The alarm clock on the bedside table read just past one in the morning when John was awakened by the door opening and the overhead light being flicked on. He squinted into the sudden brightness. "Sherlock? Is that you? Are you all right?"

"Boring," said Sherlock, clearly in a high pet. "I can't believe I stalked around in the mud and rain for hours, only to find the watch wasn't missing at all."

"So you solved it, then."

Sherlock threw himself into the chair, not bothering to remove his sodden coat. His shirt was plastered to his chest, and his curls sent rivulets of rainwater dripping down his face. "Yes, and bloody disappointing it was. All those fascinating clues! I thought I was dealing with a real intellect, but it all became totally ordinary on closer examination."

"Sherlock," said John, "you can't spend the night in those clothes. You'll catch pneumonia, if you haven't already. Go take a bath, warm yourself up."

Sherlock begrudgingly obeyed, and John started to settle back to sleep as he heard the water running. Then something occurred to him.

"Sherlock," he called.

"Mmm?"

"Do you have anything to change into? When you're done?"

"Suit will be dry 'nough in the morning," Sherlock called back, the sleepiness that struck him whenever he finished a case already invading his speech patterns. John sighed to himself.

"Yes, fine, but what about before then?"

"What about it?"

"You're bloody well not coming out of that bathroom starkers, is what." John glanced around the room for a solution to this problem. Finally he settled on the sheet pooled around him in the bed. He disentangled it from the rest of the covers and handed it through the cracked bathroom door. "Here," he said. "You can wrap yourself in this when you get out."

Sherlock grunted his acquiescence, and John shut off the light and got back into bed, falling asleep again almost instantly. He was awakened a short while later by a change in pressure on the mattress. "Sherlock? Oh for God's sake, what are you doing?"

Sure enough, Sherlock was clambering under the covers into bed with him. At least he had the decency to keep the sheet wrapped close around him.

"I'm exhausted, John. Need to sleep."

"Sherlock, we agreed on this. You promised me the whole bed for the night. Can't you go sleep in the chair, at least?"

"I'm taller," mumbled Sherlock, covers already up around his ears, his face mashed into the pillow. "You take the damn chair."

John looked over at it and rolled his eyes. "Ah great, yeah, now that you've dumped your sopping clothes all over it. Don't think I'll be doing that."

"Then stay in bed, 'm not bothered. It'll be warmer, anyway – th' room's freezing." It was true, the heating system did not seem to have been adjusted to account for the unseasonable weather.

"Sherlock, don't you dare fall asleep. This is not – I'm not going to –"

Sherlock sat up suddenly, his curls already a tangled mess where he had been lying on them. "John," he said, "please calm yourself. As far as I have been able to deduce, your primary concern is always that other people will misapprehend your sexuality based on our proximity. But look around you – there's no one here in this room but us. And believe me, I'm the last person who needs to be convinced of your vaunted heterosexuality." John could only stare at him, caught off guard by his sudden loquacity.

"Look," Sherlock continued, "we've already well-established that you're not the slightest bit attracted to me, and I'm not the slightest bit interested in… well, anyone. What could possibly happen? In the whole world, there are not two less likely people to find themselves in some sort of 'clinch'. So please, for five minutes, try to forget what total strangers might conclude and let us both get some sleep, for God's sake."

And with that, he flopped himself back down on the pillow and tugged the covers up around his head, making it clear he would brook no further argument. Not seeing many other options, John turned his back on Sherlock, curled as much as possible away from him, and tried again to sleep.

Around 4 am, John was awakened for the third time that night by the sound of gentle snoring, and a sensation of warm breath on his ear. He lay still in the bed with his eyes closed, warm and sleep drunk, while he pieced together what this sensory input might indicate. The deduction made, his eyes flew open.

"Oy, Sherlock!"

At the sound of his name, he stirred slightly in his sleep, but his head remained nuzzled into John's neck, his chest pressed against John's back, his long arm slung carelessly over John's hip.

"Sherlock," said John again, and this time jabbed an elbow back into the other man's shoulder.

"Ow," said Sherlock, and he pulled away from John's body, allowing a shocking blast of cold air to slip in between them. "What's the matter?" he slurred, his voice still fuzzy with sleep.

John only propped himself on one elbow and glared at him in answer. As Sherlock rubbed the sleep from his eyes and became gradually aware of their relative positions in the bed, comprehension dawned visibly on the detective's face.

"Oh," he said. "Was I…?" His cheeks were flushed slightly pink, but it was hard to tell whether it was from sleep or embarrassment. "I'm very sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to – I mean, I don't usually – I – I haven't shared a bed with anyone since I was a child. I didn't know I would do that."

Try as he might to hold onto it, John felt his anger and irritation melting away. It was very hard not to be charmed by the sight of someone usually so self-assured, stammering in bashful contrition.

"I'll get up now," Sherlock continued, his eyes still lowered shyly. "Go take a bit of a walk until morning, and let you get some rest." Sherlock pushed down his end of the covers and moved to get up, perhaps unaware of the fact that the sheet he had worn to bed had slipped down to his hips in the night.

"Wait, don't," said John, just in time to spare himself an eyeful of naked Sherlock. He sighed. "Don't go, it's not your fault. It's still raining out, and you need a proper sleep, after the week you've had. Just - try to stay on the other side of the bed, all right?"

Sherlock nodded, his eyes big and apologetic, and John curled away from him again, a wide expanse of bed between them. Yet for all he tried, John could not find sleep again. Shuddering vibrations emanating from the far side of the bed kept jolting him out of whatever half-slumber he managed.

"For God's sake, Sherlock," he said at last. "Stop shivering. You'll drive me mad."

"I can't help it," said Sherlock through chattering teeth. "It's an autonomous function. I'm so cold – what do you want me to do?"

John thought at first to argue, but he really couldn't deny that it was downright arctic in the room at the moment, so he lapsed back into a brooding silence.

"John?" came Sherlock's voice after a little while, sounding small.

"What is it?" said John, as gently as he could. He was somewhat regretting being so hard on Sherlock all night.

"If you'd – maybe – come just a little closer..."

John was about to object, but something in Sherlock's shivering and chattering made him nervous. Sherlock had been outside in the cold and damp for an awfully long time, plus going without food or sleep for two days previous ... Whatever he said about "transport," his body was undoubtedly in a weakened state, and John would never forgive himself if Sherlock wound up hypothermic due to John's squeamishness about male bodies.

"All right," said John. "Come here. But wrap that sheet around you properly, at least." Sherlock obeyed, and gingerly they both moved toward the center of the bed. For a few minutes, they lay carefully next to each other, barely touching, but before long the desire for each others' warmth drew them inexorably closer, until their bodies were pressed together, legs and arms entwined.

John tried to drift off to sleep in this position, but he couldn't. Sherlock was being so awfully distracting. It wasn't the shivering anymore – that had stopped now that they were ensconced in a nest of blankets and limbs. It was something else. Something to do with Sherlock's warm breath ghosting against John's throat, or the way his soft curls tickled John's ear every time Sherlock adjusted his position slightly. Perhaps with the heavy scent of him, both familiar and somehow strange. Or the expressions that played across his face as he drifted in and out of dreams, the way he nibbled his lower lip from time to time, then let out a tiny sigh.

Something else, too. John ventured a quick peek beneath the blankets to be sure. Yes, there it was – half-mast and covered by the sheet, but unmistakable nonetheless.