Disclaimer: I still own nothing
As usual, they ignored the session for the rest of the day. There was simply no discussing in public things like, "I hope you like my acts of service, but if you don't pitch in, making sure the body parts for your experiments do not contaminate the fridge at least, you'll have a very pissed off partner." What if someone overheard them? John didn't want someone to call the police about 'the serial killers in the café' and need to have the local cops call Lestrade to guarantee that no, they're really not murderers.
They still did some sightseeing, even if Sherlock seemed to have less patience for it than the day before. But they'd need a bit more therapy before they were pronounced fine. And that was, with them still not confessing most of their baggage, though they might hint at it maybe…was it okay if they did? He really should see Ella more regularly…but with the Holmes brothers reading him better than she'd ever hoped to manage, it seemed a bit superfluous to see her when both the poncy gits were at hand. After all, they were both more than inclined to share their opinion of him and offer unrequested suggestions.
Still, the blogger tried to drag Sherlock all over town, and – strangely – the detective would cave in more often than not to his requests of seeing something. But then the sleuth would try to cut the visit short, because it was all boring…and to him, it certainly was, since no murder was involved. But John persevered in his completist urge to visit as many places of note as possible.
Not because he was obsessed with being – or playing – tourist. That would be silly. Simply because retiring in their room would have eventually led to the "we've been ordered to cuddle" discussion, and he honestly had no idea how he felt about that. Was it a good idea to follow doctor's orders? He was tempted to – it sounded like a truly delightful prospect. But what would Sherlock think of that? How far did his method acting principles go?
And even if his friend had no qualm indulging doctor Reese's suggestion, should John agree to it, or fight the idea tooth and nail? Could he control himself? Would the physical proximity of cuddling make the depth of his interest in Sherlock unmistakably obvious? And if the worst happened, would John be allowed to laugh it off as a trick of biology, or would the consulting detective feel betrayed and accuse him for having accepted such a fiction when he desperately wanted it to be true?
There was no way to answer these questions for sure. Maybe the consulting detective would have been able to, in John's place, deducing his companion's most likely reactions the way he could deduce what he had for lunch when he had a shift at the hospital. But John was no genius, and – even if he'd started to foresee things that happened consistently, like epic sulks out of boredom – he couldn't read the mystery of the sleuth's feelings.
There was nothing for it. They would have to go back to their room at some point – if this case managed to be the one where Sherlock didn't force himself to stay awake to completion, his blogger certainly wouldn't be the one insisting they pull an one-nighter in some place or other. And when they did, John would know the other's preference and conform to it. In case the detective wanted to keep following Reese's orders, John would (all too secretly happily) comply and hope for the best. He'd cross that bridge when he came to it.
It felt like they reached said bridge in the blink of an eye, even if hours had undoubtedly gone by. The cosy hotel room welcomed them back, and John's body went instinctively to parade rest. Awaiting his orders.
"Relax, John. We've not been deemed fine yet. I doubt that we're going to be attacked tonight," Sherlock quipped.
"Ah, no, it's not that…" the doctor replied, trailing off because he couldn't possibly explain what the matter was. He'd been stupid to say that at all, but it had been an automatic reaction.
Before he could fret over what the sleuth would deduce, his companion said softly, "I have a favour to ask."
Given the detective's penchant for ordering, especially when a case was involved, the premise was concerning. John just shrugged. Of course he would do it. Whether it involved what he'd been worrying over, or a plan to buy a boa and keep it in the hotel's bathroom, there was very little he was able to deny Sherlock – and the man should know it.
"I know that normally, we would just pretend as if we followed our therapist's orders. We're not really married, or in a relationship, and there's no need to cross any boundaries when we can just draw from past data to give a convincing act of us having done so. For all that our client is supposed to be observant of couple's dynamic, if what he sees matches well enough what he expected to happen, he won't doubt. People are naïve like that," the consulting detective prefaced. For someone who abhorred mentioning the obvious, he too seemed anxious to delay his request at the moment.
John nodded. Once again, no words were needed. A simple yes would have been pointless, perhaps interrupting his friend while he organised his words…and urging him to get to the damn point would be against both their moods right now.
"Fact is, I don't have enough previous data to feel like I can put on a decent act. I'm assuming 'cuddling', as our therapist called it, with a family member is somehow different from doing so with a partner. Correct me if I'm wrong," Sherlock confessed, walking through the room.
"You're not wrong," his blogger replied softly. He was about to offer to explain the difference – verbally, and as well as he could – but he shut up before undermining the realisation of his own wishes.
"Would you mind if we did, indeed, cuddle, as per doctor's orders?" the detective asked, his eyes shifting between him and the bed. "For data, in a scientific perspective."
"I did tell you yesterday that I don't mind touching you anytime you want. I'm certainly not taking that back now. The question is – would you prefer being the little spoon or the big spoon?"
The sleuth blinked. "Isn't that something you should decide, being the resident expert?"
"It's not like there's only one way to do this – otherwise our client would be out of a job pretty quickly, because the talk the parents would be giving would be enough to set one for life. Simply put: do you prefer to be the hugger or the hugged?" John quipped, not knowing what he hoped the answer would be.
"I was brought up to believe hugs were reciprocal affairs?" Sherlock said hesitantly. For all his brilliant plans to use this case to seduce John, every step of the way seemed to become more confusing than the previous one. How did anyone manage to bed a person, never mind several in the course of one's life?
His partner laughed, but not in the scornful way his acquaintances did when he showed an inadequacy. It was a warm, fond chuckle that the detective would love hearing again. For some reason, his flatmate had the most musical laugh. "Usually, yes. That's what one would expect. But our client specifically said cuddle tonight, so I assume he meant in bed. And…well, I suppose one can do anything, we can try whatever you want, obviously. I'm just saying that usually, I just nestled with my back against my then- lover's stomach in the past. Or the reverse. I'm not picky. Logistics are simple, your bedmate doesn't wake to a face full of your morning breath, and you get the perks of full-body contact. So if you agree with this option you get to choose," John explained.
The detective closed his eyes, and there was a moment of silence. If his fingertips hadn't united in a gesture his blogger knew all too well, John would have been concerned. Instead it was obvious that he was giving serious consideration to his options. It was unreal how endearing the normally acerbic man could be.
Finally, the sleuth opened his eyes and announced, "I believe that I would prefer being the hugger – at least the first time."
John nodded, smiling. They prepared for bed quickly, and then it was time to settle. John would never admit how quickly his heart was beating. Sherlock's arms seemed unsure of where exactly to settle, and his hands feather-light, as if they didn't believe they were welcomed. If he knew how far from the truth that was…it would be a disaster, probably.
The sleuth seemed to have missed the 'full body contact' part of his earlier speech, laying his arms around John but keeping a few inches between them. The doctor tried his luck. "You can scoot closer if you want," he said softly.
"Mmmm…." Sherlock mumbled, before following the suggestion. Moments, and their torsos were moulded to each other…though their bottom halves still had a small space between them. This, John was not going to protest. He needed to relax. He needed to relax. He needed to relax.
Despite (thanks to?) the detective's soft breath ruffling his hairs, what he thought would be impossible all night happened surprisingly quickly. John fell asleep. He would have liked to enjoy the sensation a good while longer.