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It was unusually quiet in 221B Baker Street. No babbling from Mrs Hudson's radio, no click-clack from John’s engrossing writing sessions, no hum from the microwave stewing another chopped up body part. The only sounds came from the occasional passing car-their headlights the only source of light-and the heavy breathing of John and Sherlock.
Relishing in the peaceful quiet a smile spread on John’s face. The two had had a wild week and a return to the mundane was a more than welcome break. The world could wait for another Sherlock Holmes adventure for a little while.
John slowly sat up from his lounged position on his old fabric armchair and gazed at his sleeping companion. It’d been too long since Sherlock had slept properly, John had started to worry he might collapse from exhaustion at the rate he was pushing himself, but here they were back at home after another successful case. Finally alone after days of investigation and pestering from our 'favourite' idiotic police duo. It was worth it though, just to see Sherlock's eyes flutter closed finally giving into exhaustion, allowing his entire body to relax, and his mind to rest.
Giving into his temptation, John silently made his way over to Sherlock, crouched beside him and gingerly kissed his forehead, ghosting a hand on his cheek. The smell of frankincense and cinnamon was subtle but sweet enough to bring a smile to John’s face. Time for bed. John lightly shook Sherlock, earning a soft groan from the detective.
“Come on love, come to bed,” John whispered.
Sherlock retaliated with a huff and shifted further into his leather seat. John again lightly shook him and attempted to swayed his partner into coming to bed. Once again Sherlock huffed and shifted in his seat. When John was met with the same response after a third attempt, he kissed Sherlock's head once more before turning to go to bed. Although before he managed a second step the sleepy detective clasped John's hand and harshly tugged him to his lap, wrapping his arms around John's waist.
Sherlock murmured a barely audible, “don’t go,” into John’s back, holding him closer.
“Then come with me,” chuckled John-amused at the five-year-old Sherlock became on sleepy nights like this- and as stubborn as he was Sherlock once again refused.
“Fine, I’ll go by myself then,” John teased, struggling to get out of Sherlock's firm grip.
With great reluctance, the detective gave in and let his arms go slack. John helped him up and guided him to their shared bedroom. Once through the door Sherlock kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto the bed, once again dragging John along with him-who had luckily taken his coat and shoes off when first entering their flat-and snuggled into the blogger, ready to be consumed by sleep once more. With a sigh of amusement, John returned the embrace, holding his lover closer.
“Goodnight Sherlock.”