Sherlock stumbles into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes. He stretches, his shirt riding up and giving John a rather lovely view of his abdomen, his hip bones, and a soft trail of dark hair leading into the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. Sleepily, Sherlock reaches out to John, wrapping his arms around John's torso and burying his face in John's throat.
"Well hello there." John smiles, ruffling Sherlock's tangled mane.
"Nnngh."
The first time this had happened, John worried that something was wrong, that perhaps Sherlock was sick, or under the influence of something. But as their relationship grew, it happened more frequently, and John started noticing the patterns. Any time they'd solved a particularly long and difficult case, or later on, after a night of particularly intense sex, any sort of emotional peak for Sherlock, he'd crash hard. At first the crashes had manifested themselves as tantrums, fits of pique, and broken crockery. However, once Sherlock realised he had another outlet, he turned to John instead. And got – well, there's really no other word for it – cuddly.
Clearly he's in one of these moods today. As nice as it is to have Sherlock pliable and agreeable in his arms, John still finds it a bit strange. Part of him, however tiny, wants his usual Sherlock back – irritable, genius, and brusque.