In which John is not gay, Sherlock is Sherlock, and they're a little bit in love.
.
Sherlock kind of just crawls into John's bed one night while John is sleeping. John wakes up with Sherlock's octopus limbs wrapped around him. It takes him a moment to realise that he is, in fact, awake, and that his mad flatmate has apparently joined him in bed.
John raises an eyebrow, but Sherlock so rarely sleeps that John is loath to wake him.
So John doesn't. And that's how it starts.
.
At first, he finds Sherlock in his bed maybe once a month. Always somehow both clinging to John and taking up all the space in the bed. Sherlock's metabolism is high - he puts out an incredible amount of heat and kicks all the blankets to the floor. This, at least, is a decent compromise. His curls tickle at John's chin and he doesn't shut up, even in sleep.
In short, he is exactly as annoying and infuriating asleep in John's bed as he is whilst awake.
And John is, unfortunately, exactly as fond of him.
John never stops it, never says anything at all. He simply gets up in the morning and makes tea, as he always does, preparing two cups, as he always does. And Sherlock solves crimes and John blogs about it and life at 221B Baker Street goes on, as life tends to do.
.
John doesn't really notice the increase in frequency until he is finding Sherlock in his bed every night they don't have a case (On the nights they do, of course, Sherlock is a tornado of energy and cannot be convinced to sleep for anything. John is lucky if he catches a few hours here or there and rarely, if he's perfectly honest, makes it up to bed himself).
Sherlock binge-sleeps, making up for his bouts of insomnia by sleeping until the sun's no longer high in the sky. John wakes first, years of military training ingrained within him.
John has yet to find Sherlock in his bed before he himself has fallen asleep. In truth, they are not the best people to share a bed.
But John, John is okay. It's all okay. He's not sure why it is and maybe it shouldn't be, but it is.
.
"You know," John says one day as though it is unrelated to anything, "I'm actually, genuinely not gay."
Sherlock actually seems to hear him, turning toward him with the curious tilt of his head.
"I have never understood the human propensity for labeling everything." This is neither an acceptance nor a denial.
"Sherlock."
Sherlock tilts his head again, analyzing John's expression. Finally, he says, "I know you aren't, John."
John nods. "Good. Right, that's... Good."
Sherlock blinks, and then turns back to his microscope.
And life at 221B Baker Street goes on.