I know the last two fics have been..."feelsy" to coin an internet term.
So here's something funny and fluffy. Enjoy!
John had decided the moment he woke up covered in bruises and unable to move due to soreness that today they were going to do absolutely nothing.
Not that letting criminals beat the crap out of him wasn't his idea of fun mind you.
He groaned, attempting to steal some covers away from the blanket hog that was Sherlock Holmes. When that failed he turned, shivering, to nudge against the slumbering detective's back.
"Sherl...get up..."
Sherlock grunted in reply, clearly not up to talking yet. At the very least he lifted the blankets and ushered John inside, and the doctor gratefully cuddled up to the warmth.
"I don't know why you need so many blankets, you feel like a space heater." John mumbled against the back of Sherlock's neck. His hands quickly found his boyfriend's hips, squeezing lightly.
"And you feel like an ice block, your hands are freezing." Sherlock chuckled in reply, grabbing John's hands and pulling them into his shirt to warm them.
"It's hard to retain body heat when your greedy lover takes all the blankets for himself." John nipped at Sherlock's ear until the younger man whimpered and pushed John's face away.
"Hungry?" John asked, knowing the answer already. The same answer that questions always brought.
"No." Sherlock pulled the blankets over his head, and John smiled at the sight of his curly bedhead disappearing under a blanket fort.
"Yes, you are. You haven't eaten in two days. I'll make pancakes. Sound good?" John waited for an answer, but when none came he began poking at the lump under the covers that was Sherlock.
"Does it sound good? Huh?"
"Yeeeeees. John, it sounds good. Will you stop pestering me now?" Sherlock whined.
"Yes. Good. Be out of bed in five minutes." John pulled the blankets back to press a kiss on Sherlock's head before getting out of bed. He was wearing nothing but a pair of pajamas bottoms, and as he retreated from the covers he shivered. The nearest piece of clothing was Sherlock's blue bathrobe so he took that and slipped it on.
Sherlock remained in bed, blinking bleary eyes and wishing all the lights were off. He himself was wearing one of John's old white t-shirts, it was even big on John so it hung loosely off the detective's thin frame. After exactly six minutes (because he couldn't follow John's instructions completely when the doctor looked so cute while scolding him) he lumbered from the bed dragging the blanket with him.
"Here. Tea, with the usual insane amount of sugar, and pancakes. You better actually eat this time." John said, placing the plate on the table in the living room (seeing as the kitchen table was covered by a chemistry set). Sherlock flopped onto the couch, pointedly ignoring his breakfast.
"I mean it, Sherlock." John gave his boyfriend a stern look, the kind that usually made lower ranking army men quake in their boots. On Sherlock it only provoked more trouble, because he found that look so irresistibly adorable.
"Why don't you feed me?" He teased.
"You have hands." John pointed out helpfully.
"I rather use my hands on you."
"Inappropriate breakfast conversation topic."
"I could cover you in syrup."
"I prefer jam."
"I could tilt you over the table."
"Only if you clean up your lab equipment."
The boys of 221B snickered at each other like a pair of mischievous kids. Sherlock sighed and took a small bite of his breakfast, using dramatic gestures to show John how proud he should be of Sherlock's great stride forward in the world of healthy living.
"Good boy." John smiled, kissing Sherlock soundly.