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John can’t remember the last time he had sulked like this. It must’ve been years ago, before Afghanistan, when he was still stuck in the phase of ‘no one understands me’, a phase that he had now come to recognise (and consequently loathe) in several of his younger patients at the clinic. Patients much like those he had seen to today.
He slammed the door of 221B behind him hard enough to rattle the glass in the windows, stomping up the stairs before dropping his coat onto the coatrack and kicking off his shoes, barely noticing Sherlock sitting in his dressing gown and pyjamas pants on what he had now come to think of as ‘Sherlocks chair’, his violin cradled protectively against his chest. He turned his head to look as John entered, watching silently as he strode over the sofa and promptly collapsed face-down, grabbing his Union Jack pillow and wrapping his arms around it.
“Bad day?” Sherlock asked, and damn it, John could hear his smirk. John simply groaned, burying his face further into the pillow and hunching his shoulders, waiting a few moments before replying.
“Worse than you could possibly imagine.”
Sherlock hummed quietly and plucked once at his violin, a soft note that filled the room before gently fading. “Considering my mental capacity that really does sound like a horrible situation.”
John groaned again, attempting to cover his ears with his shoulder as he heard Sherlock chuckle quietly, followed by a soft thunk and the quiet swish of cloth. He lifted his head from the pillow, half-turning to frown in confusion as his flatmate crossed the room to stand by one end of the sofa, partially crouching to peer at John with a faint smile still resting on his lips.
“What do you want?” he asked, “I’m not making you any bloody tea.”
Sherlock only smiled wider, before standing up straight and stepping up and onto the sofa, his weight pressing down and deforming the cushions that John was resting on. John couldn’t be bothered to turn any more to continue following his actions and remained where he was, head resting on the blue and red and white pillow as Sherlock stepped over him entirely, bare feet brushing gently against an exposed strip of skin where John’s t-shirt had hitched up slightly.
“Sherlock, I-,” he began, only to cut off as Sherlock flopped down between him and the back of the sofa, half-lying over him as he ran his nose up the back of John’s neck and gently nudged him forwards, creating just enough space for him to be comfortable. John stiffened slightly as Sherlock’s arm reach down to wrap around him, his long, slender fingers tucking just under his stomach, but then slowly relaxed – despite everything Sherlock’s warm weight on top of him was oddly comforting, soothing and calming and relaxing all at once. He didn’t move as Sherlock’s other hand drifted up to the top of his head, running gently and slowly through his hair as the madman himself nuzzled up along the back of John’s neck to rest his nose just behind and over his ear, one leg sliding down to wrap around John’s.
They stayed like that for a long while, John slowly unwinding and adjusting to fit Sherlock’s body, quietly relishing the warmth and comfort that his flatmate, his friend, provided, his clenched hands loosening their tight hold on the pillow. In response, Sherlock continued to run his fingers through John’s hair, slowly running them back and forth through the soft strands as he slowly hugged him closer.
Eventually, John spoke.
“This is nice,” he murmured.
Sherlock responded only with a hum, and a light kiss to the back of John’s neck.