At around 5 in the morning, Dr. John Watson of 221B Baker street found himself Walking downstairs, scratching his head, half awake. After a few hours of restless sleep, he decided he ought to get himself a cup of tea to try to calm his nerves. Reaching the bottom of the steps, he realised something rather odd. Sherlock wasn't up and about, running strange experiments or playing a soft (or loud) tune on his violin. Stepping into the living room, he discovered just why that was; Sherlock was lying sprawled on the couch, sound asleep.
For a moment, John stopped in the doorway, observing his flatmate in this unusually calm state. His dressing gown had been lost some time ago, and lay across the back of his favourite chair, leaving Sherlock only in a pair of pyjama bottoms. John watched his bare chest rising and falling slowly, a stray curl hanging in front of his face, resting upon those ridiculously perfect cheekbones. He smiled, and then made his way into the kitchen, dodging the experiments littering the counters and the floors as he prepared his tea. After it was done and poured into John's usual cup, he returned to the living room, where he settled into his chair by the fireplace. He took a peek at Sherlock again, and began to imagine himself crossing the room, ducking down, stroking back the hair out of his eyes, and pressing his lips to his forehead.
No. He had to stop. John Watson was not actually gay, if anyone cared.
Well, he supposed, he wasn't gay for just anyone. But when it came to matters of the heart, it will choose who it will choose.
And perhaps it had chosen his best friend: Sherlock Holmes.
He peeked again at the sleeping man and sighed.
In the end it didn't matter. Sherlock would never feel the same way. And John didn't want to ruin their friendship. He didn't think he could stand if Sherlock kicked him out of 221B Baker St.
Well, perhaps he couldn't say anything while he was awake, but there wasn't anything wrong with looking while he was asleep, was there?
John looked again. His eyes roamed the expanse that was Sherlock's chest. Pale and just slightly toned and perfect. He wanted to run his hands down it, studying the lines and every scar from every injury and hear the stories behind them.
His eyes moved up to his face, noting the only slightly parted lips, ready to be overcome with John's own.
Then there were his eyes. He imagined the icy blue, so piercing and observant, noticing everything.
And then, as if he had read his thoughts, Sherlock's eyes were staring back into his own.
"Oh, Sherlock, I…"
"Don't apologise."
A moment of silence. Continued eye contact. When he couldn't stand it anymore, John stood and said, "Well, I suppose I ought to be getting back to bed…"
"John?"
He turned, and found Sherlock standing upright, rather close to him. He sucked in a breath in shock.
"Y - Yes?"
Before he knew what was happening, Sherlock's lips were pressed against his in the sweetest, gentlest demand. Out of instinct, John's hand snaked its way up to the nape of Sherlock's neck, threading his fingers through his hair.
Minutes passed, and their lips continued to move together, hands groping, pulling each other closer. John wasn't entirely sure what was happening or why, but he really hoped it would continue.
Just as that thought crossed his mind, Sherlock pulled away. "Perhaps we should continue this… in my bedroom…" He breathed out heavily, eyelids hooded and eyes darker and stormier than John had ever seen them.
He smirked. Maybe he should watch Sherlock sleep more often.