The sharp creak beneath a bare foot made Sherlock freeze, wincing as he held himself motionless. Hearing strained, he berated himself silently; he hadn't had time to learn the pattern of the old wooden floors yet, where they let him pass silently, where they sang out his presence.

Stillness crept back in, accompanied by the faint ebb and flow of deep, rhythmic breathing from down the hall. He let out a breath of his own, slowly, then inhaled carefully. No lingering odours remained as the faint night breeze stirred in through the windows he'd left open in the kitchen.

Another step, another baited breath, but the hallway kept his secret this time. He inched forward, all of his senses attuned to the darkened room at the end of the corridor. Fingers skimmed the wall to find the doorframe; his mental map of the cottage was still imperfect, and it was more difficult to see here without familiar street lights bleeding in, casting weak illumination.

He should have closed the bedroom door, but had John awoken, he would have suspected something amiss. They hadn't slept with their door closed in years now – unless they had overnight company, which Sherlock found tiresome – and John would associate it with something a bit not good.

Sherlock had long ago learned to circumnavigate a bit not good, and John was often much happier when he was kept in ignorance. The detective had no qualms about doing so, and would count it as a victory if the floor didn't give him away again.

Which it did.

Crossing the threshold brought another creak, this one higher-pitched. Sherlock swallowed a curse, aware he must look ridiculous, frozen in place with one foot raised, shoulders tensed. Fingertips against the doorframe – again – kept him balanced; John murmured something in his sleep, shifting. Even in the near-total darkness, Sherlock could see his husband's arm extending, searching in slumber for a companion who wasn't there.

Damn, he thought, but John settled again, murmuring something that was lost to the linens. Sherlock exhaled carefully, edging his way across the bedroom, more of a shuffle than a walk, in case he hit something. The path should have been clear, but John had a habit of leaving his shoes where Sherlock could trip over them.

Which was obviously deliberate. The doctor played innocent about it, but Sherlock was an observational genius. John's guilelessness projected his guilt. Sherlock (conveniently) ignored the fact that it still worked. On occasion.

There were no shoes to catch him up this time, so he shuffled from the pyjamas he'd been wearing (the smell would be a dead giveaway, even in the morning) into an old t-shirt of John's and a pair of boxer shorts. He could always claim he'd grown too hot in the middle of the night.

He eased himself carefully under the duvet, alert for any changes in John's position or awareness. When there were none, Sherlock snuggled closer, warm breath brushing his face. Slight shifting made an arm snake around his waist and he squirmed, delighted – something he never did when John was awake.

The cocoon of clean warmth lulled him; Sherlock resisted sleep for a few minutes, enjoying the sensations (and the minor triumph of not having woken John). It was so much quieter here than in the city, but he found he didn't mind, not tucked up as he was next to his husband, feet entangled, noses almost touching.

He drifted off, still half aware, floating in that cozy place between wakefulness and sleep, and was about to surrender completely when John's voice, thick and warm, underlain by a fond dryness, tugged him sharply back to reality.

"Couldn't resist blowing up our new kitchen, could you? Whatever it was, I hope you cleaned it up properly. I'm not tidying up your mess in the morning."