This is pure fluff - which is how we like it, isn't it? And we are now moving towards not quite as fluffy things for a while. That's right - the plot is coming! As far as there is any, hiding amongst all the general fluffyness of this Quadrology. ;) All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners.

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John awoke late in the morning of a sunny Sunday, and found that Sherlock was lying beside him, the detective's head pillowed on his chest, reading one of the books on bees John had given him for Christmas over the years.

"Morning" the doctor murmured, running a hand gently across his detective's back, smiling just at being able to do so now. A mere year ago it would have been impossible to touch him that way, would have made the genius tense up or flee (or likely both), but now Sherlock merely gave a satisfied murmur, much like the giant, posh cat that he really was, deep down, and didn't move an inch.

John continued to kiss Sherlock's head and just hold him close, enjoying not having to go to work or make some mad dash after a dangerous criminal today. "Shall I make us some breakfast?" he eventually suggested, only to get a objecting mutter for his only reply. Obviously, the consulting genius did not agree with the idea of moving. At all.

Quite content to cuddle for just a little longer, John let himself drift into half-sleepily reflections on how to spend the day, what to cook later on, if the two Holmes brothers would or would not have another epic fight without even speaking, this week. Probably. Or maybe not, after all, you never knew with those two. You had no clue, really, as they neither needed words with each other nor used them in the normal manner anyway.

The former army doctor smiled at that thought, gently caressing the head of messy black curls which just so happened to be right next to his hand at the moment. For a second, as he gently ran a hand through those ever-soft curls, and his fiance moved ever so slightly, he honestly found himself expecting the other man to purr.

The consulting doctor gave a slight laughter at that thought and at his own ridiculous mind and untangled - even though that took some effort, as Sherlock did not cooperate but instead rather seemed determined to cling to him - and finally made his way across the room and towards the kitchen, still smiling for himself. Life was good. In fact, it was better than he could have even dreamt of.

People said that a lot, John supposed as he put on the kettle and started on making them some breakfast to bring back to Sherlock in bed. There was plenty of that term tossed around, and he would perhaps not speak that way in front of anyone (except maybe Mrs Hudson - she was always worse with the romantics, so he was unembaressed on that account in front of her) but in his own mind, he felt he meant it sincerely.

He had many reasons for thinking that, as well, he pondered on. There were ways in which he felt he had really everything he'd wanted with Sherlock, not to mention that he had quite literally dreamt of it during those lonely years of the fall. There was no doubt in John Watson's mind, at the end (or the beginning) of the day: he had gotten very lucky.