Author's Note: I don't own Sherlock! Derp. Just a little ficlet when Sherlock decides that his bed is too empty. Enjoy :)
Sleeping Lessons by the Shins
John awoke to find Sherlock draped across his body; long, spidery arms possessively covering him, one leg thrown over his. His face was buried deep in John's neck, and he was mumbling unintelligibly. It was thundering, the rain hitting John's window wildly–a right good storm. John blearily looked to his alarm clock, it read 3:37am. After a crack of lightning, Sherlock stirred. The detective didn't even have to take a look at John's face to know that the doctor was wondering why Sherlock was in his bed–not that he minded.
"You know I don't like storms, John. They unsettle me," Sherlock sleepily stated into John's neck. He curled himself up tighter to John. "I found my bed unsatisfactory, so I sought out a more agreeable sleeping arrangement."
John laughed, he never minded waking up to find Sherlock in his bed, even though the bloke was a bit of a bed-hog. This was the third time this week that Sherlock found reason to sleep with John. A draft in his room, a broken spring in his mattress, and now, a storm. John wrapping his arms around Sherlock, who wasn't wearing a shirt, he slept in pajama bottoms only–though usually he was starkers, but that was a road they hadn't crossed yet–and the bare expanse of his back and arms sent a shiver through John; he lightly kissing the top of the sleeping detective's head.
Since Sherlock's return, he and John had been very tentative about their relationship. John didn't want to jump the gun and rush anything too fast; Sherlock, a novice at relationships, and, well, let's be frank, emotional attachments, wanted to proceed with the utmost caution (he was terrified of running John off). John, personally, thought that he could never have enough Sherlock; his smiles, his laughs, his kisses, his hands, even his deductions–however intrusive they may be.
John drifted off to sleep, lulled by the thunder and the sound of Sherlock's even breaths on his neck.
Sherlock woke up the next morning feeling somewhat like an ostrich, his head buried beneath the pillows. The man lay practically sideways in the bed, all twisted up in the sheets, a folly of his tossing. He let one hand wander, deftly searching out to his side, seeking his companion, and after that search came up fruitless, he stretched the opposite out and did somewhat of an impression of someone making a snow angel in his bed, flattening out the sheets, fingers reaching for his doctor. He popped his head up, looking around to find himself in an empty bed, the curtains still drawn. A quick glance at the clock told him it was eight in the morning. He rolled out of the bed, taking the sheet with him–he liked it, it smelled like John–and padded downstairs.
John grinned at the sight of Sherlock, wrapped up in his sheet. The doctor was preparing breakfast, eggs, toast, and a spot of coffee, he was hoping that he could coax Sherlock into actually eating something. He himself had been absolutely famished ever since the detective's return, but it was like that with everything; colors, tastes, sounds, smells, it was like his senses suddenly switched back on.
Sherlock dropped himself unceremoniously into the chair at the table, examining the petri dishes John had moved aside to make room for their plates.
"Sleep well, Sherlock?" John asked casually, trying to keep the smile out of his voice. He filled their plates with the food and moved to pour some coffee. He didn't bother to asked how Sherlock wanted his, he remembered, black, two sugars. Placing the cup in front of his flatmate, he sat across from him, picking up his news paper and flipping through it.
"I did, thank you. Nasty storm that was indeed," Sherlock replied, picking at his eggs with his fork.
"They're eggs, Sherlock, not bombs. You really do need to eat," John said between bites of his own breakfast. Sherlock took a long drink of his coffee, the corners of his mouth twitching up at the fact that it was perfect. Hesitantly, he took a bite of his eggs, undecided whether to finish the rest. John could sense his hesitation. He set his news paper down and looked across the table, "Please, Sherlock, for me?" Much to the doctor's surprise, Sherlock picked his fork up and slowly starting clearing his plate. John smiled and resumed his reading.
After a few more minutes of comfortable silence, the sounds of sipping coffee and forks scraping against plates filling the room, John spoke.
"It looks like it's going to rain tonight," he said nonchalantly, without looking up from his paper. Sherlock stopped eating and raised his eyebrow.
"Were you planning to sunbathe this evening?" Sherlock asks, checking the forecast on his phone nonetheless. His brow furrows, "John, there is a thirteen percent chance of light scattered showers, I'd hardly call that a definite," Sherlock says, resuming his meal. John flips the page.
"No, I think it's going to rain. In fact, I think it's going to storm." John hears Sherlock's fork drop and hit the table with a clatter.
"Why do you say that?" Sherlock asks hesitantly, unsure of where this conversation is leading.
"Well, seeing as storms unsettle you, I thought it might be easier to give you a fair warning tonight," John glances up at his paper, trying to hide his smile at the suspicious look in Sherlock's eyes; he can practically hear his mind at work, he looks back down at his reading, "it might be best if you just stay with me tonight...you know...so you don't wake me by sneaking in at two in the morning." John lifts his eyes again to Sherlock, whose face his alight, his mouth slightly open. John grins widely, Sherlock slowly recovers and returns it.
"Right, well I think that's a splendid idea. Your room is much better suited for storms, the lightning flashes through mine and it wakes me up. I need my sleep to work." Sherlock's pulse was racing. Had John really seen through his attempts? Granted, that faulty mattress spring was not his best game, but he didn't think John would put the pieces together that quickly. Sherlock went back to his eggs, eating happily.
That night, Sherlock came and lay down next to John, who was reading from a science fiction novel.
"You know at the end–" Sherlock started
"–Don't! I'd like to find out for myself, thank you," John cut him off. Sherlock sulked for a moment, flipping over on his side in a huff. He read another few pages and then John put his place marker in his book and flipped the light off. He laid on his back, smiling into the dark. Sherlock was in his bed. He loved it, even if the aforementioned detective was pouting. "Nasty storm tonight, yeah?" he whispered. After a moment, Sherlock flipped over, facing John.
"The worst," he replied, scooting closer to John, who opened his arms and welcomed the detective. "Thank you, John," Sherlock whispered. John rubbed his bare back, and kissed his forehead. Sherlock lifted his head to bring his lips to the doctor's, who immediately responded wholeheartedly.
"I love you," John murmured between kisses.
"And I love you," Sherlock sighed against John's mouth.
The next few weeks, John always found a reason for Sherlock to come to bed with him. Many fictitious (and a few honest) thunderstorms, faulty drafts, one time he even "accidentally" spilled water on Sherlock's sheets, apologizing profusely and insisting that Sherlock share his bed while they were washed. John was never unobtrusive about his hints, though he coyly denied any strange behavior. Sherlock, simply delighted in this new development in John's efforts, ignored it blissfully. The two had formed a routine, John would make his excuse, Sherlock would undoubtedly agree, and the two would retire to bed. John would read from his book, allowing Sherlock one (and only one) gripe about the content of the book, the holes in the plot, or the style of writing before he promptly shut the detective up with a kiss. John had stopped wearing his shirt to bed and began using the excuse of being cold to pull Sherlock as close as possible–like a long, comfortable detective blanket of sorts–Sherlock never disagreed. John would wake up and quietly slide himself out from underneath his love's long and spidery limbs and pad downstairs to prepare coffee–soon followed by the appearance of a sheet-wrapped, bed-head Sherlock, yawing the sleep out of his eyes.
Only one night did Watson break this routine. Sherlock was standing at the window, absent-mindedly playing his violin. John stood and walked towards the hall, he stopped and looked over his shoulder to the still-playing detective. John smiled slightly, he loved to watch Sherlock lose himself in his violin, one of the seldom times Sherlock let himself be open.
"Coming to bed?" John asked casually, leaning against the door frame. Sherlock continued playing.
"Storm tonight?" His tone of voice was light, like he was in on an inside joke. He hadn't turned around.
"Not that I know of." Sherlock's playing hesitated. He lowered his bow.
"Draft?" He continued, turning his head to the side, the confusion creeping into his voice.
"Nope." John was trying to keep from smiling. He crossed his arms. Sherlock turned around, raising an eyebrow; his heart was beating quickly, he was trying to deduce what John was getting at, but his causal stance, and startlingly good poker face–damn him, isn't he supposed to be predictable?–was unreadable.
"Heating...turned...off?" Sherlock was running out of excuse, John had changed the game on him, and he wasn't sure how to proceed.
"Paid the bill yesterday," John simply replied, an expectant look in his eyes.
"So...is there any...reason?" Sherlock was being almost sheepish, John loved this fumbling version of the detective; it was, honestly, completely adorable. Watson just shrugged, gave a little half-smile, and he stared at Sherlock.
"Coming to bed?" he asked pointedly. Sherlock stood frozen for a moment, John nodded slightly and smiled a little bigger. Sherlock recovered and grinned.
"Yes, of course, John, I'll be there in a moment." He turned back around and continued his playing, hiding the large grin that was spread across his face from John. His heart was hammering in his chest, my John, ever the surprise.
When Sherlock made his way upstairs, John was already laying in bed with the lights out. Sherlock peeled back the covers and lowered himself into the cool bed. John opened his arms and Sherlock moved into them, resting his cheek on the man's warm chest. He trailed his fingers over the smooth skin of his abdomen; the detective noticed the raised hairs that erupted across the good doctor's arms.
"I have a reason for you, Sherlock," John whispered into the dark.
"Hmm...?" Sherlock inquired, preoccupied with his tracing of John's muscled chest–he's always hiding it with those damn jumpers (though Sherlock loved them, too). John touched Sherlock's cheek.
"Because I want you here." Sherlock looked up at John, whose eyes were filled with more emotion that he could comprehend.
"Really?" Sherlock asked in a small voice. John laughed lightly, one of Sherlock's favorite sounds, and nodded. "I want to be here," he admitted. He could feel John's heart beat quicken, he kissed the doctor's shoulder; then, slowly, he kissed his neck, and up just below his ear, down the line of the doctor's firm jaw, and finally he lightly pressed his lips to the doctor's. John tightened his grip around Sherlock, deepening the kiss. The two continued on, hungrily searching each other, testing the boundaries, the waters, learning the expanses of their love for each other.
That morning Sherlock awoke to a most pleasant surprise. This time John was covering him, his strong arms grasping to Sherlock in a way that said mine. John's short blond hair was sticking up in all directions, and it tickled the sides of his neck. Their legs were wrapped round each other, making it difficult to discern where one body began and the other ended. He laid awake for close to half an hour, loving listening to John's breathing, cataloging his heart rate, making what observations he could in the light that was breaking through the window coverings. He felt John stiffen, his heart rate picking up to normal speed, breathing faster as the sleep left him. He felt his eyelashes flutter against his next. Sherlock smiled, closing his eyes and feigning sleep. John tried to roll off of him, but Sherlock clung him to his body.
"No," he mumbled, "I want you here."
John smiled into the detective's shoulder, wanting nothing more than to stay where he was, with his Sherlock.