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“Night, babe.”
He always said it to Sherlock because it was something he had never expected to be able to say to the other man.
John heard the huff that was elicited from him as plain as day. “What is it?” He asked eventually when the silence became deafening.
“Night.”
Of course, as if that explained it all! “What about it?”
This time Sherlock sighed. “Why do you say it? You say it every night.”
John rolled back over and propped himself up on his elbow so he could look into Sherlock's odd coloured eyes. “Of course I do.” He was proud he got to say it to him, no one else!
“But why? It's like the word is becoming used for goodbye. The other night when you dragged me to the pub you called night to Greg as we got in the cab.”
That was a valid point, the doctor had done that. “It's just a word, babe. When I say it to you and we're in bed you say it back.”
“It's a pointless word,” Sherlock countered, kicking at the sheets he was covered in. “Unless you are describing the world outside after dark and before dawn.”
John rolled over until he had Sherlock between himself and the bed. “Night, Sherlock,” he said pointedly, laying his head down on the detective's chest.
“But…” He had expected his complaint to be argued with immediately so he hadn't really formulated one beyond a single word.
“Night, John,” he whispered.