Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock. Obviously.

A/N: This was a bit of fluff that popped into my head. I love asexual!Sherlock, and I don't feel like there's enough of it, so here you go.

Summary/Premise: Sherlock likes to cuddle.

John never would have expected Sherlock to be a cuddler. On the outside the man was more machine than human, cold, calculating, and almost always right about everything. But when you went deeper -and somehow, John found himself going deeper- Sherlock was only human, only able to withstand so much before he cracked. John always knew he was mad, but it was a different sort of mad than he expected.

The cuddling started one evening before John had a date. The girl had been excited when John had caught her eye and given her a slight smile, and John couldn't resist when she slipped him her number. It wasn't as it John hadn't gone on a date before, of course, he'd gone on plenty, and it was enough for Sherlock to know what he was doing the second he stepped into the room.

"Nicer clothes than usual, faint scent of cheap cologne, hair pushed back to accentuate facial features, shaved, watch on your left wrist and not your right... Going somewhere tonight, John?" Sherlock finished mildly, looking up from the couch. John sighed irritably.

"You already know I have a date tonight, you don't need me to tell you," he returned, checking his watch, which was, as Sherlock had observed, on his left wrist. He picked up his jacket from on top of the chair it was currently residing on, spared a glance at Sherlock's current experiment -he did feel bad for the poor bloke who'd had his ear cut off so that Sherlock could poke at it- and then looked at Sherlock.

"I'll be back around midnight, most likely. Don't wait up for me." And with an affectionate ruffling of Sherlock's curls, John was gone.

The experiment all but ground to a halt after that. Sherlock didn't understand, and it was a rare occurrence, what was going through John's head, especially just then. That touch, coupled with the look in his eyes when he'd done it, was more than friendship. Sherlock didn't know much about friendship, given that his relationship with John was the closest he'd ever come to be with another person, but he wasn't sure if that had been platonic or not. He threw himself back onto the couch with a groan. Sentiment was definitely not his area, and there was no way he could ask John. Mycroft? He'd just laugh, and his brother wasn't exactly the friendliest person either. Lestrade? Maybe, but he'd still be laughed at. Mrs. Hudson? No, she'd just smile at him and tell him she 'knew it all along' or some sort of thing like that. That really only left John, he thought to himself. It was the only logical way to go about things.

It was only an hour later that John walked through the door, his lip split and a bruise forming over his eye. He held his arm close to his body, and it was obvious that he'd gotten into some sort of fight. Sherlock stood from the couch worriedly.

"What happened?" he asked, brow creased into a frown.

John snorted, resisting the urge to comment on how Sherlock probably didn't care. He walked into the kitchen, searching through the freezer for something to ice his wrist with. "What /happened/ was that Sierra," Sherlock deduced this was the girl he'd gone out to see. "Was only going on a date with me because she wanted to make her /boyfriend/ jealous. And when said boyfriend saw me, he decided it was a good idea to beat me up. Oh God, Sherlock, do you need to keep this in the freezer? What even are these?!"

"I assume you mean the fingernails," Sherlock said, still processing the information of John getting beat up. "They're for an experiment!"

"Yeah, I know," John grumbled, locating a bag of frozen peas and wrapping it in a towel, wincing as he held it on his wrist. He walked back into the sitting room, falling tiredly onto the couch. Sherlock resumed sitting, now looking at John.

"So you were attacked?" Sherlock asked, sounding slightly impatient for the story to continue.

"He punched me first, and when I retaliated, Sierra started crying, which distracted me and allowed Charlie -the boyfriend- to gain the upper hand. He's out cold now, though," John added, a note of satisfaction in his voice that Sherlock found oddly pleasing to hear.

"I'm glad you're alright," Sherlock said, and something about the sincerity in his voice stopped John from retorting something. He slumped back against the couch.

"Wrist's going to be sore for a few days," he said regretfully, sighing. He closed his eyes for a moment.

John was almost asleep when Sherlock spoke again, and he wrenched his eyes open at the words. "Would you do that to someone?"

"What?"

"If someone were... flirting or... threatening someone you cared about... Would you take care of it in such an aggressive manner?"

John blinked, looking at Sherlock curiously. He looked almost... shy in his question.

"Well... I suppose, yeah. If someone were threatening them... I wasn't threatening Sierra, Sherlock."

"I never said you were," Sherlock retorted, crossing his arms and pouting like a child. "It was only a question."

John shifted the makeshift ice pack on his injured wrist, realising the Sherlock had moved closer to him while he'd been almost-sleeping.

"That wasn't just an innocent question," he said after a moment, and Sherlock tried and failed to look confused. "Don't try that, I know you, Sherlock. What's in your head?"

"There are lots of things in my head," Sherlock began stiffly, and John rolled his eyes.

"Rephrase: What brought on the question?"

Sherlock made a slight face, one that made John have to repress a laugh. "I was... thinking, earlier, after you left..." He trailed off, no doubt falling back into that train of thought.

"You do a lot of that," John pointed out dryly. Sherlock looked at him, expression startled, as if he'd forgotten John was there. John rolled his eyes.

"You were thinking about something...?" he prompted, and Sherlock gave a slight nod.

"I guess... I'm confused," he said slowly, hesitantly, hating the words even as they wrenched themselves from his lips. He was Sherlock Holmes, he wasn't supposed to be /confused/. Being confused was for normal people. Boring people.

Surprise emanated from John, and it took a moment for him to respond. This was the fully human side of Sherlock that no one got to see, ever. Except for him.

"Why are you confused?" he prompted gently, and Sherlock shot him an annoyed look.

"Don't patronise me, John," he snapped. John rolled his eyes.

"Just talk to me, Sherlock. I'm not going to judge you."

Sherlock took a breath before speaking, his words very quick and on the verge of running together.

"I'm confused about you, John. You're always going out with girls and you seem to be very adamant about the fact that you're not gay and yet you continue to do other things that insist that you must be. For example your hair, always styled precisely with attention to detail, especially it you're going on a date, but also sometimes when the only person you will be seeing that day is me. I don't understand you, John. You continue to surprise me and do things that keep me having to guess. And I /never guess/. Except when it comes to you. And just now, you stated that if anyone threatened a person that you cared about, you'd do exactly what the man, Charlie, did to you. Or, making a deduction because of your history and sometimes violent tendencies, you'd do worse. And you have done worse. You've killed for me. And I am confused on this because your actions and your words don't add up. That's what I was thinking about," he finished, cheeks flushed as he stared at the floor, his tirade complete for the moment. He hadn't meant to give away as much as he had, but once he'd began, it was harder to stop than he'd imagined it would be.

John stared openly at Sherlock long after he'd finished speaking. Sherlock didn't once look up in the silence that fell, and John finally noticed the blush staining his cheeks. Sherlock didn't get confused. Sherlock didn't blush. Apparently, Sherlock did both of these things, just not very often. John hesitated before gently wrapping his good arm around the younger man's shoulders. It was a tactic he used for calming people that worked both with his sister and with younger people in the military, so he figured it might work here. Sherlock stiffened at the touch, but didn't pull away.

"Sherlock." John sighed when he didn't look up. "Sherlock. look at me."

Sherlock glanced up and then down, acting very much like a child. John groaned inwardly. At this point, he wasn't sure which was worse: gloating and confident Sherlock or confused and embarrassed Sherlock. Maybe they were both equally difficult to deal with.

"I'm not trying to confuse you, you know." John thought it best to just start trying to justify and go through Sherlock's little rant. "I do care about you, and you're right, I have killed for you. And I would do it again if I had to." He fell silent, thinking of everything that Sherlock had said. "This has to do with sentiment," he said after a moment. "That's why you don't understand it." Another pause, shorter this time. "Try this... How do you feel about me, Sherlock?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment, and John was afraid he was going to keep up with the silent treatment.

"I don't believe in feelings, John. I don't understand them. I don't associate them with myself. But I believe... I care about you." The words were hesitant, and Sherlock tentatively laid his head against John's shoulder. He was still tense, but at least he was trying.

John, for his part, was more than a little surprised at the way Sherlock was attempting to stay close to him. "I don't want you to be confused," he repeated, voice soft. "Tell me what I can do to help you figure everything out."

"I want..." Sherlock began, and then stopped. He cleared his throat. "I want to..." He stopped again, this time looking faintly annoyed with himself. "I want to be close to you," he finally got out in a rush. John couldn't help a small smile.

"Well, you are, aren't you? I already told you I cared about you-"

"I meant physically close," Sherlock interrupted. Anyone who didn't know him would have called that rudeness, but John knew him better than that.

"Well, at the moment, that's what we are, right?" John squeezed Sherlock's shoulder lightly to accompany his words.

"Do you find this... Agreeable?"

John laughed, finally allowing himself to relax against Sherlock, curling up to his side, Hesitantly, as if scared of how John would react, Sherlock wrapped his arms around him, drawing him close.

"Of course I find this agreeable," John told him, smiling softly as he closed his eyes once again.

-

The cuddling happened surprisingly often. Usually Sherlock initiated it, but there were a few times John would wordlessly come and sit on the couch with him, nuzzling his way under Sherlock's arm. Slowly, the cuddling drew them closer. John was well aware of the love he felt for his supposed-to-be-platonic flatmate. It was oddly alright with him, as long as Sherlock didn't know.

One night, though, things went above cuddling on the couch.

On this particular night, John couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was blood. Bodies strewn everywhere. Death. He wasn't sure what had triggered it, but it wouldn't go away. He made his way downstairs, stumbling past Sherlock's room, hoping that the consulting detective was still up and in the sitting room.

Sherlock, on this night, had decided to attempt to sleep. Of course, though, sleep was boring. He wasn't exhausted, so sleep wasn't forthcoming. When he heard the heavy footsteps of John outside his bedroom, he leapt up, the much-needed excuse to get up from his blasted not-sleep.

John, after seeing that Sherlock wasn't there, turned, intending to just head back to bed. He did not expect to run straight into the other man as he did so. He started violently before staring at Sherlock.

"Don't /do/ that," he stage-whispered, sounding incredibly panicked. Sherlock recognised the tone, and something like remorse crossed his features in the mostly darkness of the room.

"Apologies, John... Are you alright?"

Still working on bringing his breathing back to normal, John shrugged. "Couldn't sleep."

"Me neither." Sherlock was silent for a moment, and then he seemed to have an idea. He took John's hand in his own, tugging him forward. "Come here."

John complied, brow furrowed slightly in confusion. "Where are we...?" he trailed off as Sherlock pulled him into his room. Abruptly, John flushed, and he was grateful for the darkness.

"Whatever you're thinking, Sherlock-"

"It is an experiment," Sherlock said, and then added quietly. "I want to try something. You calm me, you know."

John couldn't seem to resist that begging that Sherlock was doing. Everyone knew Sherlock didn't beg. Well, he didn't beg to anyone but John.

"...Fine. But I swear, Sherlock, if it gets weird-"

"It won't," Sherlock assured him, figuring where that was going. He sat down on his bed, tugging John with him. "I don't know if you've noticed, John, but I do not require... sexual tendency to go on with my life."

John flushed even deeper. He could not believe he was having this conversation with Sherlock bloody Holmes, of all people. "So, what, asexual, then?" he asked, attempting to sound normal.

"I believe... Yes. I have always identified as such."

John didn't respond, and for a long moment Sherlock was afraid (blasted sentiment!) that John was going to leave. And then John gave an almost imperceptible huff of a laugh.

"That's probably a good thing, since the last thing I want to do is have sex with you," he mumbled, laying down suddenly and tugging Sherlock with him, who obeyed him without a word.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, nestling close to him and laying his head on his chest. Sherlock responded in kind, nuzzling into John's hair and relishing the scent of him. He loved John, that much was certain. Though he had no experience in the matter and nothing to compare it to, he was sure: he loved John.

John gave a yawn, allowing his eyes to close. "This is nice," he murmured into Sherlock's chest. Sherlock hummed softly in agreement, combing his fingers gently through John's hair.

"Night, Sherlock," John mumbled, sleep quickly sneaking up on him. Sherlock kissed the top of his head lightly, as it just seemed the thing to do. He felt John snuggle closer.

"Goodnight, John."

-

They slept in the same bed a lot, after that. It helped to calm them both, and they both enjoyed it more than they would ever be willing to admit.

Their relationship had changed without either of them noticing. They cuddled a lot more, and laid together, curled up to one another. There were little touches, too, a squeeze to the hand, a kiss on the forehead or temple, a finger trailing over the nape of one's neck as the other walked past. They didn't notice the changes, but everyone else did.

And then, there was a case. A case that went horribly wrong. John was supposed to hang back, be safe. The killer was ruthless, would shoot without looking or caring. He'd taken John captive, to use to barter with the great Sherlock Holmes. As soon as John came out with a dark bruise on his forehead and his leg cut open, blood oozing slowly from the wound, Sherlock stopped thinking rationally. He would have done whatever it took to make John safe again.

They made it back to the flat in silence. Lestrade and his team had made it there before anything else important had happened, and John's injuries were still only his leg and his head. He'd been checked by the medics on the scene, and they'd cleaned and bandaged his leg and checked his head, confirming the concussion John already knew he had. Sherlock supported John's weight as he walked, the older man unable to walk normally with his injuries.

Once inside the flat, Sherlock forced John to sit on the couch, and he immediately went to make tea, something he only did when John was hurt or upset or scared. He came back, hovering worriedly over John.

"I'm not dying, Sherlock," John muttered, eyes closed. They'd given him something for the concussion, but it didn't much help with the pain.

"You're hurt," Sherlock said, as if that was worse. And in his mind, it probably was.

"I'm fine," John corrected. The worry was touching, but at the same time, he wasn't used to seeing Sherlock like this. Sherlock opened his mouth the respond, but was cut off by the teakettle. He rushed off the get it, and John slumped against the cushions.

"Here," Sherlock said, setting the tea in front of him. John opened his eyes.

"Thank you," he said, trying a small smile and then wincing. Sherlock sat down on the couch next to him, and John automatically snuggled against him. Sherlock wrapped comforting arms around John.

"They said you could sleep, with the medication," Sherlock recited, and John nodded, already halfway there. Sherlock swallowed, seeing him like that, so open, so hurt. It was Sherlock's fault. All his fault. He leaned down, brushing a clumsy kiss on John's lips. John's eyes fluttered open immediately, shock flooding his features. Sherlock tensed.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean-" Sherlock began, but John stopped him.

"It's fine," he murmured, looking pleased. He pulled Sherlock down for another kiss that was just the light brushing of lips.

"Night, Sherlock," he mumbled, laying back against him, satisfied. Sherlock broke into a grin, despite the injured man in his arms.

"Goodnight, John," he said gently.

-

John never would have suspected Sherlock to be a cuddler. Nor would he have expected him to be the type that wanted to sleep in the same bed, curled up together without a thought for anyone else. Nor would he have ever though he would he would be the kissing type. But Sherlock Holmes was all of those things. And even more, though no one would have suspected it, he was a perfect boyfriend for all of his flaws, and a perfect human being for the fact that he claimed to not have a heart.

A/N: So? I really didn't know how to end it, and I'm not sure how much sense it makes. Please rate, comment, review, etc.? Thanks for reading!