A product of my own boredom at 1am in the morning. It's set early in the relationship between Sherlock and John.
6am
Sherlock Holmes the early riser drowsily pours milk into an old Peter Rabbit mug, his favourite mug, but no telling John that. One mustn't build an attachment to inanimate objects.
He slinks about the flat and watches the light of the early morning sun, mingle with the dust his footsteps had stirred. His eyes scan the speckles of gold strewn up lazily into the air.
He presses the rim of his mug to his lips, a deduction already in place, to hot to drink? No, he decides, letting his mouth linger on the cracked china. He takes a sip, the amber liquid smooth down his throat, the taste familiar, welcoming.
He paces rhythmically, his wrist twisting upwards in order glimpse periodically at his watch.
7:00am.
The light still streaming through window burns brighter, brilliantly orange now. It casts a glow over every piece of furniture in 221B. He muses over the way the light hits his skull on the mantle. The perfectly preserved bone shimmers ever so slightly; it's hollows more prominent, more ghastly. Fantastic.
John will be up soon. He looks at the stairs wistfully, and finishes the last drop of his tea before deciding to make one for his flatmate. John, sweet and unbelievably naive John.
He limbers through the hall, one hand gripping his mug the other tracing patterns down the wall. His silk dressing gown hangs off one shoulder, the length of it floating behind him like a plume.
(Creak)
He cringes as the weight of his foot, produces a growl from one of the floorboards. He tiptoes past it and reaches the kitchen. Nimble fingers grasp the metal kettle; he fills it up, placing it on the stove to boil.
7:30am
He drops his hand, not long now, and impatiently watches the kettle boil. It's spout irregularly producing delicate curls of steam. He decides to sit, over opting to lean awkwardly against the sink, and brushes his jawline anxiously with his fingers. He can feel the stubble there, a bit rough, give it one more day then he'll shave it off. John likes stubble; Perhaps he'll hold off on the razor for just a tad longer…
He waits, trying to be patient. But it's always so hard before John is awake. The Kettle sings, it's shrill squeal, once again filling 221B with noise. He glares annoyed in the direction of John's Bedroom; surely it would have woken him up.
Nothing. Not even the squeak of bedsprings can be heard, John is still dead to the world. Probably wrapped in his duvet, blissfully deep in the crevices of his mind. Sleep. If only he himself didn't struggle to obtain it. It must be nice to forget the world, even briefly.
8:00am
Sherlock, now oh so bored. Rakes his fingers through his hair, separating each and every wild curl. He sighs, placing John's steaming mug of tea in front of him on a wooden coaster.
That's it. He had waited long enough, he finds himself shuffling up the stairs, the mug of tea firm in his grip, it's contents sloshing over the rim, leaving a trail of liquid down the stairs.
He pauses outside of Johns door, it's cracked open just a bit. It couldn't possibly do any harm to check on him. Or wake him up. He snakes his fingers through the crack and pushes softly. His eyes rest on John's form buried, just as predicted, beneath his duvet. Just the top of his head protrudes; the rest of his body is hidden. He calculates John's breathing rate, deeply asleep then.
He circles the edge of the bed before deciding to leave the now half empty cup of tea on John's beside table. He stands a moment longer, yearning to lift the covers off John's face and reveal more of him other than the sandy tips of his hair. The peaceful state of John, made an already sleep deprived Sherlock suddenly jealous. I would love to sleep like that. He glowers childishly at the unmoving lump.
Sherlock watches and fidgets, he can't seem to fathom leaving the room. John's room, full of his doctors supplies strewn all over the floor, the smell of his aftershave lingers to a towel hanging off his mirror. It's decided.
Sherlock quietly and slightly guiltily, peels back the covers and slips in next to John. He inches in, moving ever so gently so as not to wake him. A smile plays at his lips in knowing he will probably give John the fright of his life when we wakes up and that the logical part of his brain keeps telling him that this is a bad idea. But right now it doesn't matter, this little experiment will somehow, be worth it.
He curls in closer to John, who's head still remains buried, and allows himself the luxury of letting an arm brush against his back. No movement, still asleep.
Sherlock sinks into a blissful state of mind, his eyes close, his hand still remains pressed reassuringly against John's skin. It's warm. The heat radiates outward pulling Sherlock closer yet, to the other mans body. It is only when his mouth is pressed absentmindedly to John's shoulder does he slip under completely. They sleep together till well past noon.
The glorious sun now high in the sky, tries to entice all of London to get out of their flats and houses. John Watson stirs groggily and he notes how he feels heavier than usual. He tries to move, but remains lodged between a pillow and something less forgiving, something warm? A weight remains at his waist and he pulls his hand up from under the covers to grasp at the object holding him down. He picks it up, tilts his head and squints trying to get a better look at it. A hand? He snaps his jaw up, He couldn't remember bringing someone home last night. It's been a whole week since his last date. It then dawns on him. The hand was far to large to be a woman's, much to masculine with slender and Pale digits. Oh dear.
John flips over, his nose nearly brushing with the consulting detectives. He stares at Sherlock, his eyes wide, thoughts wild. Sherlock is asleep. Sherlock is asleep in my bed, I-I slept with Sherlock!
John remains paralyzed, absolutely rooted where he is, his attention firmly on the detectives open mouth, his cupid bow lips strangely enticing.
Before a second though was given, John bravely leans in and pecks the man next to him firmly, but with haste on his open mouth. He waits with bated breath, for Sherlock to wake, but he doesn't. It's with that, John get up, his legs feeling unusually wobbly and weak.
He grabs the mug on his bedside table; it's half filled and bitterly cold. He needs a fresh one. So he grabs his own dressing grown and wraps it firmly around his waist before heading down to the Kitchen.
Sherlock peeps from behind heavy eyelids and counts 4 of John's steps down the stairs before he let's himself smile, a big smile, one that tugs wide at each corner of his mouth. His experiment was a success and the infatuation with John, was still so painfully there.
Hope you guys enjoyed it, (if not) feel free to review and inform me as to what I could have done to make it better! ^.^
This story is labeled as completed, but if any readers think this could be turned into a multi-chapter story let me know and I might consider adding more! Also no, it hasn't been read by a beta, if anyone out there would like to personally review it for me or be my beta drop me a message. That is all for now, thank you darlings! xoxo