A.N - Self-explanatory title really. John notices a habit developing.

Unbetaed, so sorry for any mistakes. Forgive me, I was distracted! I may have delved irretrievably into the world of Johnlock now, just for this one. I'll see you on the other side...

DISCLAIMER: Nothing belongs to me, I make nothing from it.

1.

It was a strange experience, waking up beside someone in bed. It had been a while since he had last done it and John found himself conscious, in his semi-conscious state, of all those old dilemmas of morning breath and pillow-creased cheeks and blood rushes to odd places. But no matter, his bed-partner was asleep anyway, a hand curled defensively over his head, as if to keep the morning away.

There had only been a double room available. Despite Lestrade's friend's idiotic comments, John and Sherlock were mature and comfortable enough with each other to not even mention it. They just completed their work, solved the mystery, shed clothes and flopped exhausted into bed. There had been one moment in the night of John waking up with a long arm flung over his waist and a firm flat chest to his back, but he had gone straight back to sleep without thinking too hard about it. And now they were back on their respective sides of the bed and Sherlock did not even stir when John got up and went for a shower.

He was awake upon his return though, lounging back with one arm folded over his forehead and his knees bent and raised, squinting sleepily at the too bright screen of his phone.

"Good sleep?" John enquired, slipping easily into clean boxers. He, strangely enough, did not feel awkward dressing in front of Sherlock. Well, he had seen the man in a sheet, for crying out loud, and out of one as well if he thought about it. Which he didn't.

"Apart from your snoring, blissful."

"Did I really? Sorry..."

Sherlock shrugged off the apology. His eyes were discreetly following John's movements. He looked away finally as muscular thighs disappeared into suitcase crumpled jeans. "Train in an hour."

2.

The sofa was not the most comfortable place to wake up. He had no idea how Sherlock managed to sleep on it. Or was managing, right now. Because when John opened his eyes and wriggled to a more bearable position before preparing to get up, a dead weight shifted against him and let out a grumble.

Yesterday had been a long day. Following an even longer night. Straight back from working away on a case and immediately into one of those urgent mysteries that goes on and on, with lives at risk and no chance of a rest. John had spent the morning struggling at work, come home to find Sherlock about to leave and had tagged (or been dragged) along. After alternating between the police offices, hospital lab and the slightly more affluent parts of London they finally got home in the early hours of the morning. John did not even make it up to his bed; he just collapsed dramatically over the end of the sofa.

As soon as his head hit the firm flat cushion he was almost asleep, but he called upon good faithful self-discipline to fight it off for a minute and allow him to sit up and wrestle with his shoes. And then Sherlock slumped beside him preventing him from lying down again. A good thing, he had supposed, making it more likely he would get up and actually go to bed. But apparently he had not. And neither had the other man.

They were half sitting, half lying on the sofa beside each other, leaning in to meet in the middle, when John's alarm chirruped him awake. He had to prop Sherlock up to extricate himself. It did not wake him; only disturbed him enough for him to flicker his eyelids and sigh heavily as John lowered him gently to the cushions. He pulled the woollen throw over Sherlock, tucking the edge down his back so it wouldn't slip off while he slept.

Just before he left for work, he paused for a few seconds, sweeping a sleep-twisted curl from the pale forehead. His thumb caressed the furrowed brow into smoothness and he spoke softly, just in case he could be heard, "I'll be back in a few hours."

3.

John woke up as soon as the movement of the car halted. He had not even realised he had been falling asleep, so had no idea how long he'd been out, but it couldn't have been long – they didn't appear to have got very far. The sunlight was too bright for his tired brain and he kept his eyes shut. The car shifted and moved off again, so he didn't have to get out yet, he could rest a little more.

His temple was resting on something strangely familiar, yet not the interior of the car. He moved his cheek slightly to feel the surface and recognised the soft scratch of Sherlock's coat. Great. Because that wasn't embarrassing, was it? Snuggling into your friend's shoulder on the way home. Not at all... He hoped he wasn't drooling.

"Bloody roadworks," Lestrade cursed from faraway, but it could only have been the driver's seat. "We'll never get anywhere at this rate."

"Rush hour doesn't help," Donovan pointed out, also from in front of them.

Inane conversation and traffic jams were not good for Sherlock's patience, but he swallowed down whatever he was going to say, probably so as not to wake John. Nice. John knew he should sit up and participate somehow, try and keep him sane, but right now he was so damned bone tired and rather enjoying leaning and resting. And pretending to be asleep. And breathing in the rather delightful smell of his companion. His ears perked up at the mention of his name in the hushed voices ahead.

"I think John needs a holiday." It was Lestrade. John could imagine his concerned brown eyes watching them in the rear view mirror; Sherlock looking out of the window, John appearing unconscious against him. Greg might not see the world the way Sherlock did, but he saw a lot of other things. John felt the shoulder under his temple stiffen infinitesimally.

"John is fine." It was quiet, but firm.

"Really, Holmes, you have to admit he looks a little tired..." Donovan liked to state the obvious.

Sherlock did not even bother to reply, but his hand slipped defensively onto John's thigh. It lit a little glow inside of him. The car was moving then and the attention in the front was on the road again. John felt Sherlock's head turn, the brush of his breath glanced over his forehead. And then a little extra weight as Sherlock rested his own cheek on John's head. His sigh was heavy and he shifted his head, stroking his jaw over John's hair. Just once.

4.

Sometimes, apparently, Sherlock slept diagonally across the mattress – the only way he fit without his feet hanging off the end. And he took up far too much space for one person. Long arms and legs seemed even longer when they were in your bed. Yes... why were the arms and legs even here?

John cracked open an eye. He didn't remember falling asleep with Sherlock. In fact, he distinctly remembered being alone in bed and listening to his flatmate rummage around in a box of books downstairs just before he fell asleep. His guest was in a t-shirt and black boxer shorts (John's, he realised – was nothing sacred?!), with those extra long legs tangled in his duvet. John rolled onto his back, puzzled and trying not to fall off the edge of the mattress, but Sherlock was having none of it and he groaned in his sleep, flinging out an arm to pull him back into his side.

"No, stay asleep for another minute," he mumbled and snored gently.

John smiled. He couldn't help it. Sherlock's words had been a command, but his voice had been pleading. The sunlight was only just creeping around the edges of the curtains, so it was at least another hour before he had to get up. John knew he was going nowhere for while.

But when had Sherlock crept into his bed? Actually... who cared?

John slowly slid his hand over Sherlock's ribcage, extending his fingers until he felt a bump of spine. It was against reason, and everything he had ever said or protested, that he wanted to feel him, but he did it anyway, letting his hand rise and fall with Sherlock's steady breathing. The heat from beneath the cotton fabric was slightly damp with sweat. He inserted his own leg between a lean thigh and the softer mattress and pressed a little closer, relaxing into the embrace.

Sherlock got up when John did, drinking black coffee at the kitchen table while John ate his breakfast. Finally John brought it up. "Why my bed?"

He looked around shiftily, "Did you know, John, that one of those sidelights is brighter than the other?"

"Did you know, Sherlock, that you talk a lot of crap when you don't want to answer a question?"

"I couldn't sleep," he admitted quietly, mussing a hand through his hair.

"Oh?" John leaned behind him to deposit his empty bowl in the sink without taking his eyes from Sherlock. He rather enjoyed moments like this, where he had the upper hand and Sherlock was the one who had to make excuses and feel like a naughty child.

"I tried. For hours. My body was tired enough, more than, but it wouldn't come. I never sleep so well on my own."

John frowned, recalling an earlier conversation, "I thought you had never acquired the habit of sharing a bed."

"Not until you..."

"Twice isn't a habit, Sherlock."

"Learn to count John. Two times this week does not equal two times in total."

John hmmed. Good point. Perhaps they were creeping towards a habit. "I've got to go. Go back to bed, you look exhausted."

Sherlock nodded. But they both knew he wouldn't.

5.

Sherlock's bed was more comfortable than his, of course. The duvet was heavy, a pleasant feathery down and the ridiculously high cotton count of the bed-linen was definitely worth the cost. It was soft and cool and pleasantly soothing on John's skin. He slowly and carefully released his grip on the light fabric of Sherlock's pyjama trousers, letting the slack material sink down over a slim hip.

There was a long slender arm curled under John's neck and the front of a warm neck to his face. His efforts to remove himself without disturbing his partner were to no avail, Sherlock simply curled his hand round over John's back and shoulder and held him close. For someone who apparently did not sleep, Sherlock did it very well. John knew it was all nonsense, just because Sherlock slept less than the average man, and hardly ever during a case, did not mean he was invincible. Every body needed rest, even if the mind was content to be on alert all the time.

The bane of John's life, his nightmares, had brought him here last night. He had no trouble remembering this time. There was no point fighting them, he knew. Nobody could live through what he had, and see the kind of crap Sherlock showed him on every police case he took, and not have to live with the consequences. It was healthy, he told himself; his brain needed to process his experiences to learn from them before banishing them to the outer chasms of his memory.

He had woken sweaty and panicked. The only thing he needed just then was to get out of his stifling bedroom and find a drink of water. And maybe sit and brood downstairs for a while. Of course, his slow pad down the stairs had been impossible to hide from Sherlock, who had only just retired himself. It was pretty certain he had heard John's dream, even from the other side of the building; he was a good old fashioned shout-and-thrasher. He knew, once upon a time, the nightmares had irritated his flatmate, the sounds of his distress interrupting thoughts and calculations. But at some point they had stopped being mentioned and now there was no awkwardness the following morning, just gentle looks enquiring after his wellbeing over the breakfast table.

John had heard Sherlock's bedroom door click and creak open, though the man himself did not appear. With glass in hand he had wandered over to investigate. Sherlock had been back in bed, but cracked open an eye and flicked back the edge of his duvet in an unspoken invitation. And John had accepted graciously, leaving his drink on a bedside table and curling up behind him.

It also wasn't mentioned the next morning, though they both knew this could be becoming more than a habit.

&1.

John woke alone, and for a change, it was unexpected. It took him a moment, and to be honest a painful stiff stretch, to inform him quite why so unexpected. His head throbbed (hangover), shoulders were stiff, (not unusual) and his hips ached (that was), and the skin on his back was sore and burned slightly as he stretched it (most unusual of all). Even John's less than expert deductions sped towards the reason. And the reason was worryingly absent from the bed.

"Sherlock?" John sat bolt upright. He was gone. Shit, it had all been an unforgiveable mistake. And there, shooting out the cracked open window, went his life. Byeeee.

He replayed a few key moments from last night in his mind, but not too many, or he might get distracted. The party, the drinking, the staggered laughing clamber up the stairs, being pushed up from behind by an only slightly steadier detective. John had tumbled onto the bed (shoved?), pulling Sherlock with him. And it had gone from then, kissing, biting, the ripping off of clothes, blunt fingernails raking down his back, lean thighs wrapped around his hips. It hadn't lasted long, but the memory of it would, burned into his memory, singeing his senses for eternity. Happy birthday to him.

It had been hot, too hot, god it was practically steaming. Sherlock had discovered John was far from 'not gay!' and John had discovered that Sherlock made the most amazing noises when he was trembling on the brink of coming. But now he had gone, slipped away in the first rays of sunshine before John could awake and find him there. Of course he would have regretted it, he was much too good for this; a drunken fumble and a quick shag. Every shift in their relationship had pushed them towards this and John had ruined it under the influence of a few too many. He should have known better, should have kept his hands to himself. He couldn't quite recall who had started it, but he would bet it was him, yanking those lapels to him and crushing his mouth onto those delicious lips. John groaned in embarrassment and pushed the image from his mind.

He collapsed back into the flattened pillows, trying to imagine what Sherlock would say when he actually found him. Would he shout? Would he punch?! He should, he had been well and thoroughly debauched by John last night, if the scattered contents of the nightstand drawer were anything to go by. A bottle of lube was open, tipped and spilling on the floor - that would be hell to clean up. There were tissues flung everywhere, really everywhere. And condoms scattered across the floor – John could recall the first had died a very quick death with fumbling drunken fingers. Sherlock's able digits had had to assist with the replacement, just to add to the embarrassment.

John hated himself. Really and truly.

He was positive he nearly died of shock when he felt someone slip under the duvet beside him. Actually had to clasp his hand over his heart to keep it beating. This was about as far from expected as possible.

"Good morning," it was a sultry caress of sexy rumbles, accompanied by a slide of a hand over his hair-roughened thigh. "I didn't think you'd be awake yet."

John could smell the taint of fornication emanating from the body beside him; the stale alcohol and tobacco smoke, the dried sweat and musk of sex. And the relief brought a slow smile to his lips.

"Hullo Sherlock." He turned into the welcoming warmth, relishing the heat of wet lips on his neck.

"I'm not sure I can quite recall the exact events of last night," Sherlock breathed into the curve of a shoulder, "We might need to do it again."