"Sherlock, have you seen this?" John held up an opened letter.
"Probably." The addressed man drawled bored without looking up from his laptop.
"The City University of London is offering you a honorary degree for your work in criminology." John walked up to his side with the letter he had fished out of the waste bin because its official-looking logo had caught his eyes.
"Yes, I skimmed the letter." Sherlock sighed as if the letter had inadvertently insulted him.
"Why'd you bin it, then?" John asked, sounding somewhat delighted. "Honorary doctorate, eh? Dr Sherlock Holmes. Has a certain ring to it, hasn't it?" When Sherlock finally looked up from his computer he saw the twinkle in John's eyes.
"Dr Sherlock Holmes, h.c.. It's not as if it is a real degree and I wouldn't even be permitted to carry it. Therefore, rubbish. Therefore, rubbish bin." Therefore, conversation over. He turned his attention back to the computer. John reread the letter, contemplating its content.
"Still. I think you should take it." Sherlock's head shot sharply up at that. He looked at his flatmate with narrowed eyes.
"Why? Why is that so important to you?" He asked.
"It's not important. Just thought, you'd like it. I mean, you didn't have to do anything to get it, they're just giving it to you. And you could call yourself doctor, like me or Mycroft." At the mention of his brother's name something snapped in Sherlock and he became the petulant, jealous child he so often was around Mycroft.
"Oh yes, I bet you would love that. In fact, everybody would love that. Mummy'd be so proud, finally all her children would have a doctorate!" He spit out. John gaped at him a little.
"Okay. Obviously hit a nerve there." He muttered. Sherlock didn't heed him. He got up and started pacing the room, muttering all the while.
"No more 'But Mycroft has a PhD', 'John's a doctor, darling.'. 'You could have easily been a doctor, too, if you had just stayed in school longer.' No, I'll tell you what, John!" Sherlock came to a stop in front of him, his finger raised and pointed accusingly. "If I wanted a blasted PhD I'd get one. What do you have to do to get one?"
"Erm. Matriculate. Write a thesis, submit that."
"I can do that." He swooped down to his chair and started typing furiously on his computer. "Just you wait." He murmured, barely audible. John waited a moment for something to happen.
"Okay." He said at last and left the kitchen. But before he threw away the letter, resigned to never mention it again.
It was late at night or very early morning when John woke from his dreams when he heard the familiar voice softly call out his name in his room.
"What's up?" He said tiredly. He hoped it was no new case, his bed was too warm for leaving it and it was too dark out. He couldn't see a lot in the dark, but Sherlock sat down on the edge of his bed next to his hand.
"I don't want to do it." Sherlock said sounding sheepish and a little like pleading.
"Want to do what?" John prompted because he had no idea what he was talking about.
"Matriculate. Write a thesis. I researched it, it sounds tedious. Did you know it can take you up to two years until you're finished?"
"Two years? I've known people do it in four or five years." Sherlock looked at him shocked.
"I don't want to do it." He repeated quietly. John sat up and turned on his bedside lamp. Both men flinched at the sudden light, but John wanted to see Sherlock's face. He looked crestfallen at John, biting his lip.
"Then don't do it. Hey, what's going on?" John asked and reached out for him before he could stop himself. He aimed for his face but settled on his hand instead, touching his fingers lightly to it and then withdrawing them again. Sherlock appeared to not have noticed his hesitation as he looked on pleading with his best puppy dog eyes, even though he knew they never worked on John. Not exactly. They always softened him somewhat, though.
"You don't mind if I'm not a doctor?" Sherlock asked, crowding closer. And then John knew what was going on. He laughed at Sherlock.
"Of course not." And then, because it was late and he was tired and Sherlock was pretending to feel intimidated and scared of rejection, John wrapped his arms around the other man's shoulders and drew him down with him as he leaned back into the bed. Sherlock shuffled to accommodate his ridiculously long limbs. He also flipped off the insulting light.
They were lying on the bed with John under the blanket and Sherlock over it, trapping John somewhat so it wasn't perfectly comfortable but John's chest was heaving in silent laughter.
"You tell Mummy then, yes?" Sherlock asked after a minute.
"Tell her what exactly?" John was rubbing at his eyes, checking for tears..
"That it's okay that I'm not a doctor. I could easily become one."
"Of course you could."
"And it wouldn't take me two years."
"It wouldn't."
"I'm much more intelligent than other students."
"Of course you are, no one's as clever as you."
"But in any way, I don't have the time."
"No, you have better things to do. Like … stealing feet from the morgue."
"That was once!" Sherlock rose in indignation. John tugged at his shirt.
"Come back down here, you great bloody genius."
"You're mocking me, aren't you?" Sherlock complied and lay back down, nestling a little closer to John's shoulder.
"What gave me away?" Sherlock grumbled but gave no direct answer. Some minutes elapsed in silence.
"You wanna stay here tonight?" John asked into the quiet.
"Hm." Sherlock was almost asleep by then. John shoved at him to get him to move off the blanket but if anything Sherlock made himself only heavier and more difficult to move. John succeeded anyway, but it was with no help from his lazy friend. He tucked him into the duvet and moved over a little to give him more space. It was a good thing John's blanket was so large. He fell asleep counting Sherlock's breaths.
A/N: Written because I watch too much Big Bang Theory? I don't know. I'm working on a complete "Let's share a bed because reasons"-story and this didn't fit there, but I wanted to write it. So I did.