A/N: Toyboxbrain prompted, "Could you do some after-sex fluff between Sherlock and John for me, please? :)" so I wrote this little diddy. :D

He likes the post-sex moments better than the sex itself. Which would sound completely bizarre to anyone if he were to say it aloud, but then again, he's accustomed to sounding bizarre to everyone else, because they're all idiots who will never understand him anyway.

But John understands. John isn't a cuddler — he prefers to fall asleep afterward — but when Sherlock told him the first time that he prefers the closeness to the actual sex because he isn't a sexual person, just an emotionally reserved one who is letting John behold his rare and buried emotions, John understood. Because John isn't average and John does know Sherlock well and John is good with these things.

So Sherlock conditions John to not fall asleep directly after sex, and John conditions Sherlock to enjoy it more as lovemaking, and in the end, ultimately, the sex is for John and the post-sex is for Sherlock.

And it goes a little something like this:

XXX

"Mm, John," Sherlock hums contentedly as he snuggles his lithe form alongside John's thicker one. He's all bony knees and elbows and ribs as he wraps his limbs around what he can reach of John where John's lying on his back, and Sherlock on his side. He nuzzles his flatmate's neck and feels John giggle tiredly, a spasm beneath Sherlock's fingers. "Do I often comment on my love for you?"

"No," John says truthfully. "Only about once a month, on mornings like this." He yawns and gestures around the room at the streams of sunlight catching floating dust particles in their beams, and at the way the sheets are tangled about their legs, half-off, and just barely covering their naughty bits. He huffs a laugh and sighs into Sherlock's dark locks. "And usually after sex only. Your inner sentimental nature comes out then, I guess."

"Hmm, seems so," Sherlock murmurs thoughtfully. He plants a kiss like a dandelion seed, light and feathery, into the soft curls on John's chest. "Well, in any case, I will never tire of you, John Watson."

"Duly noted," John smiles, and he had one arm around Sherlock already, but he brings the other over his chest and wraps it around Sherlock's shoulder. He drags Sherlock into him a bit, Sherlock's too-long legs striking the foot-board of John's bed, but Sherlock settles atop John and rests his head where it fits comfortably. He kisses the top of Sherlock's head. "I love you, too."

Sherlock sighs and closes his eyes. This is why he likes post-sex so much better: he feels sleepy, satisfied, bonded, anchored, and like a normal person in love. He feels like John will never leave him, he feels like he's closer to being on John's level (or vice-versa?), and he feels like there is purpose for all that sweat and moaning and ejaculate and thrusting. Because after all that is over with, there is solely this: the reasoning behind all the physicality of it all. And Sherlock is a fan of reasoning. And layers. And as much as he appreciates action, he like the quiet settling that follows much better. It leaves more room for thinking.

"Having a long ponder, are we?" John muses with his eyes closed and his words slurred with oncoming sleep. It is, after all, just after half past six in the morning, and not quite a quarter 'til seven, and John has to work in a few hours, and it was Sherlock's fault for waking up John with his mouth on John's half-hard morning erection.

"Indeed," Sherlock mutters, and he opens his eyes a bit to look at John and appreciate the golden quality there is about John, in hair color, faint tan skin, and glow of pure morality. He brings a hand to John's face and caresses it gently, and John hums his approval, eyeballs flickering behind heavy lids. "I'm going to roll over. Spoon me."

"'Kay," the doctor grunts. Sherlock curls onto his other side and brings John's arms with him, gripping his forearms firmly and rubbing his thumb over John's arm hair as John adjusts his hips and spine and shoulders accordingly, legs weaving into just the right places along Sherlock's, his legs too short for his feet to touch Sherlock's, but it's just as well.

And with John's even breathing on Sherlock's neck and John's sheets almost completely lost around their ankles, Sherlock shuts his eyes, smiling a bit, and succumbs, for once, to the waves of sleep himself.