a fic about Sherlock and John sharing a bed that is actually not slash and I am dead serious
Sherlock had taken to undressing again, but now he stopped, blinked, looked sideways at John. Sherlock didn’t move, and his leg was still awkwardly suspended in the air, fingers on his shoelaces, frozen while untying them, but the man’s balance was good enough he could stay like that the whole night if he wanted to. And that wasn’t even a joke. Sometimes John wondered — absently or angrily, it depended — what planet Sherlock’d come from, but he always realised that, in the entire cosmos, only humanity could have produced something so completely bizarre as Sherlock Holmes. The thought made him smile. The thought had also kept him from just up and leaving on more than one occasion.