MiniPrompt Fill: Sides (Sherlock/John Fluff)

{Not sure if I’m in a state to write. Let’s find out, shall we?}

—-

Their bed wasn’t big enough, and John had rolled over onto his side.

Sherlock never slept on the right side of the bed. It impeded his thinking processes, he didn’t like the angle that everything was at, he couldn’t sleepily calculate how the length and width of every square on his periodic table…

And John had rolled over onto his side.

Sherlock stood there for a minute, tapping one foot softly against the rug as if he expected the universe to correct itself on its own.

It didn’t.

It didn’t, so Sherlock nudged his way onto the corner of the bed, the proper side of the bed, and he crammed himself against John.

This wasn’t going to work. His forehead was about .9 centimetres from the bedside table and he’d certainly slam his head against it if Lestrade called in the middle of the night.

Sherlock paused, dragging the sheets further over and onto his edge of the bed as if he expected the universe to correct itself on its own.

Nothing happened.

He shifted backwards, shuffled up so that the crown of his head was almost sliding against the headboard, and he slowly pulled an arm over John’s head. His long fingers tapped at his shoulder through his pyjamas, and John flinched and started slightly. His eyes flickered open.

“Sher— What time is’t?” he asked, and Sherlock, no longer feeling any obligation to be kind, pushed him, inch by inch, back onto his side of the bed. John lifted his head and pushed his cheek against the crook of Sherlock’s arm before he shifted up and onto the pillow.

“Four fifteen,” Sherlock answered, not needing to twist and glance sidelong at the clock. (It was visible from John’s side of the bed, not his.)

John pulled his knees up slightly and they knocked with Sherlock’s own. With a slow, easy sigh, he accepted one of them between his legs. He could feel the muscles clenching slightly between the layers of sheets and pyjamas.

He could feel the soft alterations in John’s breath as he huffed out a smile against the skin of his neck.

“Good,” he murmured, and he was gone again, back beneath the waves of the earliest hours.

Sherlock counted the hair on the back of John’s neck until his eyes naturally pulled shut, and the universe corrected itself on its own.