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The Closest to Heaven

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Morning comes unexpectedly, and Sherlock is reluctant to wake.

He curses himself for falling asleep. That had not been his original plan. He was going to use the hours in which John slept to memorize every centimeter of his skin for the inevitable day that he wakes up sans John, but it didn’t end up going that way. The plan, that is. Instead, he found himself tangled up in John Watson, head tucked under his chin and limbs all wound around him in a way so tightly it was just short of cutting off blood flow. John laughed at that, and Sherlock liked the way it felt, John’s chest rumbling with laughter against his.

“My God. You’re a cuddler.”

Sherlock had never fallen asleep with anyone else before. He’d slept with other people (well, one), but he’d never sunk into slumber wrapped around another warm, breathing body. A warm, breathing body that less than an hour ago was saying “I think it’s wonderful” and meaning “you.” He’s much more susceptible to unconsciousness under those circumstances.

He would memorize John Watson now, but he seems to be waking, stirring and blinking the sleep out of his eyes. He smiles.

“Morning.”

“Morning.”

Sherlock’s voice is rough. It is one of his closest-kept secrets that in the few minutes after waking, he tends to lisp. This is why he generally does not speak unless he has been up for at least five minutes. But he has a suspicion that there are things that must be dealt with on this particular morning, and if he concentrates very hard he can work around the slight lisping tendency, so he grimaces and sets to it.

“You’re going to want to talk about last night,” he says.

John yawns. “God, no, not at this hour. I’m not a masochist.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows twitch up, as do the corners of his mouth. “Really.”

“Do I look like the kind of dreadful person who wants to have in-depth emotional conversations at seven o’clock in the bloody morning? God, I hope not. I’ve dated those.”

Sherlock chuckles, and John’s face suddenly does something funny. It has become altogether impossible not to kiss John now.

He does his very best not to think about the causes of morning breath as he does, because he doesn’t give a toss what the cause is. It’s riveting either way. When they break apart, John smiles.

“Yup. Just as I thought. Still wonderful.” 

And Sherlock is starting to believe him.