I, ah, I'll just leave this here, shall I? First Sherlock fic ever... enjoy
The fireplace gave a few dying pops as the only two occupants of 221B lounged tiredly on the couch. Sherlock and John had been invited to a Christmas party at the local bar, and the two had enjoyed it immensely. Well, John enjoyed it. Sherlock spent the evening with his arm possessively around John's waist for fear that he would be whisked away by a sultry woman in a tight dress, though John constantly reminded him that a certain curly haired idiot stood in the way of that. Besides how aggravating the women trying to seduce his lover were, there were the unbearable fans that had spent their time asking him all sorts of questions and gawking at him when they thought he wasn't looking.
When they finally got back to the flat, John went straight to the couch and collapsed with exhaustion, ready to sleep. He closed his eyes and relaxed a moment before his detective crawled on top of him and nuzzled his face into John's chest. The smaller man grinned a little and lifted his hand to stroke Sherlock's errant curls, wild as a jungle yet soft as silk, receiving a contented sigh as Sherlock snuggled himself further into his lover's body. John continued to stroke his hair, down to his neck and back, smiling at the memory of how he discovered that Sherlock loved to be petted.
"That wasn't so bad, now was it?" John said softly, chiding him almost as if he were a five year old. He received a muffled scoff in response.
"You're describing obsessive intoxicated fans trying to get us to kiss and intoxicated women attempting to seduce us." Sherlock said flatly, his voice slightly muffled by John's jumper. "'Not so bad' is an incredible understatement. Also, I'm blaming you, because they all found us through your blog."
John barked out a laugh. "At least it's over now." He mumbled, smiling. He continued his massage on Sherlock's neck and scalp, listening silently to Sherlock's breathing become steadier, softer, and rhythmic. Within five minutes, his lover was asleep, hands still clutching the fabric of John's jumper and light snores filling the flat. John was happy and relieved that he was finally sleeping. They'd been working on a number of cases for the past couple weeks, and Sherlock hadn't slept at all besides a nap here and there. Not to mention that the only food he ate were biscuits and tea that John managed to shove down his throat.
The doctor turned his head to the side, his gaze resting upon the mantelpiece and a curious little red box that sat atop it. John frowned a bit, trying to zoom in with his eyes like Sherlock did (but to no avail, it was strictly a Holmes thing, apparently). He thought of simply succumbing to sleep, but life with Sherlock had taught John to seek out adventure. Now, this was definitely not as adventurous as running across London and chasing a suspect, but it did make him incredibly curious.
It took quite a while to pry Sherlock off of him and wriggle out from underneath his body. Boy, when that lunatic did sleep, he slept like a log.
'And a strong one at that,' John thought as he tried to release his jumper from Sherlock's iron grip.
John wandered to the box, picked it up, and shifted it in his hands. 'No names,' he observed, quirking an eyebrow at the absence of a 'To' and 'From' label. He shrugged, beginning to tear of the paper carefully and catching a glimpse of the contents.
A stupidly large, goofy grin found its way onto John Watson's face. He knew who this was for, and just who'd bought it.
The box contained a very familiar wooden cat. Not simply a carving, but one of those almost creepy looking cats that waved at you as you passed. What were they called again? Ah, Lucky Cats.
He chuckled to himself as he took the cat out of its box, remembering the case that had brought them to that little shop in China Town.
"Lucky Cats!" She'd announced as they entered, "Buy one for your wife!"
John's grin had only broadened as he set the cat on the mantelpiece and flicked its hand back to start its endless greeting. He turned back to Sherlock, who had curled up into a little ball in the middle of the couch, shivering a bit. This made John realize that the fire had all but died, and it was getting quite chilly in the flat (he'd really need to speak with Mrs. Hudson about the heating around here).
The doctor retrieved a blanket from the closet, carefully draping it over his snoozing lover. He pressed a kiss to the mop of curls before brushing them away from Sherlock's face. John smiled a little at the sight of the usually stony-faced detective curled up like a kitten, and he certainly couldn't help noticing how utterly adorable that bloke looked when he slept. He looked so peaceful, so carefree, as if years were taken off him as he dozed.
John briefly entertained the thought that Sherlock dreamt of flowery fields and sunshine.
Part of him wanted to sleep, but another part of him wanted to stay awake and simply remember this moment with Sherlock–his Sherlock. Right now, he wasn't the world's only consulting detective, marveled for his deductive skills and intellect. He was simply Sherlock Holmes, also known as the man who stole John Watson's heart.
So, John grabbed his favorite novel and sat on the couch beside Sherlock's head, resting a hand on the soft curls. He glanced up at the Lucky Cat, and it continued to wave at him from its spot on the mantle.
'Yes,' John confirmed, glancing down at Sherlock as a tender smile played on his lips, 'I am very lucky, aren't I?'
END