There was fearsome thunder outside, John woke up to it with a start, as it rumbled over London bringing rain.
He wasn’t exactly sure when Sherlock had come to bed, but it was nice to feel his arm thrown lazily over his waist, grounding him in reality should he need it. He was lucky he didn’t. The last time he’d nearly broken Sherlock’s nose, not that the younger man had minded terribly, but he had.
“You’re thinking, stop it.” Sherlock spoke, his voice deep and baritone, filled with sleep though John doubted that he had, muffled by the pillow his face was currently planted in. “No, I don’t need to look to know.”
“Morning to you too. How long have you been here?” John squinted at the digital alarm clock he had in his room, the time was roughly half six in the morning. Sometimes he slept in Sherlock’s room, though that was usually after a fuck filled with post-case adrenaline, it also relied heavily on the fact that Sherlock’s bed wasn’t contaminated with experiments and whatnot. Most times he slept in his own bed, and Sherlock was free to join him if he liked. The invitation was always there, because at this point he couldn’t really see a reason he wouldn’t want the other man in his bed.
He didn’t always come though, and John woke up cold and alone. On those days he’d get up hazily and stumble downstairs. He always made the effort to kiss the detective good morning before he made the both of them tea, toast if Sherlock was eating and he had time before work.
But the times he did were nice enough that he didn’t really care. Sherlock was Sherlock, and he wasn’t going to make the effort of trying to change him, he liked him as he was, and the detective was a stubborn git on the best of days. So he wouldn’t get very far if he tried.
“An hour at most.” Sherlock muttered, and John could’ve laughed, it was half-six, five was too early for Sherlock to drop an experiment.
“And at least?”
“Sherlock.” There was warning in his tone, but the detective just sighed in response
“Hush, just hold me.”
John turned his body over so he was facing Sherlock, who shuffled himself closer, pressing his face into the warmth of the crevice where John’s chest met his neck, he kept his arm around the doctor’s waist, tracing indecipherable patterns into his back.
“I love you.”
It wasn’t often Sherlock said it aloud, the phrase and what it meant, what it stood for, it could overwhelm him sometimes. Usually he texted it, or wrote it, or spoke it through Morse code knocks to whatever surface was available, from the coffee table when they were watching telly, to the ceiling when he got agitated in the night.
No matter how it was communicated, John knew he meant it. He didn’t often say things he didn’t mean.
John smiled, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s hair. “I love you too.”