"JAWN." Oh, what now?

"Sherlock?" No response. Well, better go make sure he hasn't destroyed anything.

"Sherlock… what? Bored? Lying on the couch dramatically isn't fascinating enough?"

"... My stomach hurts, Jawn." Oh, for God's sake.

"So take medicine."

"... And my sinuses are killing me, as if I don't have enough head problems!" Oh, fine.

"I'll make tea. You're getting something in your system, you child." No response, just pouting.


Two hours later find John and Sherlock asleep on the couch, John having moved the detective's legs to sit beneath their sprawl. The television was still going, pumping crap telly and ads, but not even that obnoxious noise could have woken the lanky genius. John woke to a beaming Mrs. Hudson drawing a blanket over them, but she gently reprimanded him and forced him to stay put.

"You wouldn't want to wake the poor boy… It's good to know you can look after him, John. He needs someone by his side to keep him from flying to pieces."

"So I've noticed, Mrs. Hudson. Don't worry - I won't be going anywhere." She just smirked.

"Oh, I know, dear." Well, now. Not like that.

"Mrs. Hudson -"

"Shush, doctor, before you wake up our resident invalid." Defeated. Again. Why do I try?


Is there no God? Mycroft is the next to waltz in smugly, taking in the sight of two grown men slumped together, asleep in front of the telly for the fifth time that week, and isn't the conclusion obvious, when John takes leave for two weeks to make sure Sherlock doesn't shoot the flat up in desperation and hasn't killed him after one? (It's obvious to everyone but John and Sherlock, apparently.)

Waking up has been marginally less embarrassing each time, because Sherlock can't really object to John falling asleep when he's taken care of 24/7 and John can't blame Sherlock for drowsiness induced by drugs. An umbrella tapping his blond head wakes John up.

"Good evening, Dr. Watson. Perhaps I should have called earlier? Tell me, how is your patient doing?"

"Was it really necessary to show up here for that?"

"Of course not, doctor."

"Of course. What do you want?"

"How long before he's up and running, John?" I don't like you...

"He's not a car, Mycroft. He's not a machine."

"I seem to recall you expressing a very different sentiment previously." Oh, no you did not just - deep breath.

"Get out."

"Ah. It seems 'love turns to hate' can go the other direction."

"Get out." He left. He was still a smug bastard. I never hated his stupid git brother.