Until you fall asleep

'Sherlock? Sherlock! Please, stop making so much noise, I'm trying to sleep.' John entered the living room of 221B Baker Street, with a look on his face that would have had anyone run and hide as fast as they could. But not Sherlock Holmes, of course.

'Sorry,' Sherlock said, a word the detective hardly ever used, and only when talking to John. John was wearing a grey t-shirt, the baggy one which he always slept in, and his hair was sticking up in several directions. The detective smiled at him, put the beakers he was holding down and pushed his microscope aside.

'Thanks.' John turned around and, with sleepy eyes, went back to bed.

Sherlock sighed quietly, disappointed that he was done experimenting and researching for the night. He looked at his watch. It told him it was a quarter past 2 in the morning. He scratched the back of his head and ran a hand through his hair before getting up and walking over to his desk, where the new password to John's laptop was waiting to be figured out.

Ever since John had moved in, Sherlock had made a habit out of it to use John's laptop instead of his own or the internet on his phone. Even now, after being an item for nearly half a year, the habit still stuck and John still didn't like it. Sherlock smirked to himself.

He was just about to type what he knew was John's new password, when there came a crashing sound from the other room, almost immediately followed by a loud 'SHERLOCK!'

Partially annoyed, Sherlock turned away from the laptop, knowing John would barge in any second now, complaining about Whatever Stupid Thing he had left in the bedroom for John to knock (or probably trip) over. 3, 2, 1, there he was.

'What the hell were you thinking when you put your skull on my night stand?'

'It's not my skull,' Sherlock managed to correct John before he continued shouting.

'I was reaching for my glass of water, which was obviously not there. So instead I ended up putting my finger through its socket!'

'He's a he, not an it. And don't pretend as if it's the worst thing that has ever happened to you.'

'An empty socket, Sherlock. A bloody dead man's empty socket and I just,' he imitated the movement he had made, 'went right through it and-'

Sherlock sighed and studied John, who had made his way up to Sherlock's desk, for a long time. 'You look tired.'

'Well observed,' John said sarcastically, but the anger was already beginning to fade from his voice. 'It's past two in the morning and we've had two very long days with that suspicious suicide case…' he went on.

'Is that what you called it then?' the consulting detective asked.

'What?'

'On your blog. 'The Suspicious Suicide', has a nice ring to it.' Sherlock shrugged and turned to face John's laptop again.

'Don't pretend to care about or be interested in my blog,' John snapped, 'I just-'

'You just can't sleep and now you're taking it out on me.'

John stared at him for several seconds. It took him longer than it should have to reply. 'Yes, because it's your fault.' The words were followed by a lazy yawn.

'It's obvious it is not. You walked in here moments ago complaining about the noise I was making, which was very little. You said 'I'm trying to sleep' not 'you woke me up', which means you hadn't been asleep before 2 o'clock. Just now you were reaching for the glass of water on your night stand, which means you were still awake!'

'So?' John said rubbing his eyes, hardly impressed with Sherlock's deductions.

'I'll make you a cup of tea.'

John's eyes opened wide. He did not believe Sherlock had just uttered those words and, even more surprisingly, he was acting them out now as he headed over to the kitchen again.

'Sherlock, what the-' but John was cut short when Sherlock started rambling again. 'You're having trouble falling asleep, I don't know why, can't say I care why, but you are.'

That shut John up for a while and he sank down in Sherlock's leather chair, holding his head in his hands. He snorted, then sighed and eventually nodded. 'You're right. I don't know what's wrong with me tonight but I can't get to sleep somehow. But Jesus, Sherlock, you're not helping.'

Sherlock nearly dropped the tea mug he was holding. He looked so ignorant when he asked 'I'm making you tea, tea without sugar, tea to help you relax. That's helping, isn't it?'

John sniggered, a sound closer to a manly giggle than anything else, 'Yes, I suppose it is.'

In the silence that followed, Sherlock realised, John had referred to him leaving a skull next to John's bed and making a lot of noise before. He guessed best not to mention he understood now, though, afraid that John would get angry again.

After spending quite some time in the kitchen, Sherlock returned to the living room where he handed John, still sitting in the chair, a cup of chamomile tea. 'Here you go.'

John lifted his head which had been leaning on his hand and took the tea from Sherlock. 'Thanks,' he muttered, as he slowly sipped the warm drink. 'So what's this all about?' he asked after finishing half of the cup. He looked up at Sherlock and raised an eyebrow.

'I just want you to be okay.'

'I'm fine, I just can't sleep, that's all.'

'You should. People with sleeping disorders are usually tired, easy targets for disease and more often affected by strong and often sad emotions. And I don't want you to experience any of those.'

'It's just one night, Sherlock. Honestly, don't make such a big deal out of this.'

But the consulting detective wouldn't hear John out and pulled him to his feet. 'Come on.'

As John was dragged out of the living room and into the bedroom, he wondered what on earth had happened to Sherlock that had made him so thoughtful and caring. It must be us, together.

The thought hadn't left his mind when his back hit the matrass and Sherlock threw the blankets across his body. He had taken the cup of tea from John's hands and placed it on the nightstand, next to the skull. 'But I haven't finished t-'

But Sherlock pressed a finger against John's lips before he could finish his sentence. 'I know.'

He wrapped the duvet around John's shoulders and pressed a small kiss against his forehead. John instantly smiled and a soft hum escaped from his mouth. 'Good night, John.'

'I can't sleep,' the other grunted, his eyes already shut.

'I will see to it that you can.'

John's lips curled into a smile as he snorted and sarcastically asked, 'Are you going to sit here and watch me?'

'Until you fall asleep.' And not another word was uttered that night.

With Sherlock's one warm hand against his forehead, the other against his chest, John felt safe, nice and warm. It did not take him more than a minute to actually fall asleep.

Sherlock pressed his lips against John's and trailed a finger across his cheek before whispering, 'Sweet dreams.' He got up from the bed and went back to the living room, picked up his violin and started playing very quietly.