One word prompt, blanket, please?
Heâs not as asleep as John thinks he is, but itâs nice like this, Sherlock thinks. To just listen for a while: to just exist in the quiet. The pages of Johnâs book turn more slowly; the sound of his mug setting onto the table becomes quieter. Sherlock knows that John is aware of him, even if heâs paying attention to something else, and itâs a hot, thick comfort to know what being taken care of feels like.Â
After a while Sherlock hears him get up, put the book down, take his cup of tea into the kitchen and set it in the sink. He hears the doors to the flat close, and then lock; he hears the lights click off as the orange-glow behind his eyelids switches to darkness.
âSherlock,â John whispers.
Sherlock doesnât answer. Once, before, John wouldâve just left him there. Maybe put a blanket over him, but ultimately left him there. He wonders what John will do now.Â
Now that everythingâs different.Â
âSherlock,â John whispers again. âSherlock?â
Thereâs a pause, a long pause, and then soft noise: heavy fabric moving against itself. The blanket being tugged off the back of Johnâs chair. Sherlockâs heart begins to sink. He doesnât want the blanket treatment. He wants to be tugged to bed. He wants it to be intimate. He wants to be wanted.Â
He shouldnât expect things he canât ask for, though. Thatâs not fair. Itâs not fair to him, and itâs not fair to John, and he knows better.Â
âSherlock,â John says again, surprising him, and then his hand is on Sherlockâs shoulder, shaking lightly. âWake up, love.â
It is different. But the blanketâ?
He blinks himself awake, and peers up at John, who smiles down at him in the dark. âLetâs go to bed,â John says. âHere, sit up.âÂ
Sherlock does as heâs told, and the blanket wraps around Sherlockâs shoulders, trapping warmth close to his body. He hadnât realised he was cold before. âThere, thatâs better, isnât it?â John says. âTake it with you. Letâs get you to bed so we can warm up.âÂ
âIâm sorry,â Sherlock says, before he loses his nerve, his voice thick as though he really had been sleeping. He catches Johnâs hand. âJohn, Iâm sorry.âÂ
Sherlock blinks, and swallows, and tucks his neck deeper into the blanket. âI wanted you to do this, and I didnât know how to ask.â
John huffs a laugh, but his hand on Sherlockâs face is tender when he reaches out. âI know, Sherlock,â he says. âDonât hold it against me if I get it wrong sometimes?â
Sherlockâs head is shaking before Johnâs even finished. âI would never. I could never.â
âThen itâs all right. You can ask when you figure it out, all right? And weâll change it.â His thumb strokes over Sherlockâs cheek. âIâll do what I can for now, and Iâll change the rest as we go, yeah?â
Sherlockâs chest is so full of love it hurts, but itâs a good hurt: itâs a warm hurt, a solid hurt. Like a good bruise from something that mattered, hot and definite. âYeah.â he manages finally. âYeah, all right.â
âCome on then. Bring the blanketâyeah, just shuffle on, there you go. Iâve got you. Iâve got you.âÂ
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