Title: Getting Acclimated
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: G
Length: 525
Content notes: None
Author notes: set sometime between S01E01 and S01E02.
Summary: Sherlock slowly gets used to John's presence.



Sherlock muttered under his breath as he stared down at the architectural blueprint on the dining table in front of him. He hated, absolutely hated blueprints, greatly preferring to actually be in the space. However a raging fire had burned the warehouse to the ground, destroying the layout of the building and consuming whatever evidence Sherlock could have gleaned from it.

Leaning forward, Sherlock knocked his elbow against a teacup. The unexpected tinkle of glass broke his concentration and Sherlock blinked, looking at it as if he didn’t quite recognize what it was. After a moment, a mild smile curled on his mouth. “Ah, thank you, John,” he said picking it up and putting it to his lips, before realizing the tea was cool. Too cool to drink. Sherlock surmised it had set, unattended, for at least an hour. He certainly didn’t remember John setting it down.

Getting up, Sherlocked turned around, looking into the living room. “John, the tea....” But the words died in his throat. John was slumped over in his chair, breathing deeply. Asleep. Sherlock stepped forward and leaned against the entrance of the kitchen. It wasn’t often that Sherlock saw someone sleeping. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d witnessed it. Even his time in uni, when he’d had time to the frivolity of romance - and he used the term extremely loosely - he’d never allowed his partners to spend the night. Although to be fair, they often didn’t want to; those that initially held hopes of doing so, quickly changed their minds once Sherlock set them straight about the nature of their so-called relationship.

So deep in his thoughts was he that Sherlock hadn’t realized he’d moved closer until he was standing over John. Seeing someone sleeping, someone so vulnerable was...new. Interesting. John looked younger, the ever present wrinkle between his eyebrows smoothed. There was something unbearably intimate about watching him sleep, the subtle tick of muscles and fluttering of eyelids. A dream, perhaps? John suffered from nightmares, Sherlock knew, but this was not that. No, more likely it was the activation of facial muscles that commonly occurred during REM sleep. John was at peace here.

Sherlock thought for just a moment, that perhaps he should wake John, send him to his room. It was late, after all, and John would sleep better in bed. But the idea of sending John away, if only to his room, was...displeasing. Sentiment, Sherlock mentally scoffed. Nevertheless he went to his sofa and grabbed a truly horrid throw Mrs. Hudson had given him in a misguided attempt to make the flat more “homey”.

Once the blanket was settled around John’s shoulders - for a military man, he was a shamefully deep sleeper - Sherlock stepped back and stared down at him, a small sliver of satisfaction curling low in his chest. Frowning at the emotion, Sherlock went back to the kitchen, assuming his place at the dining table. Steepling his hands, Sherlock leaned forward and stared at the blueprint. However, as hard as Sherlock focused on his case, he still listened for John’s quiet breathing behind him.