Sweet Dreams

[doctorsoldier]

Who: John Watson and Sherlock Holmes
When: Very early Sunday morning.  Merry Christmas
Where: 20A
Summary: Sherlock is a bony pillow
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None likely

Comments

[couldbdangerous]

"Shut up," Sherlock commanded, voice gravelly with sleep, and pulled John closer so that he could bury his nose in his hair with a sigh. There. Lovely. Now go back to

[doctorsoldier]

"Right," John murmured and dropped the phone off of the side of the bed. The clatter didn't make him budge, he just closed tired eyes again and tugged the blankets back up. He was, more or less, use to Sherlock in bed with him since that mess with the wings, and far, far too tired to care about it at the moment.

Heavy eyelids slid closed before he blinked open again.

"I missed my birthday." Well. He hadn't exactly missed it. He just couldn't remember it. "Castiel said it was Christmas today." A pause. "Happy Christmas Sherlock."

John squirmed around until he was on his back and lifted his hand to keep Sherlock's head down.

"No, shh, no talking or explaining, more sleeping."

[couldbdangerous]

"You had a good birthday," Sherlock murmured. "I got you a gun and I did my best to make you very happy."

A long pause, and then he sighed wearily. "They took it away again."

Of course they did. Knives, crowbars, and swords were an unfair enough advantage already. Then again, so were magical powers. It would have been nice to have had something to help even the playing field, as it were.

Another sigh and a tightening of Sherlock's arms. "Happy Christmas, John. I'm afraid I haven't anything for you. I... well, it would rather have given everything away and I didn't intend to let you know how long we've been here. I didn't want to worry you. Stupid, would've come up eventually."

He adjusted himself to John's new position, slinging one leg over him and sliding his arm up too hook his fingers in his collar, wrist resting over John's heart so that he could feel its steady, lulling beat.

[doctorsoldier]

John really had to laugh. "I'm not going to disappear," he told Sherlock and that leg of his without trying to squirm away from it. On the contrary, he laid his hand over Sherlock's and tilted his head just under the other man's head. It was comfortable. They were friends. And comfort in trying times was important. John, as the field medic and battlefield surgeon, had gotten quite a lot of hugs from soldiers. It was part and parcel with the course. Some men needed to do it.

Sherlock, right now, needed to do it. John, if he decided to admit it, needed it too. He curled up against Sherlock as Sherlock cocooned himself around him and slid his hand from his wrist to his elbow.

"A gun? Seriously? You're absolutely in charge of my next birthday then."