flannel caterpillars
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Warnings: Unrelenting fluff
Author Note: Beta'd by the lovely Kat (http://sir-not-appearing-in-this-blog.tumblr.com/)
It’s cold. Not even winter yet, and the flat is freezing. As he struggles up the stairs to his room with an armful of sheets fresh from the dryer, all John can think of is making his bed; fashioning the usual hospital corners, and climbing in between the dryer-warmed sheets.
Even as he drops the armful onto the bare mattress, he sighs, wishing beyond anything that he could ignore the rest of the clothes waiting to be switched out of the washer; just bundle up in the blazing wool, and drift into sleep.
But there’s no telling what might happen to the soap-soaked jumpers and jeans and such left in the washer, should a certain flatmate chance upon them. Thoughts of his boxers hung in the windows in the proud aim of ‘science’ has John scrambling back down to the laundry, visions of warm sheets, for the moment, pushed to a back burner.
However, when he returns to his room, rubbing his eyes, and longing for a fresh bed, he pauses in the doorway. Freezes, and takes in the scene:
The formerly dumped sheets have been shifted; contorted, and tangled around a long, lean form; swaddling everything but tufts of unruly curls, and long-fingered hands sunk deep into checkered flannel.
John stares, and the sheets emit a sigh, just before grey eyes peek out at him from behind folds of bedding.
“Sherlock-what the hell are you doing with my sheets?!”
“Cold.” Replies the detective, as if such a thing explains the entire ordeal.
"Yes, and?" John waits; steps closer to the bed, and frowns at the man wrapped up in his sheets. He folds his arms over his chest. "Doesn't explain why you're wrapped up in my sheets, stealing all the heat."
"Cold." Sherlock replies, his voice insistent. He tugs back when John pulls at the makeshift nest of bedding, eyes narrowed, until John throws up his hands in defeat.
"Sherlock, honestly! You're being a child! Get your own damn sheets to writhe about in, and let me have mine!"
"Calling me a child," Sherlock grumbles; pulls the sheets over his nose, and glares balefully at John. "Says the one who doesn't seem versed in the idea of sharing."
John sighs; covers his eyes with one hand, and shakes his head, exasperated. "Sherlock; I share a flat with you. I, quite unwillingly, share my laptop with you. Not to mention my food, which you, by the way, never ask, but just take. I do, however, draw the line at sharing my bed with you. Now get out, I'm tired."
The detective looks at him with appraising eyes, pauses, then tilts up his chin. "No. I refuse." A glint enters his eyes; mischief apparent in the way he quirks his mouth in a mild smirk. "What then, John? Mmm? What if I flat-out decide not to move, what then? Will you try to force me?" The smirk widens, and Sherlock's eyebrows rise: a challenge.
John stands where he is, feeling somewhat floored, for lack of a better word. He grits his teeth, sputters, and tugs at his hair. Finally, he sighs, and shakes his head. Because, all bravado and questions of masculinity, and brawn over brains aside, he won't win against Sherlock. Even if he physically tried to drag the man out of his room and threw him down the stairs, he's certain that the detective would be able to smart his way right back in. And he's tired, and he doesn't feel like playing these mind games right now. So he sighs again; pulls off his shirt, and waves his hands.
"Whatever, fine. Move over, then."
Sherlock gapes at him (which is mildly satisfying, having thrown the world's only consulting detective for a loop), opens his mouth, then shuts it, and shifts until his back is against the wall, taking most of the sheets with him. John rolls his eyes, sheds down to his boxers, and manages to fit himself into the small space between the wall of Sherlock and the edge of the mattress.
Should get a bigger bed, he thinks, before firmly reminding himself that this would not be happening again. Next time, he would be more solicitous and wary about where he set down his sheets. Grumbling under his breath about certain people being much taller, and taking up much more space than they had any right to do, John pillows his head on his arm, and rolls to his side, keeping his back to Sherlock and closing his eyes. It is, indeed, very cold, and he finds himself shivering before long. He bites down on his tongue and tenses his muscles, fighting back the chills until he's starting to drift and relax, the shivers slipping back in as his body loosens.
It's barely five minutes later that there's a shift in the mattress; warmth against his back, breath touching his shoulder, and arms around his waist, slipping over his chest and finding hold over his ribs. John starts; jerks entirely awake, and frowns.
"Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?"
"Cold." Comes the reply; it seems Sherlock has decided that a one-syllable word is the answer to any and all questions in this situation, and John scowls.
"How can you be cold? You're wrapped up like a bloody caterpillar in your blanket cocoon; it's a wonder you've not suffocated yet."
"Not me," Sherlock mumbles, wiggling against John's back, and fitting his knees in the bend of John's, his chest snug against the curve of John's spine, and his hair tickling against the nape of his flatmate's neck. "You." As it turns out, Sherlock's not wearing a shirt, only cotton pants, and his skin is warm; sticking against John's, and transferring heat. John sighs; starts as Sherlock wriggles free from his nest, and meticulously begins wrapping John up in his cocoon of bedding, drawing the army doctor away from the edge of the bed and tighter against him.
"Better, John?" he asks, and resettles his arms around his flatmate.
John sighs; Sherlock's hands are dreadfully cold, but he seems set on touching John with them anyway, so he grabs Sherlock's hands; folds them between his palms, and rubs gently.
"Fine," he mutters; lets his head sink into the mattress, and his eyes sag shut. "It's all fine."
"...good."
Sherlock's breathing slows, brushing the edge of his shoulder, and John can't stop the thought from slipping into his mind:
Maybe a bigger bed isn't such a bad idea.