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John usually wakes up to a messy bed, the left side rumpled and still warm, Sherlock’s mutterings and the occasional clinking of teacups on saucers drifting through the bedroom door. Sometimes, though, John opens his eyes as if he’s been pulled bodily from the clutches of sleep and immediately feels Sherlock’s heavy, intense gaze on him. He lies still for a while, appreciating Sherlock’s soft breathing and the light touches of his fingertips on his neck, his shoulder, his scars, his spine.
“Can you figure out what I was dreaming of?” John asks, rolling over into the lean shelter of Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock’s long fingers come up to his head, massaging into his hair and John relaxes with a satisfied sigh.
“Even I’m not that good, John,” Sherlock says, tugging him closer. John hides a smile against Sherlock’s skin.
“I dreamt about us.”