Author's Note: Received this as a prompt on tumblr. Hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own...yet.
John shifted, trying to roll over onto his back. He felt warm; hot even as he realized he was sweating. He blinked his eyes open blearily and let out a yawn. His lips smacked together dryly as the walls of his room came into focus.
He tried to shift over onto his back; again finding that he couldn't. Panic momentarily overtook him as memories of the war came rushing back in. Adrenaline flowed through him as the lingering effects of sleep vanished instantly.
He struggled uselessly for a moment, until the adrenaline cooled and he remembered that he was in his room, in his flat at 221B Baker Street, and not in some ditch somewhere in Afghanistan. He let out a heavy breath and looked down to see what was restraining him.
He was wrapped in blankets. Thoroughly. Like a cocoon. Well, that would explain why he was so hot. But not why he couldn't roll over onto his back…He did his best to loosen the blankets around him, and that's when he noticed an arm slung over his stomach.
John twisted around so that he was laying on his right side now. Sherlock was clinging to him, wearing a pair of black boxer-briefs and one of John's jumpers. Despite being one of John's larger jumpers, it was still too small on Sherlock's longer torso, and a strip of skin was visible just below his bellybutton. Confused, John pressed his hand to Sherlock's. His fingers were cold.
Frowning, he started to tug at the blankets to lay them over Sherlock, when the man woke up. Unlike John who woke up slowly, blinking his way into consciousness, Sherlock's eyes flashed open, already alert. Although, they lacked the guarded look that Sherlock always tended to wear, especially when they were out on a case. It was always like this early in the morning. His eyes were sharp, but warm as they stared back at John.
"How'd you sleep?" Sherlock asked, a hint of concern in his voice.
"I slept fine," John said dismissively. "But Sherlock, why'd you let me hog all the blankets? You're freezing." Having freed the corners of the blankets from around himself, he pushed them towards Sherlock.
Sherlock surveyed him. "You were restless last night. I know how you have trouble sleeping when I'm not there, so I came in to check on you. When I did, you were thrashing around and muttering things about the war. I had to finish my experiment, so I couldn't stay. I wrapped you in the blanket, figuring it would do until I came back."
John felt a warmth spread from the center of his chest to the rest of his body as he stared at his lover and best friend. "Why didn't you take it back when you came in?"
"I didn't want to wake you," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "I borrowed one of your jumpers." He tugged at the sleeve of the cream-colored jumped. "I was fine."
John shifted so that he was leaning on his elbow, looking down at Sherlock. "You're not fine, your hand is freezing."
The corner of Sherlock's lips turned up. "My hands are always cold, John."
John looked at him for a moment, and then grabbed Sherlock's right hand. He rubbed his fingers. Sherlock's fingers were long and elegant, but not too soft. They were deft and nimble. They could pluck the strings of a violin and dance across a piano. They could also wield a gun or disable a bomb with the slightest of ease. They were beautiful. John kissed the back of Sherlock's hand before placing it back on the bed.
John placed his index finger at the top of Sherlock's forehead at the hairline. He drew a slow path down, continuing between his eyebrows and over the bridge of his nose. Sherlock followed John's movement, his moonstone eyes going slightly cross when John reached the tip of his nose. John trailed down to the dip under Sherlock's nose, then over the curve of his lips. Sherlock's tongue darted out then to lick John's fingertip. He caught it there, sucking lightly.
John's lips quirked into a smile. "Good Morning."
Thanks for reading! What'd you think?