John Watson never minded much that his partner wasn’t up for cuddling most of the time. It made the times they did even warmer, filled his heart with fuzzyness and his throat with bubbling glee.
And as much as he liked having his lanky love sneaking up behind him, wrapping his long arms around his torso, feeling his ribs on his own back and the softly raising and falling chest on his spine, this was not what he needed to be comforted when he had trouble with life, was stressed out with the world or woke up from haunting dreams of way worse times.
At times like this he would be the one burying his face in the crook of his lover’s pale neck, nose getting tickled by single strands of rebellious bed hair, his fingers intertwining with the long, white ones and feeling his thumping heartbeat meeting a long and warm back. He didn’t need anyone to tell him it’s going to be okay, when the world around him was falling apart, trying to pull him with it. He needed to hold on to something, something that would stay, keep him breathing, keep him alive, something that he would give anything for.
And the something in this case was Sherlock Holmes.
it’s 3am but I wrote you a thing, wendy (○´3｀)ﾉ (a good morning to you)(how do words work I’m so sorry)