daysofstorm:

detectivelyd:

Sort of just for practice, because I kinda like drawing male anatomy if you hadn’t noticed. But also I reckon Sherlock would definitely be one of those people who ends up with his feet on the pillows, face smooshed against the mattress, and half draped over the edge of the bed by morning.

When he does actually sleep, of course.

Full size.

I couldn’t help it.

_________________________

“Sherlock, when did you get home last…?” John stopped dead in his tracks. He had heard a noise from Sherlock bedroom, and considering that it was long past noon and his door stood wide open, John wanted to ask him about his case in Birmingham.

The noise must have come from a book which had fallen off the edge of the bed, next to his pillow, where, instead of Sherlock’s head, his feet rested. He had kicked off the duvet, too, and his pyjama bottoms barely managed to hold on. One arm hung over the bed, his knuckles brushing the floor lightly. Sherlock inhaled deeply, his shoulders rising and causing the muscles in the small of his back to tense and stand out. He looked strong, and at the same time vulnerable.

John wondered whether he should allow himself another minute of staring at his flatmate in the hopes that Sherlock wouldn’t notice and create an incredibly awkward scene. Walking out would work nicely to avoid such a problem, John told himself, but his feet remained rooted to the spot.

No one had the right to be so effortlessly beautiful; especially not an arrogant git like Sherlock. John sighed and walked closer, ignoring the feeling that the temperature was rising with every second that passed. He picked up the book and placed it on the nightstand, turning his back for a moment, telling himself that his reaction was perfectly normal.

He had not expected Sherlock to look like this, revealing most of his body to the world without a hint of self consciousness. John wondered what he looked like when he was sleeping and came to the conclusion that he probably always frowned. He was constantly tense after waking up, needing to stretch out the glimpses of nightmares in the morning.

Sherlock looked entirely trusting. He had slept like this with the door open. A man who had arch enemies shouldn’t feel this safe; not even in his own bed. John stopped tracing the small indented letters on the book cover with his index finger, ignoring the urge to substitute the book with something else, or someone, rather, and turned around again to wake Sherlock up.

Silently, Sherlock had turned his head and was now looking at him calmly. John hoped that his surprise wasn’t visible and that Sherlock was too tired to make something of the fact that John was randomly standing around in his room, stroking a book, while he lay there half naked.   

“Morning,” John said, though his voice was a bit rough. “You dropped this.” He pointed at the book behind him, waiting for Sherlock to react. When that didn’t happen for a handful of seconds, he decided to go back to Plan A. “When did you get home last night? And how did it go?” He wanted to walk away now; make some tea and eggs and occupy his mind with something other than the knowledge that if Sherlock moved only one inch forward, his pants would come off.

Sherlock inhaled deeply and then let out a content sound which John tried very very hard to ignore. He lifted his hand and dragged his fingers through his hair, achieving an even greater state of unruliness.

“Do you … want something for breakfast?” John swallowed hard and started edging towards the door, looking decidedly only at his face.

“Tse md b lbl,” Sherlock mumbled against his bicep.  

“Good, tea, well, right.” He knew that if Sherlock had not found it strange to find him in his room, he would now most definitely know that something was up.

“It went well, but” Sherlock lifted his head and blinked the sleep out of his eyes, “you should have come. It was a bit … dull.”

“Why don’t you, erm, tell me about it in the kitchen?” John had reached the door and was about to take flight when Sherlock dropped his head back down, yawning widely. It felt wrong to walk out now, as if it would accentuate John’s awkwardness.

“Right, so, I’ll be in the kitchen, making tea. You take your time.” John almost walked into the frame of the door because he turned so quickly and left; too quickly to notice Sherlock’s knowing smile.