Chapter Twenty Four

When John woke up he felt cold. He opened his eyes and felt a headache pulsing behind his temples. God, four pints of beer surely couldn't make him feel this horrible. What had happened?

He shook his head to clear it a little, but only succeeded in making the headache worse. He discovered that there was a blanket wrapped around him, but he was still incredibly cold. And then he realised that it was the difference between the warmth he had felt when he had fallen asleep in Sherlock's arms and the loneliness he now felt that made him feel like he did.

Wait, he had fallen asleep in Sherlock's arms? Jesus.

And was that a bouquet of flowers on the table? He had forgotten to get any, of course he had, and Sherlock must have somehow managed to find flowers in the middle of the night. Did Sherlock ever sleep?

With a grunt he sat up, rubbing his face and drawing his hands through his hair. What was happening to him? Since when did he feel distinctly lonely when Sherlock was not present? He got up and walked up to the bathroom, almost blinded by pain and he wondered if this was how migraine patients felt. When he returned he walked into the kitchen, downing two glasses of water to clear his head and hopefully get rid of the pulsating pain. He also found the packet of paracetamol that Mrs Hudson must have left in the kitchen when she had tried to make him feel better. Where was Sherlock?

He did not even think about it, his legs just carried him back upstairs, and this time he did not bother to knock. He opened the door to find Sherlock sitting on his bed, knees drawn up to his chin, his arms wrapped around himself protectively. John stood in the door, staring at him as Sherlock stared back.

He couldn't speak, and the headache was still there, and yet he needed to say something.

"Morning, John."

John coughed, nervously, but he could see that Sherlock wasn't really his usual self either.

"Why did you leave?" John was surprised by how calm he sounded. "I asked you to stay if I remember correctly."

Sherlock looked genuinely surprised, as if he had expected John to say something entirely else.

"John." Just his name, nothing else. Sherlock couldn't explain himself, and John knew that he was asking too much of him. He himself had no idea how to put into words what he felt, all he knew was that Sherlock must have felt the same; he must have felt the change in pace and in the way they were acting around each other. He must have.

"You look tired." Sherlock dropped his hands from around his knees.

"You didn't sleep." John noted, knowing that his face probably showed last night's events and the pain he was in rather evidently, whereas Sherlock merely looked a little paler than usual.

"Are you okay, John? Do you want me to get you some water?"

"No, I'm…I'm fine, thank you. And thanks for the flowers." He was still standing in the door, and Sherlock was still sitting there, unmoving. John noticed that he didn't wear a shirt again and that the plaster Sherlock must have applied last night was put on rather sloppily.

"Oh Sherlock, what did you think you were doing?" He couldn't help but smile as he moved forward, automatically, gently pulling the plaster off Sherlock's waist and reapplying it, smoothing it over his skin, noticing the goose bumps that rose under his touch. He swallowed.

"John?"

"Yes?" Why was Sherlock so close again all of the sudden? Oh right, he had moved onto the bed. The bed. Sherlock's bed. Sherlock's voice pulled him out of his thoughts.

"What did you mean when you said I wasn't ready for something new."

John stared at him, trying to remember the context of their conversation. Ah, a new case. The case he thought Sherlock was getting himself involved with when he had been on the phone, listening to his voice mail. Why was he listening to his voice mail? John's mind wasn't quite working the way it was supposed to, but it wasn't just the headache….

"I thought Lestrade was calling you, asking you for help."

"Yes, but…" Again, Sherlock seemed surprised. "Did you mean it?"

"Did I mean what?" John was rubbing his temples, trying to get some relief. How could Sherlock possibly not understand that he was worried about him and that he didn't want him to get himself into trouble so soon after they had barely escaped death?

"The message."

"What?"

"The message." He sounded impatient, as if John should know perfectly well what he meant.

"Sherlock, what are you talking about?" John wanted nothing more than to lie down, and why not. Sherlock was right there to comfort him and a few more hours of sleep would certainly help his headache and he was on the bed anyway so he could just lie down and…

"Sherlock, can we talk later? I think I'm about to fall asleep again."

Sherlock's face softened and he stretched his legs. "The message you left me."

John looked at him, uncomprehending and he could read from Sherlock's eyes that he was impatient with him, urging him to see the obvious, read between the lines and understand what he was trying to say.

"Can I just lie down for a while?" John had long stopped thinking about what he was doing and let his subconscious take over. He was tired, sitting on a bed, next to a warm body that could share some of its warmth with him; a perfectly logical solution.

"John?"

"Please?"

Sherlock moved to the side a bit, making room for John to lie down.

"Hold me?" He did not want to sound so needy, but he was too exhausted to care.

"John, I can't lie on my left side."

"Move, then." Yes, logic was definitely a good thing. John smiled to himself.

Sherlock awkwardly moved over him and came down to lie by John's left side. When John had moved to the centre of the bed, Sherlock wrapped an arm around him, and when John didn't object, he moved closer, until most of his body was attached to John's, pulling the blanket over them.

"Thank you."

"Thank you." A whisper.

"Hmm?"

"Never mind, just sleep."

"I do need you, you know?"

"You do?"

"Of course I do." He was close to falling asleep again, and it was so nice feeling Sherlock's body against his own, his warmth seeping through him, wrapping him up in a blanket of comfort and familiarity.

He could swear that he felt Sherlock's lips on his neck as he fell asleep, his headache long gone.