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John hates falling asleep on the sofa. It pokes his back in all the wrong places, he constantly feels like he's about to roll off, and he always wakes up with a sore neck and a bad mood.
He slowly shifts back into consciousness, his sleep-clogged mind gradually assembling the pieces of his surroundings. He can hear the television; the news is on and he catches a few of the words, but is unable to string them together into meaning. He can hear the tinkering of glass and the running of water from the kitchen; the sound of dishes being washed. Mrs Hudson must be here, then, he thinks hazily. He squeezes his eyes shut tighter. He feels pleasantly warm, and his cheek is pressed into something soft and nice-smelling. It doesn't really feel like the sofa cushion, he decides. Softer, more comforting. Wool, maybe? He can't put that much thought into it; he's too comfortable. He just wants to drift off to sleep again, to be this warm and content for a little longer.
John dozes for another few minutes, in blissful half-unconsciousness, before questions start prodding at his mind, gently at first, then more insistently. Why is he asleep on the sofa? Or rather, why is he so comfortable being asleep on the sofa? Usually by now the ache in his back and neck and shoulder would be screaming at him to get off the bloody thing and not to do it again. But his mind is still in that wonderfully fuzzy stage between waking and sleeping, so he decides he can ignore it, and turns a little to press his face deeper whatever it's resting on.
He gradually becomes aware of a warm, gentle pressure on his head. It's pleasant and soothing, and for a few minutes, John doesn't think about it. He pushes slightly into the touch, which coalesces in his mind into something more definite. Hands. Fingers. He can pick them out now, individual fingers stroking lightly through his hair, brushing from the crown of his head down to the slightly-too-long hair curling behind his ears.
John shivers slightly as the fingers brush across his neck. He makes a small, contented noise, and hears a low chuckle in return. He burrows further down into the blanket - blanket? He doesn't remember pulling that over himself - and exhales, enjoying the soft, affectionate touch.
After a while, he feels another hand come to rest on his arm, and it fiddles a little with the blanket. Without really thinking about it, he sneaks his hand out from under the blanket, and catches on to the long, limber fingers, linking them with his own. He smiles a little at how tightly his fingers are gripped, just for a second, before the pressure lightens and a thumb starts to trace lightly over his palm, drawing perfect, meaningless swirls.
Sleep beckons him again, but he fights against it, longing to stay in this perfect place between dream and reality. This is what he wants, this little slice of perfect contentment. He knows that if he sleeps, he'll awake to the real world again; adrenaline and boredom and fighting and laughing and running and frantic, needy touches. He loves it, he does, he loves all of it. But this moment feels like a rare gift, a tiny piece of unalloyed happiness, and John intends to savour it.
He is happy to simply lies there, for an unknown stretch of time. The quiet hum of the TV, the warmth of blanket, the gentle hands.
Eventually, he turns slightly, and finally opens his eyes.
Sherlock is watching the TV, but upon realizing John has moved, his eyes flick automatically to John's face. The open, naked affection John sees there makes his breath catch and his heart pound. He lifts his hand and slides it around the back of Sherlock's neck, tugging gently. Sherlock comes willingly, and John presses a soft kiss to his lips. Sherlock kisses him back gently, his hand still threading through John's hair. His lips warm and dry and perfect, and he tastes like tea and mints and rain.
John sighs contentedly into the kiss, and he can feel Sherlock smile in return. He likes this, he decides, this feeling of Sherlock's smile against his lips. Sherlock draws back slightly, dropping feathery kisses on John's nose and cheeks. It makes John's chest ache and his blood sing.
"Sleep," Sherlock tells him, sitting up straight and returning his eyes to the news, a small smile hovering on his face.