DISCLAIMER : I do not own

Warnings : Mpreg, awkwardness between our boys, and a brief mention of a suicide at the end of the chapter.

Sherlock Holmes was not a man used to the world of sleep. He sees little point in it: It wastes time, it takes what control over his mind that he has away from him, and it is to put it is simply in the words of the worlds' only consulting detective, boring. However he's not invincible, he's not a robot, and as much as Sherlock hates to admit it, he is a human being.

The human condition had always infuriated him. If you didn't eat your body becomes useless and weak, if you didn't sleep you become fatigued, and Sherlock often forgot to do both of those things. However not eating and not sleeping was in turn excellent for brain work and he was usually able to keep himself distracted from his hunger and his tiredness long enough to solve a case. He would then retreat to the sofa, collapse in a heap and sleep for a few hours, nothing more. As for food, John usually forced him to eat small morsels, but his flatmate held no power over when he decided to get some shut eye.

He would always get a good telling off from John when he neglected his body and when he did finally sleep it was almost always on the sofa. To which the older man would comment "Is terrible for his back and will come to haunt him in later life."

So saying that he was a little shocked to find himself splayed out on a bed was more than an understatement. His confusion was doubled when he realized that it wasn't even the bed that had been assigned to him. It felt too – lived in and then there was the smell. It wasn't an unpleasant smell but it was still a surprise to smell it in such close proximity and in such a strong form. It was the sweet, minty but musk tinged scent that belonged to John. It didn't take long for Sherlock to piece together the fact that he was lying on the army doctor's bed. How had he gotten here? He blinked away the remaining sleep and contemplated the question. There was something bothering him further – something big – where was John?

Something stirred from close by and brushed across his crotch. He shivered in repulsion and tried to wriggle away from whatever had just touched him, but as he glanced down he couldn't help the smile wriggling across his lips when he saw what the ' thing ' was. John was curled in a ball on the bottom of the bed with his face practically nuzzled into Sherlock's lower half. "Well this is awkward." He muttered, trying to remove himself from the sleeping man. He was only glad that both of them were fully dressed. It would have only increased the awkwardness of their current situation if they were in their pj's or god forbid – naked. Not that he himself slept naked but who knew what John did. Sherlock didn't ask those sort of questions neither did he sought out to deduce the answers to them. As prying as he was John was the one person who he tried to give a little privacy.

Said man woke with a start much to Sherlock's embarrassment. "Sher –lock?" The way John said his name was a clear question that screamed 'what the hell is going on here?'

"Morning." Sherlock greeted him, smiling mildly at the man who was still partly covering his lap. He was at quite a loss as to what else he could possibly say.

John blinked and shook his head. "What – what's going on?"

"You're currently on my lap." Sherlock pointed out in disdain. "This as horrible as it might seem is far from our largest problem. "John jumped, reared back and almost toppled off the end of the bed as he finally seemed to take in what was going on. Snorting the detective shifted so he was sat upright, leaning against the headboard. "Really John, there's no need to look so alarmed. Now, would you calm down?"

John swallowed but nodded. "Ok – so how?" His brow creased. "How the hell did we end up like this exactly?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out." The brunette sighed heavily.

A few minutes passed without either John or Sherlock saying anything. It was John who broke it. "Anything oh mighty genius?"

Sherlock growled and threw his head back in frustration. "Nothing." His face creased in confusion. "I can't remember a thing – "

"Me neither." John groaned, moving so he was in a sitting position also.

"Hardly surprising. Normal human memory is affected by the realm of such things as sleep. It is far more worrying that I, a man with a higher intellect than you other people have been affected also." Sherlock said in his usual dismissive tone.

"Other people." John hummed, "Yes, I forgot that my mind is inferior to yours." And with that said he got up and started padding towards the door. "I'm going to take a shower." He mumbled before leaving.

Sherlock couldn't help but ask one question in his mind 'A bit not good?'

Later that day life at 221B Baker street had return to relatively normal – well as normal as life in the flat ever got. John was sat re-reading the hobbit intently and sipping at a steaming hot cup of tea whilst trying his best to ignore the fact that he had woken up strewn over Sherlock.

The detective on the other hand was pacing, running his hands through his hair, looking even more erratic and maddened that usual. "Think John!" He exclaimed. "We have lost exactly two days of memory. There have been no cases in which case I would have become bored. But I don't remember being bored. My mind feels stimulated and there's something else too that's bothering me – something big – something particularly strange." He was shaking now - something that John was beginning to worry about. He had never seen the detective this worked up before.

"Sherlock –"He tried but was almost immediately interrupted.

"It's got to be right under our noses! Somewhere – "

"Sherlock!" He yelled a little louder than he had first intended.

Sherlock whipped his head around to face John. "Yes?"

"Please can you just sit down for one minute? You'll figure something out. You always do. You don't have to work it out right now though."

With a childish whine Sherlock stretched himself over the sofa, crossing his arms over his chest and folding in on his knees.

Neither man seemed to notice the news headline on the TV buzzing in the background about a certain Henry Knight committing suicide because of a supposed hound sighting , for if they had the reasons for waking up in the same bed together would have probably been far clearer.

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