Stories I've commissioned

Head scratches

This one was made by Blistering_typhoons on AO3 they did a lovely job💖
This is a fluffy wholesome touch starved Sherlock fic please enjoy!

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John Hamish Watson is very suspicious.

And for once it's not something that lingers underneath his skin uncomfortably and rewards him with no sleep.

No, it's a rather playful feeling, one that creeps up whenever Sherlock Holmes (who just so happens to be his boyfriend now, God bless nosy landladies) interacts with him.

Whether that be simply the genius calling to him for input at a crime scene, or in their more intimate moments that are mostly, if not always, somewhere in a dark booth of a secluded coffee shop.

Sherlock touches him.

A lot.

Granted, one would expect one's boyfriend (perhaps soulmate, John's aware of just how disgustingly in love he is, thank you Mycroft) to show affection, but coming from Sherlock it's practically unheard of.

Well he thought it was.

''Sherlock?'', he asks one day, bemused at the boyfriend clinging onto his waist in the kitchen.

''Yesh John?'', comes the muffled reply.

'You're always so touchy with me'', he states, tone as gentle as his manoeuvre to achieve a more conventional hug with Sherlock's face nestled into his collarbone and not his back.

A silence, and sensing the dark haired man's pout, John trails his fingers softly up and down Sherlock's spine. He takes a moment to relish the little sigh that escapes Sherlock's mouth, warming John's skin with damp heat.

He pulls away from John to instead give him a lingering kiss.

As far as distractions go, John is not about to complain, but he isn't going to forget anything either.

---

The couch creaks and protests under the combined weight of the both of them. By some miscommunication (which was intended by Sherlock, John thinks) John finds himself buried underneath a gloriously stretched out Sherlock, raven hair tickling his face.

The TV is not on, no music is playing and the busy sounds of London is obscured by the thick glass and seal of the windows.

''S'quiet. Don't like it.'', Sherlock slurs and John chuckles.

''Should I tell you a story?''

''Only if it's factual one. I'm not a child.''

John snorts (earning him a dirty glare that is felt and not seen), but eventually settles on spewing nonsense about people he's observed recently.

Somehow, he doesn't remember when, he had started combing through Sherlock's unruly mop of hair, tweaking the thick strands between the pads of his fingers. He tugs a little too hard in some places (instantly forsaking his own comfort to plant a kiss on the injured area), but Sherlock doesn't seem to mind too much.

Instead he just comments on John's story, challenges some of his observations and breathes sighs of genuine comfort and relaxation whenever John does something nice to his scalp.

It's one of John's favourite moments in their relationship, one that makes him smile softly in public and as he's drifting off to sleep.

''-and then comes along this idiot of a chap, walking his little dog with the stringiest, weakest piece of...'', John trails off.

Silence.

Sherlock's still breathing, but it's deeper, heavier...

''Sherlock?''

No answer.

''Did you- did you fall asleep, you bloody git?''

No answer.

John sits for a while.

He has never seen Sherlock fall asleep naturally in a way that didn't involve exhaustive activities. He'd usually still have to manhandle the bastard into a suitable place of rest.

But right now?

Bloody hell, he looked almost peaceful.

And then it all fell into place.

Sherlock touched him, because he wanted it in return. As if John wouldn't just do it because he loved him.

All of those moments where physical touch is not strictly necessary, and even if it is, where Sherlock would almost be desperate in his ministrations. As if he had to compensate, just so that John would love him.

John huffs in disbelief, shaking his head and resuming his soft contact with Sherlock's scalp.

Luckily for the both of them, he isn't stupid.