After a very stressful and hectic work week, I needed me some Sherlock. Thank you to the Unlocked Con for giving me the perfect space to unwind. I was inspired to write this one-shot when I saw the Unlocked Con fanwork challenge: Sherlock + pajama party. Enjoy and much love!
Disclaimer: I don't own the world or characters of Sherlock.
Sherlock was shocked. Shocked and utterly pleased. Sherlock was very rarely shocked, moreover shocked and utterly pleased at the same time. But, whenever he found himself a mixture of these two sensations, it was because of John Watson. And indeed, this time was no different. John Watson was the source. At that very moment, a gust of warm breath erupted from the good doctor's mouth to tickle the nape of the good detective's neck, and the shocked, utterly pleased sensation said good detective was feeling intensified threefold.
John and Sherlock were in the after-effects of a spontaneous and brilliant pajama party. The flat was a mess – latex gloves that had been inflated into balloons bounced around the floor and off the walls aimlessly but contentedly, expensive sheets of Egyptian cotton that had been gracefully ripped from Sherlock's bed were now draping every free space they could and were most certainly collecting dust, not to mention the Chinese takeaway was beginning to turn stale by the smell of it. Surely John would be frustrated by the state of the flat when he woke up after a good night's rest. Surely Mrs. Hudson would be furious when she noticed the huge gash in the wall that had been made when Sherlock was attempting to erect a proper fort out of expensive Egyptian cotton. Surely Sherlock would be annoyed as a result of the mixed annoyance of doctor and landlady. But, for now, Sherlock was shocked and utterly pleased and not at all annoyed in the least.
The pajama party had started because John had had a nightmare. And Sherlock supposed it was rather selfish to be thankful that John had had a nightmare. But Sherlock had been selfish before and so he supposed it wasn't too "not good" to be just the wee bit selfish now. When Sherlock was little and had a nightmare, his mother and father would scoop him out of his big fluffy bed and build a cozy, safe little fort out of sheets in the living room by the fireplace. Then his mother would bake wonderful treats, and his father would blow up long balloons and bend and shape them into all sorts of magical creatures that Sherlock knew did not exist but that he secretly loved nevertheless. The three of them would sit in their pajamas among the sheets, baked treats, and mythical creatures, and Mycroft would condescend to join the pile if his mother's baking included cake. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes called these nights "Pajama Party Nights."
So when John's screams had turned from slightly disturbed to downright panic-stricken, Sherlock took the only proper course of action. He hadn't had the proper balloons with which to create dragons and hobbits and elves and dwarves, but the latex glove balloon turkeys that he had whipped together had brought a proper laugh to John Watson's weathered lips and that sound brought a joyful smile to Sherlock's cupid-bow ones. And after Sherlock had got the fire burning just right, late-night Chinese takeaway was sitting comfortable in John's tummy (for Sherlock had never been a baker, so no baking had been attempted), and John and Sherlock were buried in the comfort that is a fort made out of sheets, John Watson did the most shocking but utterly pleasing thing: he nestled his perfectly pointed nose into Sherlock's soft blue pajama shirt, sighed contentedly, and said in a thick voice, "I love you, Sherlock."
Well, if one's organs could possibly jump out of one's skin to dance among the stars, Sherlock's organs did at that very moment. He felt giddy and bubbly, and he wanted to tell John that he loved him too – but sentiment was never really an easy thing for Sherlock to utter, and so all he could do was nod. John understood though. John always understood. And when John's lips rushed up to meet Sherlock's, Sherlock was so light-headed that he saw double. The kiss was gentle, warm, and affectionate. Sherlock wanted John and him to be like this by the fire forever and ever. It was blissful, so blissful. But…and suddenly a terrifying thought entered the detective's constantly-turning machine of a mind…what if John wanted more? What if John grinded up against his leg and wanted what Sherlock wasn't comfortable and never would be comfortable with giving? Sherlock panicked and pulled back from the kiss with a gasp.
"John…" the detective uttered breathlessly, "I want us…I want us, believe me, I do…I want this more than you can imagine…but I can't…I don't…what…what do you want…what…would you…what would you ask of me?"
John looked at Sherlock with such love and respect and admiration and kindness that Sherlock thought he might melt into water and float out to be carried away by the Thames right then and there.
"Oh Sherlock, you have given me everything and so much more. Do you understand? You have given me love and trust and respect. You have given me adventure and excitement and joy. I love you because you are you. I fell in love with Sherlock Holmes and I never want him to change. All I would ask of you is that you continue to be your brilliant and dangerous and obnoxious and lovely self. All I would ask of you is that you be happy and comfortable. All I would ask of you is that you never do anything that makes you uncomfortable…ever…do you hear me? Never do anything that makes you uncomfortable just because you think it's what I want. Because believe me when I say I would never want that. Never, never, never. And believe me when I say I want us. I have always wanted us and this," and John cupped Sherlock's cheeks gently with his soldier hands. "Tell me what it is that you would like of us and of this."
Sherlock purred and his lips dripped into a love-struck smile. "I would like us to kiss and to cuddle by the fire and to go on adventures and to solve crimes together. I would like us to run through London during early mornings and also during late nights. I would like us to order Chinese takeaway at least once a week, and for you to tell me to eat it because you worry about me more than you should. I would like us to kiss and cuddle and kiss and cuddle constantly. I would like us to share a bed – my bed to be precise – and I would like us to shower together every morning. I would like you to shampoo my hair and I would like to shampoo yours, and I want to soap you under your arms and I want you to soap my feet and my toes. I would like to kiss your nose whenever I feel like it, and for you to know you can kiss mine whenever you desire. And sometimes, when we are alone, I want to wear your red underpants and your grotesque jumpers because I secretly think they are cute. I want everyone to know that we love each other and that we saved each other from a world we didn't even know we needed to be saved from. I want us to live here on Baker Street until we are old and grey and – though Mother and Father would love for me to retire in Sussex – I want us to live here even after that. And I would like us to kiss and to cuddle and to hold hands always."
John grinned so hard that the lines around his eyes seemed to dance and jump with delight. "I would like all of that too. I would like all of that too very much indeed." He pulled Sherlock Holmes close to him, took long violin-playing fingers into his healing ones, pressed a soft kiss to detective lips and detective nose and, by the heat of the fireside, the good doctor fell into a sleep filled with nothing but the most pleasant of dreams.
So now, after all of these wonderful events, dear Sherlock was shocked and utterly pleased. He was warm and felt oh so safe. He was in love and felt oh so loved. And, as the sweet angels of sleep carried him off into his own set of wonderful dreams, with latex glove balloons and soft cotton sheets all around him, Sherlock Holmes thought that this had been the single greatest "Pajama Party Night" of all time.