I spend so much of my life just thinking about John and Sherlock in bed together, not even having sex, just. In bed. John turning in before Sherlock because he’s tired, and Sherlock coming in hours later, all cold toes and goosebumps, and sliding up against John’s warm body under the blankets and John sleepily draping an arm over him. Both of them laying in bed before they fall asleep, John reading a book, Sherlock on his blog, leg bent over John’s outstretched leg, their shoulders touching, with that casual comfortable way of touching that couples have. John murmuring, “Turn the light out for me, love?” as he rolls over. Sherlock cross-legged at the end of the bed, watching John get dressed in the morning, both of them sipping hot coffees, Sherlock talking John’s ear off about a case while John yawns and nods and tries to pay attention. Soft sleepy mornings when they don’t have to get up, drifting in and out of sleep, John waking up and smiling at the sight of Sherlock sprawled across the bed with his mouth hanging open, suddenly being overcome with affection and snuggling closer, kissing Sherlock’s cheek and whispering “Love you,” before he falls back asleep. Sherlock waking up and realising he’s stolen all the blankets and John’s curled in a tight little ball, his face shoved against Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock tucking the blankets back in around John so tenderly, brushing his fingertips over the bare skin of John’s back and neck and sighing, then burrowing into John’s chest and wrapping his arms around him so tightly. John waking up laughing on his birthday because Sherlock’s brought him breakfast in bed and it’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for him. A sick and grouchy Sherlock tucked down with his phone and his laptop, grumbling and rolling his eyes as John tries to take his temperature. Their goodnight kisses. The nights they have a fight not bad enough to sleep apart but bad enough they went to sleep angry, but they wake up twisted together like vines, and they take one look at each other and can’t possibly stay mad and end up making out, morning breath and all. Sherlock’s head on John’s bare chest, John twisting a lock of soft curls around his finger while he’s reading. John kissing between Sherlock’s shoulder blades right after they turn out the light, because he can’t resist one last kiss before the day is through. Their quiet “Night, love.” “Night, John.”
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