John was almost asleep when something poked him in the back. He chose to ignore it. Sherlock was all knees and elbows, especially in close quarters, so it wasn't unusual. A skinny arm coiled around his chest and he felt Sherlock's chin resting on the top of his head.
"Sleeping? Is it Thursday already?"
"Do shut up, John."
"Mmm..."
He rolled into Sherlock's chest, coiling his knees up to fill the space left by the detective's longer legs.
Their relationship had become something all its own over the time they'd known each other, which was slowly closing in on a decade. It wasn't sexual, really, though they occasionally made blatant passes at each other for the benefit of people they wanted to shock. It was simply comfortable. They slept side-by-side most nights, when Sherlock slept at all. John took care of Sherlock whenever he got himself hurt or passed out from forgetting (or refusing) to eat for days on end. Sherlock continued to be himself, which was enough for John. The occasional embrace or the very occasional kiss was the furthest their physical relationship generally went, but it was more than enough. Somehow, anything else seemed unnecessary.
"Solved it then?"
"Yes. But I was coming up in an hour either way."
"Missed me?"
"Don't flatter yourself." He paused. "But yes."
"Love you too."
"Goodnight John."
He closed his eyes, breathing in the smell of Sherlock Holmes and listening to the silence. It was comforting, in its own strange way, that the man still smelled of embalming chemicals, wool, old books, and just faintly of lavender soap, even after all this time. It was one thing about the ever-changing detective that was always the same. And it always made him smile.