"Sherlock, you're cheating."

"I am not."

"You completely skipped the Peanut Brittle House!"

"I did not."

"You did; you went straight from the Liquorice Castle to the Lollipop Woods."

Sherlock burst into giggles and John couldn't help laughing with him. It was much later in the night and they were both high out of their minds. And playing Candyland.

"Let's play a game," Sherlock had insisted, standing, swaying on his feet. John knew the feeling. The room was tilting in all sorts of warm and comfortable ways. John was sitting on cross-legged on the living room floor. He'd never appreciated how lovely the rug was.

"Fine. But don't come back here with Risk or some bollocks. Pick something appropriate for our… current mental… functioning…" Words were so funny. John's face hurt from laughing. They'd been laughing all night. Mood-elevator drugs were good for mood elevating.

And then Sherlock had come back with Candyland and they'd both lost it entirely, John keeling over onto his side and Sherlock brushing tears from his eyes.

It hadn't prevented them from playing though.

"I have the Princess Lolly card," Sherlock eventually breathed.

"You don't; I saw you draw it. It's just a red."

"Don't look at my cards!"

"Let me see it!"

"No!"

"Give me that!"

The ensuing struggle was halfhearted to say the most. Laughter is not conducive to muscle tension, and the drug only intensified the pudding feeling. Yes, John told his inner operation theatre full of colleagues, 'pudding feeling' is the official terminology.

He grabbed Sherlock's arms in attempt to reach the card and Sherlock fell backward bonelessly. John scattered the board pieces as he fell down with him. The sensory combination of hot skin and cool silk was particularly delightful and John was perhaps slower in rolling off of him than he had to be. Confounded sex drug.

They were lying on their backs side by side on the living room rug.

"What happened?" John asked when his giggling subsided. "I started out the night as an undercover agent watching topless strippers. Now I'm wearing lip gloss and playing Candyland."

"Does one activity negate the other?"

"I would have thought so." John had a lovely sensation of sinking and floating at the same time.

"You know what your stripper name would be?" John asked, edge of eagerness in his voice.

"Don't say it."

"Shercock," John snickered.

"Very original."

"All right, how about Pil-lock? Or Bol-lock—"

"Oh shut up."

John sniggered at his own terrible jokes and when he turned his head sideways he could see Sherlock smiling as well. Maybe the joke wasn't that bad. Maybe the drug was that good.

"Your first name doesn't need adjusting," Sherlock commented.

"Shut up."

"John Twatson."

"Very original."

"Fine. Watbum."

"Watbum?" John demanded, startled into peals of laughter. Sherlock laughed with him and John hoped they weren't loud enough to wake up Mrs. Hudson. God, what time was it? It must be past three o'clock in the morning.

"I may have to update your profile on your blog…" Sherlock grinned, moving to sit up. John grasped his upper arm, yanking him back down to the floor.

"Do it and you'll be Pillock Holmes in the next five posts." He was failing miserably to sound stern. His sides hurt from laughing. His cheeks hurt from smiling.

"I don't know how you expect anyone to take you seriously as an author," Sherlock grumbled, though his tone was inescapably good-natured.

"First and foremost by not using 'John Watbum' as a pen name."

The mention of the name set them off snickering again, and it was only by deep inhales and slow exhales through his nose that John managed to calm himself.

"God, I feel like I'm twelve," John said, blinking away tears.

"What? Why?"

"I don't know, staying up all night, playing board games, making up dirty names…" He looked over at his flatmate's profile. "Didn't you do that when you were twelve?"

"No," Sherlock said. John believed him.

"We're going to have to get off the floor eventually," John lamented.

"Comfortable here."

John knew what he meant. It was as if there was a pleasant pressure securing him to the rug. He lifted his arms and let the intensified gravity drag them down.

"Yeah, ten minutes." The room was pressing in on him, warm, as though it were tucking him in. Nice living room.

He heard his flatmate hum in agreement from somewhere beside him.

They fell asleep.

John woke up on his right side with a dull pain aching through it. The living room floor was not nearly as comfortable as the drug had made it seem. The rug was thin, very thin, and the wood floorboards were pressing into his hip and shoulder with bruising force. His left shoulder was stiff. His back was cold—no blanket. But he supposed he didn't really need one, what with his peacefully sleeping, heat-generating flatmate curled into his front. No, a blanket wasn't necessary when he had—

John's eyes snapped open. Hot embarrassment shocked through him as the situation crystallized from soft, dream-infused nonsense to tactile reality. Cuddling. Sherlock Holmes. His brain scrambled to make sense of the inflow of stimuli.

Sherlock was lying on his left side, facing him though lower, lips at John's clavicle, nose almost brushing the underside of his jaw. John had his arm draped over Sherlock's back and—he shut his eyes in mortification—the world's only consulting detective's knee caught between his thighs.

The amygdala of John's brain submitted a motion to panic, but his prefrontal cortex vetoed it. Sherlock was still asleep. His steady breathing, hot and humid against the delicate skin at the base of John's throat, told him that much. But fucking hell, how had they ended up like this? Granted he had been used to sleeping with another person for the majority of the past three years and he supposed he might have the unconscious muscle memory to cuddle up to a body next to him, but Sherlock? He would have imagined a porcupine would be cuddlier. He would have imagined Sherlock, who—according to all evidence thus and lately presented— had never slept with anybody, would have been startled awake at the first touch and shoved him back. But Sherlock was nothing if not unpredictable. He could defy expectations in his sleep. Literally.

John breathed slowly in an effort to calm himself and was surprised to find Sherlock's scent—something he'd been unaware of in sleep and too shocked to notice until now—was doing just that: quieting the frantic buzz of oh no's and not good's circling his mind. The detective's curls were just centimetres under his nose. The delicious almond scent of that expensive shampoo (worth every damn penny, John didn't care what he'd said before) lined with the heady fragrance that could only be described as Sherlock, was drifting off the body in his arms in gentle waves of comforting familiarity. It was everything he associated with 221B: the freedom he'd found from the pathetic little post-Afghanistan flat that would have killed him, and now the freedom from a marriage that would have done the same.

John froze as Sherlock moved, shifting his hips closer, knee sliding further between his legs. He rested his hand on John's waist and John swallowed hard. But Sherlock settled and resumed the same pattern of steady breathing. Relief uncoiled the muscles that had tensed, prepared to spring back in an instant.

But the scientist was sleeping soundly, and when John had relaxed enough to assure himself Sherlock was not about to leap up and chuck the flat-listings page at his face, he tilted his head carefully to see Sherlock's hand on the dip of his waist (as though he didn't believe the sensory input that was telling him it was true) and saw his slender fingers digging into his t-shirt there, clutching the material.

If the situation hadn't been so alarming the detail would have been sweet, almost childlike: needy, possessive the way children are. Don't take it from me. Really it was sweet. He had never seen the detective in a more unaffected and trusting position. Don't take it from me. Funny that Sherlock should be holding onto him like that. In his dreams it was always the other way around. John desperately trying to hold onto Sherlock as they pulled him away, placed him on a stretcher… Sherlock had never lost John. He'd always been here, whenever Sherlock needed him. But John supposed it was just a reflex. He might hold sheets or a pillow in his own bed.

John fought the urge stretch his aching shoulder. Judging by the faint light at the windows it must still be very early. They couldn't have been sleeping for more than a few hours. (Unsurprising, considering the hard wood floor provided all the comfort of a hard wood floor.) He knew Sherlock could—certainly would—wake up any minute. But god, he was exhausted. Sherlock must be shattered. John doubted whether his insomniac flatmate had slept at all the previous two nights.

John's eyes were heavy and Sherlock's warmth, his slow and steady breathing, was lulling him back to sleep. But what to do about the current flatmate tangle situation? John knew if he moved at all Sherlock would wake. He assumed this was not a desirable outcome, considering his knowledge of consulting detectives not to be the cuddliest sort.

John closed his eyes. His legs were warm where they were folded with Sherlock's. Body heat was radiating in the gap between their chests. Sherlock's breath was warm on his skin. Well, John didn't mind. If Sherlock was finally sleeping John was not going to wake him. He didn't seem uncomfortable. And anyway, Sherlock is the decider, he decided, feeling the discomfort of the floor fading away. He can decide what to do about… about whether or not he wants to… to wake himself up or not… when he wakes up… yes, good plan, Watson.

Sherlock had spent the last few hours in the study of his mind palace, as he usually did on the nights when he slept. Sherlock had lucid dreams; he'd had them since he was young. From the moment he fell asleep to the moment he woke he was aware he was dreaming. He could control his own words and actions almost as precisely as he could while conscious. And although he could control what others said and did too (this had afforded him many entertaining nights winning at chess while Mycroft wore a hat adorned with fruit), he typically allowed the people he met in his mind palace to speak freely; witnesses from his cases, suspects, murderers—he let them do and say what they would, and he was often able to obtain a clue, glean a detail from their speech or actions he had missed during the day.

He'd been reviewing the Rodgers case, which could now more accurately be called the Moran case. There was an entire bookcase in his study dedicated to Moriarty, and tonight he created a new shelf on it labelled 'Moran.' He had spent the last few hours sifting through his information on Moriarty looking for references to Moran, Monroe's, any connections. He found a few hints, some possibilities. He had no doubt he would tie him in with Moriarty soon enough.

Sitting at his desk he felt a dull pain in his left hip and shoulder and knew he must be sleeping on his left side on the floor. His legs were warm and his chest was warm; perhaps John had thrown a blanket over him. He stood up from the desk. He'd done enough work for the time being; he might as well wake up.

But as he passed through the corridor in the main building of the palace he paused at John's door. He looked at his watch and estimated the number of hours he'd been sleeping. Factoring in the lack of sleep from the previous two nights he grudgingly supposed he could allow his body a bit more time to rest. He opened the door.

John's 'room' was more like a flat within the palace. There was a separate room for his study, which was divided in half—one side of the room dedicated to all of the information about John's training and career as a doctor, and the other side dedicated to his military career. Certificates, awards, medals, diplomas, and photographs decorated the walls. Sherlock could come here anytime he needed anything specific about John's professional career.

The bedroom was about John's personal life. There were bookshelves full of his memories—stories he had told Sherlock and stories he hadn't, the ones Sherlock had deduced. A few photographs of his childhood dotted the shelves; not so many as to be cluttered, but the ones that stood out in his memory from the time—early on when John had first moved in— he'd stolen a photo album from a box of his things in an effort to obtain more information about his new flatmate.

There was John, about five years old, on the beach in Brighton smiling shyly at the camera, parents kneeling on either side of him. John, about ten years old sitting in the grass in a rugby uniform, looking up at the camera, the picture taken before he was told to smile. John, about fifteen in a white t-shirt on the front steps of his old house, leaning against the railing, glaring at the camera, etc.

There was a wardrobe for John's jumpers and jeans and shoes, and a closet. The closet was for Feelings. The ones that had made him decide to live with John, that had surprised everyone who knew him, that Moriarty had exploited. But Sherlock didn't like Feelings, and the closet was padlocked to ensure they wouldn't muddle up the mind palace.

There were few situations strong enough to break the lock. For example, if someone were to strap John in Semtex, or put him in a fire. Or if he were to have to say goodbye to John, knowing there was a possibility he would never see him again. In those times the lock snapped open and the Feelings flooded out, drowning every other aspect of his mind palace. It was dangerous; water damage was no trivial matter and it took an annoying amount of effort to dry everything out again and re-bolt the door shut. Feelings were truly a hassle. That door had to stay locked.

Although… he walked over to check the lock. It had gotten rusty lately. Since John had left Mary and come back to Baker Street it wasn't as strong. He would have to put in a new one. He made a note to replace it at his earliest convenience.

When he turned around he found John asleep in the middle of the bedroom floor. He assumed it was because he knew in reality John was sleeping on the floor in the living room, but there was no need for this version to be sleeping on the floor as well. He had a perfectly good, queen-sized bed just a few feet away. Sherlock knelt down and put his hand on John's shoulder. John's eyes fluttered open.

"Sherlock?"

"You should move to the bed."

John stretched, creating a gap between his t-shirt and the top of his pyjama bottoms. "Lie down," he said.

"Why?"

John grinned, looking up at him from where he was lying on his back. "You never tell me why when you ask me to do things."

"I don't have to."

"I know."

Curious, Sherlock laid down on his back next to John.

"Good," John said, "now come here."

John had rolled onto his right side and Sherlock rolled to his left so they were facing each other. John moved closer and put his left arm around him. He was warm; Sherlock could feel his body heat. He slid lower, and tucked his face into the base of John's throat. John tightened his hold, and as though it were natural, a repeated action and not a new one, Sherlock slipped his knee between John's thighs. Warmth; muscles generate heat.

John sighed and Sherlock felt his chest rise and fall. "I'm going to have to leave soon," he murmured.

What? Why? "Don't," he said.

"I don't want to, but I'm not like you"—he lifted his arm and ran his hand through Sherlock's hair, pushing it back from his face—"I can't control these things like you can."

This was his mind; he didn't want John to say things like that. What was making him say that? "Don't leave." He reached out and found John's waist, fingers bunching in the material there. "Whatever it is I'll fix it."

"I know." John stopped stroking his hair and gently held his chin. He tipped Sherlock's head back so that he was looking into his eyes. "I trust you."

John let go and put his arm back around him and Sherlock buried his face in John's t-shirt. He shifted closer, more heat, more warmth. Don't go.

Sherlock's eyes flew open. The room was cold. His body was warm. No blanket. Doctor. He was in the exact position he'd been in a moment ago in his mind: tangled up in John. He was instantly surrounded by his scent, absent from the dream but thick around him now. John: his milky soap, wool, toast and tea, and something colder too, like gun metal, like risk. That cool, thrilling undertone beneath all of the warmth and comfort was the reason John wasn't boring—John's layers, his contradictions.

But why were they lying like this? His dream had been a mimicry of what was physically happening, but obviously it wasn't accurate. John hadn't spoken to him, hadn't told him to move closer. Sherlock supposed the automatic attraction toward body heat was responsible. The living room was cold and draughty. They must have unconsciously drifted toward each other.

He could hear John's breathing; he watched the subtle movement of his ribs. John Watson: steady, a constant in his life, or at least he would have been if Sherlock had let him. But in the dream John had said he'd have to leave. Why? What was there in his mind palace that would trigger those words? There must be something about John—some new development his unconscious had picked up but his conscious mind hadn't registered yet. Perhaps something emotional; probably something emotional. Emotions were typically the only thing he missed. He would have to look into it.

For the meantime, it was necessary to get out of the current compromising position before John woke up yelling about not being gay and possibly blaming Sherlock for sleep-hugging.

But interestingly Sherlock's brain refused to go forward. John said he would leave. Sherlock hadn't liked it at all. But he would leave, eventually, wouldn't he? Mary was out of the picture now, but surely it was only a matter of time until the new girlfriend arrived. And the day he would move out to live with her.

When Sherlock had come back to London John was already living with Mary, already proposing to her. This time he would have to watch from the beginning. The new relationship, the increase in time spent together, John leaving in slow motion, day by day, slipping away. He shut his eyes. Perhaps he could convince John to join the clergy—take a vow of celibacy. Sherlock supposed he was not the ideal candidate for clergy recruitment.

He sighed into John's t-shirt. He couldn't think about this now. It was a future bridge to be crossed (or demolished with dynamite) when he came to it. There were more pressing matters at hand. Moran for one. And to deal with them, first they would have to get off the floor. He cast about for ideas, careful not to move while John's regular breathing told him he was still asleep.

Eventually he settled on a workable tactic, but still it was more than a few moments before he put it into effect.

John was jolted roughly awake as Sherlock leapt to his feet, untangling them in in one fluid motion.

"The game is on, John! I have an idea! There's information to be collected, people to be tracked down. Not a moment to lose!"

His mad flatmate had already slammed the bathroom door shut by the time John sat up.

"Ow," John said to the newly empty living room. His neck hurt like hell. His shoulder was stiff. He didn't remotely understand how Sherlock could spend the night on the floor and still jump up as agilely as a child. It wasn't fair. How could a thirty-two-year-old man spend his days crawling around the pavement on his knees and never feel the aches and pains of age?

The bathroom door reopened and Sherlock's bedroom door slammed shut.

Sprightly rotter, John thought uncharitably. But in his defence he was sore and exhausted from sleeping on the floor all night and—

Hang on. He had almost forgotten. The way they'd been sleeping. Had Sherlock…? Blimey, he hadn't even noticed, had he? He'd gone from fast asleep to striding off in an instant. There were no in-between moments with Sherlock. It was just as well, John supposed, because if he had noticed the row might have ended with him looking for a new flat.

Sherlock reappeared in the living room fully dressed. John gaped at him, still sitting on the floor. Was Sherlock Superman? Could he have lived with him this long and not known?

"I'm off to do research," Sherlock said, walking toward the door and grabbing his coat.

"You don't, erm, want me to come with you?"

"Not necessary. All research today. All boring. Well, for you anyway." And with a sweep of his coat he was gone.

For the hell of it, John tried to jump up as quickly as Sherlock had. His newly vertical position was accompanied by a rush of dizziness and he grabbed the back of his chair to steady himself. Drugs and sleep deprivation were not a good combination. Fun though, he had to admit, casting his mind back over the previous night.

The Adventures of Pillock Homes and John Watbum. John snickered, dismayed to find it was still funny in the absence of any mind-altering substances. He truly felt he didn't deserve the number thirty-four as an age marker.

He looked over at the recently flung-shut door and cleared his throat. "All right, Sherlock, I'll stay here then." He could at least have the pretence of normal communication if the real thing were impossible.

"Do you want breakfast before you leave? No? All right. I have rugby practice this afternoon."

John wandered into the kitchen for a glass of water.

"What time will you be home? I guess I'll see you when I get back from practice then, or whenever you bloody happen to come back through the door, whether it's in two hours or two weeks. Have a nice day!"

John smiled to himself, wondering when he had become such a total nutter. It was probably the day he'd agreed to move in with Sherlock Holmes.

He looked at the time. It was only eight o'clock; his practice wasn't until the afternoon. He could certainly do with a few more hours of sleep.

When he finally dropped down heavily into his bed he was forced to notice that his sheets were not nearly as warm as a detective.

Author's Note: Next post will be on Monday due to general holiday weekend chaos. Happy (almost) New Year! And happy watching of The Abominable Bride as well. :)