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“Boys! Violet! They’re here!”
Sherlock paused his valiant attempt to control the one misbehaving curl falling into his eyes in order to process this information. It was only as he heard the sound of voices from the kitchen that it clicked that ‘they’, in this case the Watson’s, had indeed arrived and were in the house.
He handled this news with the calm rationality it truly deserved.
Scrambling to check how he looked in the full length mirror on the back of his wardrobe door, and deciding that the intoxicating mixture of manic and petrified would have to do, he launched himself out of his room and hurtled down the stairs.
However, for his plan to work, the one he had been carefully crafting for a long time now, he had to appear perfectly indifferent, so he stopped at the bottom step and leant against the wall. He would have sat on the bottom step, but last time he tried he just ended up being trampled on, and so casual leaning would have to suffice.
Despite the fact he couldn't see himself, he thought this was working quite well.
“Don’t slouch dear, it’s unbecoming.”
His mother was, as ever, the cheerleader he needed in trying times. It was perhaps more upsetting that this was said absentmindedly, as she carried bowls of crisps through to the living room, and reappeared with a yo-yo, a book and three tealights. What these mystery objects were for was a mystery to everyone, including his mother probably. He rolled his eyes and straightened up, and on her return, she did actually pause and look at him properly. “Much better darling. You look lovely,” she said, kissing his cheek.
“ Mummy ,” he complained, fighting a smile. She was so embarrassing .
“Aww you still call your Mum Mummy,” cooed the short blonde woman who appeared in the kitchen doorway.
Shit.
“Harriet,” both Sherlock and his mother said, one scowling, the other delighted. She had not changed much, since the last time they’d seen her, on the sliding scale of how much Harry could change. This time the only significant difference was the new undercut that revealed a few new helix piercings in her ears.
“Fantastic hair darling, really suits you,” his mother said, adding insult to injury. Sherlock’s mood was lifted however by his mother’s next words, “Don’t worry, Mycie’s around here somewhere.” Both Sherlock and Harriet fought (and failed) against a snort of laughter as they heard an exasperated sigh. A second later Mycroft exited the living room.
“You insist on using our guest’s full name, despite her protests, and yet have forgotten the one with which you christened me,” drawled his brother. Instead of being chastised however, his mother rolled her eyes and Sherlock abruptly, horrifically, realised where he’d learnt it from.
“Oh I remember. It’s just more fun to see your face when I call you Mycie,” she grinned, patting his cheek, and then disappeared down the corridor into the kitchen to greet the rest of her guests.
Mycroft reigned in his sour expression as he turned to Harriet, instead smoothing out into a blank forced politeness that was somehow worse. “I suppose I better show you to your room,” he said with a sigh, as if the stairs were a burden only he could understand.
“Is it the same one I’ve stayed in every time I’ve been here?” she asked. Before even seeing Mycroft’s assenting nod, she grabbed her bag and said “Then I’m sure I’ll be fine,” and marched past Sherlock up the stairs. Instead of following her, Mycroft sighed again, and went back into the living room, ignoring Sherlock’s presence entirely. His stair technique was not going exactly to plan, but that was fine, totally nothing to worry about, because the person it was really for was yet to appear.
“Glad to see some things don’t change,” a familiar voice laughed, having crept down the corridor when everyone else was distracted.
Sherlock nearly fell off his step. He spun, and there he was.
John.
Not much taller than Harriet, with similar sand-blonde hair, a navy knitted jumper that matched his eyes and a lopsided grin. He laughed when he saw Sherlock’s reaction. “I do that every year, I don’t know how it still surprises you!”
He really should have been prepared for this.
Usually, just the sight of his childhood best friend was enough to make him relax. The Watson’s had stayed for a portion of every summer for as long as Sherlock could remember and they were some of the only memories Sherlock thought worth saving. For years, Sherlock and John had roamed the countryside, played pirates, caused chaos, and generally been everything an annoying younger sibling can hope to be. They were referred to as one entity, ‘SherlockandJohn’, or ‘The Boys’, or it’s much angrier alternative, ‘Boys!’
For years, to Sherlock, the school year was merely something to slog through in order to get to summer, and the summer days spent with his friend, a reward for making it through the rest of the year. And it was fine. It was wonderful. Absolutely nothing could spoil it.
Of course that meant that it was promptly ruined, and this was made worse by John being the one to ruin it.
Forever.
Because last year, selfishly, John had decided to become attractive.
He could pinpoint the moment he’d realised the betrayal. It was last October and Sherlock had only meant to check on how university was going. Honestly. Just to check-in. John was a year older and any information gleaned on the exciting world outside that of secondary education was to be carefully gathered and stored (either as hope for the future or as a warning that he should escape while he still had the chance).
This was made more pressing by the fact that for the first time in a long while, he hadn’t seen John that summer, other than the occasional glimpse over Facetime. Sherlock had instead been forced to visit about 18,000 members of his extended family in France and then John’s course started early.
Now, the only way to discover how things were, apart from asking for daily updates via text, was by a bit of light Facebook and Instagram stalking. It was practically an honoured tradition at this point, to follow those you both like (and loathe) on the social internet and made detection a game even children could play.
And that is when he saw them.
At that point in the year, John had been tagged in 57 photos. Some of them he was only in the background, a smudge of colour, a hand holding a beer, a smile cut off by another person in the foreground. From what Sherlock could gather from these, he was relaxed. Happy.
But then there were others. Others where he was in the foreground. Ones with his arms slung around new friends, at parties and society meets, messing about in lectures, and lunches on campus. Photos where, suddenly, Sherlock’s eyes were not scanning the photos to deduce everyone else, but instead drawn to arms, newly defined with subtle muscles, sparkling eyes lit up with laughter, the quirk of his smile both captivating and heinous for it was not Sherlock that had caused it. The scrappy, scrawny kid from his memory was gone, replaced by a handsome, strong-looking man .
The photographic straw that broke Sherlock’s mind-camel’s back was one that featured John after the rugby team won their first league match. John apparently had set-up the winning try as he was being hefted up onto his team’s shoulders by his teammates.
John happened to be topless.
Sherlock had snapped his laptop shut and nearly thrown it across his room.
Now it was late June, and for 8 painful, upsetting, frustrating months, Sherlock had been distracted seemingly every moment by thoughts, and more horrifyingly, feelings . The news of the Watson family’s imminent arrival had only made things worse and he’d spent a lot of time marching around the surrounding countryside, trying not to hyperventilate or start screaming (both were equally as likely and equally as unhelpful).
There were two John’s in his mind: the one that had always been there, the one behind all the texts and phone conversations, the one that tagged him in chemistry memes because he knew they would both delight and annoy him, and who had once followed Sherlock with, first with trusting thoughtlessness, and then in the full knowledge he would definitely be getting into trouble. And now there was this other one. The one in the photographs. The one Sherlock has no chance of knowing because people like Sherlock didn’t get a chance to know people like this new John. The one who has ruined Sherlock’s year and possibly his life.
He was uncertain which one stood before him now, grinning, like nothing had changed at all. He couldn’t help but note his own symptoms: pulse quickening, palms sweaty, brain short-circuiting.
He realised he was just staring. Say something say something say something.
“You didn’t surprise me. I can’t be surprised,” he said haughtily, crossing his arms, all thoughts of his planned coolness forgotten.
This only served to widen John’s smile. “Course you can’t. And it’s lovely to see you too,” he added. “You want to help me with this?” he asked, kicking at the holdall bag at his feet.
Sherlock pouted, then shrugged,conceding, “I suppose I could show you upstairs.” That way he would have to stop staring.
“Generous as always Sherlock,” John grinned, hoisting his bag onto his shoulder and Sherlock did not look at the muscles flexing in his arm. No. Good. So. Upstairs. Yep, upstairs.
Harriet ignored them as they passed her in the hallway, too busy with her plans to find Mycroft and begin their annual bitching session, a time when they put aside their differences and gossiped wildly, sneaking out for ‘secret’ cigarettes when they thought no one was looking. Also, unlike Mycroft, she genuinely didn’t care what her brother got up to so long as she wasn’t going to get into trouble for it. However, it didn’t stop her from shoving her brother into the wall, just because. You had to assert your authority in some way after all, even when you were technically adults.
“Fuck off Harry,” John said, more annoyed than anything, rubbing his shoulder as she ran down the stairs. “She still thinks I’m like 12 or something.” He then proceeded to vent for a little while longer, which was rather good because a sense of dawning horror was enveloping Sherlock as they reached his room.
You see, Sherlock’s house was fairly spacious, with 4 bedrooms. One for his parents. One for him. One for Mycroft. One for guests. There was also a sofa-bed in the study downstairs. So, let’s do the maths.
5 beds. 8 people.
The Watson parents took the sofa-bed, originally because it was easier to put all the children to bed upstairs and continue their evening, rather than tip-toeing round one sleeping downstairs. Harriet was given her own room because, as she rightfully argued, having to share with Mycroft would mean she would inevitably need to murder Mycroft and that would rather spoil things.
4 beds. 6 people accounted for.
It should be obvious the predicament Sherlock found himself in.
He despaired. It hadn’t mattered when they were younger. It was just logical at first (and meant they could stay up “all-night” eating stolen sweets and talking) until it had become a fact of life- when the Watson’s stayed over, John shared Sherlock’s bed. In fact it was such a fact of life that John immediately dumped his bag on the floor and sprawled across the bed like it was his own, still listing the reasons Harriet was The Worst. Sherlock remained standing, hands clenched behind his back, mind running through the myriad ways this was going to end terribly, as if he was an attending butler waiting for dismissal. This, unfortunately, led him to thinking about John ordering him about. Suddenly the room seemed much, much smaller, and the temperature much, much hotter, and John was just lying there and really-
This was the issue. There was no possible way for him to fall asleep next to John in case something horrendously embarrassing happened.
“Boys! Food!”
He thanked a god he emphatically didn’t believe in for small mercies.
This was a situation that could only really be dealt with after food. And possibly wine.
A lot of wine.
***
“You’re being weird.”
“No I’m not.”
And he wasn’t. Not really. In fact he’d been perfectly normal all through dinner, including the fact he barely said a word except to snark at his brother and stole chips off John’s plate when he was distracted. There were the expected questions and comments about how excited he must be to be going to uni, what fun he was going to have, how much John had enjoyed it (here he bit down a snarky I’m well aware of how much fun John was havin g). Thankfully the conversation drifted onto another topic and he was left in peace to listen to John and Harriet bicker, then turn and decide it was much more fun to join forces and irritate Mycroft. It was all fantastically normal.
And yes, alright, there may have been slight hiccups. There was the moment when John’s knee had rested heavily against Sherlock’s, the table nowhere near big enough for all of them. Sherlock twitched his own leg away as if shocked, bashing it into the table leg, causing him to curse, everyone to jump, and the plates to rattle dangerously close to the edge. One bruise and a scolding from his mother would simply have to be casualties to the cause.
And there was the moment after dinner, when he’d been convinced to play Operation because, as John pointed out, “It’s the only one I have a chance of beating you at”. It was still something of a mystery to him where John produced these games from, as they didn’t seem to exist in his house at all until the Watson’s appeared, stored in some other dimension until called forth by blonde hair and a stubborn determination to win despite all past evidence. He had been doing well, only occasionally finding himself distracted by the look of concentration on John’s face, his hair falling in his eyes, tip of his tongue poking out as he tried to retrieve a small horse from the man’s thigh.
When he was caught, he couldn’t help the blush but his tone was thankfully even when he said, “I hope you don’t do that in classes. I can’t imagine patients would feel a grand sense of confidence in seeing their surgeon looking like a six year old colouring in.”
John had snorted, messing up his turn. “Shit,” he said, scowling at the buzzer, before tossing the tweezers to Sherlock. “You did that on purpose.” He leant back on his hands, reaching over for his drink. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter if I do because the patients are unconscious. I could perform the entire thing in swimming trunks and they’d be none the wiser.”
Buzzzzzz .
John snorted and smugly said, “Now we’re even. Sorry for putting that image in your head though.”
“Horrific,” Sherlock replied quietly, quickly busying himself with finding his own drink for a fortifying swig.
And then there was the incident in his room, when he had cleverly sloped off to the bathroom to get changed, giving John the perfect chance to change in the room and avoiding any shenanigans whatsoever, only for him to return and find John sat on the bed topless scrolling through his phone. The shock had caused him to trip over the very solid thin air in the doorway and stub his toe in an attempt not to fall on his arse like an idiot. John had frowned at him, clearly trying not to smile, so Sherlock just scowled and shrugged, distracting himself with his own phone.
He had to get control on this soon, if only to prevent himself from further injury.
But apart from all of that , he was being normal. He would be normal. He would be fucking normal dammit.
“You are. You’re all...stiff.”
Of all the words in the world.
“I am not ,” Sherlock said, voice strangled as his mind went to places it really didn’t need to be right this second. He moved the covers up even higher, so they were nearly up to his nose.
John looked at him from the foot of the bed, having lost the rock, paper, scissors game which determined who had to turn out the lights. “Yep, definitely being weird,” he concluded, before plunging them into darkness. There was a rustle as he slid into the other side of the bed, wrestling some of the duvet away from Sherlock’s clutches.
Perfect. Now all he had to do was lie very, very still. Without breathing, if at all possible. Then, when John was asleep he could just get out of bed and go do something else that didn’t involve feeling John’s body heat across from him, that was quite distracting actually, and quite nice as well, and maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to shift a leg over to the middle of the bed and-
“Is it something I’ve done?” John asked, cutting off his thoughts. Sherlock glared at the ceiling, cursing that the one time John decided to be perceptive was the exact moment he was relying on John’s charming lack of attention.
“Of course not,” he said convincingly.
John huffed. “But I haven’t done anything.” There was more rustling and even in the dark, Sherlock could imagine him crossing his arms.
“I didn’t say you had.”
There was a pause as John continued to pout and Sherlock continued to ignore him.
John eventually gave in. “Well whatever it is I’m sorry. Or not sorry if it’s something stupid.”
Sherlock laughed, despite himself and the situation.
“It’s not you,” he said, genuinely convincing this time. “I promise.”
The bed creaked as John turned to look at him in the dark. “Then what is it?” he asked softly. And this was the John he knew fully. His best friend, sharing secrets in the dark. However, as had been proved many times over, the problem with lying in the dark is it made you brave. Or stupid. Either one.
“Nothing you could help with,” he said, just stopping himself from sighing like a romantic heroine reclined on a chaise longue.
Because wasn’t that the crux of the issue? Whatever he felt, whatever he wanted , none of it would go anywhere. Because he was him and John was John. It was as simple as that.
“You don’t know that.”
“I know everything.”
John snorted, pushing his shoulder, sending tingles down his arm. “Well, if you ever want to… I don’t know, talk or whatever. You’ve always got me. You know that right?”
Sherlock took a deep breath. “Yes. Thank you.”
“Oh god, it’s that bad?” John gasped.
He laughed again, something in him relaxing. “Oh shut up.”
“You shut up.”
There was a pause.
Then: “No, you shut up.”
Hearing John snort-giggle should not be that endearing. But if it was the closest it was going to be allowed, then he’d take as much as he could get.
***
His first thought upon waking was that his arms were at a really weird angle. One seemed to be bunched up under him, a pins-and-needles trap set in motion, while the other was spread out across a warm, flat, solid surface. His head also seemed to be resting on said surface.
He sighed softly, mind still in the hazy stage between dream and awareness. It would be easy to slip back into unconsciousness, a promise of remaining warm and comfortable, with someone stroking his hair in a way that made him want to stretch out like a house cat.
His thoughts snagged on this last point, pulling him back towards awareness despite the compelling points for the other side. Something wasn’t right about it. It was significant and he could probably figure out why, if it didn’t feel so nice.
Maybe he could work it out later.
He breathed in deeply and let out a contented sigh.
This however had the horrible effect of stopping the hair petting. Whining, he snuggled in closer to the body he was sleeping on. Because yes, it was a body. But the hair petting didn’t resume and so he retracted his arm and rolled onto his back, throwing an arm over his eyes, highly disgruntled.
“Morning sunshine,” a rough voice said to his left.
His eyes snapped open. He did not move his arm.
Oh god .
This was why he didn’t want to fall asleep, because of this exact situation. He once again begged to the gods he didn’t believe in, just in case they had any more mercy for him. This did not appear to be the case, as a giant hole in the floor did not open up and swallow him whole. So there was no way except forward.
“Morning,” he managed to croak out, frozen.
He heard rustling as John got out of bed, heard his feet hit the floor and walk over to his bag. “I’m going to the shower before I have to fight Harry for it.” Sherlock made a noncommittal noise and listened as the door opened and closed. He left it another minute before rolling over, burying his head in his pillow, and groaning loudly in pure despair and frustration. What the actual fuck was he supposed to do now?
For now, he decided there was only one way, and that was carrying on his task of ‘pretend everything was fine’. This was actually surprisingly easy at first, as when John got out of the shower and returned to the room, blessfully ( annoyingly ) with clothes on, he went in.
It was only when he was in the shower, scrubbing the conditioner out of his hair that he remembered a detail that made things both better and worse.
Fact 1: Someone had been stroking his hair.
Fact 2: He and John were the only two people in the room at the time.
Logical conclusion drawn: Unless there was a particularly amorous ghost in his room, while he had been using John as a human pillow, John had been stroking his hair.
Sherlock made a weird strangled noise. The one thing he did not need was more fuel for his pathetic crush. What he did not need was anything that felt even remotely close to hope. Pulse quickening, throat constricting, fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck -
He may have spent more time freaking out about this but conditioner was now dangerously close to his eyes so a small amount of prioritisation was necessary.
Getting dried, dressed, and back to his room was fraught. He took a moment to admire the bruise from yesterday, blooming angrily in vivid purple on his knee, managed to completely cock up putting on his shirt by failing to get his arms through the correct holes twice and nearly being completely defeated by the buttons, and then the thought of bumping into John in the corridor made it difficult to breathe. After the effort involved, it was then strangely disappointing to get back to his room only to find John was not there.
He took a deep breath. He could not spend the next couple of days jumping at every small noise or movement, skulking around his own house, and generally being a nervous wreck. He had blown this way out of proportion, made it into way more of A Thing than it needed to be, than it was in fact. Everything was fine.
Simply put, he Had To Get A Grip.
He nodded once, then jumped out of his skin as the door opened. Both he and John shouted in shock, both scrambling backwards, John ducking down, and Sherlock grabbing a book from his desk to throw. They remained like that for a tense second before both coming to their senses. John hung his head, laughed, and then looked up, his gorgeous blue eyes twinkling mischievously.
“Surprised you,” he sing-songed, grinning and pointing.
Sherlock pouted and chucked the book back onto the pile. “That wasn’t funny,” he said with a scowl.
John shrugged, standing up. “It was a little funny.” Sherlock huffed, not in the mood. He moved to push past John, determined that the day could only be improved with coffee, but John caught his arm. Warmth spread over his arm, as if branded by the touch, and he gritted his teeth against it and the glow in his chest.
“Hey. What’s wrong?” John said softly, expression immediately growing serious.
And with that, something in him snapped. He wrenched his arm away and kept moving. “Nothing. I’m fine,” he muttered. As he stormed down the corridor, he heard John call out to him but ignored it.
The day from that point on was spent in what can only be called an almighty sulk.
Fortunately, this was not the first time everyone had seen him like this, and so after a half-hearted attempt at cajoling, scolding, and pleading with him from his mother, he was left alone to pout and storm about outside. The only downside of it being summer was that it wasn’t cold enough to wear his coat but he still managed to cut an impressive figure, restlessly stalking the flat fields and down to the water edge.
Contrary to everyone’s opinions, he didn’t enjoy sulking. For one, his thoughts went fuzzy, like static crackling along his skull, the input getting all twisted and confused, unusable but consuming. The push and pull of conflicting desires was exhausting. Emotions welled up but without a way of sifting through them, until it all turned to numb mush, the equivalent of wet sand.
The path he trekked took him to the scrub of sandy beach by the reservoir, a few miles away. There was a much nicer beach on the opposite side, with picnic benches and facilities, meaning he was all alone, as planned. When they were kids, it was their main playground, the scene of sword fights and mutinies, treasure hunts and intergalactic piracy. His lips twitched as the memories flickered to life, like home videos stored in the attic, and he slumped down in defeat.
He was discovered a few hours later, plucking tufts of grass from the ledge, where rolling fields turned to gritty sand, shredding the offending items with his fingers. The sound of footsteps registered first. They paused just before they reached him, though whether it was to let him know he was there or to assess the situation, he was unsure. The steps resumed and John slouched down next to him. They sat in silence for a moment, each wary of the other.
“So you ready to stop being grumpy and talk to me?” John finally asked, staring ahead as Sherlock continued his one-man lawnmower attempt.
“No.”
John laughed, though it sounded hollow. “Fair enough,” he said, hanging his head. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see him, hunched up a little against the breeze, hands showed in his jacket pockets. He was licking his lips, a sign he was gearing up to say something but had yet to reach the right words. Instead he nudged him gently with his shoulder. “Talk to me anyway.”
He considered it, tilting his head. “What about?” he hedged.
John nudged him harder. “Don’t be a dickhead.”
“I thought that was part of the charm,” Sherlock pouted.
“Usually. But right now it’s a bit irritating.” He dared a look at him. John was smiling, but his patience was clearly being strained.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he muttered to the grass, drawing his knees in so he could circle them with his arms.
John nodded. “Fine. I’ll do it for you,” John said, clenching his jaw. Sherlock suddenly felt sick. Maybe it would have been better to talk first, if only to avoid this so soon, to play this off as all a weird misunderstanding, something they would laugh about once things stopped being so awkward, and really the storming off had nothing to do with the fact that every time he looked at him, thought about him, it felt like everything was brighter and warmer and electricity was crackling under his skin and-
“I’m so sorry Sherlock.”
Sherlock’s head snapped up, startled out of his spiral. John had hunched over even more to rest his head on his knees, staring sightlessly towards the water. “What?” was his eloquent response.
John’s lips twisted and he scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I get why you’re angry and don’t want to talk to me, but sitting in the house was driving me mad, and look I can sleep on the floor, or in Harry’s room, or just leave entirely, you know, whatever makes it better, but I,” he seemed to run out of steam, and added quietly, “I just need us to be alright. I need you to tell me how to make this right.”
His first thought was that he never wanted to hear John sound so miserable ever again. His second was that he was very confused. “Why would you leave?”
“Because,” John gestured at his hair, “because of that, and you’re mad, and I don’t know, I just thought it would be easier?”
“But you’re not supposed to be sorry. I’m the one that should be sorry.”
Now it was John’s turn to be confused. “For what?”
“For, you know,” he struggled to find the word. “Limpeting.”
“Limpeting?”
“It’s a word,” he defended, poking at the pile of grass he’d collected.
John wisely chose to drop it. “But you were asleep. And last time I checked limpeting isn’t a crime.”
“Neither’s stroking someone’s hair.”
He hadn’t meant to say it. But there it was now, out between them. And in for a penny…
“I liked it,” Sherlock muttered, half hoping he wouldn’t hear.
The words were out before he could even think at them. They both froze and Sherlock tried to fight the rising panic that suddenly made running away a very seductive option.
“Sherlock. Look at me.”
Fairly certain that John would read all his emotions instantly, Sherlock resisted, until he felt fingers press lightly on his jaw. Surprised, he relented, turning to look at John properly.
“Sherlock,” John said softly, and all the breath left his body, because they were very close, and John’s eyes were very blue, and he was very nervous. “Are we both being really stupid right now?”
It took a moment to reply, hope counterintuitively tightening his throat. He began haltingly. “That is a distinct possibility.”
“And we’re both trying to apologise for things the other didn’t actually mind at all?”
Sherlock nodded. “I think so.”
John smiled and like the sun, the warmth of it spread through Sherlock until he was smiling too.
“Okay. So for total clarity,” John stopped to take a deep breath. He also liked his lips which was far too distracting at such a close distance that Sherlock nearly missed his next words. “I, John Watson, like you, Sherlock Holmes. Romantic styles. Have for a little while now actually.”
There was really no other option than to lean in and kiss him. It was not the most elegant of kisses: their noses bumped a little and John was so shocked that he froze for a terrifying moment before he leant in as well, but all Sherlock would remember was that his lips were soft and warm, and when John’s hand slipped up from his jaw into his hair, holding him gently in place, it caused shivers down his spine. He would remember the sound of the breeze ruffling through the fields and over the water, and the smell of the salt, and the gritty feeling under his palm as he tried to keep his balance.
John tried to follow when he pulled back, before catching himself and giving him some space. However, in contrast to this morning, his hand remained in Sherlock’s hair, steadying him.
“Good. Me too. Romantic styles,” Sherlock whispered, afraid to break their bubble. But he couldn’t resist adding, “Just for clarification, obviously.”
John giggled, knocking their foreheads together, then turned mock-serious. “Obviously.”
And really, no one could fault Sherlock for leaning back in and kissing him again, because, honestly, he was looking at the most adorable, most gorgeous person in existence and when that adorable, gorgeous person seemed quite inclined to kiss you too, you had to take those opportunities.
It was some time later, when Sherlock was tucked up against John’s side, snuggling up to steal warm body heat, that he cheekily commented, “Very dramatic reaction to petting someone’s hair.”
John sputtered and then laughed. “Dickhead,” he said, shoving him, before dragging him back in.
“Your dickhead now,” Sherlock pointed out.
He could practically hear John’s dopey smile as he rested his head on top of Sherlock’s, right hand playing with the curls. “Yeah.” The idea that the affection in that voice was aimed at him was almost more than he could take so he wisely chose to box it up for analysis later. He vowed that when he had time, he'd create an entire room dedicated to this in his mind palace, to visit and cherish and never forget. Nothing could ruin this moment.
“Although we are going to need to talk about you stealing all the covers, because that’s a deal-breaker for me.”
Well, almost nothing.
(It was later negotiated that if Sherlock resumed the position from this morning i.e. spread out over John like his own personal blanket, then not only could they share the covers fairly equally, but also John could resume stroking Sherlock’s hair, which was a fantastic result for all involved).