Jumpers and Jam: In the Absence of John
by Lumiger
Sherlock stood in the doorway of John's bedroom, eyes taking in every detail. John always liked to leave his things in perfect order when he left for any period of time. This time he was … well, Sherlock didn't know exactly. He hadn't been listening. John had only been gone for about a day before Sherlock realized he hadn't just gone to the market. He was rather proud of himself for figuring out so quickly that John was gone at all.
On one particularly boring day last month, Sherlock had the rather brilliant idea of using John's service revolver to see if he had the accuracy to shoot a smiley face into the opposite wall. As it turns out, thought Sherlock smugly, he had. Of course John came home at that precise moment. He hadn't thought Sherlock quite so clever. In fact, he took his gun and hid it in his room. Sherlock had listened to his footsteps and deduced John couldn't decide where to put it. Silly, really. Any effort was obviously going to be wasted. Closet, top shelf, Sherlock had thought. Sure enough, next time there had been no case and no John to fill the mind-numbing void of said no-case situation, he found the gun exactly where he thought he would.
John came home after that to find his gun on the kitchen table. He gave Sherlock a long, stern frown, picked up his gun, and went straight to his room. Sherlock listened again as John paced around his bedroom - stopping at the window, then the closet again, the bed, back to the window, and lastly the bedside table - before coming back out. Really, John? Obviously no matter what John tried, he would be able to figure it out, but this was just insulting.
So here Sherlock stood, in John's bedroom doorway, eyeing that bedside table with contempt. There had been no new cases all week. Inconceivable in London this time of year. No doubt Lestrade was enjoying his little break. Sherlock hated it. There were only so many cold cases a man could solve before he needed something more substantial. No case. No John. What else was there?
Sherlock strode over to John's bedside table and slid the drawer open with a flourish. Dumbfounded, he just blinked into the empty wooden cavity. No gun.
What the …?
Sherlock got down on his hands and knees, putting his face to the floor and peering underneath. No gun there either. But he was sure he heard John stop right here.
Getting up and dusting off the knees of his flannel pajama bottoms, Sherlock headed for the closet. He ran his hands up over the shelf, pushed hangers of boring button-ups aside, and kicked pairs of shoes around on the floor. Nothing. Under the bed, nothing. Under the mattress - Nothing!
Ah, the dresser!
Sherlock dropped to the floor, thrusting his arm under the dresser first. Only dust bunnies. He pulled open the bottom drawer, pushing aside jeans and casual dress trousers. No gun. He slammed it closed, grabbing for the next drawer up. Pajamas, still no gun.
Sherlock got to his feet and pulled open the two smaller top drawers. Flashes of white, grey, and something distinctly red barely registered in Sherlock's mind as he shoved his hands in, feeling for the cold, hard kiss of metal. Alas, just the softness of cotton and polyester.
One drawer left. Sherlock's brows furrowed even closer together, a petulant pout forming on his lips. It hurt his pride, that John should be able to pull one over on him. Not possible. John was smarter than the average person, but not by much. This shouldn't be so difficult. Pulling the drawer open, Sherlock's lip curled in disgust. Jumpers. Nothing but John's dull, unfashionable jumpers.
Who did John think he was kidding? No one actually liked jumpers. Ordinary, scratchy things, usually woven with hideous designs. Besides, John was a trained, steel-minded soldier. Did he really think wearing cuddly jumpers would put people off that fact?
Well - Sherlock quirked an eyebrow - as it turns out, it does.
Sherlock remembered their first case together; when at the end of it he described the kind of man who had fired that fatal shot through two sets of windows as being a cool-headed fighter, acclimatized to violence with nerves of steel. The man in question - John - had been standing right there and Lestrade had no inkling whatsoever.
Alright, so these fabricious atrocities had that going for them. But they were still …
Actually, thought Sherlock as he gingerly stroked one, not scratchy at all.
Lips pulling down into a skeptical yet ever so slightly interested quirk, Sherlock tentatively pulled the top one out of the drawer. Oatmeal. John's apparent favorite. Did he just forget to pack it or was he somewhere warmer? Sherlock really needed to listen better.
He cautiously rubbed the jumper across his cheek. It was quite soft, actually. In fact it felt rather warm and inviting. Very inviting indeed. Quickly Sherlock leaned back to look into John's closet again, spying the empty space where John's duffel bag usually sat.
Ah! Duffel bag, one pair of casual shoes, and long-sleeved button up given by Harry last Christmas. All gone. He's at Harry's. Why now? What's special now that he'd stay for so long?
Sherlock glanced at the calendar on the wall. Scribbled in John's untidy doctor's scrawl was the answer.
Anniversary of parents' death. Nostalgic visit. Trip to the cemetery, commemorative dinner, stay long enough to make sure Harry doesn't drink herself into oblivion.
Harry had opened a rift when she came out to their parents. A rift that had never been bridged. Sherlock deduced the danger Harry would be in now wouldn't be so much because of the death of John's and her parents, but the parallel thinking that would invariably lead her back into the darkness that consumed her after Clara's abandonment.
But John would want comfort, and Harry, being family, would be able to provide a modicum of that, even in her relentlessly inebriated state. Just being his flesh and blood would be of more comfort to John than anything Sherlock could offer, never having been very good at that kind of thing. John was loyal, too. He'd want to be there for Harry no matter what kind of non-relationship they might share now.
Sherlock scowled. Comfort was something he always wanted to give John, but never seemed to get quite right.
He shook his head, remembering when John and Sarah had broken up. John hadn't even made it through the door to the flat when Sherlock adroitly announced John's return to bachelorism. John had seemed momentarily stunned, then slumped in defeat, not bothering to hide it.
Sherlock had been taken aback by this open display of vulnerability. It was usual that John couldn't keep any emotions off his face under Sherlock's scrutiny but he had still always at least tried to put up a front. This time he appeared to have given up the pretense.
Sherlock recognized his chance. Quickly thinking back to the research he did online, he first offered sympathy. Sympathy usually required one to have had first-hand experience with the offending circumstance so as to sound sincere. Sherlock had no first-hand experience. He did not sound sincere. John pulled his head up, looked at Sherlock with a confused frown.
Alright, step two. Words of encouragement. Something along the lines of, "I always knew you could do better than Sarah." John's frown deepened.
"You're better off; given time she would have further dulled your brain to match her intellectual level?" John quirked an eyebrow.
Damn.
"She was annoying, we're better off." The second brow joined the first. Jaw slackened.
Bollocks. Sherlock had never wished he understood the tedious rituals of ordinary people more than he did right at that moment.
Much to Sherlock's chagrin, John just quirked his lips, whispered a soft chuckle, and shook his head. He walked over to the genius detective, put a hand on his shoulder and told him he appreciated the effort but break-ups are a part of life, happen to lots of people, and he'd get over it in time. John then patted Sherlock's shoulder, fingers lingering along the younger man's shoulder blade before pulling away in a gentle caress.
It had been at that point Sherlock figured it was just best all around if he stopped trying. John's comforting of Sherlock was very much the opposite goal.
Pointless reminiscences.
Sherlock shook his head, bringing his conscious mind back to the task at hand.
He'll be gone a week. So not likely to be bursting through the front door anytime soon.
Setting the jumper down in the drawer, Sherlock shrugged his shoulders out of his dressing gown, letting the silky fabric whisper down his forearms to land in a graceless heap on the floor. He picked the jumper up again, gave it a look, strode over to John's mirror and let out an irritable sigh. Was he really going to do this? Was he really so bored that his proficient mind had nothing better to do than wonder what John found so fascinating in this mundane article of clothing?
It appears so, he thought, and slid the jumper over his head.
Instantly Sherlock's nose filled with the smell of tea, warm musk and something else: Something warmer still, something distinctly … John. Sherlock hesitated, arms raised, jumper still trapping his head. It was rather a nice scent and Sherlock was abruptly reminded of breezy summer days spent out back in the guest house dissecting dead birds with Mycroft … back when they had actually enjoyed spending time together. Before Mycroft realized the benefits of having people to do that sort of thing for him. Sherlock stood there comically cocooned in John's jumper, basking in the unexpected warmth that filled his core.
Slightly unnerved that the scent of John's jumper should make him feel so nostalgic and … safe, Sherlock grabbed the hem and tugged sharply downward, exposing his scowling face to the mirror in front of him. He slung his arms through the sleeves and pulled the wool the rest of the way down, smoothing it over the waistband of his pajamas.
There, thought Sherlock, it's on. Nothing too interesting. Better get the full effect, though . . . . For science.
Sherlock walked slowly out into the common area of the flat, keenly aware of the foreign weight of wool against his arms, along his shoulders, against his chest and back. It was remarkably comfortable. As Sherlock meandered past John's chair, he felt an overwhelming urge to sit in it.
Hm, probably just the imprinted memory between the leather of the chair and the wool in the jumper.
He almost believed it, too.
Oh well, in for a penny ….
Having made the decision, Sherlock wasted no time and simply flung himself into the chair, slouching down to a comfortable height, wriggling a bit to fit himself into John's natural indentation.
Is everything this man owns built for comfort? Sherlock wondered, as he melted into the seat.
Sherlock looked around the flat, marveling at how different 221B could look just by changing his perspective. Everything was the same yet somehow off, almost as though perhaps all the furniture had suddenly moved two inches to the right. So this was how John saw things.
"I'm Dr. John Watson and I'm going to write in my blog now," announced Sherlock, pitching his voice slightly higher, voice lilting in a mocking rhythm.
"Sherlock, where's my laptop? Sherlock, why are you using my laptop again? Too lazy to walk three feet to use yours?" Sherlock chuckled, his deep baritone danced across the room.
His eyes roamed the flat, seeking the next thing to poke fun at. Craning his neck to look behind him Sherlock spotted the fridge.
Perfect.
He stood up, walked into the kitchen and pulled open the fridge, scrunching his face up in mock annoyance. "No, Sherlock, don't put that dead thing in the fridge next to my jams!" Laughing to himself, Sherlock reached out and picked up a jar of strawberry jam.
Strawberry jam? he scoffed. The oatmeal jumper is more exciting than this. Why not pomegranate mango? Or passion fruit kiwi?
But even as that thought occurred to him, he smiled. John's simple nature was one of the things he liked best about the man. Despite that, John was still capable of surprising Sherlock, and the combination of those two facts was one of the things Sherlock liked to waste hours on pondering between cases. It was the most exquisite sort of conundrum imaginable.
Before he even knew what he was doing he had opened the jar and smelled its contents. The saccharine scent of sugar assaulted his nostrils. It was almost too strong, but his curiosity was stronger. He dipped his pinky finger into the red jelly, put it to his lips, and took a tentative lick.
Sherlock immediately pulled a face. Sugary. But, actually… he sniffed it again, not too bad. Sherlock stuck the whole finger into his mouth. His tongue worked the jam off the tip before pulling it back out with a slick pop.
Interesting. That's surprisingly . . . good.
Sherlock stood looking at the jar for a moment.
More data.
Setting the jar on the table, Sherlock started rooting through the Not-For-Science cupboard, pulling out crackers, biscuits, bread, anything to which one would conceivably apply jam. Spreading it all out on the table next to the jam, Sherlock rolled up his sleeves - John's. John's sleeves - gave a firm, determined nod, and set to work.
John waved to his sister through the back window and breathed out a very relieved sigh, not having thought he'd make it to the cab ride home.
Family was always a priority in John's mind, but that didn't mean it wasn't extremely hard work where Harry was concerned. Especially this past week.
It had been six years since their parents died. John's only been going over to Harry's this time every year for the past two, after Clara left. Her leaving had broken Harry. John thought he'd be hearing from the coroner before he heard from his sister. Luckily that hadn't been the case. But now the anniversary of their parents' death kicked Harry down some very dark roads of thought. Thoughts of loneliness, hopelessness, uselessness. Thoughts John had a lot of experience with since his return from Afghanistan. Truth be told, these annual visits were just as much about comforting John than they were about Harry. She never actively tried to help John when he was over, but he missed his parents, and just the feeling of being active, being helpful, was usually enough to allow John to keep going. With or without actual support from Harry, but where else was he going to get it?
Actually …
John smirked, remembering the time Sherlock had tried comforting him after he and Sarah had broken up.
It was obvious by the systematic way Sherlock had gone about offering his words of support that he had done some research. The poor sod actually thought emotional matters could be learned through logic, dealt with scientifically. He looked up at John all smug like he knew exactly what he was doing. Then he opened his mouth and it all went to hell. Sherlock's attempts only served to make John wonder where he was and how he had gotten there. This was unprecedented. John didn't know how to respond.
Until Sherlock gave up. The look of frustrated worry that twisted his face gave John all the motivation he needed. This was a man with genuine intent. A man who willingly stepped outside his comfort zone for the sole purpose of helping his friend. John wasn't about to let him suffer for it.
He walked over, placed a comforting hand on his best friend's shoulder, and offered his own words of comfort.
Sherlock's face relaxed, lips parted in a silent sigh of relief. John offered him a timid smile before departing for his room.
The consulting detective may or may not have deduced that his failure that night helped John far more than if he had said all the right things. He had given John a distraction from his antagonistic mind, and a reminder that he was needed, and wanted, here.
John had gone up to bed that night feeling lighter than he had any right to be after a break-up. He knew, realized he always had, that here was someone who truly cared about him, no matter how awkward said person was at conveying such things.
Yawning, John stretched his arms out in front of him, swaying from left to right as the cab rounded a curve. He didn't think it would be too wise to allow himself to hope that he could get similar treatment tonight. Sherlock had been left alone in their flat on Baker Street for five solid days with no case. Greg had promised to text John if he had anything for Sherlock, just to put John's mind at ease, but his phone had remained ominously silent. More ominous still was the fact that not even Sherlock had texted during his time away. Usually John's phone would be blowing up with texts from the consulting detective in his absence. Unless, of course, there was a case to occupy his insatiable mind, which there wasn't. Which could mean only one thing …
John shook his head with a grimace, trying very hard not to think of what Sherlock could have found to fill his time. At least John had remembered to bring his gun with him on his trip. No matter what kind of state the flat was in when he returned, at least John was confident it wouldn't be full of bullet holes. Still, that wasn't too comforting, considering the lengths Sherlock's imagination could go.
This time the sigh that escaped John's lips was heavy as he slouched down into the seat, settling in for the long ride home.
The light from the windows dimmed as Sherlock finished drying his hands and tossed the towel back onto the counter, rolled down his - John's - sleeves, and picked up the jar of strawberry jam from the freshly-cleaned and still-damp table. He carefully placed it back in the fridge, let the door swing shut, leaned heavily against it. He'd never been so full in his life. It wasn't particularly pleasant, even though he did enjoy the offending sustenance.
Sherlock's eyes drooped closed for a moment as he stood there.
Ah yes, he thought as he was all too painfully reminded why eating was so abhorrent to his work.
Must. Re-. Boot.
Sherlock dragged his feet out of the kitchen, head lolling forward. He meant to take a right turn for his bedroom, but instead he followed the will of the jumper and the next thing he knew, he was in John's bedroom doorway again, eyeing the bed with something not unlike desire. Previous experience with John's belongings implied that his bed would be just as glorious. And it would be in keeping with today's theme if he were to just . . . try it out.
For (yawn) science.
Sherlock strode across the room and flopped down face-first onto the duvet. A sibilant rustling of sound filled his ears as his face sunk into the pillow and his limbs settled against the blankets. It was just as he thought …
Glorious.
Sherlock pulled in a deep breath, lungs filling with the same scent that infused the jumper:
Tea, warm musk, John.
He held his breath for a moment, relishing the lazy sense of comfort it brought, then exhaled slowly, all tension seeping out of his body.
Sherlock sensed the danger of this situation rather than recognizing it, but he was too close to oblivion to truly care now. He was far too comfortable and relaxed for such matters that propriety would concern. Softly, as the daylight faded to obscurity, with feelings of warmth and security drifting through his body, Sherlock fell asleep.
John swung his duffel bag off the sidewalk and over his back as the cab pulled away from the curb. He watched it melt into the night, headlights disappearing around the corner. Stretching out his tired limbs, he turned to the black door of 221B and smiled wearily.
It's good to be home.
The door opened silently, but John made up for that as he clumsily, and noisily, climbed the stairs. There was a noticeable lack of interference with his progress.
Mrs. Hudson must be out.
John finally got to the top and pushed open the door. Darkness. Quiet.
Sherlock must be out as well.
He dumped his bag on the floor by the door, wriggled out of his jacket and hung it on the peg before shuffling tiredly into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Reaching for the Not-For-Science cupboard John paused halfway through the motion, arms stretched up in front of him.
The kitchen was not this clean when I left.
John furrowed his brow, really looking at the vast - and shining - counter space.
Sherlock does not clean.
This could only mean … Oh god … that some experiment had gone horribly wrong and Sherlock was forced to clean it up to save Mrs. Hudson's house.
Feeling even more tired and weary than he had fifteen seconds ago, John decided not to dwell too heavily on it since whatever it was had obviously been taken care of, and instead completed the motion of reaching into the cupboard for some bread. Except the bread wasn't there.
"What?" John murmured in agitation. "Sherlock doesn't eat either. What's going on?"
Stretching up on tiptoes, John reached in farther, feeling the gentle wisp of plastic wrap on his fingertips. He pulled the bread down, scowling at its diminished state.
With a shrug he took out a couple slices, loaded the toaster, put the bread away, and went to the fridge. He opened the door and took out his favorite jam … which was almost empty.
Did he eat my jam? The bastard. Of all things …
Feeling this was one discrepancy too many, John shook his head and sat at the immaculate table with his victimized jam to wait for his toast and tea in a rather foul mood.
John placed his dishes in the sink with a clatter. He stretched up on his toes, reached his arms into the air, yawned loudly, and shuffled out of the kitchen. Grabbing his duffel bag, he headed up the stairs.
Finally making it to the top, he hesitated. He always shut his door when he left, but it was open now. Did he forget this time?
No. I know I shut it. The kitchen, the bread, my jam … it's all connected. It's got to be.
Cautiously, John poked his head into his room, wary of whatever ludicrous scheme he might be walking into.
'For science', he'd say, thought John, shaking his head with a wry grin.
His eyes briefly scanned the room before snapping to the source of all of tonight's anachronisms. John blinked.
He blinked again.
Eyes widening in shock, John stared at his bed.
There was Sherlock, fast asleep with the blankets wrapped around him, snoring ever so softly with his face pressed into John's pillow. A small smile seemed to be tugging at the corner of his mouth and John couldn't think of a time he'd ever seen his flatmate looking so calm, so vulnerable, so … content.
Despite himself, John smiled. By his standards, this appeared to have been a great day for Sherlock. He had no idea whatsoever what had gotten into his friend, but it was no small comfort to find the flat not only in one piece, but in better shape than he left it. Not to mention Sherlock had apparently eaten, and was now getting what John suspected was some much needed sleep. Even though John's own food and bed had been the preferred medium.
And speaking of my things …
Frowning incredulously, John noticed exactly what Sherlock was wearing. His wrists were well exposed due to his longer arms, but there, just visible from under the blankets was John's favorite jumper.
John stood there staring at the incorrigible man in his bed, wearing his jumper, no doubt with a stomach full of his jam and bread. John's brain was too slow right now to form some sort of reason that could explain it all, so he just stood there slowing shaking his head in disbelief.
Strange, thought John, tilting his head in confusion. Just when I think I can predict him in his unpredictability …
A sudden yawn burst forth, threatening to dislocate his jaw. Stretching again, John decided he'd have to figure that one out later. Right now he needed to decide what to do about the inconveniently tall consulting detective sprawled along the bed John so desperately wanted to occupy.
He was always pestering Sherlock to get more sleep and now that he was finally doing it John was not about to interrupt him, so waking him to relocate to his own room was out of the question.
Which left three options.
He could kip on the couch. John snorted.
There was Sherlock's bed. John scrunched up his face. The kitchen might be spic and span right now but he didn't relish the idea of finding out if Sherlock's room had been privileged with the same treatment.
Or …
John chose the path of least resistance. Thinking he could always blame it on his exhaustion, he shimmied out of his jumper, slid off his belt, tucked his thumbs behind the button on his trousers … then hesitated. It may have been John's bed, but Sherlock had gotten there first. Instead he reached down and pulled off his socks. Straightening back up, John padded over to his bed and gently climbed on in his trousers and t-shirt, pulling back the edge of the blanket.
Not sure how to position himself appropriately, John hovered half-reclined behind Sherlock's sleeping form. While waiting for a decision to present itself, John's eyes drooped, his head bobbed. Jerking awake again, John decided he didn't give a toss what was deemed appropriate sleeping etiquette with one's platonic … whatever Sherlock was, so he gently plopped down just as he was, chest pressed lightly against Sherlock's back, knees barely touching the back of Sherlock's thighs.
Sherlock had his head bent forward, exposing the back of his neck to John, and John noticed with a lethargic thrill in his stomach that Sherlock's scent was most pleasantly noticeable like this. Shampoo, faint traces of chemicals, old books, and something else of a cooling aroma wafted off Sherlock's skin.
It was that cool, intrinsically-Sherlock scent that really intrigued John. He never could figure out if it was more like snow and ice, or open air and a sea breeze. Either way it smelled like inhibition. Like freedom.
Never wanting to be too blatant in the past, John would always time his intakes of breath to happen as he walked past his friend, but like this it was only too easy to simply lean his face forward and touch his nose to the skin just above the neckline of Sherlock's - my - jumper, inundating his senses with everything Sherlock, and a hint of John.
As John gently drifted off to the most comfortable oblivion he'd ever known, a couple thoughts languidly swam to the forefront of his mind: First, that this situation did far better things for John's morale than any inept words of comfort. Second, that this cuddled-up position was perhaps very nearly the exact opposite of proper sleeping etiquette with one's platonic … oh who bloody cares.
John's own deep breathing mingled with Sherlock's gentle snores, together composing a lullaby of serenity.
Sherlock's subconscious noticed the subtle change in his environment before his mind even began to stir. His body felt the warmth and understood what it needed to do before his consciousness could even try to catch up. His nose inhaled and recognized the source of his safe haven and all his senses came together like a perfect storm all while Sherlock still slept.
He sluggishly rolled over, disheveled curls falling back from his face as his very being shifted closer to that which it craved.
Sherlock's conscious mind noticed that a strong, warm weight settle itself across his waist. That warm tea-and-John smell became even stronger, filling him down to his toes. He couldn't quite grasp the image that must have been partner to this sensation in the dream he was waking up from. This fact in itself sped him towards complete wakefulness.
But, now that he was concentrating on it, he didn't recall dreaming at all. In fact, he realized he hadn't felt this heavy warmth until after beginning his ascent to awareness. Completely confused now, Sherlock opened his eyes.
Instantly he narrowed them, unsure of what he was looking at. A wide expanse of … skin? It seemed to be a throat. A faintly sun-kissed throat … that smelled like …
John.
Sherlock pulled his face back to get a better look. He had no idea how he came to be cuddling his flatmate in bed - John's bed - but it appeared that was exactly what he was doing.
He knew he should probably feel some sort of shame or embarrassment, but that was rather difficult to do when said flatmate had willingly slung his arm over Sherlock's waist, fingers gently curled in the fabric at the back of his shirt.
Shirt?
Sherlock didn't sleep in a shirt.
Oh, jumper. John's jumper.
Sherlock gazed down at John's arm holding the wool of his own jumper that Sherlock was wearing.
Interesting. He had to have noticed what I'm wearing, yet he still chose to get in and sleep next to me, so he mustn't be upset about it.
Sherlock thought about just where John had been this past week and realized that John's need for sleep probably would have outweighed any kind of anger or annoyance he'd have felt at seeing Sherlock in his favorite jumper.
But wait a moment. Wouldn't the most intriguing part of that thought not be that John wasn't upset about Sherlock wearing his favorite jumper, but that John still chose to sleep in his bed with Sherlock already in it?
Requires further investigation. More data.
John murmured a soft groan and pulled his arm a little tighter against Sherlock's back. His sigh ruffled the hair resting across Sherlock's brow. Closing his eyes, he allowed the caress of John's warm breath to lull him back to the brink of sleep.
Investigation can wait.
Tempted ever closer by the scent emanating from John's throat, Sherlock leaned his face back in. He only meant to touch his nose to that warm, tanned skin, but the closer he got, the more perfectly he slotted into place against the doctor. Legs gently entwined, Sherlock's chest pressed softly against John's stomach, his face alongside John's collarbone.
My god.
If ever Sherlock could think of an example for something being greater than the sum of its parts, this was it. John Watson himself was even more comfortable than his jumper, his chair, and his bed combined.
Sherlock huffed to himself. The look on Lestrade's face should I ever use that as an example at a crime scene.
Sherlock nuzzled in closer, pressing his nose up into John's throat, not caring how inappropriate this was, nor how embarrassed either of them may be upon awakening. He only cared that John's arm was tightening around him again, and how perfectly warm and safe he felt, and how if sleeping could always be this nice he would gladly pull John upstairs with him the very next time John scolded Sherlock about his poor sleeping habits.
Closing his eyes and smiling now at the thought of pulling a very confused and stuttering John up the stairs after a request that he get more sleep, Sherlock breathed in deeply, and sank once more into blissful oblivion.
Science could wait until morning.
The End