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John runs his hand through Sherlock’s curls, thumb stroking soothingly, and is rewarded with a muffled sound of assent and Sherlock’s head tilting down to give him better access. Sherlock’s hands grab at John’s shirt like he doesn't quite dare to hold John properly, but it's a valiant effort that John appreciates.
He strokes a hand down Sherlock’s back absent-mindedly, enjoying the feel of the curve of his spine. Sherlock sighs, the slightest hint of a moan in his voice, and John decides to do it again to get more of that. He is not disappointed. So Sherlock’s more sensitive to touch than previously thought… how interesting. John files it away in his Mind Bungalow. He wonders where else he could touch Sherlock to elicit a response. John experiments with a firm hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck, a teasing caress of his chest, a bold grab at his arse. All of which are met with encouragement. John never thought he’d be allowed to touch Sherlock like this, that Sherlock would let him, would want him to.
But there he is, burying his face in John’s chest, making soft noises of contentment. None of John’s (very brief) girlfriends were even half this affectionate.
A muffled grumble is issued by Sherlock. “John. Stop thinking about your exes.”
John is caught off-guard. “I’m-- I wasn't--”
“No, you were. I don't blame you, provided that this situation follows very similar patterns and elicits similar responses from you, but you could at least try not to be so obvious about it because it's frankly off-putting.” Sherlock’s voice is steady, and John can't see his face, but it's clear that his feelings were hurt.
“Hey, Sherlock, listen. I was reminded of my past relationships, because I can't believe how much better I like this. Or rather, how much better I like you. They're lovely women, but they don't hold a bloody candle. And they were all just filling in for you, surely you know that? God, remember Jeanette’s coat?”
John can hear the smirk in his voice when Sherlock says, “I do, in fact. Not very subtle. I half thought you’d bought her the coat and asked her to do that.”
John laughs. “Wouldn't put it past me.”
They lie there, in quiet harmony, John lazily running his hand through Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock lost in calm bliss. It's a sense of stillness John hasn't felt in ages. And he never pictured himself and Sherlock ever doing something so tender and so... not-life-threatening, but he finds that he needs it just as much. Possibly more. John decides that they're going to have to make this a permanent part of their routine. Solve a crime, giggle like schoolboys, piss off Lestrade, crash through the door at an ungodly hour, sleep like the dead-- except now with added cuddling. It dawns on John that this could very well be the rest of his life, and he can't think of a single reason to object. He couldn't imagine life without crime-solving, and now he can't imagine life without lying in bed and stroking Sherlock’s hair.
“Sherlock.”
Sherlock shifts. “Mm.”
“I love you.”
John’s not sure what came over him. Anyway, he’s too tired to think of a reason why he maybe shouldn't have said that.
When Sherlock stills in his arms and stops breathing, John finds that reason very quickly. Fuck. Shit. How long did it take for us to get here already? Nice going, Watson. Who does that? “It's fine if you can't say it back, sorry, I know it's a lot to dump on someone, it's alright if you don't feel that way yet--”
Sherlock turns his face towards John, revealing his disgruntled expression. “I love you too, John. And I’m offended that you didn't already know that. Thought I was practically walking around with a neon sign over my heart that said ‘Property of John Watson’. Honestly, John, even with your observational skills…”
John’s not sure how they went so quickly from a love confession to a roast of his powers of observation. But he should be used to it by now-- that's just how they function. All is right in the world. He grins. “Then tell me why you went so still I thought you were dead?”
“I was.. surprised, is all. Can't predict everything.”
“Mm, yeah. Suppose not.” John continues to card his fingers through Sherlock’s curls.
Sherlock turns back to bury his face in John’s chest, and his hands tentatively attempt to make actual contact with John’s body instead of just grasping his shirt. “Is this alright?”, he asks shyly, like a teenage boy afraid to hold hands in the back of his parents’ car.
“It's good. You're good, Sherlock.”
“...Thank you.”
John rubs his back in response.
Outside, raindrops start to hit the window. Thunder rumbles in the distance. As John’s breathing evens out, it starts to pour in earnest. He drifts off, dreaming about nothing in particular.