John walked into the door to 221B carrying just his jacket on his arm. He was just out of work and it had been raining. It only stopped right after his lunch break and the sun was now making it majestic appearance from behind the clouds. Rays of golden light beamed through the thin curtains of the sitting room and Sherlock sat with his back to the light in his black leather chair, feet pulled up and his chin resting on his knees. His toes crunched against the leather and his somewhat worn pajama bottoms draped loosely across his skin. John sighed at the sight.
"You've been there since I've left. Have you done nothing all day?" He flopped down on the couch with a soft groan.
"The case with the elderly woman, John. I regret to admit I'm stumped," Sherlock frowned over at his friend.
John smiled over at Sherlock vaguely and shifted himself in his seat. He noticed how unnerved Sherlock had been these past few days. Even when John would make him food and try to force the man to eat, Sherlock would put it out of his mind and let the dish get cold, or even throw it away when John became to persistent. This was Sherlock's fourth day without sleep and it showed. There were small bags under his eyes and John could see that he was struggling—even now—to stay awake.
After a silent moment, John rose to his feet and disappeared upstairs. Sherlock's eyelids lowered, vaguely worried if he had upset his friend. John returned a few moments later wearing his own pajamas and holding an orange gold blanket bunched up in his arms. Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed at the sight. John walked up and waved Sherlock out of his seat and Sherlock reluctantly complied without input. John picked up the chair and brought it behind his own red one and put them back to back about five feet apart.
"John, I fail to see how rearranging the flat will—" John interrupted a glaring Sherlock
"Just hold on a minute." John smiled and draped the golden blanket over the back of the black chair. He took the corners of them and pulled up the other blanket from the back of the red chair and tied the corners to the corresponding corners of the red plaid one so both blankets rested in the middle, a sort-of shelter between the two chairs. "Get in," John grinned over at Sherlock. Silently, Sherlock obeyed, and John swore he could see a small smile spread across the latter's lips; Sherlock understood.
Sherlock lowered and took his place against the back of the red chair and let himself slump against it. John soon appeared next to him, but then didn't sit, as Sherlock expected, but he laid over Sherlock, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's middle. Sherlock, though confused by the action, didn't mind. In fact, it comforted him. He had forgotten all about the case Lestrade gave him about the woman with the murder that he swore was murder, but all evidence lead to suicide. He forgot about all that and he only knew one thing now. The comfort he had with John under this fort area in their sitting room.
Sherlock suddenly became aware of everything as he smiled down at his doctor. He became aware of the wool-like carpet beneath him as he dug his fingertips into the threads, and he became aware of how cool the metal felt against his warm toes and he became aware of John and how he smelled just so vaguely of aesthetic and even more vaguely of soap from the night before's shower. He could also feel the soft fabric of John's shirt against his revealed skin on his tummy where his own shirt lifted when John hugged him. He closed his eyes briefly and he could almost feel the heat of the sun against the left side of his body where the rays hit. John and Sherlock breathed together at different intervals. When Sherlock opened his eyes again, John was smiling up at him. Sherlock raised a hand and pushed his hand through John's hair once before letting it fall back to his side.
The fanart is on tumblr at .com . I am not the artist, but the fic is mine. Check out that blog. I also posted the story in a reblog at .com . Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed.