Sherlock didn't mind John's head resting sleepily on his shoulder. He didn't mind the hand on his leg, or the slow, melodic sounds of breath escaping the other man's mouth, or the way that his eyes were beginning to close ever so slowly, or the personal space that was shattered through this whole arrangement. No, John had simply been reading over his shoulder and he got tired. That was it, and there were no hidden reasons behind it. Sherlock found himself thinking that thought over on multiple occasions this evening. It was hard not to get distracted from his book when just the faintest tickle of warm breath danced across the side of his neck, but Sherlock intended to finish reading before he had to deal with John.
His dedication to the novel in front of him did not, however, keep him from glancing over every once in a while to check on John. It wasn't long before he really was asleep. This detail made Sherlock smile. He had been on Sherlock's sleep schedule, which usually meant 'no sleeping until the work is completely done.' John obviously wasn't suited to this kind of hectic sleep schedule, and he had found himself very tired. Sherlock hadn't slept since before they had solved their latest case, and now that it was finished, he decided to catch up on his reading.
Finally, he finished the book. There were many details that he had missed due to distraction, but it didn't matter that much to him. He had to deal with the sleeping doctor. He did not want to wake him, although that would be the easiest way to get him to move. John was far too peaceful in this moment for that sort of treatment. Sherlock instead opted to lift John up, carefully slumping him over his shoulder, and carrying him to his bed. The problem with that was that John's bed was upstairs, and although Sherlock was strong, he could not hold John for long, let alone carry him up stairs.
He eventually came up with a solution for the problem. He instead laid John down in his own bed. Hopefully it wouldn't be a shock to him when he woke up, as Sherlock was almost positive that John had never seen the inside of his bedroom. Note to self, check for fingerprints tomorrow morning. He supposed it would be okay. After all, it was a place to sleep. There was nothing wrong with that. The only real problem that Sherlock saw with this arrangement was that he would have to sleep in John's bedroom with John's bedding, while John slept in a bed suited exactly to Sherlock. That plan of action made Sherlock feel somewhat awkward. He wasn't used to changes.
He tried to forget about it temporarily while he pulled the blankets over John. It was a brisk, cold night, and the heat hadn't quite kicked in yet. That transition stage from autumn to winter was never one that Sherlock was fond of. It was far too cold for his liking. He sat on the bed next to John, who was still sound asleep despite the movement. Now that Sherlock thought about it, he was exhausted. Three days without sleep was a normal thing for Sherlock, but when he had someone like John whose sleep schedule was suited to a regular person with a regular job and a regular brain, it seemed to tire him out as well.
Sherlock eventually allowed himself to lie down in the bed. He decided that it would be okay to lie down and rest for a minute while he thought over his options for sleep. He turned his gaze again to John. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to share one bed, he thought. It would be warmer, too.
He edged himself under the blankets, keeping himself close to John's body. It didn't feel as awkward as he thought it would. John was his friend, and not in the context that he usually used it in. Their relationship was almost undefinable. There wasn't really a word for it in his extensive vocabulary. They were far too close to be normal friends, too vague to be best friends, and contrary to popular belief, they weren't shagging. Sherlock did, however, have thoughts once in a while that drove him up the wall; what does John taste like anyways? No. No, that's not right. Stop thinking like that, Sherlock. Delete. He whispered that last word quietly, as if to reassure himself that it had been 'deleted' from his mind. It hadn't, but a man could play pretend once in a while, right? It didn't matter much to him anyways.
Romantic or not, Sherlock couldn't even begin to imagine another person laying there beside him.
He closed his eyes and drifted into a peaceful slumber.