Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A few days after their latest adventure, an exhausted John Watson stumbled into his room, dropping his bag heavily near the doorway. He was recently returned from a nearby coffee shop where he had just spent the better part of the day editing their latest case, queuing up some Patreon posts, and answering emails, and was now intent on nothing but comfy clothes and a long, long afternoon nap. His big wooden dresser creaked as he pulled drawers out, rifling about for his favourite tee– a soft and terrible thing that read “medical STUDent”. He shucked his day clothes and tossed them haphazardly towards the basket in one corner of his room. At one time in his life, everything he owned was meticulously folded, organised and tidy, but now… Well, now he enjoyed the choice of being a little untidy. Gave him a sense of control in a strange way, and anyways he always tidied once a week and was way too busy these days to put in all that extra effort daily–

“Can you keep it down?”

“Jesus! What the–Christ!” John felt himself rather eloquent in that moment, given the fact that a grouchy lump from his bed had just spoken to him. He had terrible flashbacks for a moment, fearing he would have to wash his sheets again, before the lump moved and he breathed a sigh of relief. Confusion was there too, but mostly relief.

“I’d have thought that obvious,” Sherlock sat up, duvet puddling around his waist. His curls were squashed and terribly ruffled, his eyes squinty and a distinctly annoyed tilt to his mouth. John’s eyes roved completely unbidden over the image before him: Sherlock, sleep rumpled and so warm-looking, stretched sleep shirt collar hanging loosely and exposing the pale column of his throat and a touch of shoulder on one side, the afternoon sun coming in from the window spilling gold across the entire picture. It was just this side of divine and John found his mouth suddenly very dry. Sherlock sighed, clearly grouchy at having been woken up despite the fact that this was not his room (could be, if he wanted) and not his bed (also could be, if only Sherlock felt the same).

“So?”

“Er…so?”

“Can you keep it down? I was sleeping,” Sherlock remarked primly, as if sleeping in John’s bed was not at all strange. Or that it was doing absolutely nothing to John’s heart to see him there. John cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Yeah, uh. Yeah, sorry–long day,” he managed a small laugh, unable to look away. “Finishing up the em–the latest edits. So.”

A long moment passed, Sherlock staring back flatly, which didn’t necessarily help. His singular attention had always gotten John just a little bit warm under the collar. Finally, blue eyes flicked down and then up rapidly.

“John,”

“Hm?”

“You’re…you’re in your pants,” The spell was broken as if a bucket of ice water had been poured over John’s head as he glanced down. He was still holding his pyjama pants, only partially dressed.

“Oh my–Christ,” he muttered, quickly turning away. He just knew his face was burning, the traitor. Shouldn’t it be more embarrassing anyway to be caught in your flatmate’s bed than to be in your pants in your own room? How in the world Sherlock managed to turn this situation around on John was beyond him, though not unexpected. “Right,” he sighed, turning back to Sherlock now that his pyjamas were all the way on. “I’ll just take a kip on the couch then...” He hoped the annoyance was clear enough in his tone, even though he knew better.

“Alright,” was Sherlock’s only reply before he flopped down onto the mattress and burrowed back beneath the duvet, curling into a vaguely human-shaped lump. The bastard.

And later that night, once Sherlock was up to his nightly shenanigans (tonight it seemed to be mostly pacing the whole of their flat in a particular pattern) and John found himself back in his own bed, if he turned his face into the pillow where Sherlock had rested and inhaled deeply the scent of his shampoo, well. That was his own business.

Somehow, even this became an odd sort of routine–Sherlock was a creature of habit, strange though his habits may be. Several times a week now John would return to the flat or walk into his room to find Sherlock in his bed, often sleeping in increasingly alarming positions. Most often though, he was wrapped snugly in the duvet and curled tightly around John’s pillow–his favourite, for more reasons than one now.
Sometimes when he knew Sherlock was in there, John would steal as quietly as possible into his room. Always with a purpose, of course, to grab his laptop charger or a change of socks, but more importantly to just look. Not in a creepy way, he wasn’t a weirdo, but… just to watch, for a moment. He loved the gentle rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest, the soft angles of his face pressed into John’s pillow, tousled dark curls peeking out of the duvet cocoon. No matter how many times he saw it, the very real sight continued to make John’s heart do strange things and warmth tingle across his skin, intertwining with John’s very not real and not possible fantasies along the subject. Frankly, it all made it rather hard to keep a lid on his feelings, ones he still wouldn’t dare name. Of course, Sherlock never made anything easy. Well, except solving mysteries, he supposed.
Still, he wasn’t sure what had caused this sudden habit shift, but thinking about it only made him feel a little crazy, to be honest. So he focussed on their work and kept his affections at bay and in control, where they couldn’t threaten the very dear friendship or fulfilling work they were doing. He could handle it. He could.

🜂

“Hi, hi, hi!” John looked up at the rapid knock and greeting from their downstairs neighbor, friend, and world’s best receptionist/manager/accountant.

“Oh, hey Mariana. What’s shakin’...er, bacon?” He cracked a cheesy grin, taking his headphones off. She rolled her eyes and came to peer over his shoulder at his laptop screen.

“Editing?”

“Editing. Nearly got this last one done, I think I’ve finally got it down to a solid two-parter rather than a three with a awkwardly short third part, so.”

“Great! Well, I was looking for Sherlock? He’s forgot to sign off on last month’s reports again.”

“Aw, isn’t that a surprise,” John joked, gesturing vaguely down the hall towards the bedrooms. “He’s taking a nap, so if you want to wake the dragon, be my guest.”

Mariana leveled him with a fond but exasperated look, but padded off down the hallway. John returned to editing until a few minutes later he felt a tap on the shoulder. He looked up at Mariana and took his headphones off again, leaving them around his neck this time. She seemed frustrated, and he sighed, mind immediately jumping to all the ways Sherlock might have been rude.

“Oh, what’s he done now? Look, I warned you–he’s always a grouch right after he’s woken up and––”

“No, no–” Mariana tried to cut in, but John was already saving the edit, ready to close his laptop and go scold his detective.

“-- I’ll get him to sign by the afternoon, even if I’ve got to drag him–”

“No, he’s–John!” John froze, midstand. Mariana blew out a short breath, hands on her hips. “He’s gone. I checked his room–are you sure he hasn’t gone out? Hudsons will not be happy if he’s climbed the drainpipe again…what?”

John had settled back into his seat, sighing with relief. “He’s not in his.”

“...What?”

“He’s in mine, ‘s where he’s taken to napping these days.” John waved his hand flippantly, though his brow scrunched a moment later. “‘Suppose he still could’ve gone out the window, he really is like a little cat sometimes, but I feel like I would’ve still heard. Well and anyway he was very much asleep when I left him in there, so–”

“Oh!” John was startled as Mariana clapped her hands together. He squinted at her, confused by her huge grin. “I’m so happy for you two!”

Now it was John’s turn to say: “...what?”

“Y’know I was starting to think I was a little crazy, imagining all that, that tension lately and well–just, congrats!” Okay, now he was really confused.

“Mariana, slow down. What on earth are you on about? Congrats for what?”

“What do you–for you and Sherlock!” John searched his mind for any explanation, grasping at straws and coming up with nothing. Had the podcast won an award he didn’t know about? Had Sherlock solved another case or something? If so and John hadn’t been there to record it he’d kick himself. And his detective too while he was at it. But how did that relate to Sherlock’s nap?

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

They stood there a long moment, just looking at each other.

“Are you…he’s in your bed? You’re…together, now?” she asked, and realisation hit John like a tonne of bricks.

“No, we’re not–Mariana, for god’s sake!”

“Oh no, no, no that’s a logical assumption, actually,” she defended herself, only looking mildly abashed.

“Logical? How’s it logical? Sherlock and I–” he took a breath, realising how his voice had risen and shooting a furtive look down the hall, hoping to have not woken him. He continued in a near-whisper. “We’re not…together.”

“Oh,” he was thankful Mariana matched his whisper, sinking into the seat across from him. Her brow furrowed and she appeared to choose her next words carefully. “So are you just…” She made a face, widening her eyes meaningfully. John stared, mouth falling open in a gape.

“Mariana–for god’s sake! No, we’re not, we’re not. Sleeping tog– he just uses my bed to nap sometimes, we’re never in it together!” He thought for a moment and winced, correcting himself. “Or we’re never in it like, like that! I mean he’s come to sit on my bed before when I’ve been sat on it editing or something, or sometimes we’ll just sit and talk but that’s only ‘cos the single other place to sit in my room is that awful desk chair–”

“Okay–”

“And you know how he feels about the squeaks it makes– and the cracked leather, sensory nightmare he calls it, and I really should just throw it out but I hate to toss something that still works–”

“John–”

“I mean it’s waste not want not isn’t that the saying? And we’re not, it’s not, he doesn’t and I’m–”

“John, hey!” Mariana grabbed his wildly gesturing hand, leaning across their narrow coffee table. He ground to a halt at the touch. “I shouldn’t have assumed, I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m– no it’s fine, you were just asking a question and I just, well. I should probably say sorry for waffling on, eh?” he tried for a huff of a laugh to ease some of the embarrassment.

“I guess we can both be sorry, and leave it at that,” she smiled, sitting back. He returned the smile gratefully.

“Sounds good. So, as soon as he’s up I will make sure he signs off on everything you need,”

“Great! Great.” Mariana nodded and John settled his laptop back into his lap, intent on finishing up the edit. But then, Mariana didn’t leave. Not that she had to, of course, but she was staring at him. Really staring. He tried and failed a couple times to refocus on his work before he closed the lid on his laptop and set it aside.

“Okay, what?”

“What?”

“Mariana, I’m asking you.”

“And I’m asking you, what?”

“Alright, not that I don’t enjoy your company, but it’s kind of hard to focus when you’re boring holes into my head!”

“I wasn’t–ehh okay. I was doing that.”

“What for, then?”

“I was just wondering…”

“Wondering what?”

“Ehh,” she was waffling herself a bit now, “Can I ask another question or will it set you on another spiral?”

“Okay, well, I can’t promise you a specific reaction without knowing what on earth you’re about to ask but I,” he blew out a breath, “Just, just ask.”
Mariana pursed her lips, studying him for a long moment. “Well, I’d just already noticed it a lot, lately.”

“Noticed what?”

“The way you two look at each other, and–and the way you’ll shower him with compliments, and the hand holding–”

“I mean only when he’s being brilliant, and I don’t– I don’t shower him with them, and the hand holding is not–it’s not often and just to manage the, well touch helps to manage anxiety and all. I mean that’s just scientific, that is.”

“Well and the hugs!”

“Mariana, we literally all hug. Pretty regularly, might I add. As friends tend to do.”

“Yes, but yours really eh, linger.”

“You–well, he. I mean he just likes to be squeezed and all, it’s accommodation really–”

“But your hugs, like, you’re just holding each other sometimes and it’s sweet! And there’s nothing wrong with a long hug, sure, I just noticed they go on,” she shrugged.

“Well yeah, but we’re best mates.”

“And normally ‘best mates’ will crowd together on one end of the sofa for movie nights?”

“That’s, that’s to make room for you and Archie!”

“You don’t let Archie up here and I do not need more than half the couch to myself, John.” Mariana shook her head, exasperated. “Look, would you and Stamford do any of those things?”

“No, but,” he pulled a face at her, “Stamford isn’t my best friend, and he’s neurotypical too far as I can tell so it’s just, it’s different–”

“Fine! Fine,” she pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed, lips pressed into a thin line, an expression John was very much familiar with. “That’s not the question then, anyway.”

“Then what? I do have work you know,”

“Watch it,” she warned, cutting her eyes up at him. He lifted his hands in surrender.

“Sorry, yeah. Ask away.”

“Do you have feelings for Sherlock?”

John stilled, breath catching in his throat. Now that was a question, wasn’t it. Not one entirely unknown to him, he’d asked it of himself a few times lately and even a few patrons had ventured into that territory. Not that he’d answered those exactly, but he’d seen them. Certainly had feelings, though it was hard to sort it all out actually. He’d a lot of feelings both towards and about the man, each more confusing and frightening than the last. It was why he kept it all tucked away in a little box in a far off corner of his mind; it was better to keep the messiest emotions put away so they didn’t spill out and inevitably muck everything up. He’d learned that lesson. More than once.

“John…?” Mariana’s voice brought him back to himself and his gaze immediately snapped over to the hallway, looking for a detective who’d surely been woken up by the ruckus by now. The hallway, however, remained empty, and the door to John’s room closed. He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. He didn’t have to look back at Mariana to know everything that his silence must have told her. His fault really, for being around such perceptive people, he supposed.

“Look,” he kept his voice low, gaze falling to the coffee table, where it traced the grain in the wood, circled the faint pock marks and dings from any number of incidents involving a bored Sherlock in between adventures. “We’ve got an incredible thing going here. I get to make an amazing podcast with, with two of the most brilliant people I know. I get to solve mysteries and go on adventures and help people again. Nothing I might…nothing I feel is worth risking any of that to me.”

“John–”

“No, listen,” he looked at her then, hoping the resolve he felt reflected itself in his expression. “I will not jeopardize the best thing in my life, Mariana.”

“But–why not just talk to him? You never know, maybe he–”

“No, he…no. He doesn’t.” Of this, John was utterly sure. He shook his head. “Please, just. I’m just asking you to respect my decision.”

She nodded slowly, still looking like she had a lot to say but standing to leave instead. He sighed again, feeling raw and exposed and a whole jumble of things all at once. Mariana came to a brief stop as she passed him on her way out, squeezing his shoulder.
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” she said.

Yeah. He was, too.

🜂

Still, he’d broached the subject himself once, weeks after he and Mariana’s conversation, curiosity getting the better of him as he looked up at a bleary-eyed Sherlock, stumbling out of John’s room.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock made some grumbly humming sound to let him know he was listening, even as he wandered into the kitchen, coming to a stop by the kettle.

“What’s the uh, what’s the deal lately?”

“...The ‘deal’ lately?” Sherlock asked flatly, folding his arms and beginning what appeared to be a staring contest.

“With the, y’know, the naps,”

“Watson, we’ve lived together almost a year. You’ve seen me nap often.”

“Well, yeah, but I meant the–in the–

“Spit it out,” Sherlock groused, finally breaking his stare with the kettle to look over at him. John’s heart stuttered, as it always did when those piercing blue eyes hit him.

“The location,” he finally said, “ Where you’re taking your naps, lately.”

“Oh. Your room?”

“Y-yeah,” John swallowed, watching Sherlock think for a moment.

“Ah,” he returned his gaze to the kettle, and John sighed imperceptibly. Or, imperceptibly to any normal person. He was sure Sherlock had heard. “Your bed is…comfortable. And, smells good, like you. It’s to my taste.”
John swallowed again, didn’t know why his throat felt so suddenly dry, why his heart decided this moment that it should race. It almost made him dizzy.

“And,” Sherlock continued, “Your window gets the perfect amount of light throughout the day, better than mine. Just enough to be pleasant, not enough to keep me awake. Most ideal for my naps.”

“Right,” John nodded, confused and irritated by the sudden disappointment he felt. Sherlock saying he smelled good was hardly a confession and anyway John had already made his own decisions on the matter. Idiot.

“Do you want tea?” Sherlock asked, breaking the silence. What Sherlock really meant of course was for John to make some tea. He’d make it himself sometimes, sure, but he really preferred John’s, though he suspected it was just because Sherlock would rather not expend the energy to make it himself. John sighed, fondly and stood, neatly boxing up all those pesky emotions again.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll fix us up some.” John waved him out of the kitchen, awarded with a sleepy closed mouth smile from Sherlock that threatened to upend that little box of feeling in John’s chest. “Shoo, you,” he couldn’t resist smiling at Sherlock’s retreating back, idiot that he was.

🜂

And then John had gotten shot.

Chapter Text

Of course, he’d been wearing a bulletproof vest and ended up with an ego more bruised than anything else. Still, things changed after that.

🜂

“Bugger and shite and bloody fu–” John cut himself off with a hiss of pain as he shrugged out of his button up, tossing it frustratedly into the laundry basket. He was obviously glad to have not been properly shot, but pain still radiated outwards from the blooming bruise on his chest. Worse still, the rest of the muscles in his torso were all overcompensating now for the injury and were horribly sore as a result. He muttered a few more curses under his breath as he changed gingerly into his pyjamas, weighing the effort of putting his shirt on versus being a little chilly.

“Arsehole. And bastard,” A voice from the doorway startled him out of his thoughts, made him wince with another wave of pain.

“Jesus H– Sherlock? You heard of knocking?” John bit out. The detective did at least, look a little sheepish.

“Heard your litany of curses, Watson, thought I’d toss mine in, too,” Sherlock briefly met John’s gaze with an awkward half-grin, a darling thing he reserved for his jokes. John sighed, softening already. Who could blame him anyway when Sherlock looked like that?

“‘S a good one, mate,” John sighed, deciding to abandon any attempt at putting on the shirt. “What’d you need?”

“I could help you. With that. If you wanted.” Sherlock shifted on the balls of his feet, looking off into the corner of the room.

“...What?”

“Your…your shirt. I could help you get it on, if you’re too sore.”

“Aw, that’s–that’s fine,” John was not surprised Sherlock had guessed his internal debate, but found himself rather touched at the offer. “Thanks, though.”

“You get too cold without one, you won’t sleep well.” Sherlock quipped, advancing. “We’ll get your arms through the sleeves first and then I’ll just pull it up over your head so you don’t have to lift your arms at all. I…I know it hurts.”

“Sherlock, mate, it’s really okay,”

“John, please.” Something in Sherlock’s voice stopped him, further protests dying on his lips. “Let me help.”

“Al-alright.”

Sherlock blew out a short breath, shoulders visibly relaxing and advanced, picking up the tee. He stepped close to John, who held his breath as Sherlock carefully slid the shirt up his arms, long fingers leaving goosebumps on John’s skin in their wake. Sherlock lifted the tee over his head and pulled at the hem until it fell loosely at John’s waist. Painless. For a moment, they stood closely together, just looking at each other. John could smell the barely-there scent of Sherlock’s soap, could see every fleck of color in his irises, could see himself reflected in the big black depths of Sherlock’s pupils. A heady warmth radiated off of the detective and it took everything John had not to sway closer, not to lean in. A moment longer, then Sherlock blinked and glanced down, nose screwed up as if offended.

“What?” Did he stink or something? I mean it had been a long day sure, but he thought he’d be able to tell if he needed to shower tonight rather than tomorrow morning.

“One hundred percent…podcasts…” Sherlock read off the tee, tone in his voice as if the shirt had personally slapped him.

“What? It’s funny,” Now John was offended. He really liked this shirt.

“What does that even mean?”

“It’s a–it’s from some other podcasters. It’s these American brothers, sometimes their dad, I think–”

“Hmm, don’t care.” Sherlock folded his arms across his chest, stepping back. John missed the warmth immediately. “It’s horrid.”

“Well it’s not your shirt, is it,” John rolled his eyes, moment lost.

“Thank goodness for that,” Sherlock sniffed. John rolled his eyes again, though with a smile this time. He’d always liked them a little petulant, he supposed. He checked that his laptop was plugged in and the latest recordings were copying over, then shuffled over to his bed. “Well, thank you for the help, mate. Time for beddy-bye, then?”

“...Beddy-bye.”

“Uhh, yep. Hittin’ the hay and all that,” Sherlock just stood there, arms still folded and an eyebrow raised. “You going to bed soon?”

“I…am.”

“Right, well, that’s a weird tone of voice.”

“I always have a weird tone of voice,” Sherlock began to protest, shifting on the balls of his feet again.

“You really don’t. Not all the time anyway and a lot of times it’s more in the cadence, isn’t it?” Sherlock took a breath to respond but John shook his head, cutting him off. “Anyway, that’s not what I’m talking about. You’re being shifty.”

“Am not!”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m–”

“Yes, you are, you’re literally shifting around–”

“No!”

“Oh for the love–” John threw his hands up and winced at the sharp twinge of pain. “Ow. I’m going to sleep.”

Sherlock fixed him with a flat look, which John promptly ignored in order to climb carefully into bed, pulling the duvet up over his shoulder as he laid down on his side, facing away from Sherlock. He’d not actually be able to sleep like that, back to the door and all, but it worked for the moment. He listened as Sherlock shuffled around in the doorway, and sighed. John was used to a lot of strange behavior these days, but this was odd even for Sherlock.

“Good night, Sherlock” he said, unsure of how to proceed. “Will you turn the lights out when you go, please?”

A long silence followed, John staring at the wall and listening intently. Eventually, Sherlock spoke, voice soft and unsure.

“Could I…sleep in here?”

John froze even as his heart kicked into high gear, beating wild and erratic against his ribs. Slowly, he sat up. He looked over at Sherlock, who stood anxiously rubbing his hands together, face nearly in profile as he stared into the far corner of John’s room.

“What?” John’s racing heart caught in his throat.

“Could I sleep in here? Just for tonight.”

“I, ehm. Thought you hated snoring?” he tried for a lighthearted rib and instead sounded as lightheaded as he felt.

“I do,” Sherlock began, looking at the floor now. “But I might not, tonight. Not…not if it’s you.”

“Oh.” It came out more an exhalation than an actual word. John’s mind reeled as he tried to gather his thoughts, a million different trains zooming off in every direction. Start with the facts, Watson, his inner Sherlock voice chided, cutting through the harried noise.

Fact 1: Sherlock had just asked to stay in John’s room. He’d said he wouldn’t mind the snoring, which implied John would also stay in his room to do aforementioned snoring.

Fact 2: The only other furniture in the room besides a very unsuitable dresser and cluttered desk was the chair that Sherlock despised. So presumably, he meant he’d be sleeping in John’s bed. Unless the detective planned to sleep on the floor, which–no, John shook his head internally. If anything he’d be kicked off the bed and sleep on the floor.

Fact 3: John was injured. Mildly all things considered, sure, but Sherlock had already demonstrated an acute concern for his level of injury. Sherlock was a lot of things but he was not that selfish. He wouldn’t send John to the floor when he was worried enough to have helped him dress.

Conclusion: Sherlock was planning to sleep in John’s bed. With John. As in, together. Coinhabiting. The bed. Sharing–

“Ah,” Sherlock made a frustrated sound, “I can see the gears turning. I thought I’d said it quite plainly. Can I sleep in your bed, with you, tonight? Please.” Sherlock did not look at him, but folded his arms tightly over his chest, shifting from one socked foot to the other, his housecoat swinging in a darling way as he did so. “You don’t, we don’t have to obviously, I won’t be–won’t be offended or anything,”

“Yeah,” John agreed, mouth catching up to his heart before his brain could intervene.

“Oh. Yeah?” Sherlock finally met his eyes again then, hint of a relieved smile flitting about his face and setting John’s heart stuttering again. At this point it’d take next to nothing to convince him he’d developed an arrhythmia. He nodded before better judgment got the best of him, swallowed hard. He didn’t trust himself with words at the moment. Sherlock took a step towards the bed though and John’s brain nearly short circuited.

“The lights!” He blurted, hands gripping at the duvet. He took the moment Sherlock’s back turned to flip the switch to flop back down facing the wall, ignoring the protest of pain as he did so and pulling the duvet up near his ear. In the darkness, he heard the rustle of fabric as the housecoat was shucked and hung over the back of the wretched desk chair, heard the soft step of socked foot as Sherlock crossed the short distance to John’s bed, felt a nip of cool air as the duvet was lifted. He held himself carefully still as the mattress shifted under the weight of a second body. Sherlock settled in easily, familiar as he was these days with John’s bed, unabashedly taking up a lot of space in the small double. As if it were his bed actually. As if he belonged there. Christ.

Surely, Sherlock could hear John’s heart jackhammering away, feel the pulse of it through the mattress or something. He should have said no, should have maintained some sanity and gently turned Sherlock away so John could…compartmentalize. It was impossible now, when John could smell him, when he could feel the warmth radiating from him, feel his breath ghost softly over the back of his neck. When he knew that if only he’d lean into the dip of the bed he could press his back into the curve of Sherlock. Would his arm wind around John? Tug him closer, tangle their legs together, press his face into John’s hair? Or, if only he’d turn around–would they be nose to nose? Closer? Or–

“Can we trade pillows?” Sherlock’s voice broke through his reverie. John flinched, face flushing, though thankfully hidden by the darkness. Small mercies. Then he processed Sherlock’s question.

“What?”

“Can we trade pillows? I like yours better.” He could hear Sherlock’s eyeroll even with his back turned. Annoyance broke the haze of want for a moment, John’s mind clearing.

“Trade pillows? No!” He snapped. “That one’s just as good.”

“It’s really not.” Sherlock muttered, though he did drop it. The absurdity of it all, while it did cause a familiar swell of exasperated fondness, was enough to break the tension of the moment. John found himself relaxing into the warmth, let himself be soothed by the quiet, by the steady breathing of his detective.
Soon enough, he found himself drifting off, succumbing to a deep slumber. Deep enough, in fact, that he was completely unaware of the long-fingers that snuck across the sheets to grip tightly at the hem of his shirt.

Chapter Text

The next night, Sherlock returned. The night after that as well. The third night, John fell asleep alone, an insomniac pacing the flat, but still woke up very much not alone the next morning. And it continued on like that, days into weeks. Weeks into a month, a month and a half.

Astounding, perhaps, how quickly new habits can form.

John had a hard time admitting it to himself, but he really rather liked this one. It was only natural, he assured himself. Who doesn't like waking up warm, cozy and well-rested? Who wouldn't prefer to be able to just roll over to say good morning rather than leaving the comfort of the duvet? 

It was only natural, probably even normal actually, and John would have been utterly content to leave it this way, not letting himself think about silly things like why they were sharing a bed when Sherlock had a perfectly good one of his own. 

His mistake, however, was letting Mariana find out. 

🜂

Sometimes when editing, one needed a change in scenery. Also sometimes, one has spent far too much money at coffee shops and didn’t fancy a walk in the rain anyway, and so finds themselves downstairs in 221A. 

John sat on a little settee they usually reserved for clients in Mariana’s living room/office, cracking away at the latest edit. Relocating down here did help, but he’d still made annoyingly little progress. Currently waffling on where to put an ad break, he sighed, rubbing at the tender muscles of his neck. 

“Is your neck bothering you?” Mariana didn’t look up from her computer, eyes flicking back and forth along the lines of her spreadsheets, her fingers rapping on the keyboard. 

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, a bit.” John sighed, massaging his neck to no avail. “Sherlock finally managed to switch our pillows last night–dunno how without waking me up, but now I’ve slept all wrong. The bastard was smug as a cat when I rolled over this morning.” He huffed a small laugh. 

Before long, he became aware of the quiet permeating the room. Mariana’s keyboard had fallen silent, her scrutiny weighing heavily on him. Questioning. Curious. John realized with a start the implications of what he had said. 

“Wait–”

“So you are sleeping together, now?” She interrupted, shutting her laptop and leaning forward on her elbows. 

“Mariana, no–it’s, it’s not like that–” 

“John.” She cut him off, stern. “It can be however it is, you’re two grown men. But as your friend I may…have concerns.” 

“Well, why?” He felt petulant all of a sudden. “We’re just sharing a bed–and just sleeping, ” He emphasized, feeling an embarrassed flush begin to creep up his neck. “Friends can do that, you know.” It sounded weak to his own ears. Mariana’s frown deepened. 

“...Yes, I suppose they can,” She spoke as if carefully choosing her words, “In this case though, I think it’s a little more complicated. Don’t you?”

Of course he did, because nothing was ever simple with Sherlock bloody Holmes, was it? He’d just gone and appeared in John’s life one day, bloodied and on a treadmill for god’s sake, turning everything upside down. John sighed, closing the laptop and scrubbing a hand over his face. He opened his mouth to speak and found he didn’t know what to say, looking helplessly at Mariana. She sighed, expression softening in sympathy. 

“I think you should talk to him, John.” 

“Talk?” he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “There’s nothing to–what do we even need to talk about?” 

“Your feelings, John. Talk about your feelings.” 

“Nothing to–we’re just two best mates, sharing a bed. And you know what? I think we both sleep better actually, so if you think about it, it really just makes more sense, doesn’t it? Good for our–good for our health and all.” She seemed unimpressed, leaning back into her chair and folding her arms. Definitely unimpressed then. He gulped a breath, continued, “Plus it’s warmer–y’know I wouldn’t be surprised if we could seriously reduce our heating bill actually, save us some money. Frugal, that. Though I guess we might spend it on the aircon come summer–tea!” 

“Tea,” Mariana repeated flatly. 

“Tea! My room’s uh, closer to the kettle.” 

They stared at each other for a long, silent moment. 

“...Yeah, alright,” he muttered, hearing in real time the hysterical edge to his excuses, how they fell flat. 

“John, I know it’s scary, to talk about your feelings.” 

“You can say that again,” he muttered. “Honestly, I’d almost rather take being blown up again.” He joked weakly, flinching under Mariana’s resulting disapproving glare. “Sorry.” 

“I just don’t think it;s good for either of you to not talk about it–this, whatever you want to call what’s between you right now.” 

“Between us? There’s–it’s nothing between us, just. Just me.” A reminder to himself as much as to her. 

Mariana made a displeased sound, shaking her head. “See, this is what I’m talking about. You haven’t even talked to him and you’re already–you always assume the worst!” 

“Hey!”

“You do,” she continued, undeterred. “And then you get all weird and mopey.”

“You think I’m weird and mopey?”

“Don’t change the subject, John,” She scolded. “Talk to Sherlock.” 

“How?” he groaned again. “What do I even say that wouldn’t–wouldn’t ruin this?” He gestured vaguely in the air, hoping to indicate Sherlock&Co as a whole. “What would I even say? I put my foot in my mouth every time I open it, Mariana.” 

She snorted a laugh, caught off guard. “I–I wouldn’t say every time-” 

“Fine, nearly every time. And that’s not the point anyway, what do I even say?” 

“Say what’s on your heart!” 

“Oh yeah, how romantic, I’ll just confess my undying love for him then? Buy a–buy a roomful of flowers and come riding in on a white horse? Hire a string quartet? He’ll nitpick their technique until they all walk out, you know. Should I wear one of those big white shirts, too? One of those that are falling all open like, like Fabio or whoever? He wouldn’t even get   the reference.” 

Mariana blinked. “That was a lot.” 

“...Yeah.” 

“You love him?” She asked, her smile soft and just a little sad. John’s throat constricted with emotion. He could hardly think it most days, much less to say it, but–

“Yeah.” He breathed, ducking his head.

“Oh, John.” Mariana came to sit beside him, arm warm around his shoulders. “Just talk to him. It really will be okay. You said yourself he’s your best friend, and I know he cares about you.” 

“I know, but what if it–what if it changes everything?” 

“Yes, what if?” She repeated, eyes sparkling where they caught John’s. “What if you like how it changes?” 

“Oh, no, it’s–it won’t be like that.” John couldn’t even, wouldn’t let himself imagine that right now. Best to prepare for reality. 

“Ugh, John! You’ll never know until you talk to him! Come on–be brave!” 

“Hey, I fought in a war I’ll have you know–I’m very brave.” He muttered. She scrubbed a hand through his hair rapidly. 

“Aw, yes, brave boy you are!” She grinned as John bat her away, laughing despite himself. 

“Quit it, you. Not Archie.” On cue, there was a thump from upstairs as if a very large, or well-loved, bulldog had heard his name and jumped down from, say, a couch he wasn’t allowed on. 

John stood, tucking his laptop under his arm and glancing out the window. The rain had stopped, so maybe he and Archie could take a walk. Help get his head on straight. 

“Thanks, Mariana.” 

“Oh,” she waved him off, fondly. “So you’ll talk to him?” 

“I’ll…try.” He said, ignoring the frisson of fear that coursed through him even at that. It was the best he could do. 

“Very brave,” she teased, though John knew she meant it. 

🜂

That evening found John pacing the short distance between bed and desk. He could hear Sherlock down the hall, brushing his teeth, and knew it was mere minutes before he’d be here, ready to get in their bed and–

John stopped. When had it become ‘their’ bed?

He barely had time to stew on this thought before Sherlock swept in, all dressing gown and tousled curls. John’s throat was very dry. He opened his mouth to say–what? 

“How about a system?” Sherlock spoke first. John blinked blankly, taken aback. 

“A system?” 

“Yes.” 

“For what?” John asked. 

“The pillow , obviously. Do keep up, John.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled out his phone, invading John’s space to show him what was on the screen. “I was thinking we could alternate weeks, switching on Sunday nights into Monday–” 

Sherlock continued on, prattling about the schedule and pointing to the little color coded calendar app, as if John could process even one bit of it with him standing so close. He could feel the heat of him all along his side, shoulders barely a breath apart. Was he swaying closer? Hard to tell but the impulse was certainly there. 

If they were together, John might wind an arm around Sherlock’s middle, press in along his side. He could shake a hand around and into that dressing gown, seek out the skin beneath his sleep shirt. He could lean up on his toes to press a little kiss to the underside of his jaw, that soft spot beneath his ear. 

“John?” He startled out of the daydream to Sherlock’s voice, and quickly snapped his head back down to look at the calendar, mortified to have been staring. 

“Uh–” he said, eloquently. 

“Is the schedule amenable to you? We could work out a few details still if need be, but–” 

“Have it.” Now who said that? Sherlock’s brow creased in confusion. 

“What?”

“The-the pillow. Just–have it.” John heard himself say as if having an out of body experience. A beat of silence, then Sherlock deflated slightly, shifting away. John missed the heat immediately. 

“Oh.” Sherlock puzzled down at the calendar, free hand resting on his hip. John tracked the movement before he could stop himself and quickly willed his eyes away.

“Oh?” He echoed. “Aren’t you–isn’t that what you wanted?” 

“Well, yes,” Sherlock shrugged. “Only I rather thought you’d fight me more for it.” 

That was familiar territory, John thought with relief. “Oh, so you wanted a fight, then?” 

“No, just thought you might not see reason at first.” Barest hint of a smile, humorous little twinkle in his eye. John took the bait gratefully and ignored the little voice in the back of his head that was chanting how soft Sherlock’s lips looked. 

“‘Cause I’m so unreasonable, am I?” 

Sherlock grinned fully then, fondness clutching at John’s heart at the sight. “Just when it comes to pillows.” He jostled John with a gentle elbow and strode over to the bed. He shucked his housecoat and draped it over the awful chair in a well practised motion, folding back the covers and clambering into bed. Easy. Comfortable. Familiar. Like he was supposed to be there. Which, as of late, John supposed he rather was. He couldn’t breathe. 

“Come now,” Sherlock patted the mattress beside him. “Time for ‘beddy-bye.’” He grimaced, making a put-upon face he knew made John laugh. 

“Right,” John choked out instead. Sherlock stared at him as he stood, frozen to the spot. 

“I think that was a weird tone of voice.” he said, finally. His eyes roved over John, assessing. Calculating. Detective-ing. This spurred John into action, whirling around to turn the lights off and making a mad dash to get under the covers. He settled in, tucking the covers under his chin and willing Sherlock to drop it. “John?” 

“Good night, Sherlock,” he willed his voice normal. He could be brave tomorrow, he decided. 

“John,” Sherlock said again. John squeezed his eyes shut. Maybe if he pretended to have already fallen asleep? He jumped when a hand gripped his shoulder. “John!” 

“What?” He was not proud of the hysterical edge to his voice as he sat up and turned around. Sherlock was barely more than an outlined blob in the dim moonlight through John’s thick curtains, and yet. 

“The pillow? You said I could have it.” Sherlock pointed and eyes owlish. 

“Oh for Christ’s sake ,” John spluttered, holding in a laugh at the absurdity of it all. He watched Sherlock carefully swap their pillows, taking care to fluff the one John was now to sleep on before contentedly curling up with John’s–now his–pillow. John let himself look for just a second before he lay back down, willed his hand to stay instead of reaching out to card through those curls. 

Tomorrow. He could be brave tomorrow. 

🜂

Tomorrow became today became yesterday, and still John had not been brave. He’d tried, over their morning tea, after dinner. He’d resolved to speak to Sherlock that night and then been thwarted by one of the detective’s night experiments–not his fault, really, as he’d tried to explain to a very stern Mariana the next morning. She’d whacked him, literally whacked him, on the back of the head before she’d left for Spain.

And then they were off to Casa de Watson for their own little holiday, Archie in tow and John more excited than he’d cared to admit to show Sherlock his old haunts, run-down as they were. 

“Here we are,” He said, Archie taking off the second the door was open t0 goodness knows where. Sherlock looked around, kicking off his trainers and taking in his surroundings with his typical assessing eye. John felt suddenly shy, clearing his throat as he went on. “Kitchen slash lounge. Then there’s two bedrooms upstairs- but she’s also turned that room there that was a dining room- which is obviously the most useless room in the world– she’s turned that into a little bedroom. I’ll, uh–I’ll be in my old room, so you can either sleep in my Mum’s room yuck– or the little room. Her room is nice and everything but the door bangs in the breeze at night and she has a clock in there.” 

Sherlock pinned him with the eye, expression scrunching in confusion. “I’ll be with you.” He said simply, more statement than question. John cleared his throat again, feeling hot in his tee shirt, and looked away. 

“Er, well–my–my old bed isn’t as big as ours–as the one in our flat.” John stumbled over his words, adjusting his now sweaty grip on his bag. 

“Is it a twin?” 

“What?”

“A twin size bed?” 

“Uh, n-no it’s. It’s not quite that small.” John answered, confused as ever. Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“It’s fine, then.” Sherlock said, striding deeper into the house. “Upstairs?” 

“Er, yeah,” John followed behind as they made their way up the stairs and opened the door to John’s old bedroom. He didn’t question how Sherlock knew which was his first try–wasn’t like there were too many doors to choose from up here anyway–but did push ahead through the door. He took the sight in quickly, a cursory glance around before Sherlock joined him. Nothing too embarrassing, he supposed–his Mum kept the whole house pretty tidy, and he’d spent a little time ageing the room up when he’d first gotten home after Ukraine before 221B. Still, he winced just a little at the football posters and Swindon town merch that adorned the walls.

Sherlock, unbothered, dropped his bag on the floor at the foot of his bed and went about unpacking it, moving about the room with an ease in John’s space that made his head spin. He opened drawers and hung clothes, dropped his phone with its little microscope on the bedside table, sat on the bed. Bounced. Nodded, then reached over to produce the pillow from his bag as well. How in the world did he get that stuffed down in there? He plopped it down unceremoniously, patted it proudly and nodded again. “This will do just fine,” he said, springing up and making to leave the room. “Tea?”

Christ . John grabbed Sherlock by the arm, stopping him without thinking as to why. Only that his heart was about to beat out of his chest. Only that they were going to share again, in a bed small enough they’d have no choice but to touch. Only that Sherlock was here, in John’s childhood bedroom, ear defenders hanging from his neck and drowning in a zip-up hoodie he’d stolen from John months ago, smiling at him. Only that seeing Sherlock here, comfortable in John’s old room, in his past as well as his present, wanting to be there rather than be anywhere else made his chest swell with emotion. 

“I love you,” he blurted, again without thinking. Sherlock blinked, owlish, at him. The shock of confession rushed over him then, like a bucket of cold water had been dumped over his head. His hand trembled where it held Sherlock’s arm. 

“Well, yes. I love you, too.” Sherlock replied, looking every bit of confused as John suddenly was. “Tea?”

“What–I mean, what’s–that’s all you have to say?” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes again and made an exasperated noise. “Sorry, will you please make some tea?” 

“What–Sherlock, no! About the–about the–what I said!” 

“Oh.” He frowned, thinking for a moment. “I said it back.” 

“You…” John opened and shut his mouth a few times, floundering for words. He had said it back, hadn’t he? Unless he meant– “Wait, I mean–you know I mean like, not as best mates? Or we are! We are best mates, I didn’t mean it like that, or well I did mean it like that but also not like that, like in the sense of more than friends, like how you might love–” he coughed, choking on his rambling. “Uh, do you know what I mean?” He finished, weakly. 

“John.” Sherlock turned to face him more fully, hands coming up to rest on John’s shoulders. The touch grounded him even as it was difficult to handle the full brunt of Sherlock’s intense gaze. “I said I love you, too. I meant it both as my best friend as well as more.” 

“M-more,” John said. 

“Yes, John, more.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, but the impact was certainly lessened by the fond quirk of his mouth as he smiled at John. “I’d have rather thought it obvious. We’ve been sleeping together for ages now.” 

John spluttered, indignant. “Yeah, but–not like that! I thought, well I slept better, I thought maybe you did too. And then I just thought it was habit, you know how you are about those–”

“Not exactly the most platonic habit though, is it!” And Sherlock was laughing at him now, eyes sparkling and drawing him in, hands brushing down the length of John’s arm. He stepped forward into the embrace as if it were the most natural thing in the world. 

“You bastard, ” John couldn’t help but laugh, himself. “I’ve been worrying myself to death for weeks about this, you know! Mariana had to go to Spain, she was so sick of me!” 

“Oh I know,” Sherlock smirked. John’s mouth fell open, incredulous. 

“Is that right? You two colluding? Gossipping about me behind my back, are you?”

Sherlock shrugged, looking away with a prim little expression even as his arms wound their way around John. “I wouldn’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Fired!” John leaned into Sherlock, pressing into him, his body alight with heat everywhere they touched. “You’re both fired, as soon as we get back home!” 

“You’ll fire the Sherlock of Sherlock & Co.?” 

“The listeners will understand once they hear how you’ve treated me.” He laughed again, dizzy with relief and–and. Sherlock tilted his head. His mouth was very close now, plush and pink and right there. John blurted again without thinking. “Can I kiss you, now?” 

“Depends,” Sherlock murmured, close enough John felt his breath ghost across his face, felt the barest brush of their lips. “Am I still fired?” 

John didn’t even have a chance to reply as Sherlock pressed their mouths together, warm and sure and smiling. There wasn’t much room for talking after that.