John yawned hugely, leaning back against the couch and pulling his ratty army blanket closer around him. He could go up and grab another warmer blanket (god knows there were enough orange fleece shock blankets lying around) but he trusted his old grey one. It had gotten him through Afghanistan. By this point it was more of a trust object than a blanket.
And he needed something to get him through this night. It was almost 2 o'clock in the morning and Sherlock still wasn't home. He had told John that he had a pressing lead on their last case and regretfully informed him that John would just slow him down. Then he had swooped gracefully out of the flat, leaving Watson standing in the middle of 221B Baker Street.
That was almost seven hours ago. Seven hours without a sight of Sherlock, let alone a phone call or a text. His phone was off.
John couldn't help the blinding worry from creeping up his throat, threatening to cause a nervous breakdown. His leg, which Sherlock had proved psychosomatic almost eight months ago, was now aching. It was nerves…nerves for Sherlock.
He couldn't handle the idea of Sherlock not coming back, of bleeding out in a ditch somewhere after a fight gone wrong, without the help of his Doctor.
Unbidden, the memory of his first kiss with Sherlock flashed across his mind. A smile danced across his face as he remembered the heart-pounding flight across London chasing a serial killer. It was a lot like the first case they had solved together, except the end this one ended with Sherlock swooping John up in an adrenaline-fueled, breathless kiss.
At first he had struggled against it. They were bloody flatmates, after all, not lovers! But after a few seconds, John realized how much he had wanted this to happen and collapsed on Sherlock, dragging him into a deeper kiss than the peck that it had been.
He laughed softly to himself. That first night was anything but restful.
Dragging himself out of his memories, he looked back towards the door. It was still silent and unmoving, no matter how much John begged it to swing open and reveal the tall dark figure he was longing for.
Stuck alone in the silent flat, John fell into a fitful sleep.
John snapped fully awake all at once with a yell as a crash (followed by an angry swear) reverberated through the house. One glance at the clock on the mantle told him he had only been asleep a few minutes.
"Sherlock!" he called. Two seconds or so later, Sherlock appeared at the top of the stairs. One look propelled John off the couch, leg forgotten at Sherlock's haggard face.
"John," he whispered softly, pale and exhausted.
John could now see that Sherlock was soaking wet, water streaming off of his hair and coat and pooling on the floor. He shivered harshly, breath puffing out through chattering teeth.
Without a second thought John ripped his soaking wet clothes off, murmuring sweet nothings the whole time as if Sherlock was a young child that needed soothing. Sherlock leaned into his touch, showing his bone-weary exhaustion.
Grabbing Sherlock's bathrobe off the back of his door, John steered Sherlock into the bathroom with stern orders to towel off and wrap himself in that. Nodding softly, the door of the bathroom closed.
Once the direct danger to Sherlock's health had passed John flushed crimson at the thought of pulling off Sherlock's clothes, direct threat to his health or not.
Shaking himself out of the thought (what was he, a bloody infatuated schoolgirl? He was a doctor, for god's sake!), he went to the kitchen and started boiling some water for tea. Sherlock needed something warm in his body.
A few minutes later Sherlock appeared in the living room and collapsed on the couch, bare skin almost translucent in comparison to his jet black hair and the dark couch. Balancing two cups of tea, John walked over.
"Come on. Up you get," he murmured, coaxing Sherlock into a sitting position and handing him a cup of tea. The smile he got in return was better than all the thanks he could have ever received.
A warm blush crawled its way up his throat at the thought that Sherlock wasn't actually wearing anything under his bathrobe, but he viciously smothered it. He grabbed his tattered army blanket from where it was discarded on the couch and threw it around Sherlock's shoulders.
The man blinked at the unexpected warmth and grinned shyly at John.
"What happened?"
"Not going into it, John. Let's just say the murderer got away and I took an unexpected dip in the Thames."
John's mouth dropped.
"Sherlock, its January!"
"Very good, John. And I thought I had hope for you."
"Sherlock!" John gasped again, throwing his arms around Sherlock's slender frame and frantically rubbing his arms, trying to generate heat.
"John," Sherlock started, "John, stop that." He gently grabbed the smaller man's arms and turned to meet his eyes.
"Thank you, John." Sherlock whispered, and his mouth pressed against John's.
A few seconds passed before the two broke apart, blushing.
"Come on, you. Let's get you to bed." John whispered, dragging an exhausted Sherlock off the couch and into the bedroom. After slowly putting on the warmest pair of pajamas he owned, Sherlock slipped into bed and John covered him up with the blankets, dropping almost a pound of shock blankets on top of the normal ones.
"At least we found a use for them," Sherlock grinned sleepily.
John laughed softly and turned to leave. He couldn't help from wanting to stay in the room for the rest of the night watching Sherlock breathe, just to convince himself he was still alive.
"John?" Sherlock's voice broke the silence. John turned back.
"Yeah?"
"I'm still cold…lay here with me?" Sherlock pleaded.
John couldn't argue with him. Not with that tone of voice. Realizing that it was his duty, he pulled off his slippers and climbed in with Sherlock, flannel-encased legs bumping into each other.
Grinning as Sherlock's arms wrapped around his body and pulled him closer for body heat, John's felt satisfied. At this closeness, John could feel Sherlock's heart steadily beating in his chest.
His eyes drooped closed and finally, he slept.