Sherlock, of course, wasn't asleep. He never slept, didn't John know that? Well...he said never...though he did eventually catch some sleep at times, it certainly was never in front of John. No, no, Sherlock was thinking.
Their case that day had been a rather interesting one: an enigmatic and practically invisible man, a stolen head, and a chase through London. Sherlock wondered whether the DI and his team had caught him by now. Based off the missing phone call or text, he hadn't been caught yet. Catching their case should've been as easy as breathing and shouldn't have involved Scotland Yard in the first place, but the prick had gone and threatened them with a gun. A gun. It was like the man hadn't even known who Sherlock and John were! Honestly, to think he would've stood a chance against the former Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers! Judging by the lack of electricity in his apartment and the inability to read the newspaper as he didn't have the money or the time to read it as he worked 24/7 at the local construction project in downtown London because he couldn't hold a decent job due to both his limited education from being poor growing up and his history of drug abuse that kept trying to become a present rather than a past, he hadn't actually known who they were. Then the idiot had pulled a gun and almost killed John.
John.
Sherlock had almost lost him that night, and he still wasn't sure why he honestly cared. He was a highly functioning sociopath, right? He couldn't possibly care about what happened to other people, they were all really just nuisances along the way...right? He was starting to doubt himself. Something had been happening to him in the past few weeks, something he wasn't quite able to understand. They had gotten in plenty of dangerous situations in the past, ones where John or his lives (and possibly everyone in London) had nearly ended, but seeing John hurt and nearly dead that night had struck something off its normal place inside of Sherlock. He knew he couldn't bare to see John hurt or in pain in any shape or form, that he wanted him to be happy for the rest of his life - but he didn't understand why.
He took a barely audible breath. He couldn't be having relationship-y feelings, could he? It was John - John, who would know what was going on. John, who always understood everyone and everything. John, kind, sympathetic, human John. John, who went out with women.
Then where did that leave him? Where did the highly functioning sociopathic consulting detective fit in? Sherlock wasn't like John, not as far as he knew. He was more analytical, a brain rather than a body. He didn't need the same things that John needed, didn't feel the same things that he felt, didn't see things the way he did. He wasn't into women, he wasn't into men, he wasn't really into...anything. Sherlock had never tried the 'dating' thing, so honestly, he didn't really know. So he couldn't possibly...like John, could he?...
Sherlock didn't so much as twitch when John set his cup of tea onto the table next to him. He let him curl himself up onto the couch with a book (Les Miserables, he thought), and the detective let the blogger fall asleep next to the fire, covering him with a blanket before he himself entered his room without so much as a whisper of sound. Just as things should be.