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John knew that Sherlock didn't come to bed to sleep. Sherlock almost never slept (except if it was after a rather intense shagging). He knew that Sherlock only lied down with him to be close to John. And the doctor wasn't about to complain; it was marvelous. The brunet’s body was relaxed against his, all that tension he always carried with him gone. He was snoring slightly (even though he would deny it forever). His hair was a mess, the dark shade such a contrast with the milky white of the pillow. His features were loose, mouth slightly open. Sherlock always pressed his cold nose against John’s neck and his feet against John’s calves (and they were bloody big and freezing!), but the blond was never going to complain about that if it meant he had that amazing man snuggled against him. He loved just how much Sherlock wrapped himself around him like an octopus. How Sherlock craved physical contact and how John wanted nothing more in the world than to provide it. He knew how Sherlock had been lonely before he arrived in his life, and he wanted to make up for that in any ay he could. John nuzzled Sherlock’s hair, inhaling that soft smell that he now always identified with his boyfriend. What was his brand of shampoo again? It smelled marvelous. Sherlock was so amazingly brilliant, beautiful and elegant in every way, and John snuggled a little closer, a soft smile of contentment on his lips.
Then suddenly, the sound of a fart.
Sherlock tensed in his arms.
John felt the flutter of eyelashes tickling his skin as his boyfriend batted his eyelids a few times, then his eyes opened wide, and he looked down at the bedsheets as if they were the most fascinating thing in the world. His cheeks bore an adorable shade of red.
John froze too, but by surprise.
“Sherlock?” he asked with an amused tone, a smirk playing on his lips.
“Yes?” the man answered, not quite sounding like his usual confident self.
“Did you just fart?” Because the man was never going to admit it unless it was pulled out of him.
“Of course I didn’t. I don’t fart . You imagined it in your sleep.”
“Sherlock, I felt the vibrations.”
The brunet turned his face into the mattress.
“That imagery was disgusting.”
“So you admit it?” John asked, and Sherlock absolutely hated how pleased he sounded with himself.
“You fart all the time.”
“Yes, and I assume it.”
“I always assume myself.”
“So you assume your fart?”
“The word ‘fart’ lacks of class. You should say flatulence.”
“Changing the subject." A pause. "You know farting is natural, right? No need to be ashamed.”
“I’m never ashamed.”
“Course you’re not.”
Sherlock looked up at him in the dark, hesitating for half a second. “Mycroft farts more than I do,” he blurted out. John giggled. “I only farted because you took me to that Mexican restaurant and forced me to eat. This is entirely your fault.”
“What a bad husband I make, making you eat,” John sighed dramatically.
“It’s alright, you have other qualities to compensate.”
John smiled, amused, and dropped a kiss to the detective’s brow, closing his eyes.
Sherlock started to fart on a regular basis after that incident.