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John’s resting heart rate is appropriate for a man of his age and fitness. Sherlock could count the exact number of beats per minute, but he feels too languorous to care about precision. He can hear John’s heart valves opening and closing, can feel the percussive thump resonating throughout John's body – with his ear pressed against John’s chest it’s difficult to tell where one sense end and the other begins, and for once Sherlock finds he doesn’t need to be certain. That isn’t the point – the point is that John is here, warm and safe in Sherlock’s arms, the repeated rise and fall of his chest providing comforting proof that he’s alive, and here.
Sherlock feels utterly, completely content. He’s curled up against John on the sofa and there’s nowhere else in the world where he’d rather be, no case or experiment that seems more tempting than John’s warmth.
“Who knew you could be so still?” John chuckles a little. Sherlock can feel John’s voice rumble in his chest, and it’s glorious.
“I’m often still,” Sherlock protests, surprised by how sluggish his voice sounds. “Just yesterday you complained that I hadn’t moved all day.”
“Yeah, but your brain isn’t still then, when you’re thinking or sulking…”
“I don’t sulk—“
“… but it’s quiet now, isn’t it?” John says softly, not really a question.
“Yes,” Sherlock breathes against John’s sternum, and suddenly he wishes John wasn’t wearing his jumper so that he could feel Sherlock’s breath against his skin. What an illogical thing to wish for. “Yes.”
John lifts one hand from where it has been resting on Sherlock’s shoulder, and before Sherlock can protest the hand buries itself in Sherlock’s hair – he barely supress the shiver of pleasure that runs down his spine. It is a weakness with him, this: John’s fingers in his hair. His own fingers, or a barber’s fingers, make him feel nothing at all, but John’s - oh, it’s bliss.
“You’re secretly a cat, aren’t you? I’m just waiting for you to start purring.”
Sherlock feels his face heat up a little, and he makes a noise that’s meant to be disdainful but comes out as a low rumble that isn’t that far from a purr, and John laughs. But it’s not a mocking laugh; he’s not laughing at Sherlock for his uncharacteristic enjoyment of physical proximity (of course he isn’t, he’s John) – he’s laughing because he’s happy. He’s happy to have Sherlock curled up against him, he likes it as much as Sherlock does – a fact which gives Sherlock a surge of joy, and he leans his head into John’s touch a bit more, uncaring of all the potential feline associations.
John’s arms tighten around him, and then his chest shifts slightly as he moves to kiss the top of Sherlock’s head.
This time Sherlock can’t quite contain a shiver as warmth spills from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes, and it’s like nothing Sherlock has ever felt before. He presses himself even closer against John, shaken by the sudden wave of emotion. This is a first – John had never kissed Sherlock before. And that must mean something, surely. A kiss is an unambiguous sign of affection. Not that being entwined together on the sofa could be mistaken for much else, but a kiss – that seems to shift the boundary between what is admissible and what isn’t even further.
It is always John who initiates these little shifts, Sherlock never dares – he wants to, of course, oh, how he wants to, and he’s unaccustomed to not reaching for what he wants, but this is a delicate matter. As far as Sherlock’s research indicates, his relationship with John is fairly atypical, which makes it difficult to judge where exactly the final line is, and Sherlock can’t afford to overstep it. He enjoys physical contact with John far too much to risk losing it forever by being too eager.
“John.”
The name escapes him involuntarily, an inadequate outlet for the surplus of emotion he feels. He wants to melt against John, he wants to permeate his skin and live inside him. Clothes seem decidedly inconvenient; it would be so much better if Sherlock could be pressed against John skin to skin – if they can’t merge into a single entity then they should at least be as close as possible. But that would definitely be overstepping the line, and it might give John the wrong idea. Not that Sherlock would be entirely unwilling to have sex if John wanted it (the thought of sex is much less distasteful if it should be with John, and it would be a valuable opportunity to obtain data about John that Sherlock hasn’t had access to so far – it seems utterly unfair that there are countless unimportant women who know things about John that Sherlock doesn’t) but as far as Sherlock can tell John’s newfound intimacy with him hasn’t made a dent in his sexual preferences, and thus the chances of naked snuggling appear to be pretty thin on the ground. Pity.
John continues stroking Sherlock’s hair. There is nothing to occupy Sherlock’s brain and yet he isn’t bored, because everything around him is John. It is as if everything aside from the beating of John’s heart and the steady movement of his fingers is as if dimmed, and Sherlock lets himself be nothing but completely blissed-out, lulled by the steady rise and fall of John’s chest.
“Sherlock,” John whispers suddenly, and Sherlock realises that he’s been dozing off. “We can’t sleep like this.”
“Why not?” Sherlock asks sleepily, because to him it seems like the perfect way to sleep. It is, in fact, the only way to sleep that isn’t a complete waste of time.
“Not on the sofa,” John says carefully, and that makes Sherlock lift his head from John’s chest for the first time in what feels like hours. It almost sounds like John is suggesting… but surely not. They have slept in the same bed before, but that was on cases and once when Sherlock was injured, out of necessity…
John raises an eyebrow at him and the set of his mouth says he’s a little bit nervous, which makes his meaning clear. Sherlock’s heart, which has been slow and languid like the rest of him, suddenly picks up the pace.
“You haven’t done anything vile to your bed recently, have you?”
Sherlock scoffs.
“You know I keep my room pristine.”
“Yeah, you leave the mess in the common areas so that I’m the one who ends up having to clean it,” John says affectionately, and as he sits up he pushes Sherlock away. “Be back in a tick.”
Sherlock watches John climb upstairs to his bedroom, presumably to change into his sleepwear. His mind is reeling in a way that makes him a little dizzy after the prolonged stillness. He jumps up and goes through his nightly bathroom routine in record time, and then sits on the edge of his bed, feeling a little out of sorts.
This is important. Sherlock knows for a fact that John didn’t share a bed with any of the women he associated with during his brief, half-hearted and long ago abandoned attempts at dating, which means he hasn’t done so since Mary’s death. And now he wants to. With Sherlock.
Although Sherlock doesn’t like admitting it to himself, he knows that his understanding of interpersonal relationships is a little stunted, but he knows John, and that’s enough. He knows John has given up on dating because feels no one can ever replace Mary It was several weeks after his last date when Sherlock first noticed him gradually becoming more tactile with Sherlock, initiating the subtle shift in their relationship which is now, apparently, coming to a sort of resolution. Bed-sharing is intimate, more so, even, than a kiss. If John wants this, then that means he’s come to think of his partnership with Sherlock as permanent.
Unless it’s Sherlock’s wishful thinking clouding his judgement. Irritatingly, in this case it’s a possibility.
When John enters Sherlock’s bedroom he’s wearing the hideous pyjamas Harry gave him last Christmas.
“Turn off the light so I don’t have to look at that eyesore,” Sherlock tells him and settles in the middle of the bed. He’s not going any further that that.
“Charming as ever,” John mutters but dutifully flicks off the lights. He hesitates a little before getting into bed, and once he climbs in Sherlock moves immediately to rest his head on his previous spot on John’s chest.
“I guess I don’t have to ask if you’re sure this is all right,” John says lightly, and starts petting Sherlock’s hair again.
“You’re an idiot,” Sherlock tells him. John should feel lucky that over the years Sherlock had developed a high tolerance for his particular brand of stupidity.
“You’re a limpet,” John counters, but he wraps an arm around Sherlock so he clearly isn’t complaining.
“Your animal comparisons are woefully inconsistent.”
“Shut up and go to sleep.”
Sherlock shifts slightly, trying to find a position less likely to impede John’s breathing. John kisses his temple and Sherlock feels the quiet simmer of happiness fill his chest again. It seems that he can have this, after all, even though he’d given up hope long ago: John, his.
He falls asleep to the regular rhythm of John’s fingers sifting through his hair.