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Shouts and cheers emanated from the television as John began his favorite guilty pleasure pastime- crap telly. Sherlock was decidedly unamused.
“You know, John, for someone less idiotic than the majority of the population, you do insist on keeping some ridiculous habits,” Sherlock grumbled from his side of the bed, putting the scientific journal (“light reading, John”) in his hands down on his night table with a heavy thud.
“Then why don’t you leave? Go amuse yourself with that new thumb set of yours, or something?” John shifted the laptop, tilting so that Sherlock could see an even greater amount of idiocy unfolding on the screen.
“The thumbs are defrosting and I’ve finished my article. What I want is to sit in my bed, in peace,” Sherlock huffed, moving ever so slightly closer to John’s side of the bed.
“Alright, then. Suit yourself.” John turned up his programme and reimmersed himself in the show. Over the next few minutes, he could feel Sherlock drifting closer to him, scooting slowly until they were pressed together from shoulder to foot. John chuckled quietly and reached his arm around Sherlock’s back, pulling him closer. Sherlock signed, contented, and slid down until he could rest his head against the junction of John’s shoulder and neck.
“Do you still want me to turn it off?” John asked teasingly.
“I can suffer through the rest. I would hate for you to miss out on this quality programming,” Sherlock murmured against John’s skin.
“That’s so sweet of you, Sherlock, enduring reality television for me,” John joked, brushing a kiss against Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock pushed the laptop further down on John’s thighs and turned to rest his head in John’s lap. John smiled at Sherlock and began to run his fingers through Sherlock’s thick, silky curls. Sherlock’s eyes closed and he made a soft noise of contentment as John began to massage his scalp.
Sherlock went boneless and relaxed into John’s lap, thinking about nothing except for the wonderful sensation of John’s fingers in his hair. When John pulled his hand away some twenty minutes later and started to move his laptop away, Sherlock grasped his wrist to stop him.
“What do you think you’re doing?” He asked.
“The programme is over, Sherlock. You’ll be thrilled to know that I’m going to bed now,” John moved to put the laptop away, but Sherlock’s grip on his wrist tightened and kept the laptop on the bed.
“No! I mean, you certainly can’t miss Antiques Roadshow,” Sherlock said quickly, settling back down into John’s lap and placing John’s hands back on his head.
“Wanker,” John said affectionately, resuming his massage of Sherlock’s scalp, “I love you, too, you know.”
Sherlock beamed up at John, and then turned to face the laptop screen, his face immediately turning to fascination.
“What a spectacular chair!”