Work Text:
When a queen bee’s reign ends due to old age or illness, the worker bees end her life in an unusual way. Known among beekeepers and etymologists as “balling” and colloquially as “cuddle death,” the worker bees swarm over her body en masse. The blanket of workers raises the queen’s temperature and the ensuing hyperthermia kills the queen.
„You’re still awake.“ The words sounded a bit like a question, sleep weighing heavily on every syllable. I didn’t need to turn around to know what John would look like in that moment, almost small standing in the door frame, his hair would be ruffled from tossing and turning as he tried to find a comfortable spot on the pillow, and his pyjamas would show the same signs of restless sleep.
I didn’t turn as much as I wanted to see him just like that, rubbing at his eyes and blinking the sleep away, eyes dark and skin glowing in the dim light of the single small lamp I had left on. I wanted to see him yawn and then smile, as if doing such a human thing was something he had to be embarrassed about.
I didn’t turn, my lack of motion would elicit a reaction from my John that was even better than seeing him sleepy and emerging from my bedroom. As if on cue, his arms wrapped around me and he brought our bodies flush against each other. I felt myself melt into the warm hug and the firmness of his upper body.
“Thinking.” I breathed, my eyes fixed onto the empty street.
“What about?”
“Homicidal tendencies in insects.”
His chuckle seems to echo in my rib cage. “Still not over the cuddle death thing?”
“Romanticised term for such a fascinating tendency within the bee society.”
John’s arms wrapped tighter around me, he rested his forehead between my shoulder blades. He moved slightly and adjusted his weight before pressing a kiss to the spot. His lips were warm, even through the fabric of my t-shirt
“Your definition of romantic should scare me, love.” John said, a smile present in his voice. His fingers rub circles against my belly and I take them in mine instead.
“You love the danger.”
“I do. Still, I’d prefer it if our cuddling didn’t end in me overheating and cooking alive due to your body warmth.”
“I’m sure there are worse ways to die. I’m a very good cuddler.”
“You are.” John agreed as he rubbed his nose up and down my spine. “But I might need some more proof of that.” John’s arms loosened around me and he re-intertwined our fingers to pull me towards the bedroom, only stopping to switch off the light. He led me through the dark. The trip through the kitchen and along the hallway is shorter than I would have liked, his hand in mine, small and strong, his palm resting against mine perfectly, I didn’t want to lose the sensation of feeling his hand holding mine.
“I’m not tired, John.” I protested, stopping shortly before the opened bedroom door and forcing him to do the same. John turned, squeezed my hand - just what I wanted.
“I am.” John yawned, as if to prove just that. “And I sleep better when you’re there.”
I felt a ping of guilt for not having joined him when he had gotten up from the sofa last night, I knew he slept better with me there, knew he still had nightmares, different ones then before I had let myself fall off a roof. Still, I had chosen to stay in the living room and mope.
I shook the thoughts away, focusing on the shape of John in the dark.
“Even with the imminent danger of cuddle death?” I asked, brushing the feeling away.
“Hmm yes, that is a risk I am willing to take.” John loosened his grip and stepped towards the bed. He crawled under the duvet, which was all the invitation I needed and I pillowed my head on his chest.
“You know, you could make a list.”
“Hmm?” I looked up at him and instead of an answer he pressed his lips against mine, the kiss was slow and close-mouthed.
“A list on what makes a good cuddler. Might keep you busy…” He yawned wholeheartedly. “Until I’m asleep.”
“A list.” I repeated stupidly. “Oh, you mean defining parameters of good cuddling, for example endurance, commitment….”
“Ability to be quiet.” John interrupted with a chuckle, I looked up to find him smiling with his eyes closed.
“I don’t know how that is important John. We have more than once successfully cuddled while having intense and important conversations.”
“The case of the muppet murderer.”
“For example. Horrid title, still.”
“Hhmm, not changing it.” John yawned again, the increasing frequency proof that he was intending to go back to sleep. Squeezing my shoulder, he settled deeper into the pillow.
I huffed, the blog after years was still a way to tease my John, something we both enjoyed. “Next to the fact that Michael Danes heard the voice of a doll, not a muppet…”
“Alliterations, Sherlock. Now, can you let me sleep? Make your list, okay, and I’ll listen to all of it during breakfast.”
I buried my nose against his chest, taking in the scent of my John. “Good night, John.”
“Night, love.” Warm lips pressed against my forehead, where they remained even when he was already asleep. I listened to the change in his breathing, the way his heartbeat slowed, until he finally entered REM sleep.
Lifting my hands to rest against my chin, I turned back to my calculations, roaming my mind palace. My rooms on non-sexual intimacy were quite new, still smelled of wet paint on some days, but I caught myself following the hallway deeper into the building, out into the garden and to the bee hives just behind the back door. My fascination with insects, especially bees, had started early, with the memory of helping grandpere extract the honey from the combs, watching them fly and buzz around the garden. Now, in my mind palace, I could almost feel their wings brushing against my skin.
The realisation came like a punch to the face.
“John.” I sat up suddenly. “John.”
He was awake within an instant, always the soldier, ruffled hair and all, eyes already traveling over my body to see whether I was hurt or in danger.
“Something wrong?”
“I don’t have wings, John?”
“What?”
“I don’t have wings. Humans don’t have wings. It is essential to the concept of cuddle death; the bees move their wings quickly the way they usually warm or cool the hive, to either defend their home or kill an elderly and incapable queen bee. Humans don’t have wings. I couldn’t cuddle you to death, even if I tried. How obvious.”
John slumped into the pillow with a frustrated huff. “I know, Sher. It was a bloody joke.”
“I was aware that…”
I was interrupted by the full weight of John Watson pressing me into the mattress, arms squeezing tight.
“What…?” I got out. “are you doing?”
“Cuddle death.”
“That’s not…”
“One can always try.” John said, earnestly, pulling me closer