"Sherlock?"

Sherlock shifted his weight, shivering in the winter chill. "Hey," he mumbled, smiling faintly at John once he had opened the door.

"What are you doing here?" John asked. "I thought you were having a night-in. Your crime show is on tonight, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded. "Uh, yeah, I..." He flipped through various statements in his mind, knowing that making up an excuse for missing his crime show wasn't going to fly with John. (He'd forgotten about the show, actually, after everything.) "I'm not really feeling well," he setted on. It was sure-fire; John would immediately go off on a round of unending questions as the worrier in him reared its head, but, just this once, Sherlock found that he didn't mind. "I wondered if I might stay the night," he continued, ducking his head.

John wouldn't turn him down.

"Yeah, of course. Come in," John replied immediately, the crease appearing between his eyebrows. "What's wrong? What are you feeling?"

Sherlock shook his head, glancing down at John's hand on his arm his friend guided him inside. "I'm not sure. Maybe just tired. I could probably just do with tea and sleep, but..."

"Let me be the judge of that," John said firmly, closing the door. "I'll put the kettle on, but let me check you over in a minute, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded mutely. It wasn't a lie, really. He didn't feel well. He was exhausted, both physically and mentally, and he did just want tea and a kip, but something had propelled him here. He was fairly certain that it was sentiment, and it made his throat tight to think about.

"Sherlock?" Mary glanced up from the TV. "John didn't say you'd be by, I would have saved dinner out."

Sherlock smiled slightly. "I'm not hungry." His eyes lingered over her for perhaps a fraction too long; he saw her eyebrows knit together in the same, concerned way that John's did. But, it was unconscious staring. He couldn't imagine their life without Mary, and the impending baby, not now. The image of the tombstones bearing their names were still fresh in his mind.

"He's staying the night," John announced, coming up behind him. "You can go back to the bedroom and change out, if you want. I can bring you your tea."

"Thanks," Sherlock muttered, pulling on his scarf. He wasn't in the mood to socialise, not really. Which begged the question why did you bother coming here?. He supposed he just... had to rationalise certain things. He was here now. He didn't want to talk, but he didn't want to leave, either.

"Is he all right?" he heard Mary say, and he smiled wearily to himself as he let himself into the guest room.

He shrugged his coat off and sorted through the drawers for the old t-shirt and pyjama pants. Ever since he and John had gotten back on good terms, he'd had his own 'drawer' at John and Mary's home, which tickled both him and Mary when brought up in casual conversation. John never thought the implication was funny; in fact, he always threatened to throw Sherlock's things out the window if he kept bringing it up, but Sherlock knew he never would. So, it remained simple to change and crawl into the free bed, collapsing into the pillows that smelled the same way that John's clothes and pillows and blankets always had at Baker Street. (Same detergent for laundry. Easy to replicate, but somehow never the same.)

He rolled over and curled up under the blankets, focussing on his own breathing until he heard John open the door.

"Tea," John said softly, flicking on the light next to the bed.

Sherlock turned over again. "Thanks." He didn't bother to try to look put out for his excuse of not feeling well. He already was excelling, he was sure. He sat up for the tea, blowing on the surface gently and then taking a sip. He didn't lean away when John passed his hand against his forehead. Instead, he almost nearly leaned into the touch, stopping himself only at the last second.

"So, what's wrong?" John asked quietly. "You don't have a fever, but you're not up to your usual."

"Just tired." Again, he wasn't technically lying.

John sat down on the edge of the bed. "You can sleep at your own flat, meaning you had some reason for coming to see me."

Sherlock almost smiled. "It would seem that way, wouldn't it?" He shook his head slightly. "Just... drained, really. Needed to get away."

"Okay..." John didn't seem to buy it, but Sherlock also knew that John knew that he occasionally sought John's company for no reason at all except apparent loneliness. No one ever said that in so many words, of course, and Sherlock definitely didn't call it that, but he knew John did. "When's the last time you slept?"

Sherlock shrugged again.

"Sherlock..." John sighed. "Well, drink your tea and get some sleep. We'll see if you feel better in the morning."

"John." Sherlock cleared his throat. "... Stay awhile?" He was interested in deducing his own reflection in his tea rather than looking at John, and so he didn't.

"... Okay." The concern was nearly tangible, but John didn't press it. "You want something to take the edge off? Sleeping aid?"

Sherlock contemplated it. Seriously. But while it was true that he occasionally did take sleeping medication for his sleeplessness, or worse, nightmares, John had always acted as a sort of relaxant in himself. Sherlock thought that simply being in the same place as John, and Mary, surrounded by familiar sights, and people, and smells... maybe it would take the edge off enough without medically inducing unconsciousness.

He shook his head.

"Alright. Let me get my tea and I'll be right back," John said.

True to his word, John stayed by silently. They didn't talk, which Sherlock was content with, but it was enough to have the silence be broken by someone else breathing. Living people breathed. Ghosts didn't.

And what he had said to Moriarty? That was true. He didn't believe in a pre-destined path. He wasn't going to let... a future that Moriarty was showing him stop him. If it was just a dream - a weird one - or if it was something... more real, well. He'd create his own destiny.

"... John?" Sherlock mumbled as he teetered on the edges of sleep, already having finished his tea and allowed John to tuck him back into bed.

"Hm?"

"... I like the name 'Celeste'," he mumbled.

"Celeste?" Kudos, now, that John actually sounded contemplative over the suggestion. "That's... actually pretty, coming from you. Unlike Gertrude."

Sherlock smiled faintly. He wanted to say that I'd been joking about that one!, but he couldn't open his eyes, too far gone into sleep again. The blankets were soft and warm and the house was blissfully quiet.

"Where'd you get this one from, anyway? A case?"

"... Jus' sorta came to me," Sherlock mumbled.

"Huh. Remind me to tell Mary that one."

Sherlock intoned a vague agreement that he would.

When he fell asleep this time, he had only good and normal dreams.

And now this slightly strange and crazy story has come to a close. Don't know how I ended up writing it, but I did, and it was fun to work through all of it. (To be fair, my ideas for ShSpesh has changed in the meantime xD)

Thank you for all of your support, favs, follows, and reviews. I do not own Sherlock, as usual, and thank you again for reading!