cleverwholigan:

John wakes up before Sherlock. Always.

It’s just habit, picked up in the Army. The minute the first streaks of light appear in the sky, he’s awake.

So he gets up, puts on the pajama pants discarded on the floor from last night’s romp, and putters around the flat. Gets things ready for breakfast and tea. Clears up the stack of newspapers by Sherlock’s chair. Tries NOT to disturb that experiment…whatever it is.

But then he hears Sherlock stirring and he returns, climbing on the bed and sitting up on his knees while Sherlock rolls over on his back and smiles at him, sleep-hooded eyes and morning-mussed curls making him look even younger than he already does. And John’s there every morning to kiss him, first thing, and Sherlock tells him bad jokes every morning that he looks up on the internet. Horrible, pun-riddled jokes that are terrible, but they make John laugh and Sherlock likes to watch the way his eyes crinkle in the morning sunlight.

And some days, when they don’t have anything planned and nowhere to be, they end up staying in bed ‘til afternoon, cracking jokes and kissing and touching and making love until they finally roll out of bed and John puts away the breakfast things he readied, because they’ll just get takeaway instead.

***

AND THEN… conversely, John’s the first one who starts yawning at night. Sherlock’s the night owl – he could stay up all night if there wasn’t anyone around to remind him to sleep. But he notices John blinking and yawning while he’s in his chair, trying to watch telly. His head dips, then straightens, while John tries desperately to keep himself awake. Until finally, Sherlock takes pity on the poor man and goes up behind him, snaking his arms around for a hug and a kiss.

“Go to bed, old man.” He’ll whisper, which makes John laugh. Sherlock always knows how to make him laugh.

“Only if you come with me.”

For John, only for John, Sherlock will postpone whatever ridiculous experiment he’s working on and go to bed. And surprisingly, even though he never feels tired, he always falls asleep when John’s behind him, arm draped over his waist, face at the perfect position so John can kiss the small curl at the base of Sherlock’s neck. They murmur back and forth to each other, sometimes stories, sometimes what they need at the grocery store, until Sherlock’s words get all muddy because he’s about to fall asleep. They lull each other together every night, with their steady breaths and the beat of their heart. John knows he’d never sleep again if he couldn’t fall asleep with Sherlock beside him. He doesn’t know how he ever slept without him.