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John is nearly asleep when Sherlock finally makes it home.
Sherlock slips quietly into the bedroom and finds him curled up on the bed, their bed, his head tucked into his chest and his knees drawn up. Sherlock, though he would never admit such an embarrassing sentiment out loud, thinks he looks utterly adorable. He's moving a little, though, restless; Sherlock can tell he's on the cusp of sleep but not quite there yet.
Sherlock quickly divest himself of his jacket, trousers and shirt, and pulls on his pajama bottoms and an old, soft t-shirt. The room is surprisingly chilled for late spring, and Sherlock wastes no time in slipping into bed, pulling at John's arms until they open around him. He shifts until he's comfortable, John's arms around his waist, their faces two inches apart.
John opens his eyes sleepily..
"'Lo," he says, his voice thick. He peers at Sherlock in the near darkness. "D'you catch him then?"
"Of course I caught him. I had to chase him for two miles, but I caught him."
"You're fine?"
Sherlock hums in reply, sliding his legs across to tangle them with John's. They lie there together, breathing each other's air, in a pocket of perfect stillness. Slow minutes tick past.
"Y'r feet 're cold," John mumbles eventually, but he doesn't sound all that grumpy so Sherlock only smiles in response. John's eyes are closed, and his body is relaxing against Sherlock's, warm and solid.
He presses his lips against John's, just a soft touch. John responds automatically, kissing back lightly even though he's more than half asleep. It's amazingly endearing and more than a little heartrending. Sherlock can feel the warmth of it bubbling up inside him, threatening to spill out everywhere and colour everything a dazzling sunshine yellow.
Sherlock nudges closer, folding his body more completely around John's, a messy tangle of limbs and breaths.
"You're going to smother me one day," John giggles, awake again. He's ended up with his face pressed into Sherlock's neck, which Sherlock thinks is a more or less perfect state of affairs.
"Don't you even think about moving," he orders in a whisper. John snorts against his skin, but obeys, staying tucked in against Sherlock.
Sherlock leans his head back a little, so that he can look at John, and feels affection for this man seeping out of every pore of his skin. He's never felt this before, not for anyone. It catches him off-guard sometimes, sheer size of it. Somehow, without Sherlock ever being aware of it, John Watson crawled under his skin and into his heart. Sherlock never really stood a chance. It scares him as well, this weight of emotion, this absolute need for another human being. He wonders how people can survive, loving more than one person - he's fairly certain loving just John is going to be the death of him someday.
He playes gently with the too-long hair curling over John's ear. After a day of running and thinking and chasing, this, right here, is the only thing he wants. To wrap John around him, like his precious coat, and simply be there with him in the silence. There's something ineffable about John that makes everything stop: the ceaseless noise of London and the relentless thrumming of his brain are powerless against John Watson, ruffled and sleepy in Sherlock's bed.
He dips his head to kiss John again, and for a while they lie there, enjoying the gentle push and pull of each other's lips. Sherlock opens his mouth a little, to better sample John's taste, darting his tongue softly against John's lips. He can feel John smile a little as he responds by parting them, allowing Sherlock's tongue to run gently over his own. And yet it somehow remains chaste and unhurried; this is not a means to an end but an end in itself.
John is drifting off to sleep again. He is still kissing Sherlock, his lips seeking the contact every time Sherlock moves away slightly, but his breathing has deepened and his movements are getting slower and gentler. Kissing John to sleep is an utterly enjoyable task, Sherlock's favourite thing to do on a day like the one he's had.
He presses a kiss to the tip of John's nose, and one to his forehead, before tucking his army doctor back into his chest and closing his arms around him.