Work Text:
The moment he felt the rare London sun on his face, John Watson knew it was a Saturday; as he felt sleep slipping away like sand from his fingers, the familiar domestic sounds of a kettle greeted him, better than any sour breathed morning kiss - Sherlock always knew when John was up. The tired doctor hummed happily and sat up, blinking against the morning sunlight as he swung his legs over the side of their bed. They landed with a heavy thump as John stretched his arms above his head - the joints popping loudly - before slipping on a pair of red and white chequered pyjama pants.
Thank god it was Saturday at last. Through the past week there had been quite a few nasty colds to treat, and he was just thankful he hadn't caught it yet. John didn't mind treating his patients of course, it was just nice to be able to spend time with his lover without having Sherlock mollycoddle him because he had a high temperature (like two weeks ago- and the most recent weekend they had a case, and they were too tired to do anything after a long chase on foot).
With another sleepy-eyed yawn, John made his way to the bathroom across the hall, brushing his teeth (of which he proudly still had all of - even at his growing age) and combing his hair. Once satisfied, he debated whether to go and get dressed now, but then decided against it because fuck it, it's the weekend.
John heard the familiar pop clunk of the toaster (strangely, it'd only started clunking after Sherlock's How-Many-Parts-Can-I-Borrow-From-The-Toaster-With-It-Still-Working-For-John experiment) and the scrape of a wooden spoon against a pan. John walked through the hall and into the living room- half registering the fact that Sherlock had put on Jeremy Kyle again- and finally reached his destination of the kitchen. Sure enough, Sherlock was stood by the work top, spooning the baked beans onto a slice of toast on two plates. John smiled fondly and crossed his arms over his bare chest, watching as his detective put a plate at either side of the table, completely aware of John's presence but choosing to ignore him until he'd finished his task. Sherlock went back to the work top a second time, picking up two mugs of warm tea, just as John stepped into the kitchen.
"Morning, love." John croaked, his voice still blanketed with sleep. He coughed and repeated the phrase clearly, wrapping his slightly tanned arms around the taller man's waist.
"Good morning John." Sherlock replied, pursing his lips as he tried to continue his task of making his lover a decent breakfast. He knew John wasn't going to let go until he'd completed his own Saturday Morning ritual, so instead shuffled 180 degrees with the doctor still clung to him, and leaned over slightly to place down a plain blue mug beside each plate. John chuckled into his dressing-gown clad back.
"What?" The detective asked.
"I love you, you silly man." The other murmured back, leaning up on his tip-toes to nuzzle at Sherlock's long, pale neck, before sealing the phrase with a gentle and loving kiss to the very tip of his spine.
Thank god it was Saturday.