Not Afraid

Chapter Twelve - Dadda

"Hi Sherlock," John smiled, trying to play down the fact they'd just slept together with not all of the participants knowing about it.

"What are you doing in my bed?" Sherlock asked, self-consciously pulling the sheet further up his chest.

"You, uh, you weren't sleeping well," John tried to explain his train of thought from last night. "And I wasn't sleeping either. And I just...you know what? I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. I didn't think."

"No, you thought," Sherlock was frowning at him but not in a displeased way.

"Pardon?" John said. He hauled himself into a sitting position and brought his knees up to his chest, still looking at Sherlock, wondering if he should dare to hope.

"You held me," Sherlock spoke in a halting, sort of dreamy tone. "Last night. And then I slept better than I've ever slept in my life."

John didn't quite know what to say. Was Sherlock mad? Was he happy? John wasn't very good at figuring out what emotion, if any, Sherlock was feeling and the little frown wasn't helping matters. For one thing, it distracted John immensely because it made the space between Sherlock's eyebrows scrunch together in little ripples and eyes to become slightly shadowed. It also was Sherlock's occasional poker face, hiding what he really thought of something. Or, it was his confused face which John rather thought it might have been.

"I liked it," Sherlock said in a voice like a small child.

John wasn't sure he'd heard quite right. "You what?"

"I liked it," Sherlock repeated, flopping down from his propped up position on his elbow so he lay flat on his back among the sheets and blankets.

"You liked it," John nodded slowly, letting that idea sink in. "Okay."

He was just considering kissing Sherlock when he heard a cry issuing from his room upstairs. Rosie. With a little sigh, he threw the sheets off him properly and swung his legs out of bed. As he was about to rise, he felt Sherlock's bony hand trace the curvature of his back, fingertips sliding over his spine.

"I've always appreciated your lines, John," he said quietly before removing his hand. John sat very still, the ghost of Sherlock's hand still touching his bare skin, goosebumps erupting, and not because he was cold.

"My what?" he said, voice a little hoarse. Sherlock chuckled a little.

"Your lines. The way your body fits together."

John thought that was possibly the most unromantic way of saying someone was good looking but coming from Sherlock, it was huge. A broad smile covered his face all at once and he threw himself back down onto his back so he could look up at Sherlock.

"Well thanks," he grinned. "But I think the appreciation is mutual."