John awoke to Sherlock. Their faces were so close that each other's breath warmed their cheeks so that they blushed matching blushes as they lay, unmoving.
"You're not going to work today," murmured Sherlock drowsily. "You're too late to bother."
John reluctantly shook his head. "I don't care. I've got to go." And he began to pull the covers off himself.
Sherlock's hand found John's arm under the duvet, and gripped it tightly, forcing him to be still. "No… Don't," he whispered. "Stay."
"Sherlock –" John started to protest.
"Please. I don't want to be alone today." Sherlock's voice was begging, and John's willpower crumbled into oblivion. He pulled the covers back onto himself, painfully aware that neither man was wearing any more than pants.
"Thank you," Sherlock breathed as his grip loosened and his hand retreated to come to rest in the hollow of his neck.
"What do you want to do today? If you're not going to clear out your bedroom, that is." John said gently.
Sherlock chuckled softly, and John felt himself smile back. "I'll go wherever you will, John," he replied.
"So if I wanted to stay here all day…"
"Then I would, too."
"You'd get bored."
"Not with you, John."
John paused. "I'm going to get breakfast. Want anything?"
"Coffee?"
"I'll get it," he said, and swung himself out of bed, slipping Sherlock's dressing gown on before descending to the kitchen.
Sherlock rested in the warmth of the bed, spreading his body across so that he could keep John's side from getting cold. He felt so strange. This level of care and adoration was alien to him, and Sherlock could barely grasp the reality that he wanted only to be with John until the end of his days. A life without him was… Unthinkable. John belonged to him, and nothing could change that. Not three years of regret and agonising separation, not the letters that John had left on his grave that told him everything about his experiences after he 'died'. If anything, Sherlock's bond to John had been strengthened by his friend's confessions of love, as it gave Sherlock even more security in the fact that John would always be there for him, despite the danger and heartache. Was this what it felt like to love? Sherlock denied himself the luxury of that particular contemplation. Love was a disadvantage – he'd always said that. But was it avoidable, was it impossible?
The door swung open again to reveal the subject of his attentions as he entered the room with two steaming mugs and a plate of chocolate digestives. "Sorry," John said. "These'll leave crumbs everywhere, but there was nothing else."
Sherlock beamed at him. "It's perfect, John. Thank you."
"Welcome," John said gruffly as he climbed back in. Sherlock propped himself up against the headboard so that he could take his coffee as John placed the plate of biscuits between their covered legs.
Sherlock picked up the biscuit on top of the rather large pile, and inspected it carefully before dunking it into his coffee. John chomped into a digestive, attempting to catch the falling crumbs with his mug. Sherlock watched tenderly as John swore through his mouthful and brushed the crumbs clumsily from his lap. He looked back at Sherlock and guffawed loudly, breaking down into fits of laughter. Seeing Sherlock's confusion after that was too much, and John giggled hysterically, which, in turn, caused his friend to begin to laugh too. Their laughs, though very different, complimented one another's with their layering tones. Sherlock's heart wrenched as it acknowledged the exquisiteness of the sound.
Finally settling down, they sipped their coffee. The biscuits disappeared rapidly into their stomachs. When it came down to the last one, neither would fight for it, so Sherlock picked it up and broke it into two nearly faultless halves, handing one to John, and eating one himself. They placed their empty mugs on the empty plate, and the rims of the mugs kissed as they crowded onto the small plate.
"I'll put those away," Sherlock yawned as he rose from the bed, looking down at John only in his underwear. John's eyes traced the contours of his chest and wandered down to where –
Taking the china with him, Sherlock left with an unwilling smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"I've got a date with Mary tonight," John stated as Sherlock entered the flat, having returned from his trial.
Sherlock stopped in his tracks and fixed his gaze on John, whose attention was on the screen of the laptop that sat on his knees. "Aren't you going to ask how the trial went?" he said, frowning.
"You were found not guilty," John declared. "Obviously. Otherwise you'd be in a prison cell right now."
Sherlock seemed impressed as he answered "True." But John wasn't looking at him, as though he refused. This was not normal behaviour, especially since Sherlock had returned.
"John?" Sherlock asked, concerned.
"What?"
Sherlock's head fell to the side slightly. "Nothing," he said. "Nothing at all." He hung up his scarf on the door, and fell into his chair with his eyes closed and his hands together, the way he always sat when he was thinking.
Half an hour later, John's voice snapped Sherlock's eyes open. "I'm going."
Sherlock barely got a glimpse of his retreating back as John departed. He felt a cold dagger slide into his gut as he lost sight of him for the first time in two days. John was not safe without him. But Sherlock couldn't stop him now. He had to let go, but he couldn't.