It's either very late at night or very early in the morning, depending on how one judges time. Sherlock is beyond caring. He's tired. He might even go as far as classifying his level of fatigue as exhaustion. For three days he's hunted the back alleys and disreputable districts of London, without food or rest, seeking his quarry.
But no matter how much his body craves sleep, his mind refuses to shut down. There are too many thoughts rushing through it. In the past, at times like these, he might reach for his syringe and a bottle of cocaine. Now, he climbs the stairs to John's bedroom.
John is sleeping. It's obvious he's made an effort to wait up. The reading lamp is still on and there's a book propped against his chest. Gently, Sherlock prises the volume of detective stories out from sturdy fingers and extracts the extra pillow from behind John's head. He smiles ruefully, shakes his head disdainfully at the lurid cover, and wonders why – given he is living the adventure – John persists in reading about fictional detectives.
Disrobing takes a matter of moments. Sherlock is naked under his dressing gown and his skin is still slightly damp from the shower he'd taken to warm up after a long night trailing his prey through a clinging fog that had defeated his heavy coat and muffler to curl around his bones. Although the room is reasonably warm, he shivers as the air makes contact with his skin. Foregoing the pleasure of observing John in such an unguarded state, Sherlock snaps off the light and slips under the bedclothes.
John stirs, instinctively reacting to Sherlock's presence. He rolls onto his side and reaches out. His fingers close over the top of Sherlock's shoulder and then his grip goes lax. Sherlock inches closer into John's embrace. Under the influence of John's body heat, the last of the chill flees and he finally feels a true sense of warmth envelop him. He closes his eyes and begins to synchronise his breathing to John's, matching each inhalation and exhalation until it is as if they are a single entity.
With each expelled breath, Sherlock relaxes a little more. John's room is neat and tidy, a sanctuary where he can retreat when bedlam threatens. Knowing that even someone like John can create a refuge from chaos is the incentive Sherlock needs to slow his fizzing brain and give each individual thought its proper due. He files the important data in his memory palace. The inconsequential trivia he routes to the short term stacks on the off chance it will be necessary when he next speaks to Lestrade. Case dealt with, Sherlock lets his remaining attention wander to more pleasant places.
His client has paid off. It's a substantial fee for extremely delicate services rendered. At breakfast, as John is preparing to rush off to yet another far flung clinic, Sherlock will present the cheque along with the morning toast and coffee. He anticipates John's wide-eyed look of surprise and smiles. There's enough noughts following the two that John will finally be able to give notice to the NHS and take up his proper place at Sherlock's side.
John seems to feel Sherlock's sense of contentment. He snuggles closer, pillowing his head against Sherlock's chest. Sherlock caresses John's frame and breathes in the scent of him; shampoo and toothpaste and a hint of aftershave, the last an obvious sign John had hoped Sherlock might join him during the night. He places his palm against Sherlock's heart. Sherlock closes his fingers over John's, enjoying the small intimacy.
"What time is is?" John's voice is sleepy, the query so soft it feels like another caress.
"Late. Early. It doesn't really matter," Sherlock replies just as softly.
"Yeah?" John seems to like the sound of that. He tosses one leg over Sherlock's, pinning him against the mattress. It's a delightfully possessive gesture and Sherlock feels a warm glow suffuse his chest. Intellectually he knows the sensation is a physiologic reaction; increased blood flow associated with his increasing state of arousal, but he can't deny he's pleased that, even half asleep, John feels a need to stake his claim. "Good," he murmurs.
Sherlock considers. The relative position of John's thigh in relationship to his groin could be considered an invitation, but the snuffling sound of John's breathing as he nuzzles against Sherlock's chest and his own fatigue suggest that a rain check is in order. The cheque is in the pocket of his dressing gown. Perhaps he won't wait until breakfast to deliver his news.
John's shifting has disordered the bedding. Sherlock pulls it more securely over them and closes his eyes, content at last to fade into sleep.