A/N: You asked for a quick update so here it is... The next one may take a bit longer again - crazy times ahead -_-


Sherlock and John stood in the doorway, getting annoyed looks and 'we're trying to work here's from the police officers dashing in and out of the house. Sherlock felt slightly upset but mostly content with how things had gone. That soon-to-be dead woman was of course an unfortunate loss and Lestrade had obviously taken it quite seriously but without Sherlock – and John, sure enough – the case would've remained a total mystery so actually they deserved a thank you from the DI. Sherlock turned his head to examine his colleague. John looked pale and exhausted, more so than Sherlock would have expected. The flashing, blue lights of the police cars only added to his almost ghost-like appearance.

"Everything alright?" Sherlock asked, suddenly remembering all those times John had worried about him and also realising he had never paid much attention to John's well-being. That was probably the reason John looked a bit surprised as he answered, "Yes, yes I'm fine. Just very, very tired and starving to death."

"Food, then?" Sherlock suggested, "I know a nice Italian place that's quite near – or would you prefer Indian?"

"Italian sounds good", nodded John, his face suddenly growing concerned. "Are you sure we can leave now? I mean, don't you want to stay a bit longer to show off to Lestrade, tell us how everything was obvious and stuff? You haven't even asked Anderson about his marriage. I don't want us to leave too early just because I'm getting tired."

"We can do all that tomorrow." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively and then placed the hand on John's lower back, guiding the man away from the house. "Besides, I might want to eat something too... We're leaving," he announced to a young police officer standing next to the plastic DO NOT CROSS tape which surrounded the area. "I'll meet Lestrade in his office, tomorrow morning at – " Sherlock's eyes flicked to John's face for a moment, "Ten thirty. A bit later, if we're very tired."
With that, he left the officer who muttered a weak "I don't know if I can arrange that" after them.

The restaurant wasn't far away but the little walk seemed to drain the remains of John's energy. Sherlock got them a table, offered John a chair and watched as the man collapsed to it. A waitress wandered to their table, ignoring John and quite obviously trying to dazzle Sherlock with her huge, white smile. Someone might have found that attractive. Sherlock looked at her, wrinkled his nose a very tiny bit – just enough to make the waitress feel stupid and worthless – and touched John's hand that was resting on the table.

"What do you want?"

John's head snapped up in a way that suggested he'd just been about to fall asleep. "Um, I... Just, anything."

Sherlock looked at the menu and picked two dishes at random, sending the slightly bitter waitress away.

"John?" he asked softly, taking the other man's hand.

John used his free hand to rub his face. "Yes?" His sleepy gaze wandered to his other hand, resting on the table, with Sherlock's palm covering it. He seemed to wake up a bit. "Wait a minute – why are you holding my hand?"

Sherlock grinned. "Just keeping you awake. You need to eat and then we can go home." He tilted his head to the side. "It might have been a better idea to go straight home. I'm sorry to keep you awake."

John's eyebrows rose until they almost touched his hairline. "You're sorry? Seriously, Sherlock, what's going on? Did you hit your head or something?"

Sherlock shook his head with a well-practised look of hurt on his face. "No. I just care about you. Why do you think I suffer from a head injury if I show signs of caring and affection?"

"We're talking about you," John shrugged, smiling sleepily. "You don't do caring. Or affection."

The hurt on Sherlock's face deepened, almost seeming real this time. His long fingers stroked the back of John's hand. "But I do care about you."

"Yeah, okay," John yawned, "This is awkward anyway." He tried to pull his hand away but Sherlock tightened his grip and John gave up, floating back to half-sleep until the food arrived.

They ate in silence. The food was delicious – of course it was, Sherlock always wanted the best – but John was too tired to really pay attention to it. Sherlock didn't concentrate on his meal either; part of his mind was still working on the case and preparing a cocky presentation for Scotland Yard and the rest of it was observing John. John, who looked weary and had bloody fingerprints on his cheek – must've been someone else's blood, so no need to worry. John, who looked strangely adorable and whom Sherlock suddenly felt very protective of. The detective shook his head. Adorable – John clearly wasn't the only one here who needed sleep. They finished their plates without saying a word.


John was glad to get into the taxi. He yawned and sank into the soft seat; it would take at least twenty minutes to get home and it was definitely time to get some sleep...

Sherlock watched as John slid into unconsciousness. The doctor breathed steadily, chest rising and falling, eyelids fluttering slightly as he floated deeper into the dream. John had managed so well, even though he must've been very tired. Sherlock regretted not letting the man sleep enough; it'd been selfish and selfishness was something that didn't usually bother him but this time it did. Maybe it was because of John's massive unselfishness... Sherlock decided to make this up to John somehow.

The taxi turned abruptly in a corner and John's head fell to the side. The man stirred and murmured quietly but didn't wake up. His position looked uncomfortable. Sherlock edged closer, wrapping his arm around John and gently pulling the sleeping man closer so that John's head was resting safely against his shoulder. Better. John took a deep, sleepy breath and relaxed against him.

The taxi pulled up in front of 221B way too soon. Sherlock's arm, squished between John's back and the back rest of the seat, was numb, John's weight having stopped the blood from circulating; but he didn't want to get out of the taxi. It would be better if John could sleep without being interrupted. And it was actually quite nice to sit there, knowing that another case was solved, and knowing that John wasn't going anywhere. Ever. Sighing heavily, he touched John's cheek.

"John," he murmured. "We're here."

John stirred, burying his face against Sherlock's shoulder and mumbling something. Sherlock felt strange, but not in a bad way, as he paid the driver and dragged the half-conscious doctor out of the car and to the door. It wasn't an easy task, getting the keys out of your pocket and opening the lock with one hand, while trying to keep your extremely sleepy flatmate on his feet with the other hand. But Sherlock, being Sherlock, managed, and soon the two were safely inside the house.

"Stairs, John," Sherlock warned and John seemed to wake up properly enough to avoid stumbling and breaking his neck while climbing upstairs to their flat. Another set of stairs would've been too much, though, so Sherlock simply guided John to his own bedroom and straight to the bed. John sighed happily and fell into unconsciousness as soon as his head touched the pillow. Sherlock stood next to the bed for some time, not knowing what to do. Slowly, he bent down and took off John's shoes and socks, dropping them to the floor. John's jacket didn't look like the most ideal pyjama top so he decided to take it off, too. He opened the zip and carefully slid the jacket down from John's shoulders. It took some serious manoeuvring, but he managed to free John's arms from the sleeves and tug the jacket from under John's back. John stirred but continued sleeping. Sherlock exhaled – he hadn't noticed he'd actually been holding his breath – and took off his own coat. His hands stopped on the top button of his shirt when he suddenly realised something.

John was sleeping in his bed. That was disturbing enough, but it wasn't all – if John was sleeping in Sherlock's bed, where would Sherlock go? The world's only consulting detective frowned. His bed was big enough for them both and he really liked sleeping in it, rather than borrowing John's or sleeping on the sofa. But John was sleeping in it now. And he wasn't sure if he wanted to join John... Well, alright, he did want to, strangely enough; it would be nice to fall asleep and wake up next to John. But he wasn't sure if John would like it, which made things much more complicated.

He stood there, undecidedly, staring at John who was curled up on top of the covers, arm spread out across the bed. Sherlock felt a wave of exhaustion; the adrenaline, the excitement, were fading away now that the case was solved and he just wanted to get some sleep. So he stripped his clothes off, put on his pyjamas and crawled into the bed, gently lifting John's arm that was resting on the bed and slipping under it. He tugged the blanket over them both and let John's comforting presence put him to sleep.


John woke up with a strange feeling that something was wrong. He lay on his back, eyes closed, listening. He was at home; the place smelled of Baker Street and he could hear the familiar noises of an early morning from the street. Yet something wasn't quite right. This wasn't his bed, to begin with, not his bedroom, and he could hear someone breathing steadily next to him, and some strange tapping noise... John's eyes flicked open. Sherlock's room, Sherlock's bed, Sherlock lying next to him on the bed and typing a text message. John jumped.

"What the damn hell am I doing in your bed?"

Sherlock smiled, stretching himself like a big, skinny and extremely happy cat. "You were sleeping but now you're sitting on it and shouting at me."

"Yes, that's bloody funny." John tried very hard to remember what had brought him here last night and was very displeased to realise his last memories were from the taxi. He'd fallen asleep, apparently, and after that... Pretty much nothing. Waking up in Sherlock's bed was definitely 'a bit not good'.

Sherlock sent the text he'd been typing, dropped the phone on the bedside table and got up – John was very grateful to notice that the man was at least wearing his pyjamas. They were both dressed. Good sign, wasn't it?

Sherlock turned to look at him with a wide smile on his face. "We have to go soon, Lestrade's waiting. There's still blood on your face, you might want to wash that off before we leave. Ten minutes."

John growled, wondering how much randomness he could take before suffering a mental breakdown. And it was only 9 o'clock in the morning...


A/N: I found a random Valentine's Day fic from my laptop. To publish or not to publish..?