Chapter Text
John’s absolutely knackered as he falls onto the sofa, eyelids drooping as some crap telly plays in the background. It’s been a long day of errands and chores, running around the flat cleaning and organizing, and as soon as dinner’s finished all he wants is to sleep.
He can vaguely hear Sherlock saying something, but his brain is too muddled with exhaustion to actually make out any of the words, just letting himself be lulled to sleep by the melody of his smooth, deep voice.
He’s suddenly being jostled awake, Sherlock’s hands shaking his shoulder, and he opens his eyes with some effort, blinking rapidly up at the man over him.
“Watson, are you going to fall asleep on the sofa?” Sherlock asks, raising an eyebrow.
“...yeah?” he mumbles.
“You’re going to hurt your back,” Sherlock says, trying to pull him off the sofa, but he’s not exactly strong enough to lift John up, especially considering he’s quite a bit heavier than Sherlock is, because of his muscle, he likes to think.
“Don’t care,” he says, turning his face into the sofa cushion.
He hears Sherlock sigh above him, and then he gets onto the couch beside him, pressing his face into the crook of John’s neck. John smiles a sleepy smile into his hair. It’s not often Sherlock likes to fall asleep with anyone, so it’s always a nice surprise when he does.
Suddenly, there’s a sharp pain at his shoulder, nothing excruciating but enough to put his mind on alert and his eyes fly open. It’s sort of wet and– what the hell?
“Did you just– bite me?” John says, incredulous, pushing himself against the back of the sofa and away from Sherlock, who’s apparently a rabid animal now.
“You’re awake now, aren’t you?” Sherlock says, and at John’s exasperated nod, “So you can go to your bedroom, then.”
John can’t even really find it in him to be mad at Sherlock, even though he grumbles and mutters swears under his breath as he trudges off to his room, Sherlock not far behind him, because he knows he’s right, really. He would’ve bitched and moaned about his back the next morning so really, he’s grateful that Sherlock did it, other than the… how.
But of course he’s never going to tell him that.
—
They’re both hovering over a dead body, no cause of death determined yet. The clothes are bloody and covered in dirt, scrapes everywhere, but there’s nothing fatal and the doctors are completely clueless.
John shouldn’t giggle when they’re examining a corpse, but he has to admit it’s amusing, this sort of dance he and Sherlock are doing around said corpse. Circling it, trying to see if they can find any– hold on.
“There’s scratches on the inner part of their shoe,” John observes, and Sherlock’s head perks up from the opposite side of the room.
“Yes?” he says, eyes sparkling, and John’s breath catches in his throat for a second, before he composes himself.
“They must’ve been cycling, or something related, their shoes would’ve gotten scratched from the pedals,” John says. “Right?”
“Brilliant, Watson, absolutely brilliant!” Sherlock exclaims, racing to the other side of the room and squeezing John by the shoulders. “I might make a detective out of you yet! Oh, just brilliant!”
He’s grinning so wide, something John rarely gets to see on him. He smiles, oh, he smiles, but his smiles, they’re always so quiet and reserved, they’re sarcastic, they’re knowing, but oh, they’re never this, and John drinks it in.
Suddenly, Sherlock’s leaning in, and John’s heart stops for a moment, is this really about to happen? There’s been no buildup, this isn’t like Sherl–
There’s a pang in his shoulder. Oh, for fuck’s sake.
“Sherlock– again?” he sighs, and the man pulls off of his shoulder, mouth still open. John raises his hand to his friend's chin, shutting it gently.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, red in the face, and John has to backtrack, because fuck, that’s not what he meant.
“No, no, I just– why? What’s the reason?” he asks.
“I’m not sure,” Sherlock says, looking at the floor. “Just got a bit excited, I suppose.”
“Ah,” John says, and he takes Sherlock’s hand, rubbing circles on the back. “Well, I guess– it’s not too bad. As long as you don’t try to draw blood or anything, it’s– it’s fine, Sherls. You can, er, you can bite me.”
Sherlock’s dark chocolate eyes are aglow again, and it’s worth the slight shoulder pain when his teeth sink into his shoulder for a split second before he jumps back off, yelling “we’ve got a case to solve, Watson!” and runs out of the room, John not far behind.
—
“Good morning, Watson,” Sherlock mumbles, walking into the kitchen and draping himself over John in a sort of half hug and burying his face in his hair.
“Morning,” John says, taking a sip of his tea. “Tea?”
“Yes, please,” says Sherlock.
John huffs out a laugh. “You need to let me go, Sherls.”
Sherlock whines, tightening his grip on John. “Whyyyy?” he drags the word out.
“Because I need to make your tea, idiot,” he says, trying to extricate himself from the taller man’s killer grip.
“Good morning, 221B!” Mariana yells from the stairs, running through the door with a sunny smile. “I bring pastries!”
“Mari, you are a godsend,” John sighs. “Help me escape the wrath of Sherlock Holmes, por favor.”
Mariana giggles at the sight of little old John, trying to escape Sherlock, who, though supremely sleep deprived, still manages to hang onto him.
“What are you even trying to do?” she asks.
“Make him tea,” he says, trying to… tackle Sherlock to the floor? He’s definitely doing something, that’s for sure.
“I can do it,” Mariana says.
“Yes, Watson, she can do it,” Sherlock says, panting with the effort of holding John in place. “Let her do it.”
“No, really, it’s fine, just need to get Sherlock off of me–” John chokes out, and then Sherlock’s biting down on his shoulder, and he squeaks. “Ow, fuck!”
“What on earth?” Mariana laughs, in the kitchen as well now, reaching for a cup.
“His new way of showing affection, I think,” John grunts, rubbing at his poor shoulder.
“Didn’t look very affectionate to me,” she laughs.
“Would you like a bite too, Ms. Hudson?” Sherlock asks, and she shakes her head.
“I think I’d rather stick to hugs, thanks,” she smiles.
“Your loss,” he says, resting his head back on top of John’s.
“Loss? What loss?! The loss of not being bitten?! I think that’s a gain!” John complains, to the amusement of the other two.
“No, it’s a very big loss, I’m feeling the loss in my heart, John,” Mariana teases, placing a hand on her forehead in faux sadness. “You should be grateful.”
“I ought to bite you,” John mutters.
—
They are spectacularly, magnificently drunk.
They almost always have a drink or two at the Volunteer post-case, but they’re exhausted and had a few too many wines and beers and martinis and really just every single option at the bar, and they are drunk.
John rests his head against Sherlock’s shoulder, the two of them waiting for Mariana to pull up out front and take them home, they would’ve walked but John feels like if he has to take more than 20 steps he will collapse on the floor and pass out.
“You know, you’re my faaavorite person,” he slurs, hanging on to Sherlock’s arm.
“R-Really?” Sherlock stammers.
“Of course you are! You’re jusssst so great, I don’t know how everyone doesn’t love you,” John says. He’s always been a sappy drunk. It’s a wonder he hasn’t said all this to Sherlock yet, honestly. “Y’re so smart, and so kiiiind too, and you’re prettyyyy,”
“Watson, I-I feel you’re saying things you may regret in the morning, I suggest you cease,” Sherlock says, and okay, maybe John’s a little more drunk than Sherlock is, but it’s not like he can drive.
“Noooo,” he whines. “You d’serve to know how, how special you are,”
“V-Very kind of you,” Sherlock says, the tips of his ears red. “Very kind indeed.”
“Christ, I could listen to you talk alllll day, y’know? I love when you do your ded– didu– your– y’know?” he smiles at him.
Sherlock’s stopped saying anything now, which means John is free to keep telling him just how amazing he is.
“Didja know you bite your lip when you’re thinkin’ real hard? And, and you, you, when, um,” John dissolves into meaningless babble for a few minutes. It’s hard to think when alcohol is basically sloshing around your brain.
Sherlock wraps an arm around him to keep him from falling over, and he stops his chatter for a moment, breath catching in his throat as he looks up at Sherlock, the lights he changed so many months ago giving him a backlight that’s reminiscent of a sort of halo.
“Watson? Are you… okay?” Sherlock asks, and John blinks a few times, trying to recalibrate himself.
“Yeah, ‘m fine,” he mumbles. “Just– I love you, Sherlock,”
Sherlock doesn’t reply, just staring at John, and belatedly he realizes that he will regret this in the morning, when he’s sober and looking Sherlock in the eyes, Sherlock who will almost definitely remember this.
“I-I mean–” he starts to stammer, but he’s cut off by Sherlock leaning over and closing his teeth over John’s shoulder.
He pops back up quickly, and John huffs.
“Oh— sod off, Sherlock, see if I ever try to be sappy with you again!” he pouts, a teasing glint in his eye, and Sherlock grins at him.
John holds his fake frown for all of two seconds before the pair burst into giggles, John burying his face into the crook of Sherlock’s neck, muffling his laughter.
And in the morning, John finds he doesn’t really have any regrets at all.
—
Somehow, despite the shitty service at the bottom of the breathtaking falls, Sherlock’s phone starts ringing.
“Hello?” he says. “Yes? Yes, he is. Oh. Oh, that’s certainly a problem. Yes, I’m giving it to him now.” Sherlock places a hand over the phone and leans into John, whispering, “It’s for you, Watson.”
John takes the phone and presses it to his ear.
“Hello? Is this Doctor Watson?” a lady on the other end asks, and he makes a noise of confirmation. “Oh thank god, there’s a lady at the hotel, she’s in pain and we don’t know what’s wrong, could you come right away? It’d be much appreciated, her husband’s right next to her and he’s starting to panic as well,” she rambles.
“Oh– err– just, just give me a sec,” John says, pressing the mute button on the call.
“Well? You’re going to go, are you not?” Sherlock says, raising that infuriating eyebrow at him.
“You– Sherlock, you’ve told me how dangerous this Moriarty is, do you think I’m just going to leave you here? After everything we’ve done? Seriously?”
“Watson, it won’t take but a few minutes. She needs you more than I do. It’s your duty, as a doctor.”
“I’m your doctor, Sherlock!” he yells.
They stand there, staring each other down, as the lady on the call keeps blabbering.
“John, please. I’ll be alright.”
John can’t hide the terror in his eyes at the idea that when he comes back to the falls, Sherlock won’t be there, and he knows it by the way Sherlock’s looking at him, trying to comfort him.
He leans over to John’s shoulder, biting it softly, wrapping him in a tight embrace, grounding him.
“Go,” Sherlock says.
He can still feel the gentle bite on his shoulder, hours, weeks, months later.
He wishes Sherlock was still there, even just for one more stupid, infuriating, wonderful bite.