A/N: Sorry you guys didn't get that extra update I promised, I ended up being busier than I thought and anyway there was this half eaten box of thin mints in the pantry and... Also, I pulled an all-nighter last night, so if this one is a bit off-beat or has some hideous, glaring error, that's probably why.

Word Count: 1,200+

Pairing(s): John/Sherlock

Warning(s): indecent amounts of fluff, sleepy!John, insomniac?Sherlock, mentions of paranoidCroft

Sleepyheads

Sherlock didn't get a lot of sleep.

Before John came into his life Sherlock pulled not so much all-nighters as all-weekers and would periodically hit the floor for a forceful, unanticipated nap time. It was almost always in inconvenient places – in the shower, half way out of Mycroft's car, on the subway while holding the rail, on top of bodies in crime scenes and, once, off the edge of a bridge.

This still happened post-John, but less frequently and, more notably, Sherlock would now always wake up tucked in bed with a cuppa on the bedside table and the sneaking feeling that someone had kissed his forehead.

At current it had been a week and five days since Sherlock's head first hit the pillow. John wasn't much better, catching sleep only in hour-long-if-he-was-lucky naps while Sherlock paused in his rush to either shower or escape to his mind palace. Both men were running purely on coffee, jam, and adrenalin as they worked to solve the (seemingly endless) case involving a murderous cult and the occasional oddly placed goat.

Now that it was solved, however, John was dead tired and trying very, very hard to keep his eyes open as they waited for the subway. Sherlock, as per usual, gave away no signs of fatigue or any other sort of weakness whatsoever as he peered down at his flat mate. "Are you OK?"

John looked up at him with sleepy eyes. He opened his mouth to respond but yawned instead. Sherlock apparently found this amusing because he chuckled and slung an arm around John's shoulders. John made a weak noise of protest and tried (rather half-heartedly) to shrug Sherlock off. "Come on, get of'a me, Sherlock. People 're going to talk."

"I'm supporting you, John." Sherlock gave him a look, serious expression returning. "Besides, the likelihood of encountering anyone of significance in our lives here today is very slim. I don't see why you care if strangers think we're a couple."

Through the blear of sleep John swore he saw Sherlock blush. John shook his head. "Just do, Sherlock. Unlike you, I have a shred of-" John yawned again, eyes squishing shut "—dignity left."

When John's eyes reopen Sherlock seemed closer than before, his eyes far bigger. Analyzing.

"'Lock, don't deduce right now. I'm tired," John grumbled. He bumped his hip against Sherlock's but the detective's focus did not falter. John really wished the train would get here already – maybe he could take a nice nap on the way through the tube. Doubtlessly he'd end up with his head on Sherlock's shoulder or some other unspeakable position, and people would talk, but John's level of caring was at something of an all time low.

"I like it," Sherlock said suddenly, breaking John's train of thought.

John blinked, slowly. "What?"

"When you call me 'Lock. I like it."

"Oh." When had Sherlock's nose started being so close to his?

"Especially when you're all sleepy and casual about it. I like it. It's… comfortable. I like that you're comfortable with me; I'm comfortable with you." Sherlock was definitely blushing now and John found himself suddenly very much awake and wondering just what Sherlock was confessing to, anyway. Thought taking him John licked his lips subconsciously—and regretted it; Sherlock's eyes darted to his mouth, blatantly staring as John's tongue retreated back between his lips.

"Um," said John. Sherlock's eyes were almost definitely blue today.

The detective smiled then, suddenly, began to look very, very tired, as if the last straws had been tossed onto his back, breaking some sort of invisible barrier between the detective and maters of the body. Still, he smiled, blue (blue?) eyes alight and churning with thought.

The sound of the train coming roared and John looked up, suddenly enough that Sherlock missed when he swooped in to kiss him, lips barely grazing John's bottom lip and sliding against John's cheek. John froze and spun around, eyes wide.

He said, "Sherlock?" because clearly this was all a dream and John is in a gutter somewhere, half dead with exhaustion, and not being almost-kissed by his incredible, beautiful, infatuating, asexual flat mate.

Sherlock smiled clumsily. "I was trying to kiss you," he said, "but you made me miss."

Captain Obvious jokes came and went in John's mind, quickly wiped out by a raging tornado of previously restrained homoerotic What Ifs and an overwhelming floor of desire to wrap his arms around Sherlock's neck and…

"I'm sorry, John, but I'm afraid I'm feeling sleepy, and you are warm," Sherlock noted and did three things – leant forward, chuckled, and kissed John shortly and properly – before he promptly bit the dust.

John reeled but managed to catch him; his head spun. The bastard fell asleep!

Dragging his unconscious flat mate into a crowded subway car in this state was exactly the opposite of what John wanted to be doing (wanted: a good long nap; wanted: a cup of tea; wanted: Sherlock to wake up and explain himself or maybe just kiss him again) but, at this point, there was little choice. Once Sherlock was out he was out and no amount of shaking, yelling, or natural disasters occurring could rouse him now. Muttering to himself in question as to just how this madness had become Business as Usual John maneuvered the much-taller man onto the train, making a point not to make eye contact with any of the other riders. It hardly mattered – John could feel them staring even after he'd situated his unconscious friend in the seat beside him.

…Friend? Can I still say that, just friend after that display? He kissed me, after all. John blushed at the mere thought.

It wasn't just that, though, was it? Just this week alone he'd submitted himself to insomnia, chased cult members through the city for hours, and had been fully prepared to leap and take a bullet, all for the mad man in his lap. Would John have done all of that for his army buddies? Maybe. Would John feel alive doing it, feel filled to the brim with the unreal, incredible brilliance of it all while he did it Probably not

He'd never wanted to kisss any of his army buddies, certainly, and he'd never let them wobble onto his lap when he slept. John's eyebrows scrunched.

Fuck the people who stared – Sherlock ought to be comfortable on the few occasions he actually slept. And who was to say it wasn't normal caring, friendly behavior to run his fingers through Sherlock's curls? To glance about and sneak a kiss on his forehead? Who said it didn't help him sleep?

Well, it probably didn't. But John enjoyed it.

Sherlock's face was slack and peaceful and he snored; it was a noise that tugged persistently at John's heart, quiet and mumble-y; John choked irreparably. There were few better things, John thought, than seeing Sherlock completely unguarded, except perhaps the knowelage that he wouldn't be angry if he found out you'd been watching.

God, John really wished he'd kissed Sherlock back.

There was, unfortunately, something incredibly lulling about brushing fingers through the hair of someone you care about. The two of them would wake up five hours later still on the tube, Sherlock's head still on John's lap and John's head lolled back, fingers still laced through Sherlock's curls. It would end with an unfamiliar part of London, a pesky journalist, smug-then-frantic-then-smug-again texts from Mycroft, John's wallet being stolen, and a good bit of sore muscle, but they sleep long and well and John dreams of cheekbones and eyes that, on second thought, were more of a silver.

Review?

Also: This is literally the most tame thing I have ever written that involves a pairing of any kind. Seriously. They don't even touch each other's stomachs or thighs or kiss for more than two seconds or anything. Sherlock doesn't mention John's penis. Guys this fic is the apocalypse for me I don't think you understand- I'm going to go nap now.