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John never cared for the 5 am wake-up when he was enlisted in the army. Certainly the lesser of several evils while being a soldier, but when he returned to London he was thrilled to allow himself the solace of sleeping in. Sherlock was always the opposite, as he had come to learn after a year of living with the eccentric man. He rarely ever saw them sleep, in all honesty, and every morning he would find them already up and ready to delve headfirst into whatever antics she had prepared for the day.
And so, he considers it unusual when he opens his eyes at 9 am and discovers that for once, he’s the first to wake. John gives himself a moment to simply bask in this serene pause that has been placed on his life. No noises except for a morning dove perched somewhere outside, no worries save for what he’ll have for breakfast. He spends the first three minutes of his day lazily watching dust particles lit up by a slice of light beaming in through the window.
The next thing that John finds unusual is the sleeping figure of Sherlock next to him in bed.
In all fairness, it’s not exactly unexpected. Sherlock has a tendency to run herself ragged while on interesting cases, and 500 miles out from London chasing down a ponzi-scheming triple murderer for the fourth night in a row, John had decided that enough was enough and she needed a full 8 hours of sleep. It was enough of a battle to herd Sherlock to the nearest hotel, and when the receptionist delivered a cliche ‘sorry, only one bed!’, John was far too exasperated to drag both him and his detective to a different hotel. The two of them had spent several minutes arguing over who would take the bed- their stubbornness truly was a sore point in their relationship, turning John into an unmovable object facing down an unstoppable force. It eventually became clear that Sherlock would sooner pass out from exhaustion than let the argument come anywhere near an end. So John crossed his arms and set his jaw, garnering Sherlock’s attention as he transformed into Captain John Watson.
“We’re both adults, Lock. We can both sleep in the damn bed.”
It’s a persona he reserves for very unique scenarios, and for good reason. It does work on Sherlock, though, evident by the fact that he now rests just mere feet away from John. And he’s glad it did, because the fact that they’re not awake yet proves just how tired they must have been, and the sleep will do them wonders.
And maybe John is glad for other reasons, too. Clambering into a Queen bed with his flatmate was a tad strange, and the way they both stiffly took up position on their own sides of the bed, backs facing each other, was a little awkward. But in this private morning scene, John finds himself quite delighted by his situation in a new sort of way. The light from the window lands directly on Sherlock’s face, making her black curls shine vibrantly. When she’s this close and this still, John gets the rare opportunity to admire the fanning of her long eyelashes, her thick brows, the slight curve of her cheeks, her strikingly blue eyes, and-
Ah.
Her eyes are open.
John blinks in surprise at this new development, and almost feels as if he should look away inconspicuously. The two of them are certainly closer than they were when they went to sleep (something about humans subconsciously seeking body warmth- some fact John can’t care to remember right now) and John has propped himself up with his elbow, leaning in towards Sherlock ever so slightly. Strangely enough, however, he finds he doesn’t want to look away.
There’s no arguing that Sherlock is an attractive person. There’s nothing wrong with appreciating that fact from time to time.
It takes Sherlock a few seconds to wake up fully, it seems, as they blink the sleep from their eyes and turn their head to look around. Her eyes meet John’s and she smiles. Warmth curls in the back of his throat, and he would smile back, but he realizes that he has been for quite some time now.
Sherlocks hair, usually groomed into submission and perfection, is an unruly mane of curls plastered to her forehead and making her look rather rumpled. John really can’t help himself from reaching out and flicking a strand out of her face.
“Sleep well?” He croons, only the slightest bit teasingly. It elicits an exasperated groan from Sherlock, who takes one of the spare hotel bed pillows and relocates it to atop his face. He uses his other hand to swat away John’s.
“Must you?” Her voice is low and gravely—and muffled by the pillow—another part of the Morning Sherlock that John seldom sees. “It’s far too early.”
“It’s nine thirty, Sherlock.” As much as he’d like to let him sleep in further, John thinks they really ought to wrap up this case and head back to London. Lestrade is already stressed enough with having to pursue the killer all the way to Ireland, and has been badgering Sherlock just a little more than usual about it. “We should check out soon, catch ourselves a murderer.”
Sherlock heaves an unnecessarily dramatic sigh.
“Weren’t you bothering me about getting more sleep just last night, doctor? I’m only following your orders.”
“Nice try, but it’s been ten hours. I’d say that’s plenty for you. Up and at em, Sherlock.”
From beneath her pillow, Sherlock remains silent long enough to make John wonder if she’s fallen back asleep. The professional worrywart in him wants to be concerned, because Sherlock is scarcely this slow to start up in the morning, especially on a case, and it speaks to how exhausted they must have been from chasing rabbits. In fact, as soon as they get home John believes she is due for a stern talking to about the importance of 8 hours of sleep each day. But for now, he thinks he deserves to indulge in a leisurely morning. He lingers on this train of thought until a pillow is thrown directly at his face.
Sherlock is now sitting up in bed, watching John with a self-satisfying smirk and a single, arched eyebrow asking, What were you thinking about?
The nonverbal question is answered by John playfully smacking Sherlock on the shoulder with the pillow. Nothing.
The bed they’re in is remarkably snug, and comfortably warm. John is a little surprised to find that he quite likes waking up like this, with Sherlock at his side. It’s as if something just right has clicked into place. Perhaps he should find it odd that he feels this way about his flatmate, a man he has claimed to harbor no romantic feelings towards for a year, but he just can’t find it in him to care about that right now. Sherlock stretches, his shirt slightly too short for his lanky frame, and his midriff is exposed. John finally looks away, trying very hard to not think about how soft Sherlock’s skin might be under his fingers, and almost succeeds.
Change of subject. “Where do we start today? With the, uhm, killer and all?”
To be perfectly frank, he’s hardly keeping up with the details of the murder. John’s been mostly following Sherlock blind on this one, something he’s perfectly happy to do.
“He’s fled to Ireland, clearly knows we’re onto him. But if he really wanted to get away, he wouldn’t come here. The man has the means to disappear, but he’s still hanging around. Unfinished business, then. I think he’s going to strike again, and soon. We’ll need to find the who, when, and where.”
John sits up a little straighter. Only they can go from lounging about in bed to discussing how to stop a murder. He watches Sherlock's lips as they continue to think aloud.
“He was last spotted heading south, but why? What’s he trying to accomplish?”
“What I want to know is, what exactly is he doing with the money? Is he trying to get rich just for the sake of getting rich?” It’s less of a genuine question and more of a gripe about the undying greed of so many British men, but something about what John asks causes Sherlock to pause. She waves her hand dismissively at first, about to usher John’s commentary away with a ‘No, irrelevant, really’ when she suddenly freezes. She’s got an expression that John has come to understand as the face she makes when connecting the dots, mouth a perfect ‘o’. Whatever realization she’s made goes unspoken as she quickly scrambles out of bed.
“Oh, Beautiful, John,” he breathes, rifling through his suitcase for clean clothes. John pretends the comment is aimed towards him and not whatever proverbial scent Sherlock has caught on to. They quickly stride towards the bathroom to change, pausing for just a moment in the doorway to cast a glance over her shoulder.
“I need to check some things- I’ll only be a few hours. Have some continental breakfast or something. I’ll call you.”
The door to the bathroom clicks shut firmly. The Work always takes priority, it seems, and John’s whirlwind of a life has been resumed. The bed is still warm from where Sherlock lay, but he is undeniably colder without her there.