A/N: This is how I fight writers block, guys. With fluff. Endless, sleepy, fluffy fluff until the end of time. Once it's finally dead I'm sure I'll eventually produce something with substance... hm.

Word Count: 1,200-and-something

Ship(s): John/Sherlock

Warning(s): Consulting boyfriends being ridiculously fluffy. Light mentions of sex. Possible slight-OOC. Sherlock is a weirdo and John curses like a sailor when it's stupid o'clock. Also: talk of butts.

Cheesy as Shit

"I'm bored John."

"Bored bored bored."

"Bored."

"The acid experiment didn't work, John."

"It might have burned a small hole in the floorboards though."

"I'll pay for the damage, John."

"John."

"This is boring."

"The skull makes for better conversation, John."

"John."

"I'm bored."

"John, your arse—"

A pillow collided with Sherlock's face with a whump, actually startling him. John remained completely immobile on the bed, face first in the pillow he hadn't just used to assault his boyfriend's head. Sherlock grinned – finally, a reaction – and plopped onto the edge of John's bed. "That was rude, John."

John said something that was probably wildly inappropriate and crude, but his voice was thankfully muffled by the pillow. Sherlock rolled his eyes and wiggled closer to John, scooting his butt up against his thigh. That seemed to get his attention, but not in the way Sherlock had hoped; John lifted his head and glared at him, practically radiating doom.

"Sherlock, I don't care if your dick is about to fucking explode, it is stupid o'clock and I am not getting out of this God damn bed until I've gotten at least six fucking hours of fucking sleep."

"I don't want sex, John," Sherlock said blandly, "I'm just bored." It wasn't exactly the truth – while his sex drive was almost frighteningly low normally, John did things to him. He shook this thought off and scooted his butt against his boyfriend's thigh again. John groaned.

"You wouldn't be so sodding bored if you slept like a normal person, you stupid shit."

"Your crude language is appalling, doctor."

"Fuck you, sir. Get some God damn rest or get the Hell out."

John buried his face in the pillow again, shoulders rigid. Sherlock pouted but was not overcome, wiggling ever closer. "Fine, then," Sherlock drawled, "I'll rest." Just when John seemed almost ready to relax at his words Sherlock wormed his arms around John's waist and, after a fair amount of fidgeting, rested his chin between John's shoulder blades.

John's chest rumbled, this time with mirth rather than malice. "Comfortable?"

"Miraculously so." Sherlock nuzzled his nose into the thin material of John's shirt, breathed in his scent. After a week of nonstop legwork and two days without a shower, he really should have smelled awful but somehow he didn't. Humming contently, Sherlock slid his hands down John's torso and up under his shirt, pressing his palms against the warmth of John's belly.

A shrill noise escaped from the back of John's throat and Sherlock felt his stomach suck in under his touch. "Mother of fucking Jesus, your hands are cold as shit!" Frantic, John attempted to move away, but Sherlock had him pinned and only slid his hands farther up, pressing between his ribs. John groaned, peering over his shoulder to glare at his aggressor.

Sherlock offered a lazy smirk. "I assure you," he said, "feces is typically much warmer than my hands late at night, as it leaves the body at a slightly higher temperature than the body temperature from which it came, which is usually around 98.5, 98.6. My hands and feet are typically colder than that, at least on a surface level, due to poor circulation to those areas."

John stared at him for a long, bloated moment, before his expression finally cracked into an affectionate grin. "Damn. I fell in love with a weird motherfucker."

"Yes." Sherlock managed to arch his body so that he could steal a kiss on John's nose without removing his hands from John's warm underbelly before burying his face between his shoulder blades again. "And apparently I fell in love with a sailor," he added, a bit bitterly.

"It's four o'clock in the morning, 'Lock. I'll curse all I fucking want."

"How charming."

John chuckled, a fond noise from someone running on three hours of shallow sleep and a coffee consumed five hours ago. "You're a real prick, you know that? As in honestly the most annoying person I have ever encountered."

Sherlock snorted. "Oh," he said. "That hurts my feelings." The sarcasm was near tangible; John swore he could feel it leaking down his back. The sensation was quickly wiped off the map by Sherlock's lips on the back of his neck, his nose brushing the short hairs on the nape of his neck.

"Ugh. Bastard. Come here." John flipped over, nearly sending Sherlock rolling off the bed had he not wound his arms around Sherlock's waist simultaneously. After much wiggling around and playful shoving they found a successful sleeping position, Sherlock tucked against John's chest with his long limbs tangled around John's body, John with his nose buried in Sherlock's hair and his arms laying loosely around Sherlock's middle, blankets pulled up to their shoulders. Sherlock's freezing feet were pressed up against John's thighs, a battle won with the compromise of Sherlock letting John keep his hands on his arse at any given time throughout the night. It was like this that they laid, quietly sharing each other's warmth, for almost an hour before Sherlock spoke again, this time gentle and undemanding:

"John?"

With nothing more than a small groan of complaint John's eyes cracked open again. "Seriously, Sherlock?" There was no irritation in his voice, though, and a sleepy smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Bored again?" he said.

"No. I love you." Sherlock met John's eyes for a moment, completely serious; John stared back, struck stupid. Sherlock shrugged and tucked his face back against John's neck. "That's it. Goodnight."

"Goodnight," John replied automatically. Then, arms tightening around Sherlock, he mumbled, "I love you too." Sherlock smiled and John could feel the curve of his lips against the crook of his neck. He laughed. "Shit, 'Lock. When did we become this fucking couple? Relationships weren't even your area a few months ago and now we're waking each other up for… for fucking cuddle sessions."

"And whispering sweet nothings," Sherlock mumbled, pressing his nose to John's Adam's apple. "Don't forget the sweet nothings."

John snorted. "How could I? You're cheesy as shit when you want to be."

"You're cheesy as shit all the time."

"Hey now!" John swatted Sherlock on the arse, eliciting an uncharacteristic 'eep' noise out of the other man. Chuckling, John returned his face to its rightful place buried in Sherlock's hair. "Alright, it's way past my bed time now, 'Lock. We've established that we love each other very, very much. Can I please return to dreamland now?"

"Boring," said Sherlock, but he yawned and snuggled closer and thought that maybe, just maybe, he might get an hour or two of sleep himself. His feet were cozy wedged between John's legs. Still fucking cold to John, and he shivered a little. But he couldn't complain.

If anyone was wondering, yes, I did in fact do a Google search on the relative average temperature of human feces. Oddly, there were already a great number of people who had already asked this question to the poop experts of the world (who do exist, apparently). When I first saw it I was like "what the fuck why would you even wonder that" and then I realized...

Anyways: Reviews are cool. I almost have 300 (wow!) so that's neat.