyes and returning to his previous position. "I don't know. The mood shifts."
"It does." John remained quiet after that, staring up at the ceiling for a while, before continuing, "Your last quiet spell was a few weeks ago. I guess it'll come around again?" Sherlock only sighed, the exhale ruffling the curls (due for a trim) in front of his eyes. John smiled down at him and stroked the back of his head. "Maybe later."