Sherlock was tired.
For more than a year he had worked, unraveling the many threads of Moriarty's web. The man was dead, but the system was not.
He barely slept. Only enough to keep going, to keep cutting the strings until it came down to the last: Sebastian Moran. Fittingly, this was the sniper whose job it had been to kill John. Sherlock found it appropriate that immediately after finishing Moran he could go back to his friend.
He missed John dearly. It was only the threat of John's death that kept Sherlock from returning, from confessing all and obtaining his assistance.
To focus, Sherlock had to remove himself from his emotions. He couldn't let himself think of John or of 221B and the friendship they had built there. He hated losing the consistency of John's presence. But he had to cut himself off from this hatred as well.
And it was exhausting.
But now it was done. All threads severed, Moran dead, and John safe. After only Molly and Mycroft as people to talk to, Sherlock found himself unaccountably excited to speak with John again. Some emotions were breaking through the cracks of the walls he had built within himself, light shining through the thick blackness. Excitement, apprehension, joy…and fear. Sherlock did fear John's reaction – he knew John's past, knew what this must have done to him.
But he'd had to do it.
…
Mycroft told Sherlock when John moved. It hurt, but Sherlock knew why John did it. He tried not to let it bother him. There was, after all, a simple answer: come home and move back in together. Mycroft kept paying the rent at 221B, told Mrs. Hudson he needed it for "government business," and she was too intimidated and grieved to resist.
Sherlock didn't go back there to change, though, didn't stop and reveal himself to her.
John first, he decided. John should be the first to know, now that he can.
So Sherlock was still wearing his disguise – a dark hooded sweatshirt, blue jeans, black glasses with thick rims – when he made his way toward John's new flat. His hair had been cut, as well, still curly but barely touching his ears and leaving the back of his neck completely exposed. He had dyed it initially, but the dye had since grown out.
He missed his coat. His coat and his suits. But he'd waited for 15 months, and he wasn't going to wait any longer.
…
Sherlock knocked on the door to John's flat, hands stuffed into his pockets, head down. He wanted the first time John saw him to also be the first time he saw John.
The door opened and Sherlock lifted his head, a smile unconsciously starting on his face.
"Hello, how may I help you?" Mary asked politely as she answered the door, looking up curiously at the unexpected visitor. Sherlock's eyes narrowed in momentary confusion.
No shoes – comfortable on the premise; state of hair and lack of make-up – sleepover; no ring – girlfriend.
John has a girlfriend.
Sherlock blinked, a sudden pain rising in his gut. Mycroft hadn't told him about this. What should he do now? Did John not want him?
"Mary, who is it?"
John. Sherlock's heart leapt and there was an unexpected heaviness behind his eyes. He blinked again and was about to answer Mary's question when John came up behind her, resting a hand on her shoulder.
Sherlock's eyes went to that hand (those fingers that had done so much for him, from pulling the trigger of a gun to preparing hundreds of cups of tea) and then travelled up his arm to his face, meeting John's eyes for the first time in far too long.
And, as so often Sherlock felt around John, he was out of his depth.
"Hello, John," he said quietly, staring into those familiar blue eyes, darker than he'd remembered. Sadder.
John's hand fell from Mary's shoulder and she glanced back at him, but John's eyes were transfixed on Sherlock's face. It was as if he had seen a ghost and, Sherlock had to admit, he basically had.
"Sher-?" John couldn't even say his name; it was more of a gasp than a word. Sherlock noticed as his hand started trembling and he gripped the doorway to keep himself upright. Mary looked at him in concern.
"John?" Mary glanced at Sherlock and then looked back to John. "Sweetie, are you all right?"
Sherlock's eyes tightened at the pet name, but he didn't look away from John's face. He'd waited so long to see John again.
But John looked different. He was thinner, much thinner, and bits of grey streaked through his hair.
"Mary, can – can you give us a moment?" John managed to say, eyes flicking to her before going back to rest on Sherlock's face.
Recognition registered in Mary's expression and she moved away, heading back into the bedroom. Sherlock watched her progress and then returned to John.
"Is it really you?" John asked, taking in all the changes. "How – how can it be?"
"I didn't do it alone." Sherlock replied, removing the pointless glasses and sticking them in his pocket. "But, John, please believe me when I say I had to do it."
"I must be going insane. I've finally cracked." John shook his head. Sherlock took a step closer, held out a hand.
"Touch me, John. I'm real."
They were still in the doorway, but Sherlock knew it wasn't his right to invite himself in. He had given that up when he'd let himself fall off that building.
John tentatively reached out his hand and grasped Sherlock's, fingers confirming what his eyes tried to say. Sherlock could feel his heart beating faster, and he knew John was checking his pulse.
An overwhelming sense of rightness washed through Sherlock at the contact. This was what he'd been fighting for; this was why he'd been gone. For this man right here, standing in front of him.
"John, I'm so-" he was cut off abruptly as John pulled him down, wrapping him firmly in a hug. He tentatively lifted his arms to reciprocate, letting his eyes fall shut. The amount of weight John had lost really hit him then, driving home exactly how much pain he had caused his best friend.
Brilliant, kill yourself in front of the man with PTSD. Sherlock hated himself for what he had had to do.
John pulled back so he could see Sherlock's face again, eyes searching for…something. Sherlock wished he knew what he was thinking.
…
(rewind)
"Hello, John."
John was going mad. That had to be the answer. There was no way Sherlock – Sherlock – was standing right here in front of him, looking no worse for the wear. Sure, he'd lost a bit of weight, and his hair was shorter, but that was nothing. His eyes were bright, alive, and John found that he couldn't look away.
"Sher-?" he rarely said the name and even now he found he couldn't, found his voice stolen from him by the apparition in his doorway. John gripped the frame to steady himself.
"John?" Mary was speaking, but John didn't understand the words. "Sweetie, are you all right?"
Sherlock's eyes tightened, and John noticed. But he hadn't heard Mary, so he couldn't understand why. Everything in his mind was Sherlock, because this could not be happening, could not be happening, and the entire way he had thought and lived for the last fifteen months had to be rearranged. It took him a minute, but then…
Mary is here, John realized belatedly. Mary is still here.
"Mary, can – can you give us a moment?" John asked, barely glancing at her so he could keep examining the face of the dead man. He watched as Sherlock's eyes tracked Mary's progress and then returned, his stoic expression belied by the weight of his gaze, looking almost as desperate as John felt. John was terrified that if he looked away Sherlock would disappear.
"Is it really you?" John asked, the unfamiliar clothes, glasses, and haircut transforming Sherlock so well he had to ask, had to be sure. Hope was clawing at his chest, all the careful walls of distraction and acting caving, starting to break. "How – how can it be?" I know I said miracle, but…how?
"I didn't do it alone." That voice again. John knew that voice, knew it as well as he knew his own. Sherlock removed the fake glasses and yes, that was better. He looked a little more like Sherlock now. "But, John, please believe me when I say I had to do it."
"I must be going insane." John's grip on the doorway tightened, trying to confirm reality. "I've finally cracked." He shook his head. Now he was going to have to start medication. And what about Mary? This was probably a step too far…
Sherlock – or rather, John's hallucination of Sherlock – took a step closer, holding out his hand. "Touch me, John. I'm real."
John reached out, still unsure, and grasped the proffered hand. Trained fingers found the pulse point, detected the healthy throb of life. His hand was warm, was real. It was Sherlock.
The hope that had been tentatively fighting for the last few minutes exploded in a sudden rush, bringing with it a myriad of other emotions. Joy, confusion, anger, glee, frustration, need… John felt alive, more alive than he'd felt in 15 months.
"John, I'm so-" Sherlock started to speak but John pulled him down before he could finish, wrapping his arms around the taller man and holding him tightly. It was impossible, it was mad, and it was brilliant. John wanted to jump, wanted to laugh. Everything bubbled up inside, every repressed emotion flooding as the holes he had grown used to were suddenly filled.
John pulled back so he could see Sherlock's face again, because he needed to see those eyes, needed to see the life and the intelligence behind that sharp gaze. He raked his eyes over Sherlock's features, but the man seemed perfect, untouched.
"Impossible," he breathed, one hand reaching up unconsciously to press the tips of his fingers lightly against Sherlock's cheek. For a brief moment Sherlock leaned into the touch, and then he seemed to realize what he was doing.
"I think you mean improbable," he replied, a faint smile beginning on his lips. John grinned at the sight and Sherlock smiled in response.
"John?" Mary. John's eyes widened as he remembered Mary and his hand fell from Sherlock's face. He glanced back and saw her as she walked through the doorway, not having witnessed the embrace. "John, are you going to make your guest continue to stand outside?"
John shook his head at her and looked back at Sherlock.
"Would you like to come in?" he asked, stepping to the side a bit. Sherlock nodded and walked past, brushing against John slightly. The realness was beginning to sink in and questions started to flood John's mind.
Sherlock stood awkwardly in the middle of the main room, unsure of his place. John gestured toward the couch.
"You can sit down," he offered, a smile beginning again. It was so different to see an unsure Sherlock, a Sherlock who cared about what others thought.
John realized that that was what it was. Sherlock cared about what he was doing, about how he was acting toward John and how John felt.
That's why John didn't let his anger show. He was beginning to get angry now, because why would you do something like that? Why would you put your friend, your closest friend, through so much pain?!
But he knew Sherlock, and he read Sherlock's nervousness in the curve of his shoulders and the tilt of his head. And there were so many other emotions coursing through John that it was easy to ignore the anger, because he was full for the first time in far too long and there was more emotion than space within him.
Sherlock sat at one end of the couch, on the edge, folding his hands together on his knee.
"Would you like something to drink?" Mary offered. Sherlock looked over at her, and John saw that he was analyzing. They had a lot to talk about.
"Water, please," Sherlock replied quietly, and the moment Mary turned he looked back at John, watching his friend apprehensively.
John went to sit next to him and Sherlock adjusted so they were facing each other.
"Where would you like to start?" Sherlock asked him – because of course he knew that there were hundreds of questions within John's mind.
John felt as though he would never be able to look at Sherlock enough. Those eyes – he was once again amazed by how bright they were – his hair, his cheekbones, everything that made up Sherlock was there, alive with animation. John saw the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest as he breathed and John ached with the joy of the impossible being handed to him on a silver platter.
Sherlock's mouth twitched with a smile while he waited for John's response; John had barely heard the question.
"You do not have to limit yourself." Sherlock said, and the confusion caused by those words sharpened John's focus. "You may use all your senses to gather whatever proof you require."
Sherlock was giving him permission – again – to touch him.
…
(rewind)
"Would you like to come in?"
Sherlock nodded, yes please, he would very much like to come in, and as he entered his upper arm brushed very lightly against John's chest. For a moment he wished he'd left the sweatshirt behind.
He was nervous. It was an emotion he was not accustomed to, but it filled him as he stood in the middle of John's central room, still unsure of how welcome he was. John had certainly seemed happy to see him, and he personally was very pleased to see John, but there isn't really an etiquette for how to act when one returns to life and shows up at his best friend's doorstep.
"You can sit down," John told him, smiling slightly. That relieved Sherlock, both because John needed to smile more and because it meant he was wanted, at least for now.
Sherlock went to the edge of the couch, not wanting to seem too familiar, and sat down slowly. He didn't know what to do with his hands so he folded them together on his knee.
Mary was watching the interaction, and she gained Sherlock's attention when she spoke. "Would you like something to drink?"
Sherlock didn't want to be rude (well, that was a lie, he had a powerful urge to be rude to Mary, but he thought that would be a bit not good) and he wanted an excuse to be alone with John again, so he replied, "Water, please."
Sherlock watched John carefully, worried that now the hugging was done the fighting might start. He knew John had a violent side, and while it had never truly been turned on him, if he had done anything to deserve it, it was this.
John came over and sat next to him and a tiny bit of relief spread through Sherlock. He turned so they were facing each other. He saw the questions in John's eyes.
"Where would you like to start?" he asked, opening up the conversation.
John didn't appear to have heard him. John was studying him, taking in his features as if he'd never seen them before. Sherlock understood the desire, fully comprehended how John was feeling. He smiled slightly, just a twitch. He knew what he would want if the two of them switched places. He decided to offer that to John.
"You do not have to limit yourself." Sherlock found himself wanting John to touch him, wanting those fingers on his cheek, to trace his features and rest against his chest just as John's eyes were doing. "You may use all your senses to gather whatever proof you require."
It had worked before. Touching his hand and hugging had given John confidence to let him into his flat. Perhaps further physical contact would allow John to feel comfortable enough to talk about everything.
Anticipation began to rise within Sherlock, and all of a sudden he felt very wrong with Mary in the other room. She didn't belong here anymore, didn't belong in John's life anymore.
As if his thoughts had called her she returned, handing him the glass of water and sitting on John's other side. She rested her hand on his knee and Sherlock felt jealousy rise within him.
I did this, Sherlock reminded himself. Of course John found someone.
Although, judging by the way John was looking at him, he hadn't. Not fully.
Well, this was both better and worse than what Sherlock had expected. It appeared John had missed him just as much as he'd missed John, but unlike him John had needed someone else to help fill the void. Mary was an unaccounted variable, and Sherlock didn't know what to do with it.
He shifted, speaking with his body in ways he had done in the past. If anyone could read him, it was John.
I'm sorry.
John's mouth tightened at the corners and his eyebrows lifted. I missed you.
A flick of Sherlock's eyes. Girlfriend?
A miniscule shrug. What was I supposed to do?
I missed you too.
They paused, a moment for each of them to reflect and wonder.
What now?
"So, you are Sherlock, right?" Mary finally said, realizing that if she let them be they probably wouldn't speak for a while. "Sherlock Sherlock."
"No, Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock looked over at her, but the flash of worry in John's gaze made him temper his words. His next sentence was kinder. "And you are?"
"I'm Mary. Mary Morstan."
Sherlock debated, and then, John in mind, he held out his hand for her to take. "Nice to meet you, Mary. Cousin of Emily?"
Mycroft had told him the details of the case and Sherlock had solved it from that – no pictures or visits necessary. But he was proud of what John had done. Although if that was what led him to this woman… Sherlock shoved the thought away.
Mary nodded, a little surprised. "You are good, aren't you?"
"Hardly difficult." Sherlock blew it off – after all, he could have easily heard about it in the news.
Mary smiled self-consciously. "John told me a little about what you did – do. So my perception is probably a bit skewed."
Sherlock nodded in acceptance of that. He didn't want to be talking to John's girlfriend though. He wanted to be talking to John.
Their eyes met and John saw what Sherlock wanted, what he needed.
"Mary, Sherlock and I need to talk." John said, turning to face her. She nodded in understanding.
"Of course. I'll see you later tonight?"
John made a strange movement, somewhere between a nod and a shrug that ended up looking like neither. "I'll call you."
Mary nodded again and, with one last look at Sherlock, stood up and went to get her shoes and put up her hair so she could leave. She came to John again before she left.
Sherlock watched as Mary ran a hand through John's hair and leaned down to kiss him goodbye. His jaw clenched, but if he ignored his personal reaction he could see the discrepancy.
She always initiates. This is not John's normal type of relationship. Sherlock had seen enough of John's dating habits to know he usually pursued and tried to be at least an equal participant. He's settling.
The thought made him the odd combination of happy and sad, and Sherlock didn't know what to do with that.
Then Mary left, and John and Sherlock were alone.
After a moment of silence, John asked, "What now?"
"I could ask the same of you."
John paused, then said quietly. "I'm glad you're back."
"I am, as well." Words were failing him. Sherlock wished they weren't quite so British, that they could stop being polite about it and share exactly how they felt.
Is that what he wanted? Was he looking for a declaration?
Being away from John for so long had begun to show Sherlock exactly what the man meant to him. There had been a reason Sherlock never corrected anyone when they said they were a couple. They were two halves of a whole, only lacking in the physical. A couple was the easiest way to put it, because they were certainly more than just "friends."
Sherlock didn't know what he wanted from John. He just knew that he wanted John, and that this Mary had far more than he was willing to share.
"She seems…" the words Sherlock wanted to say were not appropriate, so he settled for the cliché. "…nice."
John laughed. "Yes, I supposed she is." He reached up, almost unconsciously, to smooth down where her fingers had tufted up his hair.
"You kept my violin." Sherlock remarked, having noted its position when he first entered the flat. John nodded.
"And the skull. But we gave the science stuff to a school."
"We?" Images of John and Mary going through his stuff, laughing while they packed, made him feel ill.
"Mrs. Hudson and I." Ah, that was much better.
"I understand. I can always get new equipment."
John nodded.
There was a pause.
"Do you want a cup of tea?" John asked, not wanting to leave Sherlock but desperately needing something to break the slowly rising tension in the room.
Sherlock nodded, but as John stood up and started to walk away he had a flashback to watching John at the headstone, so he stood and followed him. John glanced back in surprise but smiled, and Sherlock leaned against the doorjamb as John prepared their drinks.
"Mycroft and Molly." Sherlock said as John reached for the mugs. John looked at him and blinked. Sherlock expanded. "They were the only ones who knew."
"Ah." John's eyes fell to the ground and Sherlock realized how it must have sounded to him.
"I needed her for it to work."
"Of course." John nodded but his back was turned as he tended to the kettle. Sherlock watched as he took a deep breath and his shoulders tightened, bracing himself. "Didn't need me, then?"
Sherlock wished he could see John's face. "John…"
John turned to face him, and Sherlock was surprised by how distraught he looked. "I mean, I'd been there from the start, right? All my available usefulness must have been used up."
"No, that's not –"
"Of course not – I had to be left in the dark, is that it? There was no other way. I'm sure it was Moriarty's idea: 'convince John that you're dead and I'll let you live'." John curled his fingers to indicate quotes. "Or maybe it was bigger than that. Bigger than my feelings – because of course, they're just distracting from the work. From the brilliant game that Moriarty set up, all for you."
John ran a hand over his face, visibly tried to calm himself down. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but John beat him to it. "Fifteen months, Sherlock. And every single morning I had to wake up and fight my own consciousness that wouldn't stop hoping for your return. Every morning I had to relive that loss."
John's eyes met his again, and Sherlock saw the shattered man for what he was. He was broken.
I must fix him.
John's voice became exhausted. "I just wanted it to stop."
A chill ran through Sherlock at the implication of those words.
"What do you want me to do, John?" his voice was low. "It is as you say. There was no other way."
"I had to bury you, Sherlock!"
Sherlock, while sympathetic, knew there was a double-standard being held. "If I had not done what I did, then I would have had to bury you."
Sherlock stared at John, reading his pain, and felt a hatred toward Moriarty stronger than anything he'd ever felt before. The thrill of the game, of the brilliance of it all, was not worth this.
"John, please…" Sherlock did not do emotions. He did not even understand his own; how was he going to cater to John's? "What do you want me to do?"
…
(rewind)
"I just wanted it to stop."
John felt drained. The sudden upsurge of feeling combined with his emotional words had put his body through more stress than it was used to experiencing. This was unexpected; he'd thought the joy of having his best friend back would continue to override everything else.
But Sherlock had triggered something with that comment about Molly, and John knew he was being irrational, but damn it he had hurt so much, and Sherlock deserved to know what he had done, and John found it extremely annoying that what he wanted most was comfort but he wanted it from the person who had hurt him in the first place.
"What do you want me to do, John?" Sherlock's voice was low. "It is as you say. There was no other way."
John gave up on any measure of calm. "I had to bury you, Sherlock!"
For the first time, Sherlock's voice rose. "If I had not done what I did, then I would have had to bury you."
John stared at Sherlock, reading his pain, and knew it was not the path that he had wanted to take. Not the ending that should have happened.
But it wasn't over now, was it?
"John, please…" Sherlock was asking, nearly pleading, and John knew he had to give him the benefit of the doubt. "What do you want me to do?"
The shrill call of the kettle delayed his response and he turned around to finish preparing their tea. He handed Sherlock's cup to him and then grabbed his other hand, pulling him back to the couch and then releasing him, turning so they were facing each other. John steeled himself, hardening his expression.
"Explain."
So Sherlock did.
Sherlock explained everything, from how he survived the fall to how he faked the lack of a pulse. He described the insanity of Moriarty on the roof, how not only John but Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were also in danger. He talked of how he spent nights in dank and dirty hideouts, seeking out the information he needed to take down the threads of the madman's web. He explained how Mycroft was his only steady contact, sharing information and working together more peacefully than they had done since they were children. He described his few phone calls with Molly, made mostly to assure himself that there were people waiting and there was an end in sight.
Finally he reached the final battle, the one between him and Moran, the victory that would allow him to return home.
"I wished to have you with me, John," he finished, his tea sitting untouched on the coffee table. "I didn't leave because I couldn't use you, or because I didn't want you. I left because only your conviction of my death was keeping you safe."
John kept silent, absorbing everything he had just learned. The way Sherlock told it, there really didn't seem to be any other way.
He was surprised by the amount of emotion Sherlock had shown while telling the story, and John found himself unable to deny the honesty when Sherlock described wanting to have him with him. Sherlock had changed these last fifteen months.
"John?" Sherlock asked after another moment of silence. "Do you believe me?"
John nodded, looking at his last sip of tea and choosing to set the cup down on the table. "I believe you."
Sherlock's shoulders visibly relaxed. "I thought you might punch me."
"I wanted to, for a minute." A smile crossed John's face. "But I've done that before, and I have to say, it's a little overrated."
Sherlock chuckled at the unexpected reply and John's smile widened in response. Now that John knew the truth, he felt exponentially better. He could put the last fifteen months of hell behind him. Except…
"Mary," Sherlock said, eyeing John curiously. "I believe it is your turn to enlighten me."
John broke eye contact, his expression becoming worried. "I met her a couple of months in. You mentioned Emily – I solved that case, and Mary was there."
Sherlock nodded, but his expression was expectant.
"I love her." John shrugged. "At least, I think I do. She made life… livable."
"So you intend to continue seeing her?"
John nodded. "She stuck with me, even when I wasn't worth being around. I can't just dump her. And I don't know that I want to." John knew his heightened emotions in regard to Sherlock meant something, but he was far from trying to label them. He would stay Sherlock's friend, there was no doubt about that. But it was better to also stay with Mary. Mary was safe.
"But…" Sherlock's face twisted like something unpleasant had just occurred to him. "You will return to Baker Street, yes?"
John bit his lip. As much as he wanted to regain his old life with Sherlock, things had changed. And maybe he would not have hurt so badly these past months if he hadn't been so Sherlock-centered. "I…"
Sherlock stood abruptly and faced away from him.
"Sherlock, I don't know!" John tried to keep his tone from pleading – but doing so made it sound almost angry. "My life isn't just about me anymore, can't you see that?"
"Do you plan to live alone, then?" Sherlock was still turned away from him. His tone did not betray his emotions; he sounded almost bored. "Or will you cohabitate with Mary?" On her name his voice faltered slightly, but he remained firm in his stance.
"I want to live with you at Baker Street." At his words Sherlock turned and they locked eyes. For a fleeting moment John wanted to grab Sherlock's arm and force him closer, close enough to touch. He resisted.
"Then do."
John sighed. "It's not that simple."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Why not? You are an adult; you can make your own decisions."
"I can't – I can't just jump back into life with you, Sherlock. It's been a long time, we've both changed…" John's voice faded as Sherlock took a step away from him. No! "I have other responsibilities now."
"You mean Mary." Pain laced Sherlock's features for a brief moment before he regained control over himself. "She is not your wife; you have made no contractual agreement with her."
"I haven't made one with you, either." John reminded him. He sighed again. "Look, Sherlock, I don't want to fight about this. I am beyond happy to have you back. I – I really missed you, okay? Can we just focus on that?" Sherlock's eyes met his again. "There's time to figure everything else out."
"There is never as much time as we believe."
John's eyes narrowed. "You think I haven't learned that?"
Sherlock's expression became slightly abashed. "That's not what I meant."
"No, I know what you meant." John needed him to stay. "Please, Sherlock. Please will you be my friend?"
Sherlock came back, regained his seat next to John and looked at the other man seriously. "Of course."
…
John did call Mary that night, but he did not arrange to see her. She understood, knowing the two men would want time to catch up and reestablish their friendship.
And that's what they did. Sherlock and John put on some crap telly and spent the majority of the time ignoring it, talking about cases and experiments and the surgery, about Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and Donovan and Anderson. They made popcorn and Sherlock made John laugh by throwing it at the screen when he decided the actors or characters were "too stupid to deserve dignity."
They could both tell the other was trying so hard, because they wanted their friendship back. There were outside forces they had to deal with, and they could feel the pressure, knew the time would come, but they took that night to just be together. It was what they both needed.
It only ended when Sherlock started dozing sitting up on the couch and John went and got a blanket for him. The movement woke Sherlock momentarily and he looked at John through bleary eyes.
"What are you doing?"
"Making you comfortable so you can sleep."
Sherlock frowned. "I'm not sleeping yet."
John sighed but sat back down next to him. "Fine. Take it anyway."
Sherlock grumbled but didn't make any distinguishable words, so John ignored it. He threw the blanket over his tall friend and Sherlock stretched out on the couch, plopping his feet in John's lap. John threw him an exasperated look but let the action stand.
John turned to watch the screen, getting lost in his own thoughts until he realized Sherlock's breathing was deep and steady, indicating he was asleep. Slowly John lifted his friend's feet and got off the couch, setting them back down gently.
"Goodnight Sherlock," he said, confident that the man would be there in the morning. John clicked the remote and flicked the light switch, plunging the room into darkness.
Sherlock waited until he heard the latch of John's bedroom door.
"Goodnight John."
A/N: What did you think?
