Night had fallen upon Baker Street when the silent call of old habits wrecked havoc in Sherlock Holmes' mind. As he tried to reorganise the thoughts in his mind palace, his narcotic urges resurfaced, his self-control seemingly slipping away from him by the second.

Once an addict, always an addict, he thought bitterly. Pushing himself from his bed, he stood in only a sheet, emerging from the bedroom. Dim lights illuminated the flat, enough so that they could see their way whilst stumbling to the bathroom. Sitting upon the sofa, sleep deprivation sagging his body, he remained in silence. On the table sat a violin, the instrument that Sherlock was so fond of. Taking it in his hands, conscious that the doctor upstairs would hear him, he played a quiet tune. Apart of him wanted John to be woken by the melody, so then maybe he'd come downstairs and join him on the sofa. Though Sherlock knew that anger would be the only emotion his friend would feel, as the time ticked over to 3:52.

Barely a few minutes had passed when John appeared in the doorway, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Sherlock observed, noticing that he was not angry; he seemed concerned for the man.

"Why are you playing the violin at this ungodly hour?" he queried, leaning against the door frame of 221B.

With pursed lips, the Consulting Detective muttered, "I couldn't sleep."

Casting a glance to him, John sighed with irritation, "So you decided to wake me up?"

"Yes." admitted he, who replaced the violin on the table. In defeat, his friend sat beside him on the sofa. After a moment, Sherlock called through the dim light, "John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?" inhaling sharply, he attempted to shake the tiredness from his form.

"Regarding today's events..." he began, recalling the memories of John's lips upon his own. Shortly thereafter, Detective Inspector Lestrade had called, summoning them both to Scotland Yard. The two men had returned from solving their latest crime barely three hours ago, sleep immediately claiming them. "I hope you do not think different of me."

"Is that what this is about?" John raised an eyebrow, shocked and amused by his words. "You're worried that I might think different of you because you kissed me?"

"Well-" bemusement painted his features, "...yes."

He snorted, "You're ridiculous."

"I'm ridiculous?" accusation filled his tone as he turned his head, meeting the doctor's eyes. He pulled the sheet tighter around himself.

"Yes. You are completely and utterly ridiculous." he articulated each word with a smile on his lips. Softly, he spoke, "Of course I don't think different of you."

Piercing his gaze, the brunette raised an eyebrow in disbelief, "You don't? Not at all?"

"No. Not at all." John assured him, watching as the brilliant detective leaned back in his seat and stared into the distance. They remained silent, listening to the world outside their window in the darkness. Sherlock, unbeknownst to himself, rested his head against John's shoulder, his body craving sleep but his mind craving cocaine. The doctor seemed to sense this, for he asked gently, "There wasn't anything else, was there? On your mind, I mean?"

"Amongst other things, yes." he confessed, closing his eyes briefly. "Old habits never perish easily, John." Sherlock divulged, concerning the man beside him.

"You haven't-"

"No, I haven't." interrupting the question, the Consulting Detective stated. "Doesn't mean I don't want to." he hesitated before continuing, "But I won't."

Shaking his head, John cleared his throat, "I should hope so, Sherlock bloody Holmes."

Both men grinned a final time before sleep overcame them.