NOTE: I was listening to Arctic Mokeys ALOT while writing the whole of this, so bear with me.
The lullaby John sings is the song "Can't Keep It Inside," the song which Benedict sings in the film August Osage County. If you haven't heard it, I suggest you do because oh my gosh it's the sweetest thing ever.
~Baker Street~
John's just got back from his date with Mary at the cinema. They'd watched some ridiculous romcom called 'Swinging With The Finkles.' Some story about a married couple trying to fix their failing marriage by swinging, which only made it worse, then better somehow. He was able to catch a few funny bits but he hadn't been able to enjoy it all that much. Thoughts of Sherlock had distracted him through most of the film. It had been well over four months since they'd last really seen each other. He supposed Mycroft was trying to make sure he stayed out of any trouble, which was, in itself, laughable. He was just glad to be back at Baker street and was a bit grateful when Mary urged him to stay for a couple of nights. He smiles climbing up the steps, thinking about having a nice cuppa while they catch up. Or if Sherlock isn't in the mood he could update his blog while the man played his violin, didn't matter.
But those ideas are shot as he takes his first couple of steps into the flat to see the detective sprawled over his arm chair. Well, by the foot of it anyway. His top half rests on the seat while the rest of his body is a pile on the floor. John hurries in, kneeling by his side as his eyes scan the flat. Nothing seems to be awry, besides the thick flow of blood soaking into his chair.
"Sherlock? Can you hear me?"
"John?" He drawls, his words all but smothered by the red cushion.
"Oh, thank Christ." He breathes. "Can you sit up for me, mate?"
Sherlock groans but tries to comply, sitting up as the doctor helps him out of his coat. But the blood's beginning to saturate the rest of his clothes. John heads to the bathroom and returns with a handful of towels. Sherlock now seems to be at least half awake as his fingers work the buttons of his jacket and dress shirt. John wipes his neck clean and helps him pull them off slowly.
"What happened?"
"Case."
"A case. You were on a case?" John questions. "On your own?"
"S'just a case."
"You need to go to the hospital."
"No."
"Sherlock. You're bleeding."
"It's- just a bit, concussed." He slurs swishing his hands around his head.
"A bit concu-" John pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, looking down at his disheveled friend. "Let me have a look."
John makes careful work in surveying Sherlock's face, which is badly bruised. Though his torn lip and swollen jaw are a bit more superficial than they look. It's the deep gash behind his ear that's more concerning. Blunt force, probably caught off guard and attacked. He can only imagine what the rest of his body looks like. He cleanses the wound gently with hydrogen pyroxide before preparing a needle to stich him up. He says nothing as the detective to leans into him sleepily.
A little time later, Sherlock stirs awake. The warmth of John's jumper, gone. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes and ignores the cold air on his bare skin. John tosses him a small white tube of antiseptic, which he leaves to lay in his lap.
"That." John points. "Should be used twice a day. Your head will be fine in about five to six weeks. Nothing too serious. But still. Wouldn't hurt to see a doctor."
"You're a-"
"Shut up." John smirks.
John sets the supplies on the coffee table and Sherlock watches as he walks around the flat, breathing it in slowly, like he'd missed the place.
"It's good to see you, John."
"Yeah, likewise." He says taking a seat across from him. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"
"Too long."
"I'll say."
"How's Mary?"
"Oh, she's fine. Perfect. A bit moody though if you ask me but that's just- well because-"
"Quite right."
Sherlock manages a small smile and a moment of silence passes between them. The small talk's not really working for either of them.
"Well, anyway." John eyes his shoes for a moment before standing again. "You really need to sleep this off. So, off you go. We can catch up tomorrow."
"Oh no, that's quite alright." The detective says, rubbing the arms of John's chair absently. "I'm going to spend the night out here. I've got a paper I have to-"
"Sherlock Holmes. Go to bed. Right now."
Sherlock's gaze drops to the cold fireplace. "Please, John. I'd really like to-"
"'Why do you always insist on-"
"It's my back. It's-"
"Oh." John breathes, blinking in realization. "Oh, right. I didn't-"
"Would you mind, assisting me to my bedroom?"
"Of course, yeah. Um, here." He slides a careful hand around the detective's slim waist and pulls him up gently.
Sherlock bites back a hiss and throws one of his impossibly long arms around John's shoulders for balance. Together they make their way through the kitchen to his bedroom. It takes a bit of time but Sherlock's finally sat in bed and toeing off his shoes.
"We're talking about this in the morning." John warns as he stands over him, arms crossed.
"You're staying?"
"A few days, yeah. Maybe longer, now that I've got to keep an eye on, that." He says motioning to the bandge on the detective's head.
They share a quick laugh and Sherlock winces, twisting and turning on his forearms as he tries to lie himself down.
"Don't lay face down." John inquires. "It's only going to cause more stress on your back."
Sherlock nods and John helps him onto his back, his bare chest exposed as the doctor pulls the duvet up over his shoulders. John just shakes his head, supressing a sad smile as he watches Sherlock relax into his sheets and his face slowly start to soften now that he's resting. John walks towards the door.
"My watch was stolen." Sherlock mumbles, his eyes closed. "Would you care to help me shop for a new one tomorrow?"
"Course."
"Mmm."
John turns to take one last look at his friend who's chest is now rising and falling in that slow, familiar rhythm. He closes the door and heads upstairs quietly.
Sherlock's eyes snap open with a sharp breath. He sits up slowly, a light pain still sweeping through his back. But he feels oddly, wonderful. Well rested.
"John?"
A heavenly aroma fills the air suddenly, a beckon from the kitchen. He's starving and he's only just realized how much he's missed John's cooking. A glass of water and a couple of pain meds sit on his bedside table. He manuevers himself into a semi sitting position and runs a hand through his hair, the events of last night coming back to him in bits.
"You're eating this breakfast." John calls down the hall.
Sherlock sighs but a shy smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he swallows back the pills. He pulls on his robe and pads barefoot into the dining room.
"Morning."
"Afternoon, actually." John says moving test tubes and other lab work to the counter tops to make some room on the table. Sherlock takes a seat and watches John set down two plates of toast and eggs.
"You did the shopping." He states.
"You had no food."
"Oh."
"How do you feel?"
"Prefect. I don't think I've slept that well in ages."
"Mm. Glad to hear it."
Sherlock picks up his fork and eyes John curiously. The doctor is cross about the state he found him in last night, despite his now passive expression. So why is he being so nice? That is to say, John rarely did these sorts of things when in a good mood and he's surely not done anything to put him in one. Perhaps, the man was simply trying to make up for lost time. He knows how difficult John finds it to express himself and this amount of sentimentality was strange. Not that it's unwelcome but-
"John. About last night-"
"No, I know. It's the job." John complys, chewing. "Things like this happen. It's fine."
"I just- wanted to thank you."
"Oh." John flushes and shrugs. "It's no problem."
Sherlock fidgets in his seat, poking at his eggs before John speaks up again.
"Just- try to be more careful next time, maybe? Or, don't go out your own. Oi, quit picking at those stitches." He warns.
They continue with light conversation and finish their breakfast.
A few hours later, they're heading down to New Bond St. to look for a new watch at Cartier's. John knows Sherlock has expensive tase, but when the man had mentioned it, he couldn't help but laugh. And now, he can't help but linger as they're passing Belstaff. The mannequins in the windows are dressed better than he is. Clad in these gorgeous black and brown single strap leather jackets. The one that catches his eye in particular is a brown cross vest with four front pockets, broad at the shoulders but thin at the waist and wrists. He'd always dreamt of having a bike of his own. He'd nearly bought one too, a few years back. A 1998 Coal Regent that a friend had been willing to part with for a reasonable price, course he was drafted before he ever had the chance. But he could always picture himself winding down a barren country road after a storm, with the purr of that powerful black engine underneath him. Sherlock nudges his shoulder.
"Like them?"
"Seriously? They're gorgeous."
"Which one?"
"What?"
Before he knows it, Sherlock is whisking away inside the shop and striding up to a young clerk at the front desk. John follows after him and his knees nearly buckle, the smell is so intoxicating. It's like a mix of everything man, like leather and clean gun metal, and it's beautiful. Once he's got his bearings back he taps on Sherlock's shoulder who's standing there waiting patiently.
"What are you doing?"
"What does it look like?
"We came out to find you watch. Shop's down the street."
"That can wait. Right now, I'm going to have you fitted."
"Fitted? Why, what for?"
"That's what people usually do when they're buying a new piece of clothing, John."
"Yes, I understand how that happens but-"
"Then why are you asking?"
"I just wanna know why we're here."
"You did like that jacket in the window, didn't you?"
"Well, yes-"
"Good, I want to make sure it's the right size."
"I don't understand."
"I'm buying you a jacket. Is the concept so difficult to understand?"
"But I-"
"Mr. Holmes, if you and Dr. Watson would follow James to the back. We'll have a suitor with you in a moment."
They thank her and follow this James fellow through the store and John looks around amazed. Marveling at the endless amounts of sports wear and model bikes that line the walls behind glass cases. They take the lift to the third floor and are lead to a small, carpeted sitting area with two small, red plush couches and floor length mirrors.
"Gentlemen."
James leaves them together and Sherlock takes a seat on one couch, a smile on his lips as he watches John intently, who's still mesmorized until he finally faces the detective again. He crosses his arms.
"Alright, what do you want?"
"Sorry?"
"You're trying to soften me up for something. What is it?"
"Don't be daft."
John turns away with a laugh. "What's all this then?"
"I've told you."
"No. I mean- Why are you doing this?"
"Do you have to question everything I do?"
"I don't question everything you do."
Sherlock quirks an eyebrow.
"Fair point. But in this case, I'd really like to know."
Sherlock sighs and shrugs. "You deserve nice things, John."
John's mouth drops a fraction and a blush creeps up the back of his neck at his friend's words. He begins to protest but they're interupted by a short and bubbly young American with a mesuring tape wrapped around his arms. Sherlock stands to greet him with a warm smile.
"Hello, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson! My names is Brian and I'll be taking care of everything you need. What can I help you with?"
"Brilliant, yes. We're very interested in the brown Warrington you have on display in your front windows." Sherlock says, sounding wanton and a bit breathless.
John just looks over at him with a twitch in his eye. He decides not to question it. Brian nods, taking out a small pad and pen to make notes.
"Gorgeous choice, one of my favorites, loads of potential on the right shoulders. Now, is this for you or your partner?"
"We're not-"
"It's for him."
"Perfect. Let me just go ahead and take your measurements. Arms straight out, please."
John sighs, spreading his arms. He lets himself stand on display for a few seconds as the young man runs the tape along the length of his shoulders and back, his arms, hands from fingertips to fingertips and finally across the expanse of his chest. Brian scoots away, finishing with the last couple of notes and Sherlock stands. John watches as he leans in ever so slightly to point at something on the note pad and whisper something in his ear. Coy smiles play on both their lips as they eye him over their shoulders.
"Alright. Just go ahead and give me a few minutes. I'll go ahead and see if I can find what you're looking for. Sit tight." He gives Sherlock a wink, wrapping the measuring tape around his wrist as he leaves.
John watches as he saunters out, then casts a glance over at Sherlock who's taken back his seat.
"The hell was all that about?"
Sherlock only smiles.
Sherlock's already gone back downstairs to pay for it when John's finally got the jacket on. He can't quite believe it but he frame is perfect and it hugs him in all the right places. A bit tight in the chest but the material stretches across and really brings attention to his upper body which is, mind you, still in admirable shape. Brian marvels a few feet away.
"He was right."
John turns around. "I'm sorry?"
"He told me to have your lapel mesurments shortened by an inch, said it would really define your chest. He wasn't wrong. You know, if you don't mind my saying, you two make a gorgeous couple"
"I'm married, actually." The doctor says quickly, lifting a hand to show him his wedding band.
"Ugh, that's beautiful. How long?"
"A few months."
"Newlyweds! How did he propose?"
"I proposed. We had dinner and I- Wait, no, hang on. I'm- We're not-"
"Honestly, I wish mine was as sweet as yours. So adorable. The way he looks at you, he's head over heels." He says with a wink. "Keep your eye on that one, there aren't many like him."
John stares at the ground openly as he takes it all in, feeling a heat warm his face before Sherlock texts him to meet him outside. John thanks Brian with an awkward handshake and heads downstairs. The detective falters in place when he sees John in the jacket and lets his eyes roam over every inch of him. No shame.
"Looks perfect."
"Yeah, feels perfect. How much did-"
"Don't you worry about that."
John tries to hide his school girl grin by looking at the shops on his right. "Well, thank you, anyway. I love it. I really do."
Sherlock only returns a genuine smile as they walk.
"This is Mycroft's favorite street, you know."
"Oh really?"
"He first brought me here when I was fourteen. We came to vist the Halcyon Gallery." He points back at a large white building. "And being so young, I marveled, I'd never seen abstract art before. There were pieces mounted to the walls, some scupltures even hung from the ceilings and I remember being amazed and so incredibly happy that he'd taken me along. We'd never spent much time together. And after we's seen all three floors, he took me to Cartier's and bought me my first watch."
"The one they stole." John realizes.
Sherlock nods as they walk through the doors.
"Jesus, I'm sorry."
"No need to apologize. You didn't steal it."
They've looked at about ten different watches, from a Tank Francaise Automatic to an Invicta Pro Diver when John decides to bring it up.
"So, what was it?"
"What was what?"
"The case, last night."
"Oh, um." Sherlock stiffens at the mention. He'd nearly forgotten about it.
"A client wanted information on a rumored scandal involving London court houses and the concerning arrival of a new law that parlament was set to pass this upcoming week. Apparently, there was a meeting discussing the matter a few nights ago and someone had the whole of it recorded to be used as blackmail against the government. I've got the disk if you'd like to see it, it's-"
"And what happened to him?"
"I'm sorry?"
"The wanker who did that to your face."
Sherlock looks around, just noticing they're not exactly alone. Couples walk past them or stand at counters a few feet away as he's handed a Pasha Chronograph.
"Oh, you know. Some people in the media get desperate and have people do their dirty work." He explains. "They got a bit confrontational."
"They? It was more than one?"
Sherlock says nothing.
"Jesus, Sherlock." John exhales.
"It was nothing serious."
"Why didn't you phone me? You could've phoned Lestrade. I would've-"
"Please. It was childs play."
"Oh, yeah. Sure looks it." He scoffs loudly.
"They were less than amateur.
"They nearly killed you."
"Don't be so melodramatic."
"Then how the hell did you manage to get home still looking like this?"
"It was dark, they cornered me. Nothing happened."
"Like Hell! You're hurt."
"Keep your voice down. I'm fine."
They're both raising their voices now and people stare openly.
"In what mood, shape or form? Look at yourself! You can hardly move!"
"You're always over exaggerating. You know I've handled far worse. I'm here now. That's all that matters, isn't it?"
"You're- That's not the point, Sherlock! You could've-"
"What? I go out on my own, get a bit reckless and you're suddenly acting like Mycroft."
"Sherlock, don't start this now."
"Honestly, John,when did you start caring?" he mocks in diversion. "It's not like you ever stopped me before."
"I wasn't there for you before!"
"And you're hardly here now so what does that matter?" Sherlock shouts.
Everyone in the store goes quiet and they're both left standing there, silent now as they're scrutinized under the eyes of strangers. Neither of them understanding how this argument happened so quickly. Sherlock just stares back at John in complete shock, mentally cursing himself.
"John, I'm-"
Suddenly, three men burst through the front doors, dressed in black from head to toe, their faces hidden behind masks. One incapacitates the two security guards while the other busies himself with the jewlery inside the display cases. People start to scream and panic as the last makes his way to the center of the room, the gun in his hand flailing madly.
"I want each one of ya to slide your wallets towards me!" He shouts in a harsh Cockney accent.
John grabs his Stig from his waist band quietly and looks over at Sherlock, expecting orders but the detective just holds a finger to his lips. The frightened customers do as their told, sniveling and pushing their pocket books across the floor but Sherlock obviously has other plans as he gets to his feet and walks towards the gunman.
John's pulse spikes. "Sherlock, you bloody idiot, what are you doing?" He whispers.
The thief seems to share his confusion as the detective takes a few steps towards him. "Oi, what d'you think you're doin' mate? Get on the ground."
The man collecting everyone's billfolds shouts impatiently. "Oi! Just get the bastard's green and let's go! Coppers are comin'!"
And John can hear them. The sirens no more than three streets away.
The gunman turns back. "Give me your wallet." he demands.
"I don't think I will."
A pistol whip connects with his jaw and the impact sends him to the floor. He grunts, adjusting his mandible as blood runs down his chin. People cower and scream as he points the gun at Sherlock. "I ain't gonna ask you again!"
John stands quickly, his own gun drawn on the mans chest. Not caring if he's out numbered. "Put your weapon down! Now!" John shouts.
Just then, four cars five cars pull up out front and at least ten officers surround the building. Another five stand their ground by the doors as the men scramble for the wallets.
"Let's go, let's go, let's go!" one screams as they bolt to the back of the store.
The other two follow right after but it's apparent that they're caught immediately as John hears, "Down on the ground now! Drop the bags, your hands behind your heads, now!"
Sherlock gets back on his feet slowly, watching on with the rest of the traumatized customers as the men are led and shoved into separate police cars. John pulls back a few steps, putting his gun back as a few offivers storm inside to assess the damge. He lets out a harsh sigh when Sherlock looks at him, a shit eating grin on his face as he stalks towards him, wiping blood from his chin with the back of his hand.
"That was unexpected."
"Why did you do that?"
"What?"
John clenches his fists and rolls his eyes so hard Sherlock fliches. He loses his smile quickly.
"I was stalling for time."
"That was one of the stupidest things you've ever done."
"Well-"
"You could've been shot."
"Not likely."
"Sherlock."
"They were using blanks. A real bullet has a distinct projectile attached to the front of the cartridge. A blank's brass cartridge is simply crimped closed. You can tell the difference by the weight distribution in the angle of a wrist by the way they hold-"
"SHERLOCK!"
The detective can't help but jump at the outburst and John just eyes everything and everyone but his friend. Desperately searching out an unrelated excuse to leave but he can't. He just shakes his head, throwing his hands in the air as he walks away. He needs time to think.
Sherlock tries to call after him. But the doctor's already pushing past people and storming out the doors before he can hear another word.
John? -SH
Where are you? -SH
It's late. -SH
I thought you
might have come
back to the flat. -SH
John. -SH
Don't make me text Mary. -SH
You're not with Mary. -SH
She won't tell me where
you are. -SH
We can talk about this
if you come back. -SH
John. -SH
What do you suppose 'this' is,
Sherlock? -JW
Come back to Baker street
and we'll talk about it. -SH
John? -SH
I'll make tea. -SH
Tosser. -JW
Back at Baker Street~
It's well past two in the morning when John gets back to the flat and he can hear music as he makes his way up the steps. Sherlock's curled up on one end of the couch when he walks in, draped in his red robe with his fingers steepled at his lips. Sherlock smirks at his expression.
"Is that R U Mine by the Arctic Monkeys?" He asks shedding his new jacket.
"It is."
"Wow. I didn't think you listened to anything other than composers."
"There's a lot you still don't know about me."
Sherlock reaches over the coffee table to unplug the speakers and they're left in silence. John doesn't know whether to sit or stay standing. He teeters on his heels and slaps his pockets.
"Tea?"
"Yes!"
John takes a seat on the opposite end of the couch as he watches Sherlock bound into the kitchen to prepare the kettle.
He'd just walked from a pub ten blocks back. It was drizzling when he fled the store and the first thought to cross his mind was that he should get a cab back to Baker street. But he wanted time to think. So he let himself walk in the light downpour for a while, enjoying the cool East wind and the damp smell of Autumn as he made his slow way on the pavement until he spotted the pub half a block down. It was only nine when he stopped in and he was sitting at a booth for a solid ten minutes before he noticed, to his surpise, Lestrade on his lonesome by the bar. The inspector's eyes actually lit up when he pulled up a stool to join him.
They talked for a nice long while, uninterupted, save by the texts from Sherlock that came every fifteen minutes. Which he was secretly relieved by. Greg drank and told him about how his wife was planning on taking their daughter to America. And how he was nearly running on empty, trying to juggle the stress at work with a new chief breathing down his back while trying to figure out a way to keep his family here in London. John listened to him vent, a pleasant, if somewhat unfortunate, distraction. The DI signaled the barman for another pint and asked about Marry and the baby. John shrugged.
"Yeah, I dunno. I'm a bit nervous, I suppose. I don't really know what to think. It's all a bit surreal."
"She's gonna change your life, mate." Lestrade smiled fondly, sipping from his glass. "Kids. They're beautiful. And having a daughter. There's nothing else like it."
"I'm sure."
"Got a name for her yet?"
"No, actually. But Mary and I agreed that she'd be best to pick it out."
That was as far as they got before he was persuaded to head back home.
Sherlock comes back with their tea a few minutes later and takes his corner of the couch back. They have a few sips to fill the long silence between them.
"Those guns could have been real." John says, looking into his cup after a long while.
"John, I-"
"Let me finish."
Sherlock bites his tongue and waits patiently as John finds his words. He takes a second to breathe, finding it hard to collect his thoughts.
"Look. I know how you- Christ, I know how you feel about Mary and the baby. This whole situation is just, a bit out of the ordinary. I can see how all of this may seem like I'm leaving you on your own. But I'm not, Sherlock. And it doesn't give you the right to try and kill yourself whenever there's an opportunity."
Sherlock looks into his own cup like a kicked puppy.
"You asked when I started caring? Since the cabbie. The day I killed a man for you. Do you understand? I've always cared. And I can't lose you, Sherlock. Not again." His voice breaks and he means to say so much more.
Sherlock's breath hitches. And when John looks at the man at the other end of the couch, who'se ever so composed with his glasz eyes and trembling lips, he falls to pieces.
"You save people for a living, Sherlock. But here you are, going out, putting yourself in harms way because it's a cheap fix." He breathes. "Look. I know what it's like to want to feel numb, to feel something other than fear or pain. Because a dull throb feels so much better sometimes. Doesn't it? It's better than feeling alone."
Sherlock stares, taken aback, by John's blunt honesty. He can't comprehend the fact that John. His John. His best friend. Understands.
"John. I, truly am sorry."
"Call me soft, but I feel- Our friendship matters, doesn't it? I mean-"
"It matters, John."
John sighs and smiles sadly, he's exhausted. He takes a deep, languid breath and checks his watch. "It's late. You still need more rest. We should probably-"
"Course. Yes." Sherlock can't help the tightness of his throat as they stand from the couch, their tea forgotten.
"I'm just, gonna head up then." John says. "I mean, I can stay up if you're-"
"Oh, no, go ahead. I'll um, find a way to-"
"Right, okay."
They stand there for a second and John risks it. He holds out a hand.
"Come on."
Sherlock looks at him and his putstreached hand, confused.
John smiles, a bluch spreading through his cheeks. "I've, um. Grown used to sleeping with a partner. Never really been fond of sleeping on my own."
"You're not-"
"Planning on putting you to bed? Yes, I am. Come on."
Sherlock's eyes widen a fraction at the proposition but he takes John's smaller hand in his anyway and they find their way upstairs to his bedroom.
John's curtains are drawn and moonlight floods over his sheets and floor boards, allowing their shadows to swim on every surface as they climb into his bed fully dressed.
"This isn't something flatmates usually find themselves doing." Sherlock murmurs, his mind slowing as John props himself up against the pillows and pats the spot next him.
He lays down beside him but John giggles and pulls his head onto his lap.
"Since when have we ever been a normality?" John hushes, running a hand through his soft, dark curls.
Sherlock relaxes under the touch and turns on his side, his body feeling sore and heavy and light all at once before he registers a low, contented hum from above him. Only a few seconds pass before he realizes John's humming a lullaby.
"What's that?" Sherlock whispers in the dark, curious.
"Mmm." John chuckles. "Just a song my dad used to sing to my mum whever she was feeling ill. Which was quite often after we found out her cancer was terminal."
"I'm sorry."
"It was a longtime ago."
"What's it called?"
"Dunno. Never asked the name but it put her right to sleep."
"You know the words."
"Mmm."
"... Could you?"
"Oh, sure." John clears his throat. Absently running a thumb over Sherlock's cheek as he sings, slow and sweet. Sherlock's asleep before he finishes.
John stirs, Mary's hair is tickling his neck and he smiles, not quite ready to wake up. He leaves his eyes closed, relishing the warmth as caresses her soft arm that's lazily draped over him. She hugs him tightly, pulling him closer and he plants a kiss at the top of her head.
When his eyes snap open and he remembers who he's really in bed with. He's on his back, with a snoring consulting detective sprawled across his chest. Sherlock's got one of his arms tucked up against his own chest and his other is possesivly wrapped around John's waist. Not to mention their legs are practically interlocked. John doesn't know how to slip out from underneath him without waking the detective, so he just shugs, snuggles up and falls back to sleep.
FIN