A/N: One-shot based on a throw away line I put in chapter twelve of my "12 days of Christmas" fic. Special thanks to mabaroshi16 for picking up on it, and letting this particular plot bunny out of its hutch. It distracted me from the bonus fic, so I decided to get it out of the way lol!

Love & Hugs,

Ari x

Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock, and by default Benedict Cumberbatch, I would not be in my bedroom writing fan fiction. I would be in my bedroom doing other, more interesting, things.

Beyond Tired

"He wouldn't refuse the detective outright, the one time he had had been an absolute nightmare"

John was used to working on little sleep. When you're fighting on the front lines of the Afghan deserts you quickly learnt to snatch sleep where you could, and to sleep damn lightly. He'd worked long mentally straining shifts in a hospital for two years before entering military service, mental strain was nothing new. Physical exhaustion was nothing new, and John was very good at working through them... to an extent.

John Watson had nothing on Sherlock Holmes.

Their case had gone on nearly a week and a half, had taken them all over London and had finally finished just over twenty four hours previous in a fight (argument, Sherlock would correct him) in an abandoned warehouse on the edge of the Thames.

Guns had been fired, and Sherlock had ended up with his arm in a sling. The other man would never be able to walk again though, and John had discovered that the budding relationship between himself and the world's only consulting detective had made him markedly more protective of his new lover, his partner.

That didn't mean he wouldn't kill him himself though.

In the last week and a half, John thought he'd probably managed to sleep five nights, and had run the rest of the time off cat naps and caffeine. So when they'd finally returned to the freezing cold flat, Sherlock sulking after being manhandled at the hospital, and John with a blinding headache from the strain on his body and the hospitals' fluorescent lights, he had been less than amused when he returned to the living room with tea to find Sherlock on his phone, actually talking to someone.

"What do you think you're doing?" he'd snapped, probably harsher than he'd intended, but Sherlock ignored him, and John took note of the smirk on his face, and a cold feeling settled in his stomach.

"Yes, no that's fine, I'll tell him."

The consulting detective hung up John's mobile and threw it on the chair as John watched the small object bounce off the union flag cushion.

"Sarah wants you in for some night work tonight, they've got a small flu outbreak, and I said it'd be fine."

John hadn't put the cups down yet, and now he didn't dare as he felt his face darken into an expression he hadn't worn since returning to England "You what?"

"Problem?"

There was a glint in the taller man's eyes and suddenly it hit John like a punch to the gut. This was payback for making the man go to the hospital. He dropped both mugs onto the coffee table, slopping the hot liquid everywhere and stalked up to his room to change clothes without another word. He'd have to deal with Sherlock later, but if there was a flu outbreak the overnight surgery would be flooded, and his new partner had just signed him up to working all damn night.

Yes, he'd protect that man to the ends of the earth; the only person allowed to kill Sherlock Holmes was him.

He'd worked till 6am, and Sarah had told him she could manage now, and she sent him home, a pitying look on her face. John sighed as he struggled to slip the key into the lock. He must look like hells, because he'd barely entered the surgery before she'd apologised and told him she should have known better than to trust Sherlock's word, but she really had been rushed off her feet.

John had brushed off her concern and gotten straight to work, but he'd secretly wished she'd turned him round and sent him home right there. He was so very far beyond tired now; he wasn't sure how he was going to get to sleep even if he could get the thrice damned door open.

He stumbled as it gave under a hard shove, the the doctor froze, listening for any sound that suggested he'd disturbed Mrs Hudson. Hearing only silence, he crept the rest of the way into the flat and pressed the door shut as softly as he could before sneaking just as softly up the stairs.

The door to 221B creaked and he slid through the smallest gap possible and leant against the door to shut it, resting his back against it and closing his eyes against the pitch black room with a relieved sigh. Home. Quiet. Peace. Lips... kissing...

He tensed before he realised that the lips pressing against his were familiar, and he melted against Sherlock's tall frame with a sigh. His brain had already switched off, so it took a few moments before John remembered why he was so tired, and why he was still furious with the consulting detective.

Then the man did that with his tongue, and John groaned, instantly forgiving him. It didn't mean he was awake though and with a sigh, pulled back from Sherlock, preparing to explain when hot lips dropped to trail along his neck.

"Sherlock-!"

The start of the sentence was cut short with a sharp gasp, and fingers clutched at the detective's bare shoulders when John felt teeth pressing tightly against his neck, and he bit his lips against another groan.

With supreme will power the doctor gently pushed Sherlock's taller frame away from him, and the harsh breathing of both men echoed round the dark room. Now his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, John could just make out Sherlock's features, and he shook his head softly.

"Not tonight, Sherlock-"

"What?"

The man tensed against his hands and his back straightened, but John simply frowned at the reaction.

"I said, not tonight."

"What do you mean, 'not tonight'?" Sherlock hissed, clearly offended "Do we need to schedule this in your diary, John?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Sherloc-"

"You're the one being ridiculous!"

"I am tired Sherlock!"

"Oh don't, I've solved too many cases of affairs that include those-"

"I'm beyond fucking tired! I'm exhausted, I'm ready to drop where I'm standing, I haven't slept properly in a week and a half, you nearly got shot, and then some idiot booked me a night shift at the surgery, Sherlock!" John hissed, suddenly furious at his utterly selfish flatmate, "I slept more than this in Afghanistan!"

"Well maybe you should go back there then..."

Pure, untouchable, silence descended over 221B Baker Street, and John was pleased to note that Sherlock looked as shell-shocked as John felt that those words had come from his mouth.

The consulting detective opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, but no other sound escaped him, and John's heavy, unsteady breathing was the only thing either of them could hear.

"Good night, Sherlock."

For the first time in two months, since the start of their budding relationship, John slept in the bedroom that he rented from Mrs Hudson.

If he hadn't passed out, he was certain he wouldn't have slept a wink.

Nearly 30 hours later, John woke up slowly, warm, content, rested, and with a blinding head.

'That's what you get for sleeping so long' he thought to himself as he managed to shuffle carefully down the stairs in search of tea and pain killers. Why had he slept so long? Usually Sherlock woke him with the violin, or a case, or out of sheer boredom.

Sherlock was lying on the sofa staring at the ceiling, glaring, as though their fight had only just finished, and John sighed; too early. He wasn't awake enough to deal with that problem yet. The first thing the doctor did was put the kettle on, and find the pain killers, and by the time he placed a cup on tea on the table next to Sherlock's sofa, he was feeling more awake.

"Making tea didn't disrupt any of you plans, I hope" Sherlock muttered and John froze, his hand still wrapped round the cup he'd just put down.

"I can pour it down the sink if it's a problem, Sherlock" he added softly, in a much calmer mood now he wasn't dizzy from exhaustion "Stop being dramatic, if I'd fallen asleep in the middle, you'd have been even more pissed off."

Surprising him, Sherlock pouted at his comment and sat up, accepting the tea with a quiet, and distinctly sulky "thanks", but the doctor let it go for the sake of peace.

Things went back to relative normality, and life continued at 221B, except John began to notice that Sherlock seemed to have taken his rebuff literally, and barely made contact anymore.

There was no more brush of fingers as they stood at crime scenes, and Sherlock made certain their legs didn't rest against each other in the taxi's, and when John tested his theory by dropping a soft kiss against Sherlock's lips, the detective has scowled, pulled back and muttered a soft but pointed,

"Not tonight, I'm tired"

John tensed unwillingly, and saw red. With a dark scowl of his own that he usually saved for unruly army recruits, he leant over Sherlock and pulled the man's chin round to stare into his steel grey eyes.

The man wasn't tired, there was no sigh of weariness in his face, but if Sherlock wanted to play this game, fine, John would play. He would win too.

"Yes, I can see how utterly exhausted you are, fine then, off to bed with you."

"Wha... What?" Sherlock managed to squeak as John snatched the book he'd been reading from the detectives' hands, marking the page and dropping it unceremoniously on the coffee table.

"You're shattered; it's obvious, so you're going to bed, and to sleep."

"I most certainly am not!"

John narrowed his eyes at him.

"Doctors orders, now move."

Sherlock folded his arms and sunk deeper into the sofa, only letting loose an utterly undignified squawk when John pulled him up from the sofa with the strength of a war veteran and literally dragged the protesting man to his bedroom.

"You told me you were tired, so this is what I prescribe – sleep!"

"John, you're being ridiculous-!"

"No, Sherlock," John snapped back, stopping outside the detective's bedroom and scowling at his now patient "You're being ridiculous, the only way to treat exhaustion is to sleep, so that's exactly what you're going to do."

"But I'm-"

The man cut himself off sharply and John raised an eyebrow. He knew Sherlock had been about to protest that he wasn't tired, and reveal his childish behaviour of the past couple of weeks, and watching him flounder for something to recover with was simply irritating.

John swung Sherlock's bedroom door open and dragged the now silent man into the room, kicking the door closed behind them.

The doctor released Sherlock and the detective stared at him, an expression in his eyes that John couldn't place as his spine straightened and he folded his arms.

"Well get into bed then."

"Like this?"

"Your pyjama's are on the bed, it's entirely your choice Sherlock, it's your room after all."

Sherlock was silent for a moment, studying John intently "You're staying?"

"I can't be certain you'll sleep if I don't, so yes, I'm staying."

Their eyes locked again, and John could feel the tension in the room rising, but his gaze hardened and Sherlock sighed, defeated, and turned to change. Acting as a doctor for the moment, John averted his gaze from Sherlock's stunning body as he shed his clothes to slip into the pyjama bottoms, but the stretching expanse of bare creamy chest wasn't doing anything for John's self control.

"In the bed, Sherlock."

The doctor caught the light shiver, and wondered if it was the temperature of the room or the command he'd been. He was tempted to find out as that lithe form climbing between the covers made his jeans rather uncomfortable, but now wasn't the time.

Once Sherlock was settled, John moved to the bed, and wrapped the bedcovers around the consulting detective securely. He'd worked in hospitals, even Sherlock would have trouble escaping from the trapped sheets, and the task of escaping the bed became practically impossible once John laid next to the man, on top of the sheets, pinning Sherlock to the bed.

With a small contented smile at Sherlock's stunned expression that was slowly turning furious, John sighed, and pressed his face into Sherlock's shoulder gently.

"You're tired, Sherlock, you said so yourself, so I suggest you go to sleep", not caring if Sherlock did as he said, John made the most of the extra rest at his flatmate's expense, and drifted into a light sleep of his own.

John woke to soft kisses pressing repeatedly against his lips every couple of minutes or so, and it slowly brought him back to consciousness until he returned the pressure, keeping the lips there longer than the brief brushes to wake him up.

When the lips drew back and John opened his blue eyes he came face to face with Sherlock.

"Sorry."

John blinked slowly, not entirely sure he'd heard correctly.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock muttered again, clearly not enjoying having to repeat himself.

"I shouldn't have said ... what I did, or reacted-"

John kissed the man, who responded as well as he could still stuck beneath the covers, and when John felt Sherlock twitch trying to escape the fabric and groan in frustration, he pulled back laughing a little.

"Got the point of this little sleepover then?"

"It wasn't difficult to deduce that being tired requires sleep, John."

"And yet, this was what I was reduced to."

"I didn't say I paid attention to my deductions" Sherlock admitted reluctantly after a tense silence, and he bit his lip.

"You don't have to say it again", the doctor cut off Sherlock's third apology and Sherlock looked relieved, and murmured a soft "come to bed?" instead.

John didn't need to be told twice, and stripped his jeans and jumper, before swiftly sliding between the covers and tangling legs with Sherlock, their lips crashing together like magnets and drawing soft sighs, and indecent groans from the both of them

"So... Not tonight, literally means-"

"Not tonight... yeah"

Sherlock grinned "Good to know"

At that point words were abandoned, and their conversation continued in a private language all their own, involving tongues, and teeth and the many tones of gasps and hisses that only the two men in the bedroom could translate accurately.