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It's not that he really wants to wake up; rather, he finds his eyes creeping open despite themselves, until he is staring at the ceiling blankly. He can actually see the ceiling, he notes, which means it must be well after dawn. Late morning, surely. He didn't have anything to do this morning, did he? He didn't ... he didn't think so...
The lump next to him (half on top of him if he's really being honest) and entirely under the cover stirs, makes some indistinct noise, and curls up against him even closer. He flips back the corner of the cover and is rewarded with the sight of Holmes' hair; his face is invisible, pressed tightly against Watson's side, no doubt to prevent any light from reaching his eyes.
Bugger it. He doesn't care if there was anything he was supposed to accomplish this morning - he's not stirring.
*
When he wakes again, it's because of the grumbling of his stomach. From the way it's protesting, it must past noon - and Holmes is still sleeping, uncurled now and sprawled across him, hampering his breathing ever so slightly. Just enough to give rise to a small bubble of joy in Watson, and his hand moves down to tangle in Holmes' dark hair.
His stomach grumbles again, louder.
He sighs.
"Holmes," he says, loath to actually wake Holmes, but neither of their tempers will much improved if they eat nothing at all. "Holmes. Holmes."
Holmes mutters something into his stomach, indistinguishable, and it replies with another rumble.
"What? Holmes, really."
There's an explosive sigh that makes his skin twitch, and then, slowly, with an air of great disgruntlement, Holmes turns his head until he is looking upward at Watson. "What?" he practically whines.
"Food, Holmes. I'm starving. Get off me." Holmes glowers, and doesn't move an inch. "Oh, Holmes. Think of it! Toast! Tea! Eggs! Kippers! How are you not hungry? You don't even have to get up; I'll bring some back."
"Only you," Holmes grumbles, "would think kippers are worth getting out of bed for."
"Just let me up!"
Holmes turns his face back into Watson's stomach. "No."
Watson narrows his eyes and prepares to get up despite Holmes clinging to him; another glance down at Holmes is his undoing. He sighs, quietly, and feels Holmes grin against his skin.
Maybe food can wait after all.
*
But not, however, forever.
He sneaks out of bed when Holmes rolls over and only one arm remains flung across him; comes back with a tray to find a lump in the middle of the bed. He sets the tray down and prods at the cloth covered lump. It mutters.
Watson sighs. "Holmes..."
The Holmeslump stirs, and more muttering comes forth.
"Tea, Holmes," he entices. "Fresh buttered bread. Jam." The covers creep back to reveal one wary, sleepy eye.
"Jam?"
Watson nods.
Holmes contemplates for a moment, and the rolls over on his back, shedding a good portion of the covers. "Well then, give it here."
Watson rolls his eyes, and instead settles himself up against the headboard, tray within easy reach, and crooks a finger at Holmes, who lazily flops around until he is half curled, half propped against Watson, who hands him a cup, and then, while Holmes' hands are occupied, presents him with a piece of toast covered in jam.
It makes a wonderfully sticky mess of Holmes' mouth, and when Watson kisses him, he tastes of bergamot and apricots.
*
By the time they've recovered from the obvious consequence of Holmes clearly tempting Watson, the light has taken on that warm, dull tint that is particular of early evening; an hour more and it would shift into the cool clarity that comes just as the sun is almost gone, deep blue creeping in to temper its tone. His fingers are lazily stirring Holmes' hair, as Holmes are slowly tracing circles on Watson's chest. He should feel some slight guilt for hardly having stirred from bed all day, at his excessive sloth; he hasn't even the excuse of a particularly trying day beforehand. No, there was no reason to stay in bed all day; no reason except for the warm presence of Holmes' body, no reason except for the quiet contentment that weighs him down until moving seem utterly unreasonable, no reason except the pleasure of being able to do so, of uninterrupted time, the suspension of the business of life for a few far too short hours.
No reason.
No reason to haul himself out of bed either.
So he will stay, and watch the light turn chill, and turn to Holmes for warmth and comfort and kisses until he is heated enough to be desirous of other things, and hold Holmes when they are both spent, waiting for the subtle evening of breath as Holmes drifts off, and it will be worth more than he could ever pay.