The space around them is quiet, dim, the only sign of life the occasional turn of a page or click of a key on the keyboard. The late October sun is low in the sky, mostly masked by the buildings across the street but a few lingering rays peak through the grime of the windows to cast a warm amber glow around the living room. The place is a mess but it always is and John is more than used to the clutter by now (welcomes it, in fact, it reminds him that he's home). His newspaper rustles in his fingers and Sherlock glances up from the laptop, his stare lingers for a moment then he turns back to the screen in front of him.
John's smile is small, slow to form. He hides it with a lick at his lips.
It's a Tuesday afternoon but it feels like a Sunday morning, with the light, affectionate atmosphere that is almost playful and John can't help but glance over to Sherlock again who is smiling as he works, his fingers tapping quietly and quickly at the keyboard, his eyes skimming the text he's writing but John knows the smile isn't for the work. Not today, anyway.
John looks back to his paper. A few minutes pass in the stillness and then Sherlock looks over again, his eyes lingering and John looks up, smiles slightly and Sherlock nods, tracks his eyes over John's form before retracing back up to John's face.
"Comfortable?" John nods folds his paper and motions Sherlock over when Sherlock frowns slightly. He settles himself against John's side, his thigh sliding across John's thighs, an arm across his chest and John curls his arms up to grip onto Sherlock's forearm. "Mmm," Sherlock murmurs, his nose finding John's neck and John can't help but smile, tilting his head down to settle against Sherlock's curls.
"Better now, though."
He can feel Sherlock's smile and he turns slightly, presses a kiss to his curl-covered forehead before settling back against him.
"Good." He shifts slightly, settling down. "That's good."
It's a Tuesday afternoon that feels like a Sunday morning, so they doze there on the couch, tucked up against one another, fingers questing slowly, settling against skin and in hair and they are content in the last rays of sunshine, in their sitting room, on John's chair.
Wrapped up in one another.