Title: Home
Summary: When Sherlock returns after the fall it's to find John curled up on the couch of 221b fast asleep. Little ficlet and probably the fluffiest return fic ever written. No regrets. Mild J/S
Rating: K+ for mild swearing
Disclaimer: Sadly, I own no part of the BBC's Sherlock, nor Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's eternal characters Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. I just like to play with them.


When everything is finally over and done with, the only thing Sherlock can think of is going home. There's no after-case euphoria or dread, only sweet release, he's indescribably relieved that it's all over. Taking out Moriarty's network was a long and grueling process, but what took the most out of him was not having John by his side. The months upon months spent in solitude, hunting down each of Moriarty's men left him feeling empty and hollow.

He staggers up the steps to 221b quietly, his over-worked brain barely registering how late it must be. He's gone fuzzy with exhaustion and the promise of seeing his blogger. When he walks into their sitting room he's more than a tad bit disappointed to find John curled up on the sofa, fast asleep.

He slowly walks towards the other man, a fond smile on his face and his eyes drooping in exhaustion. It's good to be home again. It's good -yawn- to see John again. He wipes at his tired eyes with barely closed fists, and before he knows what he is doing he lays down on the couch beside his friend, snuggling up to the other man's warm, compact body.

He wraps his arms around John, spooning him to his chest, and lets out a contented hum. One leg is thrown over the army doctor's possessively, and a blind hand reaches up for the blanket John always leaves on the back of the couch. Sherlock throws it over the both of them, and pulls John tighter to his chest, his head falling into the crook of the doctor's neck. Sherlock falls asleep like this, draped protectively over John, breathing in the scent at the base of his neck, a smile of pure bliss gracing his lips.


John's groggy mind vaguely registers the light of morning and the pleasure of unexpected warmth before sleep threatens to pull him under again. He turns over onto his side, nuzzling his face into a warm, strong chest. His eyes snap open, and his head jerks up from it's resting place.

He doesn't understand what he sees before him and he rubs at his eyes a little too hard a little too many times just be sure that what he is seeing is real. What in the name of all that is holy is Sherlock mother fucking Holmes doing cradling him to his chest? His breathing picks up and his heart rate increases and he unconsciously grabs at the fabric of Sherlock's shirt, because as weird as this is how in hell is Sherlock not dead?

But no matter what he does to dispel this strange dream, and tell himself that it isn't… real, it doesn't change. Sherlock bloody Holmes is actually there, sleeping peacefully, his head of messy curls resting against the arm of the couch and his legs tangled with John's. He breathes out a ragged sigh of relief and falls back down into his place in the cocoon of Sherlock's arms without thinking.

He's not too concerned with the fact that flatmates don't really do this because flatmates don't really come back from the dead either. He rests his head on Sherlock's chest and his arms reach up to curl around the detective's neck. Sherlock's hands are loosely clutched at John's hips, and the doctor smiles sleepily as he snuggles up into Sherlock's embrace. He'll have his sexual identity crises later, because this? This is everything he's ever needed


Written for the kink meme. If you find my anon post I'll write you a ficlet! Hint: It was the 26th prompting post, less than sixty pages in, but more than forty.