A very sleepy John Watson shuffled slowly into 221B and was very grateful to see that the flat was dark and quiet. He had spent the last 12 hours at the clinic wiping runny noses and dodging coughs. It didn't help that it was quite freezing outside. Snow had begun to fall from the sky just as he'd entered the flat, and he shivered as he took slow, halting steps towards the hall.

Eyes barely open, John only just noticed a small movement to his right. Yawning widely, he turned to look and saw Sherlock, dressed only in his favorite pair of dark blue pajama pants, leaning against the frame of his bedroom door. Slightly surprised to see another human, as it was 2 in the morning, John instinctively moved backwards, pressing his back to the wall that was opposite Sherlock.

There was conversation, and John felt certain that he had participated in it, but he was scarcely able to process or recall what was said. This was a shame, as Sherlock was doing a wonderful job of asking John about his day; something they had agreed Sherlock would try ("Oh John, you are insufferable…fine, I will ask and then listen as you describe the dull minutiae of your daily existence"). John's entire body stretched with another yawn, and his eyes fluttered shut.

He began to slide slowly down the wall.

"John." hushed Sherlock, moving forward instinctively and wrapping his arms around John's torso, holding him up.

"Hmmmmmm." John's head rested softly on Sherlock's shoulder. Through the mist of his impending slumber, John thought he heard Sherlock sigh with indignation and...was that affection? In any case, he was nearly certain that he heard him whisper in a deep, low voice: "Come, John. To bed with you. Just…here."

And then…how had it happened? John was wrapped in a warm, black duvet, his head resting on a soft pillow, and before he could associate this bed and this pillow to the man who had just tucked him in, he was fast asleep.

It may have been minutes later, or it may have been hours. John's eyes opened slowly, drowsily, and struggled to focus on a shape in the surrounding darkness. John was surprised that his brain did not make an audible *click* as the facts moved into place and he recalled where he was. Well then. This was new. He struggled to make sense of the series of events that had led him here. Although he could not recollect the particulars, John knew Sherlock better than he had ever known anyone else in his whole life, and he could imagine the exact conversation that may have transpired between them.

"…Not my bed, Sher…"

"Obvious. But being the inadequate human that you are, you required sleep immediately."

"But…my room…"

"…Is up a flight of 16 stairs, John. I wasn't about to drag you up 16 stairs, even if the last three are 1/8th of an inch shorter than the first 13. Honestly. It was only logical to bring you here."

"…Thanks…"

"No need to thank me, John. It saved me a great deal of exertion and you a great deal of unattractive grunting. And anyway...I wanted..."

"Sher…"

"Shh, John. Sleep now."

John smiled faintly, feeling as though he had slipped into a sleepless dream by imagining this conversation so vividly, while his entire body still felt so relaxed and lethargic. Bringing himself back through the peaceful fog of his dream-like state, he gradually became aware of the man next to him.

Sherlock, who was fast asleep and facing him, had one hand curled around John's neck, his fingers resting gently in his hair.

John suddenly became intensely aware of Sherlock's breathing. In, out…steady and calm. Wrapped up in dreams like this, Sherlock looked peaceful; something the man rarely embodied. In a state of confusion (and was that adoration?), John trailed his fingers up Sherlock's chest as it rose and fell, rose and fell, and tangled them in the soft curls at the nape of his neck.

When Sherlock slipped out of a dream some time later (was it minutes? seconds?), he found John in that very spot, mirroring him. Symmetrical and balanced: his other half. His.

And through the haze of a dream, John thought he felt something gentle and almost impossibly soft, as a kiss was placed carefully on his forehead.