And onto the floor the book fell. To hell with the cologne, John would buy Sherlock five bottles if he liked it so much. But the nuzzling into his lap and the squeezing of his thigh would have to stop, quickly at that. It had been some time since having Sherlock in his life meant an average of three weeks of dating at most, and the last one (Angie? Angela? Anna?) had turned out to be very... conservative. Not that there was anything wrong with that, per se. But it did mean that... nuzzling and squeezing was, apparently, pathetically, enough to have his body respond in the most unwanted of ways.
Slowly breathing in and out, John willed himself to relax. Sherlock was dreaming. Dreams went by very quickly. He would stop soon. No need to wake him. Oh, God, no. No need at all. The embarrassment...
Sherlock gave a soft grunt at John's sudden outburst, though was unperturbed beyond that. The warmth against his cheek was something he sought out, even in sleep, always nuzzling his pillow and gripping at the sheets in the same way every time he actually decided to get some sleep in his bed. It was instinctual and involuntary, though he'd certainly be interested in John's reactions if he were awake.
John's own instinctual responses only made him move even more, nudging his face into his lap as he searched for a comfortable position. "Pillow is ill-designed.." he said through a sigh, finally finding a comfortable enough spot to still once again after a few more long moments of shifting restlessly.
John had resorted to hiding his face in his hands, the skin of his cheeks burning hot against his palms. Sherlock's restless movements and continued nuzzling had caused John's body to go from 'curiosity' to 'attention' in a matter of moments. It was mortifying. There was no way he could wake Sherlock now. He would never be able to live this down. No. He would simply have to... keep breathing, there's a good soldier... and wait for it to pass. Sherlock seemed to have settled down. That was good. That was very good. Just slow breaths, and no more moving, and it would all be fine.
Sherlock shifted once more in sleep, stretching his arm to curve it around John's legs, hugging him close as he often did with his pillow. He wouldn't take well to John trying to wake or move him, perfectly comfortable right here on top of him.
The only issue with this was the slight shiver that wracked him then, being clad only in his pajamas and dressing gown and no blanket. He squeezed in as close as physically possible as though it would aid in getting more warmth, huffing a little in sleep at how the chill was dragging him back into half-sleep rather than the peaceful rest he'd been getting earlier.
John had quite forgotten about the deficit in cellular metabolism and respiration resulting in Sherlock's low body heat, he was so wrapped up in not moving and waking Sherlock up in the process. But of course, he must be cold. John looked around and frowned when he saw the blanket thrown over the back of Sherlock's arm chair, mocking him from afar. It was still too soon to get up and run the risk of waking Sherlock. John's state was far from acceptable. With a soft sound of frustration, he moved ever so carefully, pulling off his jumper and gently draping it over Sherlock's upper body. It would have to do, for now.
Sherlock made a soft sound of protest when John moved even slightly, his arm tightening around him to keep him right there. Getting covered with the jumper made him still with a gentle sigh, a smile tugging at his lips as he felt content enough to be lulled back to sleep.
"Mm, John." He gave a soft hum of satisfaction, knowing even in sleep that only John would be the only one worried for his comfort enough to keep him warm. "Thank you." he murmured, squeezing him tight and going boneless against him in an unconscious effort to make it impossible for him to move.
"Welcome," John murmured back without even thinking about it, momentarily forgetting that Sherlock was, in fact, asleep. Sighing, he resigned himself to a little while longer of this.
At length, he checked his watch, revealing the time to be a little past midnight. Time to go to sleep, if he was going to be worth anything in the morning. Shifting carefully, he tried to slip out from under Sherlock, but knew that to be a lost cause before he even started.
"Sherlock," he murmured again, resting his hand on top of the other's hair once more. "I'm going to bed."
Humming softly in response, Sherlock fell into blissful slumber again, going quiet as he fell into deep unconsciousness. He was having a very lovely dream about a serial killer who left mysterious coded notes at every crime scene before John's voice roused him. He made a petulant sound of objection to that plan, making no move to allow him up.
"Just lie down here." he groused, not willing to give up his pillow and source of warmth that easily.
"Oh, for crying out--" John threw his hands up in exasperation, frowning down at the presumably grown man he was having this ridiculously immature argument with. Something, however, in that little word, that 'stay', made John pause a moment. It wasn't vulnerable, exactly, the way it was said, but it was... a request of sorts. Turning it down did not feel good. Just the thought of it made John feel like he was about to kick a puppy.
Huffing irritably, John shifted again, but this time with a different end goal in mind. "Alright, fine, just--- make some room, this is going to be cramped and uncomfortable and I honestly don't know why this would please you so much--"
Muttering on, John moved about awkwardly and slowly, sliding down next to Sherlock on the sofa. The only way this was going to work was if he placed one of his legs between both of Sherlock's, or the other way around, and have either Sherlock half-rest on him, or he would have to half-lie on Sherlock. It was a puzzle of limbs, to be certain.
Sherlock kept his eyes squeezed shut stubbornly, as though he could keep John there by force of will alone. He smirked when John huffed in that way that signaled his giving in, shifting a bit as directed to let John readjust accordingly.
He just hummed in response to John's complaints, waiting until John was laying parallel to him before wrapping his arms around him and pressing in close the better to leech his warmth. He nudged his leg between John's the better to keep him right there, nuzzling his face into his shirt and sighing contentedly at how much warmer and more comfortable this was.
"See, it's fine." he said softly, needing to remind him that he was right even as he closed his eyes again in the attempt to fall back to sleep.
John froze up a little when Sherlock's arms came up around him, but seeing and feeling the utter contentment of the other man was highly infectious. Truth was... This was rather nice. Not the comfiest manner of sleeping, and he knew his neck was going to kill him in the morning... But it was nice all the same. Warm. Comforting.
"I suppose it is sort of nice," he murmured tiredly, his eyes slipping shut. "You're still an incorrigible git."
If Sherlock had a reply ready for that, John did not hear it. Sleep took him as soon as he closed his eyes. The last he consciously registered were Sherlock's soft breaths huffed out against his chest. Warm. Comforting.
Sherlock just nodded a bit to John's sentiment, settling after that into the perfect warmth of John's body next to his. He made a soft sound that almost sounded agreeable when John called him a git, unable to be bothered to give a coherent response when he was so warm and sleepy. The both of them stilled, and Sherlock slept hard and dreamless from that moment on
( ... )
It was another half hour at least before John began to enter that realm between dreaming and waking himself, and he too felt extremely reluctant to venture back into reality. Distantly, he realized he was holding someone and being held by that person in return. Sherlock--? Yes. Had to be. Couldn't be anyone else. Struggling to stay in that hazy place of perfect tranquility, John nuzzled closer to the other man, sighing contentedly. This felt nice. Really nice. It had been forever since he'd woken up next to someone, and John had quite forgotten what a wonderful feeling it could be.
Shifting slightly, John sleepily turned his head enough to press a soft kiss to Sherlock's hair. "Morning," he murmured, voice soft and rough with sleep, keeping his eyes closed.
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And onto the floor the book fell. To hell with the cologne, John would buy Sherlock five bottles if he liked it so much. But the nuzzling into his lap and the squeezing of his thigh would have to stop, quickly at that. It had been some time since having Sherlock in his life meant an average of three weeks of dating at most, and the last one (Angie? Angela? Anna?) had turned out to be very... conservative. Not that there was anything wrong with that, per se. But it did mean that... nuzzling and squeezing was, apparently, pathetically, enough to have his body respond in the most unwanted of ways.
Slowly breathing in and out, John willed himself to relax. Sherlock was dreaming. Dreams went by very quickly. He would stop soon. No need to wake him. Oh, God, no. No need at all. The embarrassment...
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John's own instinctual responses only made him move even more, nudging his face into his lap as he searched for a comfortable position. "Pillow is ill-designed.." he said through a sigh, finally finding a comfortable enough spot to still once again after a few more long moments of shifting restlessly.
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The only issue with this was the slight shiver that wracked him then, being clad only in his pajamas and dressing gown and no blanket. He squeezed in as close as physically possible as though it would aid in getting more warmth, huffing a little in sleep at how the chill was dragging him back into half-sleep rather than the peaceful rest he'd been getting earlier.
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Please, please stay asleep.
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"Mm, John." He gave a soft hum of satisfaction, knowing even in sleep that only John would be the only one worried for his comfort enough to keep him warm. "Thank you." he murmured, squeezing him tight and going boneless against him in an unconscious effort to make it impossible for him to move.
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At length, he checked his watch, revealing the time to be a little past midnight. Time to go to sleep, if he was going to be worth anything in the morning. Shifting carefully, he tried to slip out from under Sherlock, but knew that to be a lost cause before he even started.
"Sherlock," he murmured again, resting his hand on top of the other's hair once more. "I'm going to bed."
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"Just lie down here." he groused, not willing to give up his pillow and source of warmth that easily.
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John made to get up, only to find a barrier in the shape of one very tall consulting detective in his way once more. He sighed softly in frustration.
"Sherlock. Get off my lap. Please, I'm really very tired."
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"No." he added in a distinctly child-like tone of tired crankiness, squeezing him tighter when he made to get up.
"Stay." He didn't know why it was so important that John not leave, but in this moment, it seemed to be all that mattered.
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Huffing irritably, John shifted again, but this time with a different end goal in mind. "Alright, fine, just--- make some room, this is going to be cramped and uncomfortable and I honestly don't know why this would please you so much--"
Muttering on, John moved about awkwardly and slowly, sliding down next to Sherlock on the sofa. The only way this was going to work was if he placed one of his legs between both of Sherlock's, or the other way around, and have either Sherlock half-rest on him, or he would have to half-lie on Sherlock. It was a puzzle of limbs, to be certain.
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He just hummed in response to John's complaints, waiting until John was laying parallel to him before wrapping his arms around him and pressing in close the better to leech his warmth. He nudged his leg between John's the better to keep him right there, nuzzling his face into his shirt and sighing contentedly at how much warmer and more comfortable this was.
"See, it's fine." he said softly, needing to remind him that he was right even as he closed his eyes again in the attempt to fall back to sleep.
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"I suppose it is sort of nice," he murmured tiredly, his eyes slipping shut. "You're still an incorrigible git."
If Sherlock had a reply ready for that, John did not hear it. Sleep took him as soon as he closed his eyes. The last he consciously registered were Sherlock's soft breaths huffed out against his chest. Warm. Comforting.
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Shifting slightly, John sleepily turned his head enough to press a soft kiss to Sherlock's hair. "Morning," he murmured, voice soft and rough with sleep, keeping his eyes closed.
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