AN: It was mentioned in "The Hounds of Baskerville" that John and Sherlock had to share a bed, but it also made it seem that they hadn't talked overnight when Sherlock apologized.
John stomped across the green hills that were littered with gray slabs of rock. Not only had he been wrong about his Morse code lead, he had to listen to voices that were easily twice his age fumble around in each other's pants.
He didn't realize he had pent up his breath until he released it in a huff. How could they be getting more action than him? He was younger, presumably looked better, and he definitely wouldn't get his bits caught on his on pants for crying out lou—
He stopped walking and turned his gaze to the ground as he nudged a pebble down the hillside. It wasn't the couple that was gnawing at his insides; he knew that. It was Sherlock, that bastard. It was the man who had pulled him to hell and back, the one who had currently landed them in East Nowhere with a deadly…thing?
Grass made a soft squinch beneath his shoes as he resumed his small journey to the inn he'd been staying at. He desperately needed sleep, but wanted to avoid it.
Not the sleep, he corrected himself, Sherlock. I want to avoid Sherlock.
He'd been sharing an admittedly larger-than-average bed with Sherlock, and now he wasn't up to finishing their prior conversation.
Friends? Sherlock's voice echoed in his head. I don't have friends. He had spit the words out as if they were bitter and vile.
John kicked another pebble but kept moving, following it until it came to rest. He passed, growing closer to his destination. He had thought of himself as Sherlock's friend after the Pink Lady case. Granted, Sherlock insulted him from time to time but it was never spiteful or personal. Sherlock had even knowingly put himself in the way of danger to protect John. Wasn't that the purest test of friendship?
He mumbled under of his breath as the inn's door greeted him. His hesitations about confronting Sherlock had not abided but his need for sleep had won out, causing the man to reach in his jacket pocket for his key.
He jammed it in the lock. No matter how quiet he was Sherlock would know he was coming in. The word witchcraft fleeted through his mind as he pushed the door open.
His eyes scanned the small and already messy room; Sherlock was nowhere to be found.
John breathed a small thanks to the air before pulling off his socks and shoes and placing them neatly by the bedside. He slipped out of his coat and hung it as carefully as he could on the bedpost on what he had deemed 'his side' of the bed. (This proved to be pointless once Sherlock dropped into sleep, effectively sprawling across the entirety of the bed.)
After checking his coat once more to make sure it wouldn't fall into a wrinkling heap during the night, John crawled into bed and pulled the sheet and duvet over him without bothering to change into more appropriate clothes. He was exhausted, immediately succumbing to the ever-growing necessity for sleep.
Sherlock came crashing through the doorway several hours after his blond counterpart had, seemingly after running. Sweat drenched his black shirt, leaving miniscule lines of salt in a V-pattern. His coat hung open, the collar haphazardly folded forwards on some parts, backwards in others. His shoes appeared to carry half of the forests' soil and vegetation on them, leaving muddied footprints on the wooden floor. "John, I think I know what we have to do next. I talked with—" The buzzing excitement fell from his voice as he noticed his colleague's back turned toward him and the small yet steady breathing innocuously floated throughout the room. "John?" he whispered carefully.
Easing himself slowly, the tall man slithered out of his coat and dropped it where he stood. He stepped out of his shoes, also leaving them behind as he stepped towards the empty side of the bed. Not bothering to reach down, Sherlock slid his toe down his ankle, pushing his socks into two small white piles that contrasted with the floor.
The consultant detective turned his gaze to his friend again, noting that he looked distressed- even in his sleep. He sighed; he knew why John's mouth was turned downwards and why his muscles seemed rigid and unmoving underneath the blanket. A feeling of emptiness settled in Sherlock, pushing him into the bed as if the weight on his chest was a physical chunk of lead.
"I'm sorry, John," he murmured, turning on his side so he could face the back of the man he was apologizing to. "You never let me finish." He could smell the day's walk in the neatly combed blond hair in front of him as he took a deep breath. "I don't have friends. I only have one."
John shifted in his sleep until he was facing the ceiling with his right arm over his head.
Sherlock sighed, the heaviness on his chest growing. He resisted the increasing urge to wake John so he could empty the words that were expanding in his mind. The words about earlier, about tomorrow, about himself, about everything crowded within him.
Instead, he put his arm around John's chest, and moved himself closer so he could breathe in the scents that the older man carried: earth, morning dew, aftershave, and smoke from the fireplace. It was spiced but with a soft edge, an intimate aroma. Sherlock gave a slight smile as he nuzzled into John's back, allowing himself to drift off to sleep.