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Normally John would start to worry after three days without a case and two days of silence. Nothing in the papers, nothing from Lestrade, nothing on the website. Not a decent murder in what felt like ages. Sherlock's words, not mine, he thought.
But there Sherlock sat, as he had for the better part of 48 hours, in his chair, knees drawn up, completely silent. Slender steepled fingers occasionally tapping lightly against one another. Eyes open but distant, then sometimes closed. If he had eaten John hadn't witnessed it, and John had given up trying to offer him food the previous afternoon. He had also given up sitting in his own chair, choosing to avoid his friend's unnerving stare entirely by sitting on the sofa. A cup of freshly steeped tea sat on the desk, just within Sherlock's reach, "In case you decide you want it." Sherlock may not have spoken or acknowledged him for days now, but John wasn't about to be rude and make tea only for himself. Maybe, if he was lucky, he wouldn't have to pour this one out, though getting Sherlock to ingest anything when he was so thoroughly engrossed in thought was a lost cause and John knew it.
John folded the newspaper back and began reading about art galleries and exhibit openings this upcoming Friday. Not of any particular interest, though he supposed it could be if Friday came around and Sherlock hadn't-
"You would be entirely bored and return home within an hour, so it would hardly be worth the effort of finding something suitable to wear."
John practically jumped at Sherlock's voice, slightly rough from disuse, breaking through the silence. "There you are," John said softly, and Sherlock glanced toward him. John coughed out of nervous habit, ducking his chin. "Err- there's tea there," he said, gesturing to the desk.
After a moment, Sherlock's eyes flicked over to the tea, still mostly warm, and he picked it up with a small nod of thanks in John's direction.
"Any great epiphanies while you were in there?" John asked, setting the paper down. "Determined the meaning of life?"
Sherlock gave a noncommittal tilt of the head, sipping at his tea.
John chuckled and stood, making his way to the kitchen. "If there's not a mould farm on the bread, I'm going to make a sandwich." The 'and I'm going to make another one for you and you ought to eat it' was implied he thought. Sherlock didn't respond, but- in the case of sandwiches anyway- that wasn't a 'no.'
After a few minutes deciding that Sherlock's silent days spent inside his head were fantastic news for the refrigerator and kitchen in general, John returned with two plates. Sherlock seemed to be studying his tea, the cup down in his lap, and he didn't acknowledge the sandwich John held out to him. Sighing, John placed it on the arm of Sherlock's chair, then sat back in his own.
"I want you to continue sleeping in my bed," Sherlock blurted, looking up toward the bookcase. The sentence was quick, but careful, as if a great deal of thought had been put into it.
John cleared his throat, sitting up a bit straighter in his chair. This was not exactly the topic he had been expecting, given that they hadn't broached it for the fortnight it had been happening. Not every night. Sometimes Sherlock worked all night and into the morning before crashing, or John fell asleep on the sofa. But John's own bed certainly had not seen him, and if he was honest he hadn't exactly missed it.
"That's- yeah that's... fine," he replied, eloquence never having been his strong suit. He sniffed, eyes studying Sherlock. "Good, even."
Sherlock's eyes darted over to him, taking in every detail, never quite pausing before they dropped away again. "Since everything is... fine and good," he began, toying at the sandwich with half-interest, "if you want to ... well there's plenty of space- or could be, it would only take a minute to- and then you wouldn't have to...." He blinked, trying to piece together the sentence that had clearly gotten away from him.
"There's space enough for my things as well?" John offered.
"Yes." Sherlock looked up at him from beneath his brow. "If you want that."
John smiled, peering at him curiously. "You'd move some of your things... for me?"
Sherlock became very serious, and his response was confident one, spoken as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I would do anything for you, John."
John swallowed thickly at the words, unsure why he felt so moved by them. "Maybe after we eat-" he looked pointedly at the sandwich "-I could go grab a couple things from upstairs. It's not like we've got anything on."
Sherlock's lips curled into a slight smile before he took the smallest possible bite from the sandwich. And yet John nodded, satisfied, and began to eat his own.
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Sherlock had eaten only a third of the sandwich before he'd slipped off into the bedroom, presumably to clear some space for whatever John decided to bring down. He'd seemed almost excited, and John hadn't the heart to reprimand him for not eating properly. So upstairs he went, trying to determine what was the right amount of stuff to bring down to Sherlock's bedroom, given that they hadn't even discussed why they were doing this or what was happening between them.
He didn't have a lot of things in his room other than his clothes, a few books he never read, and a handful of items by the bed. He stared down into his chest of drawers and tried to calculate what was the correct number of jumpers and shirts to relocate for 'friends that are sleeping together but not sleeping together.' Determining that it was five jumpers, five shirts, pajamas, pants, some socks, and three pairs of jeans, he stuffed them into the empty hamper. He blinked, looking around the room. Perhaps the quilt on the foot of the bed? And a few of the contents from the bedside table...
A few minutes later and he was dragging the items down the steps and onto the landing of the flat, through the kitchen and down the hall to Sherlock's- their?- bedroom. John paused in the doorway. Sherlock was standing, hands on narrow hips, surveying his work on the chest of drawers and wardrobe. John cleared his throat softly.
"Ah, yes," Sherlock said, turning and taking in John and his possessions. He scratched the back of his head absently, stepping out of the way and nearly plastering himself against the wall. "The two center drawers are empty. I think they will be the best ones for your stature. And the right side of the wardrobe is empty. And of course the bedside table on this side." He looked disheveled, as if he had just done something incredibly strenuous.
John eyed him. "You're sure you want this?"
Sherlock's eyes snapped up to him. "Of course. Is it... sufficient? I could do more or maybe we could get another-" He waved a hand at the chest of drawers. "- thing, for over on that wall."
"It's perfect," John told him, stepping into the room. He held out the quilt to Sherlock, who took it carefully. "Here. We can put this down at the foot of the bed in case it gets drafty in here again." Sherlock didn't move, so John pulled the hamper behind him and went to survey the drawers. "Did you actually move the sock index?"
"Relocated to the bottom drawer," Sherlock said absently, eyes on the colourful quilt in his hands, head cocked slightly.
John smiled to himself. "My grandmother made that ages ago. Not quite sure how I ended up with it." He began stuffing the drawers with his clothes.
"It suits you." At last, Sherlock moved toward the bed and spread the quilt across the end, hands smoothing it before he sat on it carefully. Elbows to knees, hands steepled, he watched John intently.
John quirked an eyebrow. "If you want you could put those things on my side of the bed." He nodded toward the small pile of items he'd placed on the duvet.
"No."
"Right. And why's that again?"
"You should have things the way you want them, John."
First drawer filled with shirts and pajamas, John closed it and began filling the one below it with pants and socks. "Fair enough. Did you leave me any hangers?"
"Fifteen, in fact."
"Brilliant, I can actually hang my jumpers for once." John turned toward the cherry wardrobe and began to hang each jumper. "Might bring a few more down," he said, mostly to himself. "These are just-"
John's hands stopped, and he nearly dropped the hanger in his hand as Sherlock's arms slid cautiously around his waist. The heat of Sherlock's body pressed tenderly against the back of him, and Sherlock's hands spread open over his ribs, as if to touch as much of him as possible.
"Is this alright?" The question came low and careful beside John's ear, the words tickling at the sensitive skin of his neck.
John swallowed and nodded once. "Yes."
They simply breathed a moment, Sherlock's fingers softly analyzing the texture of the wool beneath them. "You are rather short," Sherlock said at last, lifting his head a bit to stand at his full height. His mouth pressed gently into John's hair- not quite a kiss- and he breathed deeply.
John laughed, tossing the hanger to the floor. "A bit, yeah." He reached out and pushed the door to the wardrobe closed, and their reflection appeared in the mirror. "Though I could make an argument that you're just tall."
Sherlock stilled, his eyes slowly taking in the sight of them, head to toe. His face was flushed and open, affection and warmth and a touch of fear plain as day for John to see. He seemed raw and small despite the way his slender body engulfed John. Carefully John took a hold of Sherlock's arm, feeling the thin layer of hair there, trying to find the sweet spot of tender but not too light. Sherlock closed his eyes at the touch, bowed his head reverently into John's, but he didn't flinch away.
"John, I..." He didn't finish the sentence, and it didn't really matter.
John settled back into the embrace, trying to recall any moment in his life when he had felt so loved and finding absolutely nothing that could compare. "It's fine," he murmured. "I know."