Authors Note: Two things. One, I am really sorry for the delay in posting. No excuses, totally my fault. Two. I often write things phonetically, As is demonstrated with sleepy Sherlock here. So if a word looks completely off, sound it out.
Sherlock paced his room frantically, his mind in overdrive.
How had he done that?
Why had he done that?
The last thing that he had wanted was to make such a blatant admission in such a crude manner.
John loved him. He had proved it, he had said it. Yet he thought Sherlock didn't. Couldn't.
In hindsight running from the room when confronted with the knowledge that you unwittingly professed your feelings may not have been the best way to convince a person that the sentiment was real.
He came to a halt beside his bed.
Or is it their bed?
The stained and rumpled sheets held the evidence of the events of the night.
He tore them off of the bed with a grunt.
John sat in the living room in silence. He knew that this was all very new, and moving rather fast. They had gone from friends to lovers in a night, though the steps leading to it had been a long time in the making.
The sound of a grunt brought John's attention back to his flatmate. He rose from his chair, pading gently to Sherlock's door. A soft rap of his knuckles received a thump from the other side.
"Sherlock."
Behind the door, the detective froze, the bundle of cloth in his hands falling to the ground.
"Sherlock, I'm going to bed now."
The doctor carded his fingers through his hair gently.
"If you fell, err, tired, or like it, whatever, you can join me. You know, my door is open and all that."
Sherlock felt himself step forward, and he heard the thump of John's head hitting the door.
"Goodnight Sherlock."
Those words. Those two simple, normal words were what shifted things. Sherlock felt all the frazzled ends and ragged edges in his mind click together and smooth out.
He did love John, that much was apparent.
He loved him, and, much as he disliked it, he had said as much.
John had accepted that as a throws of passion exclamation, even though it wasn't.
It was true.
John had made a point to admit that he loved Sherlock back, and was ok with him not verbally reciprocation the sentiment.
Even after Sherlock stomped out and slammed the door on him.
After he had attempted to erase the reminders of the last several hours.
John had invited him into his bed, accepted him and loved him anyway.
The decision was made then.
Sherlock would go to his doctor.
John walked quietly away from the door.
He made it halfway up the steps before he heard the sound of footsteps from Sherlock's room.
His hand twisted his own doorknob before he heard the creak of Sherlock's door opening.
A quiet "goodnight John" floated up to him as he settled into his own bed, and as sleep settled over him, a pair of warm arms wrapped around his middle and a cold nose tucked into his hair.
Morning greeted John with a heavy weight sprawled over him. He was face down, his arms curled around his pillow,face turned to the side.
Sherlock was practically sleeping on top of him. Actually sleeping. The soft snoring came out in puffs of breath against his hair.
The detective's legs were entwined with John's, his spindly arms folded around the doctor. John took a deep breath, trying desperately To fight his body. A few moments of cuddling were well worth the painful press of his bladder and the grimy sensation on his skin. John lasted a total of three minutes before his body betrayed him.
He attempted to wriggle out from underneath the detective,. Resulting in an evermore restrictive grasp and a knee pressed firmly against his groin.
"Sherlock." He groaned.
Sherlock mumbled back at him, his voice gravely from sleep.
"Mmhf, Shumph,Jawn."
The doctor stifled a laugh.
"At least loosen up so I can get up."
Sherlock nuzzled his head further into John's hair.
"No. Shtauy."
John sighed.
"As much as I love being smothered to death by my gangly limbed flatmate, I need to take a piss."
The detective snorted.
"Unless you really want me to piss in my bed, you need to let me up."
He felt Sherlock shrug.
"Sheets can be changed." John rolled his eyes, giving a disgusted huff.
"Alright, line crossed. I'm up."
The doctor pushed himself up on his arms and shouldered the detective off of him. He rose from the bed, practically running into the bathroom.
Sherlock groaned. He felt so cold without the consistent heat of his blogger beneath him.
The fact that he had actually slept through the night was nearly a miracle. He couldn't decide to blame the phenomenon on John's presence or, whatever then he'll last night hqd been.
And thought struck him then, vicious and sharp.
"John?"
He bellowed, earning a grunt from the bathroom.
"What did we do last night?"