John's body had never been so stiff. At several points in the night he'd rolled from his back to his side, away from Sherlock, and woken up wincing in pain. There was definite bruising to his hip. He pushed himself into a sitting position and tried not to bend his legs.
Sherlock, for all his hyperactivity and energy in the daytime, slept as though he was dead to the world. There he lay, the duvet settled across his hips and his pale blue t-shirt riding up as he shuffled further down the bed.
John checked the clock. 3:27am. He looked back at Sherlock, his eyes inexplicably drawn to that delicious trail of hair that led teasingly from his belly button into his pyjama bottoms.
"There are painkillers in the bathroom," said Sherlock softly without opening his eyes, causing John to jump.
"My body won't move," John said. Silence.
Sherlock's eyes were still closed. "Do you want me to get them?" he asked.
"No," John said, "it's okay. I have to move at some point."
He swung his legs out of bed and braced himself. Hauling himself upright, he let out a deep sigh of pain and shuffled, hunched over, to the bathroom. He fished around in the cupboard in the dark, well aware from memory which box contained the paracetamol. He poured a glass of water and swallowed two pills before heading back to bed.
Sherlock was sitting up with the bedside light on. John shuffled slowly, his face scrunched up, back to the warm space next to his flatmate, partner, whatever.
"You're an idiot," Sherlock remarked, with a hint of smile playing on his lips.
"So you often remind me," John said, pulling the duvet back over his legs.
"You could have just said no," said Sherlock, "they could've found another player from somewhere."
"None of them would have been as good as me," John replied. Any ounce of modesty he might have had before meeting Sherlock, and certainly before bedding him, was lost when they were alone together.
"I suppose you were the best on field. And I'm not just saying it, you know I don't do that," Sherlock pointed out.
"I'm surprised you even noticed any of the other guys. Every time I looked over you were staring at me," John said.
"That's because, John Watson," Sherlock replied, pushing John forward so that he could get his long hands to his shoulders and begin to massage them, "you looked fantastic in those shorts."
John couldn't help but relax as Sherlock's fingers worked their magic along his shoulders and down his bare back. After a while, John spoke again.
"You know you're not supposed to run onto the pitch and harass the referee," he pointed out, "that sort of thing will get you banned from watching."
"It was a high tackle. It was clear as day," Sherlock answered, quick as ever to John's defence. "You could have snapped a rib or two."
"But I didn't," John protested, smiling, "they taught us pretty well how to take a tackle like that at school."
"You're not walking as though you remember anything about taking a tackle," said Sherlock, pressing his lips to John's shoulder and then pulling him back so that they were lying down together again.
"I just need a hot shower," John said, stifling a yawn, "and I'll be fine."
Sherlock switched the light off, and then put his head on John's shoulder. After fifteen minutes, the room filled with John's light snores and Sherlock drifted back to sleep himself.