Sherlock lounged in one of the living room desk chairs, legs crossed and bare feet casually placed on the wooden table. Papers and case files were strewn about the surface, a small space had been cleared for his heels, the sheets clinging close like chalk draw around a body at a crime scene. Holmes was staring straight at the ceiling, moving his fingers across his violin, plucking strings occasionally and dancing the bow in the air just above them.
He flicked his eyes up towards the sudden disruption of silence that echoed from the stairwell. There were a couple dull clunking noises, and then slightly unsteady footsteps began thumping down the carpeted steps.
"Morning, John," Sherlock greeted the moment he pushed through the partially open door and came into view. John seemed to take a moment to process the noise before rotating his head slowly towards the other.
Sherlock was a bit shocked at how disheveled John looked. His hair was poofing out in jagged angles, his pajamas were rumpled and creased in strange places, -which was odd since John didn't move much in his sleep (Sherlock would be the one to know after all)- and the overall slackness of his face, not to mention the dark half circles under his eyes, didn't exactly promote picturesque health.
He gestured to Sherlock's silent music. "Song?"
"The one you like -Schubert's Serenade. Sleep well?" Sherlock asked almost sarcastically, playing through the first few notes as a demonstration.
John half-laughed. "Huh, no. Not at all really." He rubbed his hand over his face, trying to rub off some of the sleep.
With a yawn, he turned in the general direction of the kitchen. After bumping his foot on Sherlock's armchair, which had been visibly moved into the walkway, he felt his way into the kitchen. Wincing at the overhead light, he apparently wasn't looking again, because he promptly banged his knee on one of the obviously open drawers.
Cursing angrily under his breath, he closed his eyes tightly and pushed the heel of his hand against his forehead. Sherlock raised a single eyebrow at the sudden clumsiness of his flatmate, and watched as he took a step back, successfully connecting his lower back with one of the pulled out chairs from the island counter, knocking over a pile of books that had been stacked there.
John let out a muttered slew of cusses -a rather impressive combination of them in fact- moving his other hand to the base of his spine, hissing out a long breath through clenched teeth. After half a moment or so of standing as if he was doing a strange sort of dance move, John switched both hands to his eyes, the sides of his thumbs pressing down on his temples. He slid them back through his hair, flattening most of the puffs, and took a deep breath.
"Definitely not gonna be my day today," he said quietly, carefully stepping closer to the stovetop to make tea. Sherlock smiled at his remark, fluidly disentangling himself from the papers, placing the instrument on the desk, and making his way to the kitchen, wrapping his arms around John's chest and hugging him from the side.
"I like your hair like this," Sherlock chimed, combing his fingers against the grain, returning John's bed-head full force.
"Wasn't intentional," he assured, hands shaking and fumbling as he struggled to pull a tea bag from the cardboard box.
A sound someplace between a hiss and a growl escaped from John's throat, and he tossed the box with more force than necessary onto the counter. Frustrated, his hands went back up through his hair, pushing Sherlock's off.
"Honestly, John, you look positively dreadful, I mean your eyes are a dead giveaway-" John held up his hand, cutting off Sherlock's quickening speech to stem his deductions.
"Not now," he said simply. "I'll need to do some shopping," he continued. "Do you know if we have milk?" John lifted a slippered foot as if to take a step towards the fridge, but as soon as it was removed from the tiles, a huge yawn ricocheted through him.
He started to lean back in the same fashion as if someone had just yelled 'timber.' Sherlock's eyes tracked the slow fall backwards and flicked to follow when John jerked himself back up, looking up blearily when Sherlock placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
"You are evidently not in a state to be doing anything except sleeping." John waved him off, making his way to the fridge and bracing himself before opening it. He shut it immediately and rested his head against the cool door.
"Why are there eyeballs in the fridge, Sherlock?" John asked tiredly. Sherlock tilted his head in an overall picture of confusion. He didn't remember putting eyeballs in the fridge. Easily shifting John out of the way, Sherlock opened the fridge, scanning the contents, smiling wryly.
"There are no eyeballs in the fridge, John," Sherlock said slowly. John removed his hands from his face and stood up straight, narrowing his eyes in disbelief. He tore open the door again, jabbing a finger in the direction of a plastic container.
"Then what are those?" Sherlock lifted his eyebrows, not sure if it was a joke or not.
"Those are grapes, John," he said gently. John looked utterly baffled, his mad-scientist-esque hair just adding to the picture. Sherlock wrapped his arms loosely around John's shoulders, pulling him into his chest so John's forehead was resting on his breastbone.
They were only standing like that for a moment before John started shaking in intervals and making noises. Sherlock pulled him away to see if he was crying or laughing, and found it was the latter. John fell against his chest again, causing Sherlock to stagger a bit. Listening closely, Sherlock heard a distinct pattern in between breaths.
"Grapes," he was repeating.
"John. Your lack of sleep is impairing your cognitive abilities greatly. I would recommend you go to bed now," Sherlock said delicately, holding John even with his own body. He made some sort of protesting noise, but Sherlock just began walking them out into the living room. He stepped cautiously, making sure all four of their feet didn't hit anything. "You're going to sleep in my room, alright, John?" Sherlock pushed the door open backwards with his foot and pushed the gathered heap of blankets out of the way.
Gingerly, he placed John on the mattress, pushing his shoulders down and lifting his legs onto the bed, pulling the blankets over him. Sherlock was about to step out of the room when John made a sound. His eyes were mostly closed, but he made a sort of grunting objection when Sherlock made to leave.
The detective was about to ask what was wrong when he saw John's arm extended towards him. A little goofy smile quirked the corners of his mouth and closed eyes when Sherlock enclosed John's hand in his own.
Sherlock attempted to disconnect their hands only to find that John had latched onto his fingers. His smile grew.
"John, I have to leave. Work and such."
"You're such a liar," John said quietly, tugging on his hand.
"You're very strange when you're sleep deprived, John." Nevertheless, Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed until John scooted over. He rolled into the sheets until he was facing John, pulling the blankets over himself. "Why are you still holding my hand?" he asked, sounding genuinely curious.
John shushed him and moved closer going into the same position as earlier -his head on Sherlock's sternum and their legs tangled together. Sherlock pulled their hands apart, instead tapping the rhythm of Serenade onto John's back. Occasionally he would hum quietly, keeping pace with his fingers, the sound resonating through John.
"Are you trying to sing me to sleep?" John slurred drowsily, nodding his head into Sherlock's chest.
"Whether or not that was the goal, your pulse says I'm succeeding," Sherlock purred, tracing the outlines of John's shoulder blades with his fingertips.
"You gonna stay?"
"I don't really have a choice, John. You become rather clingy in your sleep." Sherlock smiled when John locked his arm tightly around his lower back as payback for the comment. "I won't leave if you don't want me to," he whispered.
"For a genius, you're an idiot," John breathed back. Sherlock smirked at the non-insult, smoothing his fingers across the fabric along with the tempo of the song.
He kept a steady tune going until John's breathing steadied and his muscles relaxed. He finished the music like he would on his violin, breathing out the last note as he leaned in and pressed his lips to John's hair.
"So very strange, John," he grinned into the blonde tufts. "I love it when you're strange."
Sherlock couldn't see, but John smiled lazily, drifting away with the last thing he heard being,
"I love you, John."