John enjoyed his Saturday mornings, waking up with sun-kissed feet, sprawled out on his bed with his sleep pants bunched against his calves and shirt shifted high enough to feel the cool sheets against his belly. There were few comforts more enthralling than sleeping in to the drum of bins in the back alley and the hum of the air conditioner as it fought against the late morning swell. He could smell Mrs. Hudson's baking downstairs—or perhaps something from Speedy's seeping through the ducts. It was yeast and salt, something heavier and savory. John's empty gut gave an appreciative rumble to the foods his mind could list that might comprise the smells. What was once sloshing with liquid bread was now empty and entranced as his nose picked a dream meal from the air and starved his body of fruition by remaining perfectly still in comfort. Outside the bed there was food but inside where his bones and muscles felt relaxed, his mind was untroubled and his whole world could be summed up in the colors of white and blue, John had nearly everything else he could ever hope for.
The crash of the door below and the thunder of steps coming up reminded him of at least one more thing he wanted, though. He groaned rather than smiled, turning his face into the cotton softness of his pillow as he rolled over onto his side. It was far too pleasant a morning for Sherlock's shenanigans. He could remember the night before, the thin man slumped over his work as he pressed on through the night. He'd been down this road so many times there was hardly any trick at all to assuming the flow of events. If Sherlock was still at it, the violin would soon be stretching out her tune through the air, battling the sounds of the city for dominance in their flat with no care given to the natural rhythm of the world outside. If London was in 4/4, Sherlock seemed to decide today he'd play in 3/4, battling Bach against business in a violent crescendo above the mezzo piano of the calm streets. He was the only man John had even known who could make music uncommonly contrary.
If he had solved the case, the flat would be spared the violin at least. In the past a success would have meant food but John suspected, with no small amount of pride, that Sherlock wasn't nearly so hungry this time. Sleep, then. Seeing John not up and about to speak to, Sherlock would pound his way up the next flight of stairs, retreating to his room above to hibernate through the peaceful morning until John dragged him out in the late afternoon for a meal and his own good. John kept his ears tuned to the interior, waiting for the thunder to return as big feet took heavy steps in ascension. It didn't come, though. John listened quietly, listening to his movements in the way the vibrations traveled through him. Den. Kitchen. Bathroom? The steps did not stop or falter in the hall as the door to his bedroom opened, one Sherlock Holmes helping himself to the master suite as he kicked the door closed behind him with his heel and flopped onto the mattress with no word or warning.
That was… new.
John rolled onto his other side, facing the faceless lump of dark brown curls not quite gracing the pillow as Sherlock lay with his nose to the sheets. John smirked as he looked down the length of him, down the square of his shoulders, the dip of his lower back, the rise of his arse all still clothed in the previous day's suit sans jacket. His legs were half hanging off the bed, one arm joining them in the unsupported swing of limbs too long for just one side of the bed in a diagonal drop. John reached down and grabbed the excess material of his trousers along his thigh and gave them a firm tug, not really expecting to be able to reel the detective in but hoping to spur the effort. Sherlock sighed, the long-suffering sound muffled, as he drew his knees in and shifted up like a worm, eventually getting all but his left foot settled as he refused to lay parallel.
John kissed the curls now pressed to his cheek, eyes closed to the joy of feeling the other man's warm breath against his neck. His left arm was prisoner now, straddled by Sherlock's chin and shoulders. He didn't mind. Of the list of things that John minded, there was a very particular caveat to the entry reading "detainment" that made allowances for ninety-percent of the things Sherlock requested or initiated. It was always a good idea to leave a ten-percent leeway for the off colored requests that threatened his physical or mental well being such as being locked in a military research facility under the influence of fear inducing drugs.
Still a sore spot. But for Sherlock he had an overwhelming soft spot, especially for little moments like these when the other man seemed his most human, his guard down and his basest of desires on display in a posture that could only speak of a want for attention of an affectionate nature. John breathed in his musky scent, at least a day off from his last wash with his own smell no longer driven back by the clean mask of soap. It was masculine but far from unpleasant, not body odor but simply body smell. It was the smell left on sheets after a night's peaceful rest and it put John in a place of solace with the sun still warming his toes. His other arm came to rest along Sherlock's side on instinct, the need to envelope and own the bliss beside him driving his fingers to float along the thin, silky material on his button-down, stroking his ribs, teasing down his waist till Sherlock's chest expanded with the deep breath of surprised pleasure, stretching out to elongate the palate John brushed along with gentle strokes.
They'd never laid like this before. There was a certain boldness found in the heaviness of near-sleep that John credited with the new discovery of the sensitivity along Sherlock's waist. He repeated the motions lazily, mapping out the exact spot that made the detective flex to stave off a shudder. He filed it away, glancing his fingertips higher along the detective's back, more interested in soothing than arousal. Of all the things John could give him, he knew his partner needed sleep the most. Comfort, relaxation, and love were the forefront of his duties to the man. He was John's just as John was his. It was a wonder the pride of it hadn't found a drunken moment to tattoo the fact somewhere on his body; a nice big 'Sherlock's' on the underside of his foot least he ever need to be returned to sender.
It wasn't even worth pretending he wouldn't like to see 'John's' permanently scarring that clean alabaster slate.
He felt Sherlock's breath even, not quite asleep yet but in a state not that unlike it. "It was the father," the detective muttered, tongue half drunk on exhaustion.
John kissed his head again. "Good job," he whispered against the curve of his ear. He loved the feel of his wrinkled smile under his chin. "You know, you could sleep here at any time. Doesn't have to be midmorning, half passed out after a case. You could just come back here with me at night."
"Mm," Sherlock replied, more a moan of content than any real response.
John stroked his hair, idling a curl around his forefinger. "You don't have to. Just letting you know that's sort of a given. With, you know,... where we stand now."
"Are you considering sex again?"
"There are other reasons two people might share a bed." He gave the curl a short tug, frowning with lax concentration as the restfulness kept his nerves from counting down to the last. "Reasons like this right now for instance. And, you know, we could save some funds not having both bedrooms if we don't really need two."
"And have a stranger move in upstairs?" Tired as he was, Sherlock still managed to imbue his words with the appropriate levels of disgust. "No," he said adamantly, "we're keeping the first and second floors. And as funds are hardly an issue, we can assume this sudden request doesn't stem from a monetary concern so which insecurity are we speaking from today?"
John scowled, mood deflating. He tightened his arm around him, trying to squeeze the attitude out of the detective to keep the sweetness of the morning. "Turn it off, Sherlock. What's wrong with wanting to share a bed? It's not like we haven't before."
"Circumstantially. I fail to see the appeal on a nightly basis. It's not as though we're spending 'quality' time together. We're asleep. Besides which, we both favor the left side of the bed."
"Then I'll take the right."
"You'll gravitate back to the left."
"Then we'll cuddle. Thought you liked that."
"I did," he said. "I do," he corrected. Sherlock turned his face against John's cheek, nose nudging against the broken smile like he could force a dimple into his visage.
Touch for the sake of touching, nothing wanted or needed but the presence of the other and the pleasant reminders of their affection with attentive caresses and an embrace. Things like these were much more superfluous than many of the things Sherlock spurned. But it was new. Touch was a new experiment, perhaps; brave new steps taken into the field of study which included physical response and a stimulus reward without objective. There was no real way of knowing in which way his funny odd head had decided to categorize the things he wanted apart from the things he may want but did not pursue. It was touchingly juvenile.
"If you don't mind this, when what's the trouble of sleeping with me?" John asked, palm pressing against his lower back to ride the ridges of his spine back up to his neck.
"No trouble. Just… well, it's needlessly intrusive, isn't it?"
"And this isn't?"
"You're awake," Sherlock pointed out needlessly. "Hardly an inconvenience to you if I come in here to sleep. If you want to leave, you can. If you want to stay, you're welcome to. But I'm not forcing my presence on you in any real, unavoidable sense."
"Funny you should be considerate of that now." John breathed deep, letting his eyes fall closed as the added warmth of Sherlock made the summer morning a bit much but too rare to lose. "This is never an inconvenience, Sherlock. Never."
"Until such point as I simply do not wish to share the bed any longer and you decide to take it personally. Because you are used to such things being signals of discord, you'd look for signs of inadequacy or some failing on your part, annoying me in the process and lending more credence to your false assumptions. No, better to keep this as something to look forward to than the norm, don't you think?"
John moved his fingertips in gentle circles along Sherlock's scalp. "Give me the chance to succeed before you write me off as lost. I happen to be a great boyfriend."
The detective smirked, the sound of it felt more than seen with his face still tucked between the pillow and John's. "Is this important to you?"
"It's not the battle I'm choosing but it'd be nice to have more nights or mornings like this once I start working again at the hospital."
He'd said the 'H' word. Sherlock eyelashes fluttered against his cheek as the man rolled his eyes, curling up to ignore the day as much as the future. "Of course. The hospital." He scooted his hips over, finally accepting the need to fit long-ways down the mattress as he turned away from John, still somehow remaining on his belly. "Isn't working with me more fun? Can't you ignore the responsible adult thing a while longer? Indefinitely would be fine."
John sighed despite the want to chuckle at his moody partner. He gave his backside a firm pat before hoisting himself out of bed, skin damp with the sweat of simply sharing another's proximity. "Whine all you want about it, Sherlock, but this is a fantastic opportunity for me. For us, really. They're desperate to get on my good side. I've got the directors agreeing to allow me zero-notice sabbaticals for when your cases require travel and it's the same pay for half the hours I was working. They are eating out of the palm of my hand because they're half scared of litigation and half greedy for a bit of the Sherlock Holme's lime light. You know this is a good thing; I know you do. Hell, I even know you're secretly happy for me. Just accept the fact that I'm going to accept the job."
Sherlock said nothing, feigning sleep. John pressed his curled bangs from his forehead, looking down at the slight pinch of annoyance still scrunched against the detective's nose. He bent down and kissed it gently before heading to the bathroom.
"Good night, Sherlock," he called over his shoulder, flicking on the lights to one room and keeping them off in the other.
"Good morning, John," was the half-heard reply.
John smiled as he slid the bathroom door into place between them, rather sure it was one.