vitruvianwatson:

When they first started sharing a bed it used to startle John into alert wakefulness on the evenings when Sherlock would crawl under the covers in the middle of the night, long after John had gone to sleep.  The heavy comforter would move, Sherlock’s arm would brush against him, and John’s heart would kick into high gear, his eyes snapping open and his hand flinging itself out for a gun that wasn’t there because he’d had the good sense to leave it upstairs.  Sherlock had handled it surprisingly well after his initial surprise; he’d simply lowered himself, slowly and carefully, until he was laying down, not touching John except for one hand that curled loosely around his bicep, and murmured “Breathe, John.  You’re safe.  Nothing’s going to hurt you.”

John couldn’t bring himself to say that it wasn’t images of himself being hurt that frightened him.  He’d focus on the warmth of Sherlock beside him and the gentle pressure of his hand–comforting but not restraining–and simply breathe until he felt like he could move again.  Then he’d turn and pull Sherlock against him, press his nose into the soft curve of his neck, and focus on the feeling of his heartbeat against his lips until he fell back to sleep.  When he woke he’d always find that Sherlock had shifted until his back was pressed to John’s chest, John’s arm curled protectively around his waist, his forehead hot against the back of Sherlock’s neck.

It went on like this for two months.  Then, one night, Sherlock slipped into the bed a little after midnight, and John didn’t startle awake, didn’t stop breathing.  He did wake, but it was gentle, easy.  His eyes opened blearily as the bed dipped, and he felt Sherlock go still, waiting for the inevitable alarm to go off in John’s head.  But John only shifted like someone who’s still half-asleep, only turned enough so that Sherlock could settle back against him just the way John knew he liked, his fingers threading through John’s where he held his hand against his chest so that John could feel his heart, a steady thrum against his palm.

“I never would’ve pegged you for the little spoon, you know,” he said, his voice rough with sleep.  He tightened his arm and brushed his lips against Sherlock’s bare shoulder.  “S’good, though.”

“Mm, you let my physical appearance cloud your judgment,” Sherlock said, and John could feel the vibration of his words, pressed together as they were.  “You assumed that just because I am the taller of the two of us that I would prefer to be the ‘big spoon,’ as you say.”

John couldn’t help a small huff of laughter.  The idea of hearing Sherlock Holmes talk about spooning would’ve been unthinkable a mere few months ago.

“Besides,” Sherlock went on, “it suits us both.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.  You find comfort in being able to surround me, in the feeling that you’re keeping me safe.”

It wasn’t surprising that Sherlock had figured that one out.  Pretty obvious, really.  He’d probably deduced it that first night even when John was too much of a wreck from his own fears to put it into words.

He kissed Sherlock’s neck, speaking against his skin.  “And you?“

“I’ve never liked being confined or restrained.  I’m sure that’s a surprise to you,” he said dryly, and John laughed.  Then Sherlock’s voice softened, and his hand tightened around John’s.  “But then I met you, and you surrounded my entire life, and I discovered that I didn’t mind the way you invaded my every thought, my every action.  I spent years wanting to be confined in your arms the way I was confined in my absolute affection for you.  And now I finally can be.  So.  That’s how it suits me.”

John swallowed thickly.  “There’s another thing I never would’ve guessed about you.”

“What’s that?”

He tugged gently at Sherlock’s hip until he turned so that John could kiss him.  “You’re a bloody romantic.”

He could feel Sherlock’s smile curve against his lips.  “Only for you.”

“Mm, let’s keep it that way.”

Sherlock’s answer was soft, barely murmured into the infinitesimal space between their mouths.  “Forever.”