Thank you all for your warm, kind words of support. It really means a lot to me. I'm sorry I haven't been able to reply to everyone individually.
Today's drabble comes from my attempt to do something unexpected with the word "bed" - there were so many obvious routes I could have taken, but I wanted to try something different.
While John was working at the clinic, he often came home reeking of antiseptic gel, powder-coated nitrile gloves, and the misama of the perfume and occasionally the vomit of everyone he'd dealt with. Sherlock wasn't particularly fond of those particular odours, but he catalogued them all the same.
When he was still dating regularly, John would often come out of the shower, smelling of unfamiliarly expensive soap, sharp aftershave, and bitter, vile cologne. Sherlock especially hated these nights, not only did they mask John's naturally comforting scents, they signalled the presence of some dull, interfering woman.
On nights they've been out together, hunting down a lead or chasing a criminal, John smells of sweat and testosterone and adrenaline. Strong, masculine and raw. Sherlock likes this particular combination, it makes him think of their adventures, of everything John does with him, for him.
Now it's early in the morning, and John's sitting in the kitchen, he smells faintly of the sweat of the night before, a soft hint of muskiness he's not showered off yet. He smells of warm cotton, soft wool, and the bergamot of his tea. He even smells faintly of Sherlock's own aftershave, as if he's been marked. This is Sherlock's absolute favourite collection of scents. John smells like himself, he smells like home, he smells like their bed.