"Oh, fine, fine." Watson rolled his eyes, although he doubted very much Holmes could see him do it. "I'll make the coffee. When we do get up. Which shan't be any sooner than is strictly necessary."

He sighed out of pure contentment, leaving a trail of kisses along Holmes's neck, lazy and affectionate kisses without much purpose. Their bed, and their cottage, and somewhere in their kitchen was their newfangled coffeemaker, for their coffee, when they were ready for it. As much as he missed London sometimes, back in their own time they could never have this.

And this was possibly as close to perfect as it was possible to be.