Sherlock's bed was nothing how John imagined it would be. He, for some reason, had acquired the suspicion that Sherlock slept on a mattress and pillows a little too firm for a rock. He was flabbergasted when Sherlock's mattress molder perfectly to his aching back and nearly went into shock when he almost sank into the plush pillows that smelled of very expensive shampoo; Sherlock's shampoo. The smell was so hypnotic what John found himself intoxicated and felt obligated to bury his face into them to indulge in Sherlock's sweet fragrance.

"Dirty English," Sherlock called out from the doorway with a cocky smirk.

John raised his head and blushed a deep crimson. Sherlock's crooked smile got wider.

"Shut up," John warned seriously.

Sherlock eased the smile off his faced and flopped onto his stomach on the right side of the bed next to John.

"I have to touch your hair," John said without thinking. "I uh, I meant my. My hair. I have to brush my hair," he rushed to the bathroom and shut the door harshly behind him.

"Of course," Sherlock grunted mockingly after John was gone. He got up swiftly and removed everything but his black Hugo Boss boxer briefs and then got back to bed and pulled the white sheets over his head.


John splashed cold water on his flushed face hoping it would snap him out of whatever trance he seemed to be stuck in. What had he been thinking, burying his face into his flat mate's pillows like that. To be fair, he thought, they did smell magnificent. After debating with himself, he decided that he hadn't been thinking and that he couldn't not think again while in Sherlock's presence. He took in some deep breaths to calm down the nerves that were mysteriously always present when he was with Sherlock. This is perfectly normal, he reminded himself, we are just two straight friends sharing a sumptuous king-sized bed because we have to; not because we want to. It's all fine because I'm not gay. I can't be gay for Sherlock Holmes, he repeated over and over in his head. He took a good look in the mirror before heading back to bed. He crawled underneath the sheets to find a comforting warmth emanating from Sherlock's almost naked body. Naked?

"WOOOAHHHH!" John screamed to a surprisingly sleepy Sherlock.

"What?" Sherlock wrestled with sheets as he rubbed his tired eyes.

"You're only wearing pants! Where are your clothes? They were on when I left!" John was freaking out.

"Ugh, you woke me up for this nonsense?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "They're right here on the floor," he shifted back onto his stomach.

John sat a safe distance away from Sherlock on his bed. He tried to decide which would be worse: enduring a rough night of sleep on the stiff couch or a painfully awkward night in Sherlock's luxurious bed.

"Relax John, you're not gay remember," Sherlock muttered half asleep.

It wasn't long before John was left alone with his doubts. Sherlock's breathing was a low and steady rumble. It was the first time John had seen him sleep so peacefully. As he watched his chest rise and fall in a soothing rhythm he realized for the first time that Sherlock Holmes the only consulting detective in the world, was human. As much as the bastard hated to admit so, he had a beating heart and required the same fundamental physical needs as anybody else in order to survive.
John nestled himself into the masterpiece of a bed and pulled the lush 1000 thread count sheets over his frigid limbs; Sherlock's warmth felt tender on his skin. No wonder he didn't like anybody else in his bed. If John slept in these conditions every night he would have acted as bloody jealous as Sherlock had. John let out a small chuckle. You are in so much fucking trouble Hamish, he thought with a smug grin on his face.

"Goodnight Sherlock," he mumbled to the sleeping dragon-like creature next to him and joined him in a pleasant slumber.


The unmistakable cackle rang in Sherlock's ears.

"No please," he pleaded to the dim shadow in the distance. "Not John,"

Moriarty's tenacious manicured hands held Sherlock by the jaw. Pernisiousness burning wildly in his dark chocolate eyes. Sherlock could feel the delicate blow of the psychopath's lips on his sharp cheekbones.

"You're ordinary. You're on the side of the angels," he whispered malevolently. "You're weak."

Sherlock's sudden laughter flooded the room like a roar.

"If there is one thing I am not, it's weak. I own the one ingredient you so desperately crave; I have a friend," Sherlock uttered.

"Sebastian," Moriarty signaled.

The dim figure raised a gun to the shaking figure kneeling on the ground and pulled the trigger.

Sherlock watched John collapse to the floor with a thud.

"Oops, there's goes your only toy," Moriarty shrugged.

"You're insane," He gasped to Moriarty as he struggled to free himself from the ropes; his pearly skin getting burnt in the process.

"You're just getting that now?" he asked mockingly and cackled again, this time victoriously.


Sherlock woke up from his nightmare to find himself tangled into John. The army doctor's head was resting lazily on his chest and his left arm was tightly holding onto Sherlock's slim waist. His legs were completely intertwined with his and John was still too far in a deep sleep to realize he'd turned Sherlock into his personal teddy bear during the night.

"John," he gasped quietly, his dream now becoming a fading memory that he would surely delete.

Sherlock couldn't resist and rested his lips on his mate's ashy blonde hair. He slid his arm over John's raw shoulders and pulled him closer as he tenderly kissed his forehead.

"See, not gay at all," Sherlock whispered with a sly and relieved smile before falling back to sleep.