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John wakes up to the feeling of warm sunshine on his face. He forgot to close the shade the night before, but doesn’t remember this until he opens one sleepy eye, only to shut it quickly against the light. He takes a deep breath and raises one hand to rub at his eyes before opening them again, more carefully.

It’s Saturday, and he’s thankful. He doesn’t have to work at the clinic, and although Sherlock is currently without a case, he should still be in a good mood. He has been ever since Wednesday, when he came home from the morgue carrying a bag of hands.

John turns over onto his back to find Sherlock curled up behind him, face pressed against the edge of John's pillow. John is unsure if Sherlock is sleeping or not, until he lifts a hand to push a curl away from Sherlock's forehead, and Sherlock opens his eyes.

“Morning,” John murmurs, his voice rough from disuse.

Sherlock doesn’t answer, just pulls the blankets up higher and nudges his face forward until his forehead touches John’s shoulder. John closes his eyes and feels Sherlock’s breath against his arm. The day is still young. He can sleep for a few more minutes.

 

 ---

When John next opens his eyes, it is because a restless Sherlock is shifting away from him. He rolls over into the empty space that Sherlock left behind, basking in the warmth of the blankets.

“Are you going to lie in bed all day?” Sherlock complains. He pulls on his dressing gown, looking down at John with one raised eyebrow.

“Look who’s talking,” John responds. “Wasn’t it you who slept in until well past noon last weekend?”

“Hmm. Your fault for keeping me up all night.”

John flashes a grin, but Sherlock doesn’t see it. He probably didn’t even intend the innuendo. With a flick of his dressing gown, he leaves the room and makes his way downstairs. John gives an exasperated groan into the pillow. His plan of flirting Sherlock back into bed has clearly failed. But, again, the day is still young.

 

 ---

When John arrives downstairs, he finds two empty mugs next to the kettle. The kettle is dry, and Sherlock is lying on the sofa reading the newspaper. John rolls his eyes, though he knows that Sherlock can’t see him. He goes to the sink and fills the kettle. He can almost sense Sherlock’s triumphant smirk, but Sherlock hands him the international news section as John walks into the sitting room, so he decides not to say anything.

They sit facing each other on opposite ends of the sofa, legs outstretched and tangling together. Sherlock rubs at John’s thigh absently with one foot, until he gets bored. He throws the paper on the floor next to him and sighs loudly, causing John to raise an eyebrow. When John doesn't look at him, Sherlock shoves his bare feet into the sliver of space between John's body and the arm of the sofa. John looks at him over the paper.

"What are you doing?"

"It's cold."

"It's December, and you're going without socks."

John resumes his reading, ignoring Sherlock's melodramatic sighs. Finally, Sherlock starts shifting and restlessly wiggling his toes behind John's back. John drops the paper and gives him a half-hearted glare.

“Alright, what are we doing today?” he asks. “Clearly you need something to do before your brain rots.”

Sherlock looks thoughtful for a moment, then comes to a decision.

 

 

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[“We should have breakfast” - chapter 2]

[“We’re out of condoms. Let’s get some more.” - chapter 3]

[“I need to go to St. Bart’s.” - chapter 9]

[Sherlock is about to speak when his phone rings - chapter 12]