“It’s still snowing.”
John doesn’t bother to look up from the book he’s reading. “Well spotted.”
Sherlock makes an irritated noise from where he’s standing in front of the window, violin held limply at his side. “Why is it still snowing?”
“Dunno,” John says, reaching for his tea. “Phone Mycroft, ask him. If anyone could control the weather it’s probably him.”
“Ha ha very funny.”
John smiles around the rim of his mug. It was, in fact, still snowing, just as it had been for the past two days. The edges of the windows are steadily filling up, fluffy white flakes forming small, peaked mountains. It’s actually been a rather peaceful couple of days, to be honest. There’s been time for talking, for reading, for dozing by the fire crackling in the grate, for a couple of lazy morning shags. But peaceful isn’t something that’s known to last very long in Baker Street. In fact, “peaceful” is usually a precursor to Sherlock blowing up the toaster.
“Stop that.”
John looks up this time to find Sherlock has turned around and is glaring at him. “Stop what?”
“Reading.”
John quirks an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be an order?”
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “It’s boring, and I’m bored, and you’re not helping.”
John considers him for a moment. Sherlock’s hair is in disarray, and his bathrobe is falling from one shoulder, and his bare feet tap angry little notes against the carpet. His eyes have slitted back into their glare, and he’s aiming it at John as if he can control him just by staring long enough. Ignoring the fact that he apparently can, John closes his book and sets it aside. It seems blowing things up isn’t on Sherlock’s agenda today.
“You know, you don’t have to do that,” he says, making his voice as gentle as he can.
Sherlock’s feet go still. “Do what?”
“Pretend you’re irritated with me.”
“I am irritated with you.”
John stands up. “No, you’re irritated with yourself because you don’t know how to ask for what you want.”
The tense line of Sherlock’s shoulders tightens further. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
John gives him his best ‘you’re not fooling me for a minute’ look and walks over to where Sherlock is standing. Sherlock stays still, and his eyes fall to where John’s hand slips into his own, their fingers intertwining.
“Stop being so difficult, you twit,” John says fondly, pulling him a bit closer.
Sherlock swallows. “You wouldn’t like me if I wasn’t difficult.”
“Love you,” John corrects, and Sherlock’s cheeks go pink as if it isn’t the hundredth time John has said it in the past few weeks, as if just that morning he hadn’t pressed the same hand he’s holding now back against the sheets as Sherlock gasped beneath him.
“Yes. That,” Sherlock says, not meeting John’s eyes, and it’s a little bit heartbreaking, that. So John presses up onto his toes and kisses him, soft but meaningful.
Sherlock is better with physical affection than he is with words, and he falls easily into the kiss, his hands sliding up to cup John’s face. It’s still new. John is still learning the shape of Sherlock’s mouth, the planes of his body, and, most importantly, the inner workings of his heart. But John has experience with those things whereas Sherlock does not, and so John finds himself teaching his genius when he least expects it.
“Tell me what you want,” John says against his mouth, his hands sliding soothingly up and down Sherlock’s back, the silk of his dressing gown catching in his fingers. “That’s how this works, remember? Talk to me.”
Sherlock takes a shuddering breath and presses his forehead to John’s. “You’ll think I’m ridiculous.”
John laughs and kisses the corner of his mouth. “That ship sailed long ago, love.”
Sherlock pulls back and tries to glare again, but it falls flat, and he’s immediately back to looking endearingly anxious. He clears his throat. “I want you to sit on the sofa, and I want to put my head in your lap, and I want you to play with my hair.” He pauses before tacking on a “Please.”
John has to press his lips together to keep from grinning. “Is that all?”
Sherlock thinks for a moment. “Yes. You can read if you like. While you’re doing it.”
“So what you’re saying is you want a cuddle?”
Sherlock rolls his eyes again. “Don’t be tedious.”
John doesn’t hold his grin back this time, and he can’t stop himself from kissing Sherlock until the frown on his lips is well and truly forgotten.
“Cuddles are never tedious,” he says when he finally pulls back.
Sherlock looks a bit dazed, his lips kiss-swollen and his hair even more unruly than before. “I think. I think we should test that theory.”
John laughs, and they do exactly that. John spends a lovely, relaxing hour with Sherlock’s head in his lap, his fingers pulling through those dark curls, scratching lightly at his scalp, pressing gently into the fragile bones of his skull. And Sherlock decides, firstly, that more experiments on the matter will have to be done, and, secondly, that perhaps cuddles with John are, in fact, never tedious.
Written for @lunalovegouda. :)
@jonhlocks @isitandwonder @astronbookfilms @astudyinsnoggy @vanetti @one-thousand-leaves @theloneviolin @an-east-wind @escaroles
