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John smiled.
It was the first time since John had been living with Sherlock that the detective had had a full eight hours sleep.
It was blissful.
The night before, Sherlock had stormed off to bed after his usual argument (life is boring!) and had not reappeared since.
Only as a good doctor would, he decided to check on his flat-mate, by tip-toeing silently across the hall to the man’s bedroom, and pressing an ear against the wall.
Nothing.
He knocked lightly.
Nothing again.
Resigning to the inevitable, he turned the door-knob. Thankfully (and quite surprisingly) it was unlocked.
Expecting the worst, he opened the old wooden door with a slight creek, the smell of sulphur, fire wood and tobacco ash assaulted his nose as he peered around the frame.
What he saw made him clasp a hand to his mouth, to prevent an audible gasp escaping. Sherlock was lying spread-eagle on his back, snoring softly.
Sleeping.
It was a beautiful sight.
'Stop it John, a man sleeping shouldn't be a beautiful sight' he thought to himself.
But it was beautiful. It was peaceful, gorgeous and magnificent. The very definition of beautiful.
Sherlock gave a start, bringing John regrettably back down to earth. But taller man simply turned to his left and continued his peaceful slumber.
Smiling, John closed the door with the quietest of snaps and made his way to his own bedroom, gluing the image of the sleeping detective to the back of his mind, with no intention to peel it off.
********
Sherlock awoke the next morning to the hazy London sunshine. He groaned audibly and pushed back on his palms into a sitting position.
He noticed his surroundings. The last time he had awoken feeling like …this was when he was inexcusably and forcibly drugged, forcing him into a blank sleep for eight hours.
Eight hours…
“John! John! What the—"
He launched himself of his bed and catapulted towards the closed door (opened last night, male, strong hands), ripped it open and raced down the hall.
John heard the sound of thumping footsteps and spun around to find a very disheveled Sherlock.
“Morning, Sherlock! Pleasant sleep?” John smiled innocently.
Sherlock snarled “What fresh hell is this?”
“You’re well rested Sherlock, its normal” John turned his attention back to the stove.
Sherlock still stood rooted to the spot. “You let me sleep for eight hours?”
John turned back towards Sherlock with a spatula in hand and slowly walked towards Sherlock, as if stalking prey.
“No, you let you sleep for eight hours, Mr.” The ‘Mr’ was in time with a poke to Sherlock’s chest with the spatula.
Sherlock took a step back “But how is that possible?”
In an incredibly mocking tone “Oh I don’t know, maybe because you’re slightly normal?”
“That’s preposterous! I haven’t had that much sleep since I was twelve years old.”
John sniggered “You must have started very young.”
“What? Of course I did— oh, you’re alluring to a sexual innuendo.” Sherlock paused briefly to grab the spatula out of John’s hand and slap it against his own palm.
“Tell me John, what number, between one and one hundred, one hundred being most, how mature are you?”
John looked at Sherlock seriously before saying “69” and then dissolved into a fit of laughter, doubling over, his hand grasping at the kitchen bench.
Sherlock stood frozen for a moment watching the doctor wheeze with laughter, then he lunged forward and slapped John on the arm with the utensil.
Now it was Sherlock who laughed, but when he saw John approach menacingly he stopped and backed further into the living room.
“Ya know Sherlock, one does not hit one’s flatmate with a spatula when said flatmate is cooking bacon”.
“Bacon?” Sherlock’s eyes immediately locked onto John’s.
“Yes, Sherlock, bacon. I know all about your little indulgence. One would never have thought you of all people would like the succulent, delectable, little slice of heaven that is bacon.”
Sherlock stopped walking backwards and went towards John instead, holding out the spatula as a peace offering.
“John, I am sincerely sorry. Here is your spatula and you’re right, I would like some bacon.”
“Sherlock…”
“Please?”
John sighed, residing back to the kitchen and setting out two plates, cutlery, salt and pepper.
“How would you like your eggs?”
“I don’t eat eggs!”
“If you want bacon, you’ll eat eggs. How do you like them?”
“Did you wake up feeling maternal John?”
“No, I just enjoy you eating.”
“Weird kink you've got there.”
John ignored this and instead places two eggs, sunny side up and 3 bacon rashers onto a plate and passed it to the detective.
“Eat, all of it, now.”
Sherlock sat grumpily down into a chair and began shoveling egg into his mouth. John joined him with an identical plate of his own.
Sherlock was just getting into his bacon when his phone went off, luckily just an arms reach from where he was sitting.
He grabbed it “Lestrade, ah hah! We have ourselves a little locked room mystery! Come on John!”
He stood up and took off for his bedroom, pausing only to take the rest of the bacon with him.