"Why not? Why not?" John sounded incredulous as he finally sat up, pulling his jumper off of Sherlock and pulling it on with awkward movements, effectively ruining the warm mood they had established. "For one, I like sleeping on my own. Two, a man needs his privacy. Three, should I ever bring someone home, I'd like to be able to bring her to my room and my bed, not having to explain why my flatmate sleeps next to me when he has a bedroom and bed of his own. Four, it's just plain odd, and five--"
He couldn't come up with a fifth reason, but he thought the four reasons he had given were perfectly sound.
Five, you'd know how often my nightmares still haunt me, and I don't want you to see me weak like that. Six, I'd get used to you sleeping next to me far too quickly, and miss you too much when you were gone. Seven--
Huffing out an annoyed breath, he got up from the couch. God, but his clothes were all wrinkled. He looked around the living room, disoriented and out of balance. He looked at Sherlock, not feeling entirely ready. "Two nights, because you're my friend and I'll let you have your distractions. But that is it. Do you understand?"
Seven, I might say something in my sleep I cannot even admit to myself when I'm awake. Eight, I'd want to wrap my arms around you and never let go. Nine--
Sherlock frowned at John's reaction, certainly not expecting his question to be met with such a violent shift in temperament. He slumped against the couch when John jumped up, pushing himself sitting slowly and hugging his legs to his chest to offset the chill of John suddenly leaving. He kept his wan expression for the entirety of John's rant, steadfastly ignoring the pang of emotion at how John was severing any possible ties Sherlock had to their shared experience. He would never tell him that this was the longest he'd been in physical contact without cringing away for his entire life, unwilling to accept that anything involving this experience was tied to any real feelings.
Any trace of warmth from his expression was gone just like that, his face returning to the norm of stony and impassive as John told him the parameters of his allowing this experiment. "Fine." he clipped, briefly flirting with the idea of calling the whole thing off. He already enjoyed their time together a dangerous amount, best to keep this clinical and detached for when their two nights were over and things would return to normal. God forbid he get used to it only to have it snatched away at the last moment.
He flung himself off the couch suddenly, walking over the coffee table and stalking to the window, snatching his violin on the way and returning to the composing work he'd been at the day before. It was a convenient excuse to turn his back to John and drown him out as well, his mood taking a turn for the dark and ugly now that he'd been tossed unceremoniously out of his new found comfort zone.
John didn't know why he was talking, his voice was being drowned out by the sound of the violin, and Sherlock's back certainly wasn't going to offer a reply. He felt bad. He felt really, really bad. Perhaps he had overreacted a tad. But he couldn't help it; the thought of sleeping next to Sherlock on the couch had been difficult the night before, the experience proving to be exceptionally enjoyable. But sleeping next to him in his bed? It really shouldn't be this much of a problem, they were both grown men, after all, and this was, as Sherlock had said from the introduction of the idea, an experiment. No more than that.
Then why did it feel like more than that? Why did it feel like John had somehow rejected Sherlock on a much deeper level? Why did he feel so guilty, and cold, when only a few moments ago he had felt warm, and happy. Genuinely happy. And it had seemed as though Sherlock had been right there with him, sharing in those feelings. It was... nice. No. It was wonderful. And John had ruined it, by opening his big mouth.
Sighing, he looked at Sherlock once more, as though staring at him could somehow will him to turn around. But John knew he would not. He was slipping away again. And John had done that. With a final look, John lingered in the doorway a moment, before heading to his own room. He needed a shower, and a change of clothes. He felt rotten.
Sherlock purposefully played even louder when he heard John speaking again, petulantly determined not to let him get the last word in. The composing hadn't started quite yet, Sherlock being too caught up in drowning out John as much as possible with wailing, atonal notes unfit for any composition no matter how eccentric the composer.
He vented his frustrations in this manner until he was sure John was gone, dropping his hands to let them hang loosely at his sides, staring out the sliver of daylight visible through the curtain on the window in front of him. He heaved a long sigh, placing his violin and bow gently down on the end table before moving to tug a box of old case files that had yet to be organized from under the desk.
He spent the next while digging through said box, scanning the information and placing them in growing piles all around where he was sat cross-legged on the floor. This was better, surrounding himself with easily categorized and relevant information. No messy emotions, no feelings, no John. Just data. Simple. Easy. Yes, this was exactly what he needed, thoroughly engrossed in the task to the point where it would take quite a lot to pull his focus.
All showered and dressed in clean clothes, John made his way back to the living room, his heart feeling like a stone inside his chest. He had showered for a long time, which was certainly not his habit; John was an effective sort of man. Not that morning. He felt like every movement was heavier, every step, every thought. He was not surprised to find Sherlock thoroughly occupied with something in the living room. For a moment, he considered saying something, trying to apologize again, but knew it would fall on deaf man's ears. He hesitated even so before he turned and grabbed his coat. He needed air. He needed space. He needed to not be confronted with the icy chill that had settled over their home, where such warmth had been when they had first woken up together.
John stayed out for most of the day, visiting Mike and then Molly at St. Bart's, both of whom seemed confused to see John without Sherlock by his side. He must have come across a little scattered as well. He felt it. Everything just felt all wrong. It had been forever since he and Sherlock had a disagreement about something, and never, not once, had it felt this way. This... empty feeling that was eating away at him.
He returned in the evening hours, carrying a few grocery bags inside (probably wasn't going to mention the argument he'd gotten into with the man who tried to steal his spot in the queue).
"I'm home," he called out as he walked up the stairs and into the kitchen, not looking up to see if Sherlock was actually there himself. If he was, he'd probably been able to hear it was John coming in from the moment he turned his key. They knew one another so damnably well... Why on Earth had John made this so hard? Idiot.
"Remind me, are we sleeping in yours or mine tonight?" he asked as he put away the groceries, trying to sound casual about it.
Sherlock caught all the subtleties that most people would miss, recognizing the way John lingered in the shower and in doorways like he wanted to say something. He'd said enough already, Sherlock thought bitterly, cursing himself for being so foolish in thinking that they could hold on to the beatific atmosphere of that morning forever.
He thoroughly ignored John even as he prepared to leave, refusing to be the first one to break the silence growing ever larger between them. He paused in his efforts at cataloging his cases, listening as John descended the stairs. He crawled over to the window, peeking from behind the curtain and watching him leave, counting himself an idiot once again for wishing he had stayed despite their row. He watched the place where John disappeared around the corner for longer than he cared to admit, finally dragging himself up from the windowsill to continue his work.
He finished that particular box after another few hours, glancing hurriedly around the flat for something else that could pull his interest. His eyes invariably fell to the sofa, where all this started. He moved over to the couch, running his fingers briefly over the pillow they'd both lied on, frowning at it as though it was somehow to blame for this. He huffed an irritated sigh at himself, stalking upstairs to have a shower and try to wash all these disconcerting emotions off of him.
He returned to the sitting room shortly after, picking up a book and purposefully moving to his chair rather than the sofa, not wishing to get any more accursed feelings on him. The book kept his interest for a while, at least until he heard the telltale sounds of John's return home, his fingers tightening on the book as though to brace for impact if he was still in a mood.
He doesn't react when John announces his presence, not feeling the need to respond to something so obvious. His narrowed eyes flicked up for barely a moment when John asked that question, distinctly surprised that he was even still going along with it.
"Doesn't matter." he answered, turning his attention back to the book. "We don't have to do it at all if you'd rather not. I find my interest in the subject waning." he added, trying to keep aloof as much as he wanted to go through with the experiment. John couldn't know just how invested he was in it, that would invite nothing but disaster.
John continued to busy himself with putting away the groceries, distantly grateful for the mindless task while he tried to figure out what to say. What could he say? He'd certainly had no problem speaking his mind that morning. Which was exactly the problem. Sometimes, John needed not to think so much. There was enough of that going on in this household. Head and heart, wasn't that what Greg had said down at the station once? Sherlock was the brains of their relationship, and a relationship it was. They spent nearly every waking hour with each other, knew the other better than anyone. They looked after each other, both in their own, distinctive ways, but even so. John had taken more than two steps back that morning, and his reaction had been thoroughly unfair towards his flatmate. He would have to set this right somehow.
"Look, Sherlock," he began, emerging from the kitchen, lingering, yet again, in the doorway. He briefly eyed the other, took in his fixedly staring at the book, the way he was holding it, the set of his shoulders. He looked... hurt, almost. John's feelings of guilt tripled. "About this morning... I overreacted. I did, I... shouldn't have said the things I did. It's an interesting experiment, and I'd like to help you with it, if I can. God knows your sleeping patterns are abysmal, I've told you on various occasions myself."
Stepping into the living room, he said down in his own arm chair, opposite Sherlock's, and leaned forward, trying to get the other man's attention. "And bollocks, your interest isn't waning. You're cross with me. As you should be, I behaved like a prick, and I shouldn't have. I'm sorry. You can sleep in my bed tonight, or I'll sleep in yours, and we can try it out for as long as you need to derive something useful from it. Alright?"
Sherlock acted for all the world like his book was the most engrossing thing in existence, only if to make it seem like he wasn't waiting for John to approach him again. he didn't react when John entered, steeling himself for another lecture about how improper and unconventional his social habits were. He knew that already, thank you very much.
He kept silent and still as John spoke, the tensity in his shoulders ebbing just slightly at the apology. He finally glanced over his book when John sat in front of him, his accusation startlingly accurate. He often forgot that John knew him better than anyone ever had, probably because he was so used to being cast off by everyone else in his life.
"Yes, alright." he replied softly, setting his book in his lap and tapping his fingers on it idly. "Where would you rather start? This is about your comfort as well as mine, as you seemed to sleep better last night as well." he mused, pausing contemplatively for a long moment. "If we find it to be consistently mutually beneficial, we can discuss what to do with the data when we get to that point." he added, trying to keep from getting his hopes up that maybe this could become a permanent arrangement for them.
John sighed softly in relief when Sherlock lowered the book and looked at him. He had felt lost all day, and not until their eyes locked did he feel at ease again. It felt, strangely, like coming home.
"We can start in your bed," he suggested, sitting back in the chair and regarding the other man with a thoughtfulness of his own. "It'll be interesting to see if that, too, affects my... restlessness, as you called it this morning, before I usually fall asleep. Or if the couch incident was just that; an incident."
He did not believe it was; falling asleep with Sherlock in his arms had been the most peaceful sequence of moments John had had since his return from the war. But then, both their beds provided more space than the couch did. John did not think they would be lying so close to one another this night. Or...?
"What kind of parameters do you have in mind? I know you have at least a dozen." He smiled a little. "Do you prefer a certain side of the bed? Either is fine with me."
Sherlock too felt considerably better when he finally looked into John's eyes again, finally unwinding a bit since he'd first tensed up again this morning. It had been nice, feeling loose and warm when he first woke up, only wishing they hadn't had their tiff and could have held on to that feeling just a bit longer. Hopefully tonight he could feel it again.
He nodded his assent to starting in his bed, pressing his fingers together under his chin and regarding John in thoughtful interest. "I don't believe it was a fluke. You've had trouble sleeping every night except last night, that's no coincidence." he stated, tapping his fingertips together in contemplation of John's question.
"Of course," he answered "I sleep on the left. I think we should recreate the first night as much as possible. The proximity aided our sleep patterns most definitely. Warmth and a steady heartbeat are both things that encourage easy and restful sleep." he mused, oddly finding himself looking forward to pressing up against John and falling asleep to his heartbeat again. "Is there anything you want to address before we start?"
John felt a little exposed by the fact that Sherlock seemed to know exactly what his nights had been like for every night since he moved into 221B Baker Street, but shrugged it off almost instantly; it was simply what Sherlock did. And it was true; last night was the most peaceful, proper night of rest he'd had in... months. Maybe even years, if he had to be completely honest with himself.
He blinked slowly when Sherlock did not so much raise the question of proximity, but went ahead and decided they would sleep close to one another again. He thought of saying something, but decided against it. The last thing he wanted was a repeat of that morning. No, he would go along with this as much as he could. This seemed to matter a great deal to Sherlock, for some reason, and for that, it would mean a great deal to John, as well.
"Nothing I can think of, no." He got up from his chair, keeping his eyes on Sherlock for another moment. "I guess I'll... go and get ready, then. See you in there?"
Sherlock nodded approvingly when John spoke, setting aside his book before moving to stand. "Yes, let's go then." he said, grabbing a notebook off the coffee table and moving to stride into his room. Tossing the notebook on his bed, he got undressed, changing into pajamas before heading to the loo to clean his teeth.
He settled in on his side of the bed after that, climbing under the covers and sitting up against the headboard, resting his notes on his knees as he scribbled away his findings and parameters for this study while he waited for John.
It took John a little while to get ready. For one, he felt like he took forever trying to decide what to wear. Which seemed ridiculous. In the end, he went with his standard pajama pants and t-shirt. The fabric of both items was soft and worn from years of use - John wasn't exactly that concerned with fashion. If it was comfortable, he would probably wear it. It was a lot more important to him that he was comfortable and could move in his clothing, than looking like someone he wasnt.
Once he was done changing, brushing his teeth and washing his face, he made his way over to Sherlock's bedroom, padding into the room on bare feet. He stood by 'his side' of the bed for a moment, not so much hesitating as simply taking in the situation. Sherlock seemed busy scribbling down his notes. There was no tension in the air, nothing strange or unusual... The sheer normalcy of the situation got to John more than anything. This didn't feel like an experiment; this felt like the end of the day, the end of every day, and he and Sherlock had just retired for the evening. Nothing strange about that.
Exhaling slowly, John pulled the covers back and slipped under them. Resting his hands on top of the covers, he linked them together and stared fixedly at the ceiling.
Sherlock continued with his notes for a few moments, only glancing up when John was next to him and asking where to go from here. He finished up what he was writing, setting his notes aside and clicking off the lamp. He edged over to where John was, tilting his head at him before picking up one of John's hands, laying down himself and pillowing his head on John's chest. He pressed in close just as they were this morning, draping an arm and leg over John and settling in for the night.
"Now, sleep. Obviously." he murmured, letting his eyes fall shut as John's heartbeat succeeded in lulling him into a state of contentment enough to attempt to sleep.
John tensed up every so slightly when Sherlock settled in so close, the other's arm and leg draped over him. In direct contrast to the night before, it was dark, and John felt like all his senses were running in overdrive. He could hear Sherlock's breathing, feel the other's heartbeat, the way his chest expanded with every breath, smelled the faint scent of Sherlock's shampoo mixed in with what could only be described as Sherlock. It was a heady scent, making John lightheaded.
He wondered if Sherlock could smell the cologne he had dabbed onto his own neck once he finished brushing his teeth. He had only spoken of it in his sleep, so perhaps it meant nothing... Even so, John had been unable to resist putting some of it on.
"Right. Obviously." He cleared his throat again before he shifted, wrapping both his arms around the other man. "Goodnight, Sherlock." His voice was soft, gentle, perhaps even a little... forlorn. Even being this close to the other man, his arms around him, John somehow still felt like there was a gap between them. Then he remembered how he had run his fingers through Sherlock's hair, petting him for long minutes, the act simple and sweet and intimate. Breathing out, John moved to do just that, his other hand resting on Sherlock's arm.
Sherlock nosed his way into the crook of John's neck, smirking to himself when he noticed that John was wearing the cologne he liked so much. He wondered if he knew how partial he was to it, but he didn't have it in him to ask, enjoying the scent of it far too much to question it. He hummed contentedly when John's arms came about him, feeling sleep tugging at him the further he was wrapped up in John's warm and strangely appealing presence next to him.
"Good night, John." he muttered against the skin of his neck, sighing gently when John's fingers found his hair. He nuzzled John's neck tiredly, his fingers gripping gently at John's shirt as though to keep him in place. His features smoothed out and a half-smile tugged at his lips, still squirming a little against him as though trying to get even closer even though it wasn't physically possible, leaning into the hands in his hair happily.
He couldn't come up with a fifth reason, but he thought the four reasons he had given were perfectly sound.
Five, you'd know how often my nightmares still haunt me, and I don't want you to see me weak like that. Six, I'd get used to you sleeping next to me far too quickly, and miss you too much when you were gone. Seven--
Huffing out an annoyed breath, he got up from the couch. God, but his clothes were all wrinkled. He looked around the living room, disoriented and out of balance. He looked at Sherlock, not feeling entirely ready. "Two nights, because you're my friend and I'll let you have your distractions. But that is it. Do you understand?"
Seven, I might say something in my sleep I cannot even admit to myself when I'm awake. Eight, I'd want to wrap my arms around you and never let go. Nine--
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Any trace of warmth from his expression was gone just like that, his face returning to the norm of stony and impassive as John told him the parameters of his allowing this experiment. "Fine." he clipped, briefly flirting with the idea of calling the whole thing off. He already enjoyed their time together a dangerous amount, best to keep this clinical and detached for when their two nights were over and things would return to normal. God forbid he get used to it only to have it snatched away at the last moment.
He flung himself off the couch suddenly, walking over the coffee table and stalking to the window, snatching his violin on the way and returning to the composing work he'd been at the day before. It was a convenient excuse to turn his back to John and drown him out as well, his mood taking a turn for the dark and ugly now that he'd been tossed unceremoniously out of his new found comfort zone.
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John didn't know why he was talking, his voice was being drowned out by the sound of the violin, and Sherlock's back certainly wasn't going to offer a reply. He felt bad. He felt really, really bad. Perhaps he had overreacted a tad. But he couldn't help it; the thought of sleeping next to Sherlock on the couch had been difficult the night before, the experience proving to be exceptionally enjoyable. But sleeping next to him in his bed? It really shouldn't be this much of a problem, they were both grown men, after all, and this was, as Sherlock had said from the introduction of the idea, an experiment. No more than that.
Then why did it feel like more than that? Why did it feel like John had somehow rejected Sherlock on a much deeper level? Why did he feel so guilty, and cold, when only a few moments ago he had felt warm, and happy. Genuinely happy. And it had seemed as though Sherlock had been right there with him, sharing in those feelings. It was... nice. No. It was wonderful. And John had ruined it, by opening his big mouth.
Sighing, he looked at Sherlock once more, as though staring at him could somehow will him to turn around. But John knew he would not. He was slipping away again. And John had done that. With a final look, John lingered in the doorway a moment, before heading to his own room. He needed a shower, and a change of clothes. He felt rotten.
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He vented his frustrations in this manner until he was sure John was gone, dropping his hands to let them hang loosely at his sides, staring out the sliver of daylight visible through the curtain on the window in front of him. He heaved a long sigh, placing his violin and bow gently down on the end table before moving to tug a box of old case files that had yet to be organized from under the desk.
He spent the next while digging through said box, scanning the information and placing them in growing piles all around where he was sat cross-legged on the floor. This was better, surrounding himself with easily categorized and relevant information. No messy emotions, no feelings, no John. Just data. Simple. Easy. Yes, this was exactly what he needed, thoroughly engrossed in the task to the point where it would take quite a lot to pull his focus.
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John stayed out for most of the day, visiting Mike and then Molly at St. Bart's, both of whom seemed confused to see John without Sherlock by his side. He must have come across a little scattered as well. He felt it. Everything just felt all wrong. It had been forever since he and Sherlock had a disagreement about something, and never, not once, had it felt this way. This... empty feeling that was eating away at him.
He returned in the evening hours, carrying a few grocery bags inside (probably wasn't going to mention the argument he'd gotten into with the man who tried to steal his spot in the queue).
"I'm home," he called out as he walked up the stairs and into the kitchen, not looking up to see if Sherlock was actually there himself. If he was, he'd probably been able to hear it was John coming in from the moment he turned his key. They knew one another so damnably well... Why on Earth had John made this so hard? Idiot.
"Remind me, are we sleeping in yours or mine tonight?" he asked as he put away the groceries, trying to sound casual about it.
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He thoroughly ignored John even as he prepared to leave, refusing to be the first one to break the silence growing ever larger between them. He paused in his efforts at cataloging his cases, listening as John descended the stairs. He crawled over to the window, peeking from behind the curtain and watching him leave, counting himself an idiot once again for wishing he had stayed despite their row. He watched the place where John disappeared around the corner for longer than he cared to admit, finally dragging himself up from the windowsill to continue his work.
He finished that particular box after another few hours, glancing hurriedly around the flat for something else that could pull his interest. His eyes invariably fell to the sofa, where all this started. He moved over to the couch, running his fingers briefly over the pillow they'd both lied on, frowning at it as though it was somehow to blame for this. He huffed an irritated sigh at himself, stalking upstairs to have a shower and try to wash all these disconcerting emotions off of him.
He returned to the sitting room shortly after, picking up a book and purposefully moving to his chair rather than the sofa, not wishing to get any more accursed feelings on him. The book kept his interest for a while, at least until he heard the telltale sounds of John's return home, his fingers tightening on the book as though to brace for impact if he was still in a mood.
He doesn't react when John announces his presence, not feeling the need to respond to something so obvious. His narrowed eyes flicked up for barely a moment when John asked that question, distinctly surprised that he was even still going along with it.
"Doesn't matter." he answered, turning his attention back to the book. "We don't have to do it at all if you'd rather not. I find my interest in the subject waning." he added, trying to keep aloof as much as he wanted to go through with the experiment. John couldn't know just how invested he was in it, that would invite nothing but disaster.
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"Look, Sherlock," he began, emerging from the kitchen, lingering, yet again, in the doorway. He briefly eyed the other, took in his fixedly staring at the book, the way he was holding it, the set of his shoulders. He looked... hurt, almost. John's feelings of guilt tripled. "About this morning... I overreacted. I did, I... shouldn't have said the things I did. It's an interesting experiment, and I'd like to help you with it, if I can. God knows your sleeping patterns are abysmal, I've told you on various occasions myself."
Stepping into the living room, he said down in his own arm chair, opposite Sherlock's, and leaned forward, trying to get the other man's attention. "And bollocks, your interest isn't waning. You're cross with me. As you should be, I behaved like a prick, and I shouldn't have. I'm sorry. You can sleep in my bed tonight, or I'll sleep in yours, and we can try it out for as long as you need to derive something useful from it. Alright?"
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He kept silent and still as John spoke, the tensity in his shoulders ebbing just slightly at the apology. He finally glanced over his book when John sat in front of him, his accusation startlingly accurate. He often forgot that John knew him better than anyone ever had, probably because he was so used to being cast off by everyone else in his life.
"Yes, alright." he replied softly, setting his book in his lap and tapping his fingers on it idly. "Where would you rather start? This is about your comfort as well as mine, as you seemed to sleep better last night as well." he mused, pausing contemplatively for a long moment. "If we find it to be consistently mutually beneficial, we can discuss what to do with the data when we get to that point." he added, trying to keep from getting his hopes up that maybe this could become a permanent arrangement for them.
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"We can start in your bed," he suggested, sitting back in the chair and regarding the other man with a thoughtfulness of his own. "It'll be interesting to see if that, too, affects my... restlessness, as you called it this morning, before I usually fall asleep. Or if the couch incident was just that; an incident."
He did not believe it was; falling asleep with Sherlock in his arms had been the most peaceful sequence of moments John had had since his return from the war. But then, both their beds provided more space than the couch did. John did not think they would be lying so close to one another this night. Or...?
"What kind of parameters do you have in mind? I know you have at least a dozen." He smiled a little. "Do you prefer a certain side of the bed? Either is fine with me."
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He nodded his assent to starting in his bed, pressing his fingers together under his chin and regarding John in thoughtful interest. "I don't believe it was a fluke. You've had trouble sleeping every night except last night, that's no coincidence." he stated, tapping his fingertips together in contemplation of John's question.
"Of course," he answered "I sleep on the left. I think we should recreate the first night as much as possible. The proximity aided our sleep patterns most definitely. Warmth and a steady heartbeat are both things that encourage easy and restful sleep." he mused, oddly finding himself looking forward to pressing up against John and falling asleep to his heartbeat again. "Is there anything you want to address before we start?"
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He blinked slowly when Sherlock did not so much raise the question of proximity, but went ahead and decided they would sleep close to one another again. He thought of saying something, but decided against it. The last thing he wanted was a repeat of that morning. No, he would go along with this as much as he could. This seemed to matter a great deal to Sherlock, for some reason, and for that, it would mean a great deal to John, as well.
"Nothing I can think of, no." He got up from his chair, keeping his eyes on Sherlock for another moment. "I guess I'll... go and get ready, then. See you in there?"
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He settled in on his side of the bed after that, climbing under the covers and sitting up against the headboard, resting his notes on his knees as he scribbled away his findings and parameters for this study while he waited for John.
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Once he was done changing, brushing his teeth and washing his face, he made his way over to Sherlock's bedroom, padding into the room on bare feet. He stood by 'his side' of the bed for a moment, not so much hesitating as simply taking in the situation. Sherlock seemed busy scribbling down his notes. There was no tension in the air, nothing strange or unusual... The sheer normalcy of the situation got to John more than anything. This didn't feel like an experiment; this felt like the end of the day, the end of every day, and he and Sherlock had just retired for the evening. Nothing strange about that.
Exhaling slowly, John pulled the covers back and slipped under them. Resting his hands on top of the covers, he linked them together and stared fixedly at the ceiling.
"Alright," he said, slowly. "... Now what?"
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"Now, sleep. Obviously." he murmured, letting his eyes fall shut as John's heartbeat succeeded in lulling him into a state of contentment enough to attempt to sleep.
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He wondered if Sherlock could smell the cologne he had dabbed onto his own neck once he finished brushing his teeth. He had only spoken of it in his sleep, so perhaps it meant nothing... Even so, John had been unable to resist putting some of it on.
"Right. Obviously." He cleared his throat again before he shifted, wrapping both his arms around the other man. "Goodnight, Sherlock." His voice was soft, gentle, perhaps even a little... forlorn. Even being this close to the other man, his arms around him, John somehow still felt like there was a gap between them. Then he remembered how he had run his fingers through Sherlock's hair, petting him for long minutes, the act simple and sweet and intimate. Breathing out, John moved to do just that, his other hand resting on Sherlock's arm.
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"Good night, John." he muttered against the skin of his neck, sighing gently when John's fingers found his hair. He nuzzled John's neck tiredly, his fingers gripping gently at John's shirt as though to keep him in place. His features smoothed out and a half-smile tugged at his lips, still squirming a little against him as though trying to get even closer even though it wasn't physically possible, leaning into the hands in his hair happily.
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