It's Not A Game Anymore

Chapter four

John wakes with Sherlock draped half across his body, and this time, he doesn't panic.

Not much, anyway.

He attempts to keep his heart rate somewhere in the vicinity of normal, seeing as Sherlock's ear rests over the left side of his chest, and John wouldn't put past him to be able to clock his vitals even while in the middle of an REM cycle. He somewhat succeeds, too, and takes the moment to catalogue the species "mad detective" while in his sleeping state.

With his chin tilted to his chest, the tips of Sherlock's curls are tickling the edge of John's nose, making him smile as he smells the detective's exorbitantly priced shampoo and something distinctly him. It usually hovers in the air of the flat, giving John that feeling of home whenever he steps through the door. It's... nice.

The grey t-shirt is stretched across Sherlock's back as the detective's right arm reaches across John, his left tucked up under him, trapped between his torso and John's side. His right ankle is hooked around John's, cold toes mingling in the early morning light and John smiles softly and buries his nose in Sherlock's curls once more, allowing himself this moment without all of the what is this? what are you doing? that goes with it.

Across the room, Connor pulls himself to his feet in his hotel-provided cot, smiling happily now that John's awake and jumping up and down to show that he's ready to be lifted from his bedtime prison. He remains silent, though, as if he knows that he shouldn't make noise while Papa is still sleeping.

John slides to the side, carefully extracting his arm from under Sherlock's body and pausing to hold his breath as the detective shifts and murmurs before settling once more. John exhales and continues to shimmy his way to the edge of the bed, eventually swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress and digging his toes into the floor.

For someone who never sleeps, the detective is like the dead when does actually drop off.

Chuckling to himself, John stands with a muffled groan and stretches, feeling some warmth bloom in his chest when Connor mimics him.

"That was very good," John murmurs, reaching down and pulling the boy to his chest. "Shall we go get some breakfast? Leave Papa to sleep?"

He knows this is pretend – he knows it is – and yet he can't help but savor the feel of the child in his arms and the way the words 'Papa' and 'Daddy' roll so easily off his lips. He can't help the flutter in his stomach (or is it his chest?) when he sees the ring residing on his fourth finger. Nor can he help the overwhelming feeling of fondness that hits him whenever he glances in Sherlock's direction. It's more than fondness, though. It's something else entirely that's threatening to swallow him whole. And John would let it, he would, if he knew Sherlock would be there to pull him back from the depths.

Or join him.

But Sherlock doesn't feel things that way.

xxxxxx

Sherlock wakes and is gripped with an immediate panic.

John's not on the other side of the mattress. Nor is he in the room. Shocking how quickly one becomes accustomed to the feeling of another body in the bed. In the bed, in his mind palace, in his life.

Sherlock at least remembers he's not in 221B before he goes swanning out into the hallway in nothing but his dressing gown and silk trousers. He grabs his hastily discarded clothes from the night before and pulls them on, barely remembering to zip his flies as he hops his way out the door, pulling on his shoes as he goes.

He knows it ridiculous – John's probably getting coffee or doing some other basic human thing that John insists on – but... Sherlock has to check. He has to know for sure.