"... Anderson..."
John glanced up. "What?"
"... S'stupid..."
John raised his eyebrows. As far as he knew, Sherlock had been sleeping on the sofa since he'd gotten out of bed this morning because he was bored and had nothing better to do. So he wasn't sure how they had just gotten on the topic of Sherlock most annoying adversary at Scotland Yard.
"I thought that was a given."
Sherlock didn't respond.
John just sighed and went back to the newspaper.
"Deodorant... Donovan... wife went to Doncaster..." Sherlock mumbled.
John looked up again. "What are you talking about?"
"... Greasy gits..."
John laughed out loud. "No, really, what are you on about?"
Sherlock didn't respond again. It was only then that John realised that Sherlock was talking in his sleep.
"Sherlock?"
"... John... s'warm..."
John's eyebrows hitched up again. Now he was talking about him? Apparently, there was some mental recognition there, some connection being made.
"I'm warm? Or you're warm?"
The latter was just stupid. It had gone past February last week and the air was still chilly. The flat was toasty, but not hot by any means. Especially for skinny detective wearing only a t-shirt, trousers, and a dressing gown.
"... Home..."
John raised his eyebrows for a third time. Was Sherlock saying that he was at home, or that John felt like home? The latter seemed too sentimental for Sherlock, but he was asleep, too. All the inner musings of a person could come out through the unconscious mind.
He could really use this to his advantage. Hell, he hadn't even known that Sherlock sleep-talked.
"... Left side of the bed... too many pillows... suffocation..."
Make that sleep-deduced, apparently.
John shook his head and fanned out the paper again.
"No one's suffocating, Sherlock. You don't have a case."
When Sherlock spoke again, his voice sounded much more clear. "Is there a case?"
John glanced over his paper, finding Sherlock's gray eyes staring tiredly at him across the room. He looked exhausted, but he was awake.
John sighed. "No, Sherlock. Go back to sleep."
Sherlock gave a little hmm and snuggled down into the couch cushions further, reaching up tiredly to grab the afghan.
By the time that John had finished the morning paper, Sherlock was fast asleep again, the blanket draping on the floor.
John sighed again and fixed the blanket, tucking it loosely around Sherlock's form.
"... Thanks..." Sherlock mumbled thickly.
John didn't know if his flatmate was awake or asleep, but it didn't matter. He just smiled and replied with an absent "Any time".
Soft Sherlock, warm Sherlock, little ball of detective. Happy Sherlock, sleepy Sherlock... nothing rhymes with detective. When you're asleep, your mind gets defective. :p (And emotional). Anyway, don't mind me!
I do not own Sherlock. (Or The Big Bang Theory, either. :p)