A/N: Oh, wow, an update! And not a late one! I hope this means I'm winning the war against Writers Block. And, due to popular request, I'll refrain from self-deprecating comments and simply wish you enjoyment.

Word Count: 840

Ship(s): pre-John/Sherlock (or perhaps cautiously-platonic-John/Sherlock if that floats your boat)

Warning(s): insufferable amounts of fluff, sleepy!Sherlock (which I suppose is a bit OOC but I was prompted), weird dreams, and general sickly sweetness. Also, John can't type.

In Which John's Stomach Makes a Rather Good Pillow

Sherlock couldn't remember. He couldn't remember, but he dreamed of foggy stars and warm hands clasped and laughter intermingled, of rain and sopping hair and blue eyes, of breathless flight. He resurfaced buzzing and warm, gradually dissolving into the waking world.

It was still late, past midnight at least. In the middle of winter, the poorly heated flat should have chilled Sherlock to the bone, even under the blanket. But Sherlock was comfortable, perfectly so, finding himself tucked into a warm softness. The feeling was almost enough o slide Sherlock back into slumber. He was barely waking now, still peering through a sleepy fog. It took him a while to realize that he was curled on John's lap.

This realization really should have been unsettling. Sherlock was typically adverse to touch, not to mention how vulnerable he was like this, and it wasn't as if he cuddled with John on a regular basis. But all this knowledge did was fill him with a swell of something warm and pleasant and near-suffocating. John was warm. John was good. John was his best friend. Sherlock was too exhausted to reason through it any further than that.

Through the fog of near-sleep, Sherlock observed with lazy abandon. John's stomach was soft and pillowy under Sherlock's, rising and falling with steady breath. The quiet sound of each exhale and the slow, arrhythmic tapping of Jon's fingers on laptop keys worked as a sedative. Eyes barely cracked Sherlock could just make out the side of John's arm and shoulder, muscles flexing slightly in his effort to move silently. Every so often, John would pause, and Sherlock could feel his gaze prickling his skin or fingers threading through his hair. Once, after a long, tense hesitation, soft lips brushing over Sherlock's forehead. It was these things combined that stirred The Feeling within him and an unconscious happy noise rumbled through his chest, breaching his lips in a breath.

John's breath hitched, startled. Sherlock twisted to peer up at him, eyes half lidded. John was blushing profusely, but his smile was soft and easy. "It's late," John whispered. His hands were big and calloused and familiar over Sherlock's cheek, swiping stray curls from his face. Sherlock wondered vaguely if the smile stretching over his lips looked as stupid as it felt, but he dismissed the thought in favor of drowning in John's navy eyes, stunned by the feelings reflected there. He'd have to examine that further, he thought. Later.

Sherlock reached out, pushing a limp hand to John's neck. John might've turned scarlet at that, but Sherlock couldn't be sure, attention occupied by the way John's Adam's apple bobbed and the broad smile in the corner of his eye. "I don't need sleep," Sherlock mumbled, voice thick with contradictive fatigue. John chuckled and Sherlock could feel it against his temple, vibrating through his chest.

"You were awake for nearly two weeks this time, 'Lock. You've only crashed for a few hours yet." John continued stroking Sherlock's hair; the feeling pulled pleasure from Sherlock's scalp and down his spine to curl in his toes. "Sleep," John whispered.

"Mm…" Sherlock closed his eyes, only to have them snap open again. "Oh… groceries! Groceries! I was… up the stairs!" His eyes grew wide, clutching at John's jumper. John laughed again, gentler this time.

"I caught you," John said. "Cleaned it up. Don't worry about it."

"Hmm…" Sherlock yawned, hand slipping down to toy with the collar of John's jumper for a moment before twisting and burying his face into John's tummy. "Warm. How'd you get so warm, John?" he mumbled. John sucked in another breath, barely catching the 'aww' as it made a leap out of him and instead releasing a tiny, breathy noise. He probably found Sherlock cute. If he'd been at full capacity, Sherlock might have been offended. Or flattered. Maybe just embarrassed. Sherlock yawned again.

"I'll scold you later," John assured him. Apparently deciding being guarded was for squares John leaned in to kiss the back of Sherlock's head, rubbing gentle circles in the nape of his neck. Sherlock released a deep sigh, smile tugging at the edge of his lips. Oh, dear, he was sleepy. In fact, he hadn't felt this gloriously drowsy in years.

"Thank you," Sherlock said; he was muffled against John's jumper-clad stomach, but John heard it.

"Any time. What are friends for?" Sherlock could practically feel the 'warm fuzzy feeling' radiating off of his companion; if it had been anyone else, it would have been disgusting rather than endearing. John rested a hand flush against the back of Sherlock's neck and the other reached for his laptop again. "Sleep," John repeated, running his thumb under Sherlock's jaw. Sherlock might have said something, but it was incoherent to both of them and he settled against John, submitting to the pull of slumber again.

The sound of John's valiant struggle to type with one hand lulled Sherlock back to sleep.

This time, he dreamt of stars again, but this time they felt like home.

Reviews would be fantastic.

p.s. 50th chapter! -throws confetti-