Work Text:
John woke up slowly. Warmth was radiating from somewhere and he snuggled closer, chasing the heat and sleep that was slipping away. However as his mind began to stir, he became aware of feeling...sticky.
Uncomfortably so.
There also seemed to be a weight pressing down on him, pinning him to the bed. What the hell had happened last night?
He remembered Sherlock had been working on case. He remembered Sherlock sighing for most of the afternoon and dramatically flouncing about the flat, sulking about something. He remembered Sherlock acting like a dick. He remembered telling Sherlock this. Sherlock huffing and telling him to piss off. Watching telly pointedly ignoring idiotic flatmate. Idiotic flatmate being purposefully loud to cover tv noise. Giving up and going for a shower. Going to bed. Dreaming.
Dreaming of- oh.
That'd explain the stickiness.
The dream, as usual, was as frustrating as it was fascinating. The beginning was hazy, as it always was; swirls of black hair and strong hands and piercing eyes, intoxicating, drawing him in. It was always the eyes which brought things into focus. Sherlock stood before him with his comfortable self-confidence and smirk, the only difference being that he was naked, glorious stretches of pale, unmarred skin, staring at John with an expression of hunger and want.
Then Sherlock above him, hands all over his body, nuzzling his neck, letting his own hands come up to tangle in curls. Whimpering as the hands trailed down over his belly and up his inner thighs, teasing but not touching. Normally this was when he woke up, hard and ashamed of the thought of Sherlock finding out about his fantasies but unable to stop himself. But this ending wasn't as clear. He vaguely remembered waking up but he couldn't quite-
Somebody was making snuffling noises next to him.
He willed his body not to tense too much, lest the person wake up. John knew before he opened his eyes that there was only one person it could logically be yet he couldn't believe it until he saw it for himself. He cracked an eye open, only to find his vision obscured by the same black mane he had been dreaming about.
Sherlock Holmes, the Sherlock Holmes, was curled up against him, head pillowed on John’s chest, one arm curled wrapped loosely around his waist, legs pressed against John’s under the covers. His features were slack with sleep, almost alien in its vulnerability and openness and it was possibly that which cause Johns heart to hammer most.
Because it was Sherlock. In his bed. Sleeping.
He spent a few moments trying to calm his breaths and closed his eyes. The memories that were hazy cleared in light of this new information and John finally understood what had happened last night.
He was surprised (and happy) to note he didn't feel any panic and it was almost worrying how not worried he felt. Though, it was difficult, he supposed, to have a sexuality crisis when your fantasy for the past few months was wrapped around you after, well, after that.
However, as much as he wished to stay in bed and fall asleep again, he couldn't ignore the fact that he was really very uncomfortably sticky and really needed a shower. So, as carefully as he could, he extracted himself from underneath Sherlock and crept out of the room.
Which, of course, was the single most idiotic thing he’d ever done.
***
Sherlock was less slow in waking up, his mind powering up in only a few moments. However he didn’t make any attempt to move, partially because he was very comfortable but mainly because he was struck by the odd sensation that this was not his bedroom. He twisted slightly to get a better view and was much relieved to notice he was still within 221B. Then he was struck with the new sensation of being panicked because he was still within 221B. Which meant this was John’s room. The same John who he’d been watching for the past few months. Oh God, he’d done something, hadn’t he?
The memories of last night seemed to be triggered by this realisation and Sherlock snapped fully awake. He was in John's bed. The same bed was devoid of one John Watson.
Now Sherlock in matters of the brain is logic and reason and ultimate truth. When it comes to matters of the heart however, that unravels like pulling a thread on a jumper and quickly his brain is jumping to every conclusion it can get its hands on. This goes some way to explaining what happened next.
***
John, oblivious to the panic sirens upstairs, was downstairs in the kitchen, humming to himself while making some breakfast. Not wanting to disturb Sherlock, he’d dressed in a pair of pants and an old t-shirt he’d found in the pile of washing waiting to go back upstairs. He needn't have bothered as 10 minutes later a ruffled looking Sherlock appeared in the doorway, red dressing gown slung on over his pyjamas and looking, in John’s opinion, as if he was going to be sick.
"Ah John," he sounded surprised, as if it was unusual for his flatmate to be in the shared kitchen. "Yes. Breakfast, good, yes." John felt a ball of worry begin to grow in his chest.
"Sherlock, are you okay?" John said slowly, as if speaking to a skittish wild animal, trying to appear unruffled.
"Me? Yes, fine, never better, why wouldn't I be?" It hadn't escaped Johns notice that Sherlock a) hadn't moved from the space in the doorway but his hands kept twitching every few seconds, as if he was preventing himself bolting and b) hadn't looked at him yet.
"Because if this is about last night..." John began, thinking it was the most likely reason for Sherlock acting so...Not-Sherlock.
"Last night? Oh last night. All forgotten, I assure you. You don't have anything to be concerned about," Sherlock drawled, indifference plastered over his face.
John's heart plummeted from its previous light-hearted mood. So he had read it wrong, of course, it was probably for an experiment, or for a case or something. Nothing serious. Nothing meaningful.
"Oh I see," he looked down at his feet. How had he been so stupid to expect that Sherlock wanted someone like him? "We'll if that's what you want, I can respect that. Um, if you want me to move or whatever-"
"Why on earth would I want that?" Sherlock interrupted, now scowling.
"Look, I know you're not too good with the emotional side of things but even you can see it'd be a bit awkward, you knowing my feelings but not returning them. And don't bother with that deleting it bullshit, I know it's all stuck in there somewhere." Of course he was going to be difficult about this, precisely when John simply wanted to run and hide like a wounded, scared animal.
"And what are they?" Sherlock’s face hadn’t changed but the look in his eyes was almost...wary?
"What are what Sherlock?" John felt a headache starting in the middle of his forehead. It was too early for this.
"Your feelings?"
"My- You know what my feelings are!"
"No," Sherlock said slowly, as if he were talking to an incredibly stupid person which did nothing to alleviate Johns mood, "We're talking about last night, I was admitting I had no issue forgetting about it and then you started talking about your feelings which I had assumed but it appears my assumptions may be incorrect."
“What assumptions?” John said, confused.
“That you wished to forget yesterday night and return to our previous arrangement.” John felt simultaneously weak-kneed from relief and like hitting his head against a wall.
“All right Sherlock and what brought you to that assumption?” he said, wondering what had given Sherlock that idea.
Sherlock was definitely looking wary now. “Well, you weren’t there. This morning. In the bed.” He then frowned, as if puzzled by his own need to clarify where they had both been not 30 minutes earlier. John stared at him, undecided whether to hug him or hit him. Or both.
“And did it not cross your mind that there could be another reason why I was not in bed? Taking a shower, for example? Making some breakfast for the both of us?” John could swear he saw the exact moment when Sherlock’s brain cleared and the actual answer emerged. He grinned as the detective’s cheeks flushed light pink
“Ah so you, um, you enjoyed last night then?” Sherlock asked, stumbling over his words. John couldn’t help but find him adorable.
“Yes, yes I did. Now can I finish making breakfast?”
Sherlock nodded, distracted for a second before- “One more question.”
“Go on then,” John smiled, picking the pan out of the cupboard.
“Can we do it again?”
***
After the second time, this time in Sherlock’s bed due to a) the state of John’s and b) its closer proximity to the kitchen, both of them lay snuggled together, much like the way they’d stated the morning. John was just about to let sleep drag him under, eyes shut, lulled by Sherlock’s slowly steadying breaths and the feel of Sherlock’s hair threaded through his fingers, when Sherlock spoke.
“I-I love you,” Sherlock muttered, as if he didn’t expect John to hear.
He opened his eyes, looking down at Sherlock’s comically horror-stricken features. John couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s hair, who ducked and snuggled into John’s chest.
“Love you too,” John mumbled sleepily.
Silence. Then:
“John”
“Yeah?”
“You’ll be here when I wake up this time?”
“Always.”