A/N: This is something I posted on Ao3 a few months ago. I often forget that I have this account. I hope you enjoy! Any typos are all on me.

John is sitting in his armchair in his pajamas, bare feet warmed by the crackling fire to his left. He's got a book in his hands that's proving to be quite enticing and Sherlock is busy in the kitchen, clinking away at something John will undoubtedly step in or cut himself on later, but that's an issue for future John. Right now however, Sherlock is distracted and therefore not interrupting John's train of thought by insulting his literary taste, or lack thereof. It's snowing outside, large white flakes flurrying past the window. John finds them lovely only because it's a Saturday and 221b is warm, so the white powder can be complimented for once instead of cursed as he attempts to trek through it on his way to work.

Their past week was incredibly busy, when John wasn't at surgery he was trying to keep up with Sherlock as they chased some lousy criminal. Sherlock had solved three rather complex cases in just five days, he says it isn't the most he's solved in a week but John was thoroughly impressed nonetheless and made sure to tell Sherlock as often as he could. There's something satisfying about watching the sleuth stand a little straighter at John's compliments as he makes piss poor attempts not to preen.

It's incredible to be able to just relax for once, to let the quiet sink into him, because sometimes mundane is good. He sighs and reaches for his cup of tea that he's got sitting on the floor near his chair, but instead his hand bumps into something warm and soft. He jumps at the unexpected sensation, looking away from his book at the source. Two bright eyes are peering back at him over the arm of his chair. John blinks.

"Sherlock," he starts. Sherlock hums in acknowledgment, not breaking eye contact. His nose is slightly smushed against the chair and his hair is sticking up wildly in the way it usually does in the morning, especially when he's been wearing his goggles working on experiments. He debates asking what he's doing but decides that the answer will either be incredibly vague or disturbingly acute, he opts for something a little less direct. "How long have you been there?"

"A bit," he mutters with a lazy blink. Incredibly vague this morning, then. John narrows his eyes at him for a moment before deeming him as a non threat. For the moment. He returns to his book, reading and determinedly not paying attention to the gaze boring into him that he is now all too aware of. He should have known his peace would be short-lived. A few more paragraphs get processed before there's a shift to his right and he instinctively glances over. Sherlock's entire head is visible now, his bony chin resting on the arm and eyes still watching John. John quickly looks back to his book but suddenly there's a glass slide under his nose and he frowns.

"Get that out of my face."

"It's not in your face; it's in my hand."

"Get what's in your hand out of my face."

"It's bacteria."

"Wonderful."

"From the refrigerator"

"Ah, thank you, Sherlock. That's very reassuring," he mumbles. Sherlock pulls the slide away and examines momentarily before there's a small clatter of it hitting the floor, apparently losing his interest entirely. He's back to staring at John. John spends most of his focus on not looking at Sherlock than actually reading. He finally squirms and looks back to the detective. "Stop staring at me."

"No," he responds, his voice quiet and more vibration than actual sound. "I quite enjoy staring at you."

"Oh?" John asks with a quirked brow as the corner of his mouth pulls up slightly.

"You have a lovely face," Sherlock replies immediately and casually. As if discussing bacteria from the refrigerator. John feels his ears burn. Sherlock smirks at him before slipping John's book from his hands and gracefully slithering up from the floor so that he is draped across John's lap and over the arms of the chair, face down. Sherlock wriggles into a comfortable position but says nothing, his arms and face hanging limply from the left arm, John smiles down at him. He runs his fingernails softly up Sherlock's spine and over his shoulder blades and the man all but melts in John's lap.

"You're being kind this morning," John murmurs, mow scratching lightly at the soft dark hair at the nape of his neck.

"Mmm," Sherlock sighs. "Tired."

"Did you sleep at all last night?"

"No. Silk ribbons and refrigerator bacteria," he explains without really explaining anything at all. John has no problem with him snoozing in his lap and pokes gently at Sherlock's rib cage, intending to get his attention and request the return of his book before he lost consciousness, but the detective twitches violently and John freezes.

"John, don't," Sherlock warns. Voice suddenly very awake and very serious. He would have assumed that he'd only surprised his sleepy friend, but his unnecessarily defensive response immediately gives him away. John feels a grin grow on his face.

"Oh my god," he half whispers. Sherlock makes to roll off of his lap and back into the floor but John catches his hip and stops him. "You're –"

"No," he huffs indignantly. "Now let go of me."

"Sherlock."

"Shut up." John's hand slides up from his hip and onto his rib cage and he grips the bones experimentally. Sherlock convulses and finally succeeds in removing himself from the chair. He crumples to the floor and John immediately follows, book and tea entirely forgotten. There's a struggle, Sherlock reprimanding his 'childish' behavior and John grinning and not giving a damn. John receives a bony elbow in the solar plexus before he gets the upper-hand and succeeds in pressing Sherlock to the carpet. He sits triumphantly on the taut stomach, knees on either side of Sherlock and pinning his narrow wrists above his head with each hand. He's bridged over him, their noses lightly pressed together. Sherlock scowls and John smiles widely.

"Sherlock sodding Holmes is ticklish," he announces gleefully. Sherlock attempts superior disdain but the expression contorts, lips tight and pulled to the side, when John quickly seizes both wrists in one hand and goes for his ribs again. Sherlock's resolve lasts for all of six seconds before a bubble of laughter spills forth from his lips. It's light and airy, perfectly innocent and happy. The sound is smooth in John's ears, filling his veins with tingling warmth. It's John's favorite Sherlock laugh, the terribly rare one that isn't used at somebody else's suspense.

Slender hands paw weakly at John's, the doctor now using both to render his friend into a giggling mess on the sitting room floor. He glances up from his ministrations to see white teeth flash as Sherlock ruefully grins, eyes shining with mirth and he falters slightly. The detective looks years younger, without his ever present scowl or the tense line his shoulders have become ever since the encounter with Moriarty at the pool. John wants Sherlock to always look like this. His chest feels too full at the sight and Sherlock gasps for breath in the second of freedom before taking quick advantage of John's momentary distraction and he soon finds himself with his back on the floor and looking up into those silver eyes that are trying their very best to look scornful, but Sherlock's flushed cheeks and wildly disheveled hair are working fastidiously against him.

"You're gorgeous," John whispers, somewhat stunned. Sherlock's glare melts into something much softer and he leans down to press his nose into the stubble of John's day old scruff.

"You're insufferable," Sherlock grumbles affectionately. John lets his eyes slip closed and he sighs happily when Sherlock's lips meet softly with his own.

The kiss is sweet and chaste, not unlike Sherlock's laugh, their mouths moving slowly and almost lazily against each other. John's heart flutters in his chest and he slips his hands into Sherlock's hair to pull him a little closer, Sherlock makes an approving noise low in his throat and kisses along John's jaw before pausing to trace the contours of his ear with a hot tongue. Goosebumps erupt over John's skin at that and he rubs his hands soothingly through the dark locks. Sherlock pulls back to look down at him thoughtfully. A wave of affection washes over John.

"I love you," he whispers honestly, tracing a finger down the line of Sherlock's nose. Sherlock blinks owlishly down at him before giving a small and true smile.

"Mm, yes," he says before returning. "But don't ever do that again," he mumbles against his mouth. John runs his hands lightly down Sherlock's ribs again, he tenses momentarily before relaxing into the touch when he realizes John isn't teasing any longer. Sherlock slowly stretches out and settles between John's slightly bent knees and John happily tangles their legs together. The carpet is surprisingly soft and Sherlock is a heated and solid weight above him.

John thinks of the snow outside and is endlessly grateful for his fire and his wonderfully warm detective.

"I cannot and will not make that promise," John sighs after a few minutes of indulgent snogging. Sherlock nips impatiently at his lower lip and John grins stupidly before pulling him closer once more.