Sherlock Holmes was not a man capable of taking a nap. Sleep at night was enough of a waste of time, he didn’t have to waste his day as well.
But, oh, John Watson loved a good kip on the couch. And Sherlock liked a happy John, which was why he found himself reclining in the sitting room of 221B with a sleeping doctor sprawled on top of him.
This was acceptable. Here, Sherlock could think without being disturbed. He could read a book, or idly browse the internet on his mobile. John could sleep. They could spend their time together, while engaging in their separate activities. It was sort of, well, nice.
John was snuggled on Sherlock’s chest, one arm resting on Sherlock’s shoulder above his own head, the other curled around Sherlock’s rib cage, slightly possessive even in his sleep. Sherlock had become a bit tense at the lack of exciting text messages, and had set the mobile down on the floor, his hand lazily coming to rest in John’s hair.
Oh. John’s hair. It was deceptively soft. John did little more than use a cheap shampoo and on occasion some of Sherlock’s conditioner, but it always seemed to be the kind of downy soft that Sherlock could never achieve in his own coarse, dark curls. He threaded his fingers through it, simply enjoying the feeling, the bit of tension that had formed in his shoulders from his frustration with his phone disappearing.
John was nice like that. Comforting.
Sherlock raised his head just a bit, just barely enough to bury his nose in John’s dishwater blond hair for a moment. At this point in the afternoon John smelled only faintly of shampoo, laundry detergent, and deodorant, but predominantly like himself. Sherlock was much fonder of John’s scent the longer other fragrances wore off of him. His own scent was naturally lovely, just pleasant and John.
He let his hands explore John’s shoulders. They were a bit tense, even in sleep, and his bad shoulder was the one in the more awkward position above John’s head. Sherlock would wake him soon so he could stretch it out; maybe he would give John a bit of a massage if he liked. But for now, he just let his fingertips explore the light tension in the muscles through John’s thin cotton undershirt.
That may be Sherlock’s favorite part of taking a nap on the couch with John. John refused to sleep in his clothes, stripping down to undershirt and pants, and making Sherlock do the same. It wasn’t like sleeping naked; it was a different kind of intimacy, where they were both soft and raw and innocent. It made him feel younger, and though he hated to even think the word, just a slight bit vulnerable.
Sherlock could feel John’s body heat easily through their clothes, his sleeping form practically becoming a heater. But the flat was a bit on the chilly side that afternoon, and John provided just enough warmth to fend off any of Sherlock’s shivers.
He let his hands drift down, one hand tracing the dip of his spine, the other brushing John’s ribs. John’s physical appearance before he’d moved in with Sherlock was never brought up, mostly because his penchant for jumpers hid it so well, but he was on the underweight side too before they had become friends. He had been invalided home from war in the desert after all - he did not arrive back in London with a single pound to spare. He began putting healthy weight back on when he’d had to get a bit doctor-y on Sherlock’s diet. Sherlock no longer felt his fingers dip into rib-rib-rib as his hands dragged down John’s sides.
His hands drifted further, and Sherlock let them rest on John’s hips. He’d regulated his diet enough to gain back the weight he had before the war, and maybe a little more. There was a slight pudge to his hips, a soft little bit that was nearing that of a love handle. Sherlock let his hands run over them and back, reveling in the way John’s flesh felt beneath his fingers. He nudged John’s shirt up a bit, repeating the motion on John’s bare skin.
The first time he’d paid any attention to John’s emerging love handles, John had blushed a deep crimson and swatted Sherlock’s hands away. It had taken weeks of earnest hip and tummy worship on Sherlock’s part for John to become comfortable with Sherlock paying so much attention to an area he just thought was trouble.
But Sherlock loved it. He loved John looking healthy, he loved him being just the slightest bit soft. While John was drawn to Sherlock’s wispy form, Sherlock appreciated something a bit more substantial. Something to hold close.
John shifted a bit. He never fell into a deep sleep during one of these light afternoon naps. He just dozed, only lightly aware of what was going on around him. He could feel Sherlock’s caresses even if he couldn’t acknowledge the source of his happiness. He gripped a bit tighter at Sherlock’s ribs.
And Sherlock let his hands move on, further south as they crested the rise of John’s bum. John Watson’s backside was something to be appreciated, in Sherlock’s personal opinion. It was firm and taught, just the slightest bit squishy, and perfectly round. Looked nice in the denims John had shucked off for the nap. Sherlock’s hands smoothed over it, resting in the crevice that was the join of arse and leg.
Then, slowly, he let his hands travel back up John, over his bum, and his hips. Back up his spine, and over the non-existent rib-rib-rib. Over the tension in his shoulders, to his silky hair. He combed through it a few times, letting his nails leave shivery trails on John’s scalp. Sherlock could see his reaction reverberate through his shoulders. Shoulder - time to wake John up. Sherlock pressed a kiss to the top of John’s head before waking him.
“John,” he said, kissing him once more and flattening a hand to the back of John’s neck. He gave it a slight squeeze. “John, wake up. You’ve got to stretch your shoulder out.”
John was a bit groggy, brain soaked with heavy nap chemicals that made everything a little further away, a little more difficult to process. His voice was sleep-rough.
“How long did I sleep?” he asked, stretching a few tentative stretches from where he lay on Sherlock.
“Just over an hour,” Sherlock replied. He never thought he’d be enamored with someone so utterly adorable, but there he was, a fresh-from-a-nap John slowly parting from Sherlock’s body to stretch. And he was everything. Sherlock took in the bit of tummy that showed when John, on his knees between Sherlock’s legs on the couch, stretched his arms far above his head. His eyes devoured the clumsy way he fetched his clothes off sitting room floor, the near-saunter he unknowingly adopted all the way down the hall until he disappeared into their room to wash his face.
He came back a few minutes later, Sherlock’s dressing gown hung over his shoulder.
“Got you this,” he said, tossing it on the couch next to a now sitting Sherlock Holmes. John found his way into Sherlock’s lap, knees on either side of him in a confident straddle. “And this,” he said, leaning into Sherlock for a lazy post-nap kiss. Sherlock let his hands find John’s hips again, giving them a nice squeeze and getting a bit of a moan out of John. “Mmm. Thanks for the nap,” he said, dropping a final kiss on Sherlock’s lips before getting back off the couch and heading for the kitchen to make dinner.
Yes, Sherlock thought as he watched John walk away. He did have a bum one could appreciate.