Sunday. 11:36 AM.
A man perched next to the windowsill, absentmindedly watching the dust swirl around. Well not quite. Nothing was ever absentminded for Sherlock Holmes. He snapped out of his reverie and noted the clock.
"John," he said aloud. Standing and flapping his dressing robe about him, Sherlock called again, louder this time. "John!" He continued the noise as he thundered up the stairs. Sliding gracefully into the room John had reprimanded him for entering countless times, his next chirp of 'John' was cut off in surprise.
John Watson, ex-army doctor, badass extraordinaire, was sleeping in on a lazy Sunday.
Sherlock smirked at the other, cataloging the way he slept. On his side, mostly straight, legs tangled in the sheets, and a pillow cradled lazily to his chest.
It was strange though, Holmes thought fondly. John was usually awake early, no matter the day. Well, he did have a reason in reality.
Yesterday, the duo had chased the main suspect of a case down twisting and turning back alleys late into the night -or early into the morning depending on your view. When John followed him down to the banks of the Thames, the crook had caught him off guard and tossed him into the icy water. Sherlock had waded up to his waist to pull him out. Losing that criminal bastard hadn't seemed like that big of a deal as soon as John wasn't shivering.
The taller man smiled at the memory of John swaddled in his proportionately oversized trench coat as they hailed a cab.
"John, why are you still sleeping, it's daytime, John." The aforementioned Watson groaned sleepily in response. "John, John, wake up, we have crimes to solve." Sherlock padded across the room and slid onto the bed, stretching out parallel to the other. He played his long fingers gently around John's hairline, tapping the cold tips against his temples.
"What're you doin'," the doctor muttered sleepily, rolling to face Sherlock.
"Waking you up. It's nearly noon and you aren't even out of bed yet."
"So?" John mumbled, his head falling back against the mattress. "I was tossed into the Thames yesterday, I'm sleeping 'til at least two." Sherlock pouted, pursing his lips and scooting up to the pillows at the top of the bed.
It was silent for a moment, John drifting back into the blissful void that was unconsciousness. "I'm sorry I let you get thrown into the Thames, John," Sherlock announced, grinning at the shocked sound the addressed made when startled awake again.
"Wasn't your fault, Sherlock," he replied, his words slurring a bit.
"I know, it was your inept fighting skills that caused the incident. I just thought it would make you feel better." John chuckled, smiling and blinking his eyes halfway open.
"Maybe if you weren't so bad at giving directions, I wouldn't have ended anywhere near the river." Sherlock narrowed his eyes good-naturedly at the half-assed insult. Giving up on trying to wake John up fully, Sherlock snaked his arms around John's torso, pulling him closer and resting his chin on the blond hair.
"If you can't even insult me properly, you won't be able to come investigate with me," Sherlock said quietly, tapping a rhythm on John's back. There was some sort of grunt of agreement made against his chest. Holmes sighed melodramatically. "I can't do anything fun with you around, John."
"Shut up or get out," John quipped, settling into Sherlock's body more evenly. Needless to say, he didn't get out.