John couldn't quite remember how it had happened. He was fairly sure that he had been looking over autopsy reports. Report after report. Trying to find the link. Trying to see where the mistakes had been made. The lights in the Scotland Yard Archive room were harsh, and the chairs were plastic, uncomfortable. The kind you got in schools. Although John supposed Sherlock's school would have had beautiful hand carved mahogany or something.
Sherlock had been pacing. Which he knew drove John mad. But he did it anyway. Twenty three hours of looking at case after case. Death after death. It was really very depressing. Even Sally Donovan had taken pity on them and had brought Coffee and Sandwiches. Sherlock had made John eat one first just to check they weren't poisoned. John almost wished they had been.
When John woke up he was laying on the couch in Greg LeStrade's office. And he truly had no idea how he got there. He was curled up into a ball, covered over with Sherlock's coat, his own coat neatly folded into a pillow. His shoes had been removed and placed carefully on the floor and he noticed his phone, keys and wallet had been stowed in his left shoe. John blinked and checked his watch. He had been asleep for three hours.
"Sherlock?" The tall figure sat on the floor next to the shoes was flicking through a pile of reports.
"You're awake. Good. You've been snoring. It makes concentrating very difficult. He doesn't usually snore Greg." LeStrade nodded from behind his laptop.
"How did we get here?"
"You fell asleep. I carried you." A truly horrible picture was forming in John's head.
"You carried me? From Archive to CID. You carried me!"
"Yes. And you've put on half a stone over Christmas." By this point John was sitting up. Blushing scarlet. LeStrade sniggered and then tried to pretend it wasn't him.
"You carried me?" he knew he was shouting.
"You're not that heavy John." Sherlock obviously thought he was helping.
"Oh my God. Did anyone see you?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes it matters. " LeStrade had closed the lid of his laptop to watch and was clearly enjoying himself.
"Why? Oh your reputation as a tough army doctor? Don't worry. No one saw me carrying you."
"Good. Thank you."
"However quite a few people took pictures when you fell asleep on the floor of the archive room sucking your thumb." As if to illustrate this, LeStrade turned his laptop around and brought a close up of John fast asleep and sucking his thumb, onto the screen.
"Can you zoom out?" And Greg happily obliged, revealing the complete picture. John was asleep. With his head pillowed on Sherlock's thigh. Sherlock seemed to be paying no attention at all as he was caught, head bowed, holding a folder in his right hand. His left hand however was resting on John's cheek, captured for posterity mid-stroke. And there was a soft smile of contentment playing over his sharp features. And John was speechless. So that was what Sherlock looked like when he watched John sleep. All those nights, all those times when John had woken to find Sherlock quietly paying him no heed, but secretly giving him his undivided attention. That was what love looked like.
