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And I already know where I'm taking this.
John's thoughts or POV are in italics.
'Please God, tell me he uses the left side. I can't really imagine what would it be sleeping with him for three weeks. At least tell me he uses the left side. Please God-'
"Stop thinking. It's annoying. And I do sleep on the left side. No need to discuss it"
"How do you- Never mind. Are you sure this is OK?"
The detective nodded and made his way to the left side of the bed, and with a quick movement, he was already under his white and silky sheets and then under a heavy but soft and warm duvet.
"I don't usually, correction, I never do something if I think it isn't correct or how you said it, OK. I have deduced time ago that you prefer sleeping on the right side of the bed, over your right shoulder to prevent sleeping on your left shoulder. Your wounded shoulder. And you are not a heavy man, but your own weight over your left shoulder makes you feel stress and pain in the mornings. Right side. You sleep on the right side of the bed"
John rolled his blue eyes and mimicking his flat-mate's and now roommate's movements, he made his own way under sheets and duvet, but sat with his back over the headboard.
"But I'm asking you if you are OK with your side of the bed"
"I usually sleep on the middle, but as I said, it's OK"
"OK. Good. That's... good. Good night"
"Good night John"
Both men were lying on their sides of that enormous, gigantic and warm bed not facing each other, all the opposite. They were lying over the bed in such position that their backs were just inches away from each other. John found himself extremely tired but yet unable to get some sleep. He knew this feeling, this sensation, when you feel so out of place in a strange and foreign bed. He couldn't sleep.
"Sherlock, are you awake?"
"Mmm"
"I'm programming my clock alarm. I need to be up at seven. Is that OK with you?"
"Yes"
"Good"
Sherlock didn't reply back and soon the doctor realized the man was deeply asleep. And feeling his feet warm and his eyelids heavy, john Watson could finally get some rest.
The hours passed till the clock alarm besides John started beeping. John Watson, a man who had rescued his sister from countless pubs, who had performed medical procedures in the middle of gunfire and who had met the same Hell and all its demons in a war woke up facing a pair of long and pale feet. His flatmate had moved during the night and now he was resting his dark and curly head on John's bare and warm ankles, under the duvet.
Sherlock had a very peaceful expression and John couldn't even say a word about it, at least not that day. And he couldn't help but smile. This was strange, weird and a bit awkward, yes. But he has to agree that that morning waking up besides Sherlock Holmes for the first time was nothing compared to the following twenty days.
