A/N: My first Joanlock fic! I've loved these two from pretty much the beginning but I've been resisting going down the fandom rabbit hole. Well, it's happened now, so I might as well contribute! Just testing the waters with these two and would love to hear your thoughts

Plus with Sherlock admitting to his love of waking Joan, this felt like a good fit!

She's a remarkable sleeper. Truly. It's almost as if he is trying to wake the dead. There is no polite way to wake a sleeping Watson. She simply won't budge.

A clearing of the throat, a nudge to the shoulder, will not do. They will barely elicit a reaction let alone the full weight of her attention.

No, Watson must be forced into wakefulness. A task which Sherlock is more than up to.

The first time it happened he was in too much of a hurry to notice or care. She was new still and lack of trust kept her on the couch next to him as he went through the case files in the wee hours of the fall morning. The epiphany struck him like a bolt of lightning out of blue sky.

"EUREKA!"

Watson, startled awake, looks up at him wide eyed, slightly fearful, still registering the reality against her prior dreaming. He doesn't really take it in, not in any way other than to know she was no longer asleep and therefore ready to go. He tossed her jacket at her still groggy form. "Come Watson! There is work to be done!"

He likes her far more immensely when it happens next. She has proven herself useful, interesting, miles separated from the rest of mundane humanity. But alas, she has fallen asleep on the job. He finds it surprising she can fall asleep in the midst of work, given her medical background. He supposes it is just that which allows her to catch a moments rest whenever the opportunity presents. However, he would find her alertness far more useful.

So now he hovers over her in the front room. Her hands cradle her head on top of a graphology book, her shoulders rise and fall with her breath. He shuffles awkwardly from foot to foot, debating the best way to wake her without being rude. Not that he usually cares to be polite. But Watson has earned a degree of respect he reserves for seldom few and he is quite familiar with her feelings on the topic.

So now he stares down at her and clears his throat conspicuously. Her shoulders continue in their same rhythm.

"Hm." Sherlock frowns, scoots forward and taps the leg of the table with his bare foot. The movement causes the table to shake and yet Watson is unmoved.

Beginning to feel irritated and impatient Sherlock opts to drop his pretense of politeness. He picks up the 800 page volume sitting next to Watson's head and without ceremony drops it. This creates a satisfying thwack and a gust of air which ruffles Watson's dark locks and finally causes her to stir.

Sherlock stands straight, hands clasped behind his back and regards his companion, his face a mask of mock innocence. "Awake then are we?" His voice assuming the high pitched, lilting cadence of a preschool teacher.

Watson sits up and gingerly rubs one eye while she squints up at him annoyed.

"Good!" Sherlock exclaims, before launching into his latest findings.

He has taken to watching her sleep. Not in any romantic fashion mind you, but her sleep patterns are of far more interest than he would have presumed. He has experienced the strength and stubbornness of them more than once. So now he feels the need to study them fully. It's a slow week anyways, might as well put it to good use.

He enters her room at 5am. It's still dark out, and though he has been awake for more than an hour, she will likely slumber until 9. Given her ability to sleep through just about anything, he doesn't bother to tiptoe or sneak, just walks into her room boldly and plops himself into the armchair by her bed. He has already sat here before, on one of the several occasions when he has needed to rouse her. Though lumpy, it puts him at a good vantage point. He thinks idly about a sleep monitor and the amount of data he could collect if he were able to wire her to one, but then dismisses the thought as Watson was bound to find out and would most likely be livid.

Her face peaks out of the cocoon of her comforter, peaceful. It's actually not a huge difference to how she normally is. After all he has found Watson to be the calm eye in the center of his whirling storm. It's what makes them work so well together. She not only accommodates his eccentricities, but she finds a way to soothe them.

He watches with a hawk eye until 6:15 when she suddenly stirs, mumbles incoherently, flips around and pulls the comforter over her head. He waits for her to emerge, but it seems her sleep has settled and he is frustrated now to realize his visual is obscured. With a harrumph, Sherlock gets up from his spot and circles Watson's bed.

After careful consideration, Sherlock decides on a course of action. He takes an edge of the comforter and begins to pull. The material shifts, slowly unveiling the ends of Watson's dark curls. Sherlock continues to gently tug, but as the material passes her forehead Watson shifts again, her arm emerging from beneath the comforter to wrap around its plushness, her face still buried in its depths. Sherlock sighs, waits patiently until Watson's breathing has evened out and begins to pull again.

He succeeds in revealing her high cheekbone before he hears Watson mumble again.

"What are you doing?", the sound of her voice emerges thick from the blanket covering her. Sherlock stops, unsure if she is actually speaking to him or is in fact still asleep. "Sherlock!" Her intonation is about as stern as can be managed from the foggy depths of sleep, her eyes still closed.

Sherlock recovers from the surprise quickly. "You sleep too long, Watson!" He drops his hold on the comforter and stands straight. "You will miss the dawning of a new day!" He proclaims confidently.

"Go away." Watson turns over again, pulling the blanket back over her head, the sound of her voice muffling deeper.

"Very well! But you will miss the excitement of a fresh morning!" He stomps out of her room and halfway down the stairs before he stops and waits for a signal of her stirring. When he receives none he slowly makes his way back up to the top, around the corner, sliding gently into her room once again.

He is about to take his place back in the lumpy chair when Watson sits up suddenly and looks at him. "Sherlock! GO AWAY!"

All he can do is put his hands up conciliatorily and back away, Watson watching his every move.

Watson loves to sleep. It is not just a physical requirement, but an actual enjoyment. He had never considered sleep to be a hobby, but he's quite sure it's Watson's favorite. And so he almost hates to wake her. Almost.

The captain has called with a case. And though it is two o'clock on a rainy Wednesday afternoon, he finds himself standing over a sleeping Watson. She had risen early for a run and he had seen her with some of his suggested readings after breakfast. But then it seems she had slipped off for a nap, now cuddled in a sweatshirt and cotton shorts, her hair still damp from the shower.

He goes into her closet, selects a dress, cardigan, some ridiculous heels. He places the items on the armchair and goes back to her bedside. He ponders for a moment how to wake her. It's become a game of sorts, all based on whatever reaction he is attempting to elicit. She's guaranteed to be cranky upon waking, but the waking procedure will determine if she gets snarky, vengeful or downright angry. On the few occasions she has accused him of intentionally rude awakenings he has vehemently denied it. But there are so few forms of unpredictable entertainment, and he finds that each experiment in Watson awakenings provides him more information on the companion that continues to amaze him.

Having come to a decision, Sherlock plants his hands on either side of Watson's warm body. He leans into the pillowy softness of the comforter she lays on top of. He leans closer until his nose is just a breath from hers. It allows him to take in the details of her face in a way he hasn't before. His eyes trace the arch of her cheekbone, glide across the sweep of her eyelashes. She blinks awake suddenly, gasping as her eyes come to focus on him.

"Sherlock!" Watson's voice is hoarse with sleep, her hands push him away as she struggles upright. He stumbles back, ending up sitting at the edge of her bed, looking back at her innocently. Her initial shock is wearing away quickly, replaced by a decidedly peeved yet confused expression. "What are you doing?!"

"The captain called with a case." He states simply in return, his hand gesturing to the laid out clothing. "We must be going and you were asleep."

"Can't you learn how to wake a person up in a normal way?!" Watson puffs as she slides off the bed and looks down at the selected wardrobe.

"I was simply taking the opportunity to count your freckles. Since you so rudely pushed me away I have lost my place and will need to start again." Watson turns slowly and gives Sherlock a skeptical look. "Alas we are late, so the task will have to wait!" With that he bounds of her bed, leaving her room at a rapid stride. "Hurry Watson!" He call back as Joan is left bewildered, standing next to her bed.

Her sleeping makes him calm. It's an interesting side effect. Much the way convention states that yawning is contagious, her slumber can be infectious. When they are up til all hours on a case and he hears her steady breathing, it reminds him to breathe too. It's like a balm on his nerves, giving him far more focus than before. Allowing him to work on uninhibited.

But when they are not on a case the pacifying effect is at its strongest. He finds himself sleeping more than he can really ever remember. His body has never required much rest. Even when it has wanted it, there have been times he was unable to provide it. His mind simply would not slow down long enough for him to still. So many times over the years he has found himself making do on 2 hours when he needed 4, 30 minutes when he needed three times that.

And then Watson moved in. Now, when he finds himself unburdened with a case he is able to sleep 4, even 5 hours at a stretch. An unheard of amount of time. And instead of this time feeling wasted, he finds his mind sharper, his body stronger for the slumber.

What is so odd about this is the fact that Watson can be two floors away, behind closed doors, and somehow he can feel her presence, glean her tranquility.

So now, on nights when thoughts of Irene, or worse yet Moriarty, make him restless, there is an easy solution. He slips into her room, breathes in time with her and finds himself asleep in moments; in the chair by her bed, on the floor at the foot of her mattress, once or twice encased in her comforter. If Watson knows, she doesn't betray it and he finds himself so grateful for her once again.