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1
Sherlock had the special ability to fall asleep anywhere. No nook and cranny was too small or uncomfortable for him to sleep in, instead bending his body like a straw to fit, much to John’s chagrin. He rarely used it, of course, as the world demanded his logic nearly every minute of the day—especially during a case such as this one.
But for the time being, his body didn't seem to care after three all-nighters spent working.
John's breath hitched when Sherlock's head landed on his shoulder, the cab strangely silent without the detective's usual blabbering. But John treasured that silence, if only in favour of the raven curls that pushed right up into his face, the scent of green apple shampoo overtaking his senses.
Safe to say, John melted. And it wasn't until Lestrade was banging on the car window that he realised that he'd fallen asleep as well.
And Sherlock would never know that he had been gently carried inside the building that day, nuzzling into John's chest all the way until he awoke and set into action once more.
2
Sherlock stepped out of the steaming bathroom in only his robe and a towel atop his head. His curls were sopping wet, and John knew that the man would fall asleep like that if he didn't help. Sighing, he waved him over. "Come 'ere, I'll dry your hair."
Usually, Sherlock would make a snarky comment in that moment, but this time, he only made his way over silently, sitting down on the floor in front of John's chair.
John was surprised by the man's compliance, but didn't dare to comment on it. After all, it wasn't everyday that Sherlock Holmes obeyed so easily. He was stubborn and petty to the extreme. Now, however, he tilted his head back as John got a good grip on the towel, closing his eyes. If he were a cat, John had no doubt that he would be purring.
Instead, small puffs of air repeatedly left Sherlock's mouth as the towel gently massaged his head. Then, the faintest sound of a snore resonated in the room.
John laughed. "Ah, geez... That case got you good, ey?"
Another snore, nearly non-existent with how faint it was. And John, ever-eager for revenge against his friend’s pranks, dug out his phone and snapped a picture of the man with his head leaned against the cushion, Sherlock's face oddly relaxed for once. He looked more human that way, mouth slightly parted and eyebrows softened considerably.
The media would go wild for that.
John cherished the sight a tad bit longer than necessary, before his eyes moved back to his computer, resuming his writing. And perhaps, he would write a mere line about Sherlock's more cuddly side that night, unable to hiss and scratch when exposed to such exhaustion.
"I was… hm.. stunned to see that vulnerable expression on such a man…" John mumbled as he typed.
3
John awoke to the sound of crashing and thudding coming from downstairs. He looked around blearily, before wiping the drool from his mouth. He got up, curious to see what mess he would find this time. Checking the time, it showed a blaring '03:23.'
John groaned, before stumbling to the door and down the stairs. When he reached the last step, he was greeted with a—unfortunately—familiar sight.
Sherlock was whirling and pacing around the room, muttering and growling to himself. His brows were furrowed and his hair messy, clearly showcasing that he had been gripping it only moments before.
"You got the Zoomies now, too?" John huffed, observing the trashed living room. Sherlock growled, dropping a stack of books onto the floor. "Bored, bored, bored! Where the fuck are my cigarettes?!"
"Me and Mrs. Hudson hid them away," John said matter-of-factly as he headed into the kitchen, unwilling to deal with a grumpy Sherlock before having tea or coffee in his system. This would take a while.
The living room was a pure mess, with the floor covered in a strange powder the ex-medic refused to ponder on, and on top of that, old trinkets, a blanket and plenty of books.
"You won’t find it, Sherlock!" John said from the kitchen, earning him another crash of—hopefully—books. He really wasn’t in the mood for cleaning up shards of glass or porcelain. Then, it went strangely quiet for a while.
"….I want tea. Now."
Silence.
"John, I want tea."
"And what do you say?"
Another crash, this time inevitably porcelain.
"Ah. Should’ve expected that…"
4
It was late. They had finally finished the case with the teasing serial killer, and John had never felt more overjoyed at the thought of a simple evening on the couch, with the telly on and a cup of steaming hot tea in his hand.
Of course, he shouldn't have even dared to wish.
"Sherlock...." John massaged his temples, listening to the detective's violin fill the air with music—which would be nice in a regular situation, if not for his raging headache—and creating an intense cacophony inside 221b Baker Street.
"Sherlock, please!"
John sighed as the violin sped up. So petty, that arsehole.
He got up, picking up his cup of tea, before deciding to match the energy and grabbed Sherlock's cup as well. Now that, gave him a better reaction, as the violin finally stopped.
"Put. It. Down."
"Well, then you better put that instrument of doom down before my eardrums burst." He was firm, stance unwavering.
Sherlock's eye twitched, but he reluctantly placed the violin down. John huffed and returned the cup. "There. London is saved."
The detective didn't respond, instead choosing to flop down on the sofa, arms crossed and hair landing in his eyes. Hell, even a pout was present on those bow-shaped lips.
"Now, what's wrong? We solved the case. You usually spend a day relishing in the feeling before getting bored again."
Sherlock grumbled, grabbing a blanket from atop the sofa's armrest and wrapping himself up in it. John resisted the urge to sigh again. Living with a manchild tended to age you, after all.
Then, a quiet mumble reached his ears, nearly indistinguishable from the sound of crickets outside. "It didn't go how I wanted it to."
Settling into his seat, John sipped his tea. "Hm?"
"The case. It was supposed to end with us catching the killer and the victims being saved. That’s how it works. Instead, it just-" a shuddered sigh.
It hit John then, that Sherlock wasn't as trained for death as he was. Under that stoic façade, was a gentle being who couldn't stand the bloodshed as easily.
Sometimes, John could forget that, despite witnessing it countless times.
"Oh..."
Sherlock seemed uncomfortable with the conversation, and did what he did best—avoided it altogether. John understood he wouldn't get anything more out of him as the detective flipped over to face the wall.
John almost felt a bit guilty over his assumption. Of course Sherlock wasn't as stoic and cold as everyone else portrayed him, he knew that. He cared, in his own strange way. If he didn't, he wouldn't be on the side of the angels.
Truly a black cat, that man. Hated by so many, condemned to a 'cursed' animal instead of a perfectly decent creature. Sure, he was intimidating at first and a total arse at social cues, but John would never think that defined him. Sherlock Holmes, who was so much and so little, all at the same time.
John kept his friend company for a few more hours that night, before dragging them both to bed. Sherlock truly needed it.
5
Chinese take-out boxes lay strewn upon the coffee table, along with a bottle of wine and beer bottles. It wasn’t often the two of them got drunk, let alone rested, but it was John’s birthday, the most important event in the world. Or at least it had felt like it when Sherlock struggled to decide what to do.
In the end, he had settled for what John liked best—per Mycroft’s advice, as unwilling as he had been to receive it. Some good old take-out, alcohol and shitty television.
And a new sweater, light blue with a small embroidered star on the chest. Sherlock had given no explanation, but John was happy it wasn’t a pig’s head or the like.
The soap opera sounded in the background, blabbering on about a mystery Sherlock had solved twenty minutes ago. Instead, the two men were focused on each other, enjoying the fuzziness the wine had given them as they conversed.
Sherlock had no idea how many glasses he’d taken before he’d become sprawled out over the couch, talking aimlessly about fungi. But suddenly, John spoke up.
"You're... quite catty, no?"
Sherlock made a sound that was somewhere between a cough or a choke, albeit strangled inside his throat. "...I am not 'catty' in the slightest."
"Oh, please," John huffed, sipping his wine leisurely, "So cold at first glance, and most definitely an arsehole, but... it took just a little care to soften you up."
Sherlock had no words to refute the comment, and instead burrowed his face into...
Right. John's lap.
The man seemed to notice the moment Sherlock tensed, but uttered not even a word. And perhaps that was the most wonderful thing about John. He never questioned, didn't doubt, and most of all, let Sherlock think.
But right now, that was the last thing he wanted to do. That would require feelings and sentiment. Far too much of it for regular Sherlock to handle, let alone drunk Sherlock. So he kept his face snuggled up against those thighs, eyes shut and sleep beginning to weigh on his mind.
Then, John’s voice cut through the fog. "A black cat. That’s what you are."
The detective smiled fondly.
"Mm… You’re a golden retriever. Couldn’t be anything else," Sherlock mumbled back, feeling undoubtedly comfortable with his cheek smushed against the man’s thigh.
+1
London grew quiet as night settled in amongst the streets. The park remained empty, safe for the two men currently traversing through it, grinning faces showing and joyful laughter filling the chilly air.
"Another success, Watson! Argh, I can feel it through my veins, even!"
"Yes, yes. Well, rather that than being a junkie, I suppose." John relished in the chuckle that gave him. "But I do wish you would stop putting your life at risk all the time."
Sherlock responded surprisingly fast, lips curling upwards into a smile. "You’ll save me."
John grew silent. The words were said seriously, and nearly… fondly. He didn’t know how to respond to that. Oblivious, Sherlock continued. "I’m sure of it. Doctor John Watson can’t keep himself away for long, correct? So eager to help."
John huffed, suddenly finding it hard to breathe. "Well, I’m not a saint."
"Of course not. But perhaps a knight in shining armour? Like those fairytale books you keep hidden away."
"Those are yours, Sherlock. Although, perhaps you’ve erased that memory from your mind…"
"Nonsense."
After that, the silence prevailed for a while. It wasn’t stifling, no. Not with Sherlock. They could go days without talking, only communicating through quiet gestures and looks, their words often going unsaid.
But eventually, John broke the silence. "What if I don’t save you? What then?"
It was a strangely honest question, one John had asked himself countless times whilst lying awake at night. A hidden concern, on what would happen if he one day were to be too late, or take the wrong turn.
But Sherlock, crazy, stupid Sherlock, only smiled softly. "You will. You’re quite the puppy dog, always coming running."
John’s heart skipped a beat and his cheeks flushed with heat. "I…" He coughed awkwardly, turning his head towards the brightly-lit streetlamp, watching a fly circle around it, uselessly attracted to the light.
Just like him.
The dog with the wagging tail, the fly attracted to the flame, to his owner.
Sherlock irrefutably, irritatingly, owned him.
He looked back and realised that the detective hadn’t paused during his pondering, before John was running to catch up to him.
Well, maybe it was all fine, then. Being the dog on the leash and coming when called—if only for Sherlock Holmes.