Consciousness returned to John in a sudden start, adrenalin pumping through his veins. He was warm—he was always warm, thanks to the sun-baked days spent in Afghanistan—and cosy, but was uncertain of what had woken him up. He pushed his blankets aside and lifted himself to his elbows, listening hard for what had reached into his subconscious and yanked him so rudely from the depths of his deep sleep.

Through the quiet of the flat, he heard it: a faint, familiar noise, one that conjured up images of when Sherlock had caught a brutal twenty-four hour flu three months ago: Sherlock was throwing up.

John flung the duvet away and snatched his dressing gown from its hook, slipping into it as he sleepily made his way downstairs. It might be early in the morning—but, wait, did that clock say it was really one in the afternoon? It didn't matter in retrospect, but Sherlock was vomiting and John had no inclination as to why.

He rounded the corner, where he was met with the frustrating sight of the closed bathroom door. Awful retching noises filtered beneath the heavy wood.

"Sherlock?" He tapped on the door twice. "Are you all right?"

There was movement inside the bathroom. Specifically, the toilet flushed and the tap turned on. Sherlock was probably brushing his teeth, because it didn't take that long to wash his hands. True to John's guess, Sherlock opened the door almost two minutes later. He was pale.

"I'm fine," he said, voice straining to maintain its normal volume. Without another word, he walked around John and crawled back into bed, burying himself underneath the duvet.

John had to force himself not to pelt Sherlock with questions regarding his health. Sherlock wasn't sick; he hadn't been exhibiting any of the usual signs preceding a cold or flu the night before. Besides, he normally claimed he felt a bit off after emerging from a case-induced fast—this was just a slightly more intense reaction, likely due to the copious amount of unhealthy food he'd consumed in such a short amount of time.

John felt like kicking himself for not insisting Sherlock ease into eating. He wouldn't be making that mistake again.

He trailed after Sherlock, and watched as he settled his trembling body on the near side of the bed and tugged the duvet up around his ears until only his curls were visible.

"It could take up to several hours for your body to realign itself," John said quietly, walking over to Sherlock's windows to tug the curtains tighter so they let less light in. "Would you like a cuppa? Might settle your stomach."

Sherlock sighed, ducking his head further into his pillows. "No, I think I'll be fine. I was tired of having a stomach-ache, so I made myself throw up, which should help. Once I stop shaking," he added, tugging the blankets closer.

"You made yourself—" John sighed and ran a hand through his hair, which was matted across the left side of his skull. "Of course you did. Because you couldn't possibly wait for your body to naturally reach that point."

He watched Sherlock's duvet shudder as the taxed body beneath it trembled, and he didn't miss the way Sherlock continued to tighten his limbs around his torso, as though it was all he could do to hold himself together. Direct warmth would help to ease his discomfort, but he didn't want tea. So...

"Hang on a sec."

Without waiting for a reply, John marched into the kitchen, turned on the tap to begin heating up, and trotted up the stairs to his room to grab his hot water bottle. Steam was billowing from the sink when John returned and in a few seconds he had a water bottle that was nearly too hot to touch. He returned to Sherlock's room, folding a towel he had grabbed off the counter around it. "Here," he said, peeling the blanket from Sherlock's shoulders so he could hand him the wrapped bottle. "Place this against your abdomen."

Sherlock took it from John, flinging the towel aside. He pressed the hot water bottle against his shirt and tucked the blanket around himself again to hold it in place.

"Be careful with that—you can still burn yourself with only one layer of fabric between you and the—why do I bother?" John wondered aloud, when it became clear that Sherlock either wasn't listening or didn't care.

"Are you going back to bed?" Sherlock murmured.

John paused as he crouched to pick up the discarded towel, looking up to find Sherlock watching him with eyes that were half open. "I..." Was that a spark of curiosity in Sherlock's eyes? What could have piqued his interest this time? "Did you want me to?"

Sherlock merely closed his eyes and shuffled a bit. "I was just asking."

Just asking. Right. That curiosity hadn't meant a thing.

He grabbed the towel and straightened, glancing at Sherlock's digital. One twenty-three in the afternoon. He didn't know exactly when they'd gone to sleep, but it couldn't have been later than four by the time he fell asleep. He'd slept for almost nine hours. Still... Sherlock was ill and he clearly wanted something.

"Give me a few minutes," he said. "Then I'll be out of your hair."

He used the loo, splashed some water on his face, decided he could brush his teeth later, and then brewed two cuppas. Despite Sherlock's disinterest in tea right now, he really did need to replenish his body's fluids.

"Drink this," he said, holding out the mug of tea to Sherlock, who pushed himself into a sitting position and reached forward to take the mug. His other hand was still holding the water bottle, John noted.

Sherlock took a few gulps of the tea before setting it down. It looked like he had drunk more than half, though, so John didn't protest; instead, he curled his fingers around his own almost-too-hot mug and took a seat on the edge of Sherlock's bed.

"How are you feeling now?" he asked, looking down at Sherlock, who was still trembling but nowhere near as aggressively as before.

"Better. I figured I'd be better if I threw up..." Sherlock hunkered down a bit more, curling around the hot water bottle.

"Is that hot enough or do you want me to refill it?"

Sherlock yawned. "It's still good and hot," he mumbled. "I'll just put it under my shirt when it gets cool enough. It'll be fine for a while." He opened his eyes. "Are you going back to bed now?" His brow furrowed as he studied John. "The chamomile from your tea seems to be taking effect, so it would be your best option to try and sleep now... if you plan on it."

John narrowed his eyes. Sherlock seemed strangely fixated on him falling back asleep. Why?

A closer examination of Sherlock's expression revealed something that he had come to know far too well: it was the "I have a new experiment and I will see it through to its end" glint just beneath the surface of his eyes.

John sighed, eyes trailing back to the window. Great. It was Baskerville all over again—with hopefully less distressing results. He knew from experience that he had no choice in the matter: Sherlock was remarkably hard to ignore when he was in the middle of an experiment that required someone else's assistance.

Sherlock was still staring at him; John could feel his gaze boring into the back of his head. "I would appreciate it," he said, looking back at the detective, "if you would explain what you plan to do before you do it."

Sherlock's head fell a few degrees to the left. "I was wondering why physical contact helps to calm people down. In times of distress, people are always seen hugging or holding hands. On the rare occasion that you have a panic attack, my presence helps you to calm down. I was wondering if it helps other physical ailments. Like being sick."

John stared, lips parted slightly, at Sherlock for a few seconds before laughing. "Sorry," he said, pressing his knuckles against his lips to control his laughter at the affronted expression on Sherlock's face. "Sorry." He took a deep breath. "It's just that has to be the most roundabout way that anyone's ever asked me for a hug. You know, you could have just said. I didn't think you were the hugging type."

Sherlock scowled. "Well, it's not exactly a hug," he muttered.

"You want me to cuddle with you," John clarified.

"Can we not call it cuddling? It's not cuddling. It's for science's sake."

John sighed and set his mug down next to Sherlock's on the nightstand. "So... an experiment on physical contact and its benefits. Right." He walked around to the other side of the bed, gingerly slipping beneath the blankets. "Because that is what normal people call cuddling," he added, wiggling beneath the covers until he was comfortable. Sherlock's mattress was softer than his own.

"I do not cuddle," Sherlock grumbled, shifting a bit closer. His gaze flicked to John and then back to the space between them before he shuffled over a bit more, hesitantly.

Was that... was that Sherlock being shy? That was almost cute.

"No, of course you don't." John kept his tone light; Sherlock was clearly uncomfortable at having been caught craving something so human. "All right, what do you want to know?"

Sherlock stared at him as he settled down a couple of inches away. "I don't know. This doesn't seem comfortable," he muttered. "How does it help? I've never slept with anyone before."

Sherlock's body was so stiff next to him, he may as well be at the peak of rigor mortis. For a moment, John was suddenly back in the desert with the rising sun making him squint as he bent over one of the three dozen casualties of an enemy ambush that his squad had located after almost a full night's search.

Then Sherlock's shoulder bumped into his own and the memories dissolved into grains of sand that filtered into the depths of his brain, ready to seep out and entangle him again at a later time. He cleared his throat.

"Well, you'll never be comfortable if you don't loosen up." He gently pushed Sherlock's head back into the pillow, resting his hand on his forehead at the same time to just make sure. "Take a few deep breaths and allow your muscles to relax."

"You're warm," Sherlock murmured. "And I can feel your breath on my hair..." He shifted closer. "This is interesting, actually."

John didn't comment on Sherlock's observations, just hummed quietly. Despite the hours that Sherlock could go without talking, he was a verbal processor, especially in unfamiliar circumstances. If the urge came upon him, he could easily spend the next hour cataloguing their reactions to this experiment.

He was a bit surprised when Sherlock rested the side of his head on his chest, but he took it in stride. Sherlock had done stranger things.

Hugs, he remembered. Sherlock wanted to test hugs and the reactions they elicited. Easy enough.

He looped his free arm across Sherlock's shoulders, loose enough that he could pull away if the need arose.

Sherlock's head snapped up, curls tickling the underside of John's chin, when John tucked his arm around him. "Oh..." Sherlock said softly. "This is the appeal of sleeping with someone... but it seems like it could be awfully hot, especially in the summer. Even if you slept naked, your bodies would stick together, not to mention the sweating. Convenient for winter... trapping body heart under the blankets as well as sharing it through physical contact..." He trailed off, yawning. "And it's common knowledge that being warm helps people to fall asleep..."

John wasn't prone to blushing, but he could feel the heat rising up his neck and spreading as Sherlock rambled. Sherlock had confirmed that he'd never slept with anyone for any reason, so it made sense that his mind would travel down the sleeping naked path.

"Sleeping with someone can be uncomfortably hot in the summer," he admitted, "but only when the temperatures climb into the mid-to-high twenties." Personally, he liked being warmer than not at night—years in Afghanistan, where the nights could be brutally cold, had taught him to retain as much heat as possible during sleeping hours.

Sherlock lowered his head again without a word and pressed his ear to John's heart. John couldn't help but smile fondly down at the messy curls, which had begun to frizz and twist wildly from sleep. This was the most relaxed he'd seen Sherlock in days—weeks, even. They'd had an increase in cases the last month, and the frenetic pace had begun to wear on both of them. He was grateful that Sherlock was taking the opportunity to unwind while he could.

There were no other deductions, although John began to suspect that was because the deep and steady breathing he could feel coming from Sherlock was an indication that the detective had fallen asleep again. His breathing was lulling, and John's eyes slipped closed.

He hadn't intended to fall back asleep, but he must have. The next time he opened his eyes, only a sliver of light peeked around the curtains, and Sherlock was curled up against his chest, one arm draped about his torso.

Hair tickled his nose and lips, and he lifted his head to rid himself of the sensation. That must've been what had woken him up.

Given the circumstances, he couldn't exactly move. So, he just lay there, contemplating Sherlock and their cases and the hot water bottle, no longer hot, wedged beneath his side, until he became aware of a change in Sherlock's breathing. He would be waking up soon. Sure enough, Sherlock twitched a few times before snuggling closer to John's side with a gentle side.

John smiled faintly, shifting a bit so that he could dislodge the water bottle from beneath his hip. It was beginning to hurt. As he dragged it from beneath the cover, it slipped from his slightly numb fingers and glanced off the back of Sherlock's head, who flinched violently.

"Sorry," John whispered with a wince of his own.

Sherlock tilted his head up slowly. His glare was almost swallowed by the heavy shadows draping the room, but John had seen those pinched brows and down-turned lips often enough to recognise the expression despite the darkness. His head tilted away again after a moment and returned to John's chest, although he noted that he didn't curl back against his body as much as he had been.

"So... this is nice," Sherlock mumbled, voice gravelly, thick with sleep.

"Oh, yes. Nice." John flexed his hand, wincing as blood flow resumed in tingling, painful bursts. "Did you gather any data or did you just sleep all... day?"

Right. His sleeping schedule was going to be as messed up as Sherlock's. Wonderful.

Sherlock rolled over onto his back, yawning. "Bit of both, I think," he said, rubbing his eyes. "Clearly, I fell asleep. However, I have ascertained why people sleep together. It seems that it did make me fall asleep more quickly than usual because I have no recollection of even being drowsy so much as waking up just now... Quite a pity, actually... I didn't get as much data as I would have liked out of it..." He trailed off for a moment. "But it is warm. Very cosy. Perhaps it goes back to being a foetus in your mother's womb? Warm and protected in the arms of someone else, it helps you to fall asleep faster. To calm down and put the troubles of the day behind you, multiplied exponentially when you're feeling scared or ill." He narrowed his eyes slightly. "Yes, that probably has something to do with it. Anyway, I can see why people engaged in a physical relationship enjoy sleeping with one another. After coitus, they remain so satiated and exhausted that they fall asleep in each other's arms, in a whim of fancy that that is where they belong..." He hummed. "Understandable, but horribly sentimental, that."

John shook his head slightly and sat up far enough to pop his neck as he watched Sherlock stretch from the corner of his eye. He bore a striking resemblance to a cat, and John couldn't help the slight giggle that escaped him as more similarities came to mind: his lanky body, bouts of moodiness, selective palate.

Sherlock glanced at him. "Why are you laughing like a schoolgirl?" he asked, stretching again before dropping his arms back to the bed.

Knowing Sherlock, he was going to kill him, but he had asked. "You just..." He cleared his throat and tried to smother his smile. "You couldn't be any more like a cat if you tried."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and rolled into a sitting position. "Anyway. I think I acquired enough information. Might have to do another test when one of us ends up sick or injured again... Definitely injured. Haven't tried that that one yet. But... I'm not going to get hurt for an experiment's sake. We'll just wait." He pushed himself to his feet and padded into the bathroom.

John's mirth disappeared at Sherlock's comment, swallowed by an underlying worry that he'd been harbouring ever since he'd seen Sherlock holding that pill. Hopefully he would never become bored enough to injure himself merely because he wanted to conduct another experiment.

Sighing, he freed himself from the covers before leaving the room and realising the bathroom door was still open, whilst, inside, Sherlock was using the loo.

"Really? What if Mrs Hudson had come up?"

Sherlock glanced up, amusement flicking across his face. "I'd say that she's familiar with male anatomy and that she's seen me naked before," he said simply. "But your concern is touching. Really."

"Somehow that doesn't surprise me," John muttered, recalling that he wanted a shower. He ascended to his room and located a fresh change of clothes before returning to the washroom, which Sherlock still occupied. "You almost finished? I'd like to take a shower."

Sherlock shoved his toothpaste back into the drawer. "I was just brushing my teeth. And I was going to have a shower but I'm assuming that because you've gone upstairs and gathered clothes, that's a silent stake for having it first, and, if it is, you're making the tea first."

"Fine." John plunked his clothes down on the toilet lid and set about steeping a new pot of tea while Sherlock finished in the bathroom. Really, Sherlock could make his own tea, but if it meant he got to use the shower first, he wasn't going to complain. Sherlock had a tendency to use up more than his share of the hot water.

By the time he finished washing the mugs and plates stacked near the sink, the kettle was whistling. As though called by the soft tone, Sherlock appeared in the doorway.

"Water's ready," John said, slipping around Sherlock and marching towards the washroom. "Might as well steep a whole pot—looks like we'll be up for hours yet."

He shut the door without giving Sherlock a chance to reply.

After towelling off from a quick shower that was a tiny bit too hot in an effort to make him sleepy again, John dressed in a clean t-shirt and sweats and left the bathroom, calling "Shower's free", before realising Sherlock was curled in his chair with the afghan on his lap and his fingers wrapped around a cup, looking mighty content.

Seems he'd showered in a rush for no reason.

John dropped his clothing on the staircase and fetched himself a mug before borrowing Sherlock's strainer and pouring himself a cuppa. He sniffed it. Cinnamon Stick. Sherlock must be feeling content; he only drank this in good moods.

Smiling slightly, he sank down in his own chair and enjoyed the spicy flavour rushing over his tongue as he sipped.

Sherlock shot up as though triggered by the movement. "Right," he said, putting his mug down and shedding the afghan in one fluid movement. He strode back to the bathroom without another word.

John flicked the TV on and located BBC News, but kept it muted, too relaxed to allow the world's troubles to fill the flat's airspace as he grabbed today's paper. Mrs Hudson must've brought it up at some point during the day, which... also explained why the mess they'd left on the coffee table and carpet was gone. Not their housekeeper, his foot.

Letting out a content hum as he sipped the fragrant tea, he leaned back in his chair and began scouring the paper for anything that would pique Sherlock's interest.

It was time to find something else for the mad genius to focus on.

And this is the conclusion of Scribe and I's first RP turned story! We have at least three others coming, involving a panic attack with John and sensory over-stimulation complete with a cuddle with a weighted blanket with Sherlock. And the third, which we're role-playing currently... is a secret. ;) Look forward to those! [They will deviate between profiles - some will be posted under my pen name, some will be posted under hers : ScribeofRed.]

Scribe and I thank you so much for all of your favs, follows, and reviews. It's both of our first times turning a role play to a story (and, incidentally, Scribe's first time EVER writing John, which I personally think she does wonderfully) and we're super thankful for the support. We do not own Sherlock. Thank you!