John awoke for the third time that night, sweating and overheating.
"Sherlock," he said, trying his best not to sound like he was whining. He received no reply. "Sherloooock!" he said again.
"Mmmm?" was the only response Sherlock provided.
John squirmed a bit, emphasizing Sherlock's arms around him, but Sherlock just squeezed tighter. "You think you could give me a bit of space here?" There was no response. "Sherlock!" John insisted. "Do we have to have this talk again?" With a groan, the taller man released him and rolled onto his back, and John could finally breathe again.
John wasn't sure if he was annoyed or amused. Maybe a bit of both. They'd finally decided to bring their relationship further about a week before (Lestrade, Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson all said it was no surprise to them. Donovan and Anderson just told them not to flaunt it when they were around) but this was only their second night sleeping in the same bed. The night before had been fine. They'd collapsed, exhausted (but only because they'd spent the day crime fighting, mind) and neither had awoken until at least ten the next morning.
Tonight was different. It seemed like Sherlock was trying his hand at cuddling. Which, in his terms, meant being John's personal octopus at every opportunity. Then John would wake up, make him release him, and fall back asleep. Only to wake to the life being squeezed out of him by the world's only consulting detective once more. The bastard.
Able to breathe freely once more, his hand found Sherlock's. Judging from the man's breathing, he was already asleep, but the hand curled reflexively around his own.
John sighed and closed his eyes, content and already being pulled back into unconsciousness.
Maybe having his own octopus wasn't so bad, then...