Work Text:
I’m a lucky man, John Watson thought one afternoon.
The dust was visible, floating in the rays of sunlight shining through the gap in the living room curtains at 221B. John was looking for dust-figures when the man asleep on his chest grumbled sleepily and burrowed his face into John’s old t-shirt, kneading at it like a cat.
It was a rare sight; they only slept on the sofa when they were too tired to make it to the bed. This had happened last night when they finally finished a two week long case with a sprint through London’s back streets and then writing out statements at The Yard until half past three in the morning. When they’d made it back to Baker Street both of them had been so tired it was lucky they’d made it to the sofa.
John wasn’t surprised he’d woken before Sherlock as the idiot had only slept a few hours over the whole case, and that was after John had caught him swaying on his feet as he stood mid-pace in their living room.
John sighed fondly and smiled, ruffling Sherlock’s hair and making the detective let out a sound that, had he been awake, would have made him fervently deny it was a purr. Sherlock snuffled and moved his head towards John’s hand as he leaned forward to plant a kiss on the messy curls in front of him. John smiled helplessly; Sherlock’s hair was as ridiculous as the rest of him and it only made John love him more.
Sherlock tucked his hands further under John as John stroked his warm back with the hand that wasn’t currently buried in the beautiful mop of curls. John supposed he saw why Sherlock loved watching him sleep. He had never expected the detective to willingly go to bed with him to sleep, let alone stay there the whole night. Granted he never slept the whole way through but he seemed to spend the time not sleeping staring at John. After a while John stopped questioning the detective’s reasons for the (sometimes a little creepy) staring. But now John realised: he could never tire of this view and would quite happily lie here forever comforted by the warmth of his partner on top of him.
Well, he wouldn’t be able to lie here forever as Sherlock was clearly waking up now. John knew he would proceed to ‘stretch’ by flailing his gangly limbs around and then locking them around John in a vice-like hug. After laying there for a few more minutes being petted he would demand tea and jump up to experiment on the small intestines Molly had given him. He probably wouldn’t talk to John for most of the day but, John reflected, he didn’t mind because he knew Sherlock, and he knew that Sherlock would insist on cuddling before bed (though he would never call it that) and ‘allowing’ John to pet his hair (he loved it but would never admit it). They would spend the whole night wrapped around each other, and then their routine would carry on indefinitely.
Yes, John thought, he was a lucky man.