A/N THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT: I HAVE INDEED CHANGED MY USERNAME. Is bold caps enough to get your attention? Hopefully. Anyhoo, yes. Thisby Solo is now Riddelly for various reasons. A subtle Doctor Who reference, for those of you in the fandom, and a weird-sounding derpy thing for those who aren't. Anyways, back to the story - I really like this little drabble, actually, so please tell me what you think!
Thanks to ThisDayWillPass, DandyLeonine, and wrytingtyme
Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.
XXXII. Night
Sherlock's not sure when exactly they started sharing a bed, but he gets the feeling that it was neither of their individual moves—both had gravitated towards the other simultaneously, so that they met halfway, with the mix of a plea and an invitation that landed them both curled up on Sherlock's mattress, stiff at first, neither approaching the other. It was a platonic setup, after all—they were lonely, nothing more than that, and just because they were sharing a bed didn't mean they were sleeping together. Certainly not. It was mostly John who wanted to make this fact certain, so he was the one to keep himself closest to the edge of the bed, his horizontal posture tight and uncomfortable.
The first night was indeed a bit awkward, but after that, things gradually begin to flow into an easier situation. A week or so in, neither of them are really trying to keep their distance anymore. Instead, they're several inches closer to each other, and when Sherlock's hand drifts out on top of the covers, John's brushes against it, and neither of them react in any way other than to let out twin sighs, tiny noises of muted happiness.
It's all uphill from there, and eventually they get to the point where they cuddle shamelessly. Sherlock knows that John would deny it if he were ever to mention it during the day—they never retain these moments through to morning light. It's as if the John and Sherlock of daylight share an entirely different relationship than the John and Sherlock of nighttime.
Under the sun, they're friends. Close friends, friends who would die for each other, but undeniably friends, almost brothers. Everyone knows that, as much as they may tease them otherwise, and they know it most of all themselves. They fight sometimes, but it never lasts more than an afternoon, and by the end they're always all too eager to sit down in front of the telly, with a cup of John's tea and the windows' drapes pulled tight over the dull grey sky.
But under the moon, there's something else there. Perhaps it can't quite be described with words, but it's there—a soft, strong bond that materializes in their closeness, their proximity, arms wrapped around one another and legs tangled together as John presses his forehead into Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock winds his fingers up in John's hair. They never kiss, only hold each other there, in delicate suspension, each seeking the strength that the other has to offer, and neither ever wanting to be the first to let go.