I didn't plan on adding to this but it just...happened. So here, take it and run.

For John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, sleeping in the afternoon was not a rare occurrence.

Sometimes a case would leave them running around London all night, only allowing them sleep the next day, sometimes Sherlock kept them both up the whole night for this reason or that, and then sometimes it just happened—such as today.

Although it was initially Sherlock who fell asleep, John had followed him into his bedroom and slowly drifted off into his own slumber with the detective's curls tucked snugly under his chin.

John didn't deny that he was tired, too. Sherlock knew that and only pressed himself closer to the detective.

It was around three o'clock in the afternoon by the time they had both drifted off. John had made earlier plans to go to the pub with Greg later that night, but because of Sherlock's awkward sleeping habits and his inability to decline the offer he'd forgotten to text the D.I. that he might not make it in time.

•••

"Oh, hello Greg," Mrs. Hudson chirped as she opened the door to a drained detective inspector.

"Hello, Mrs. H," he said monotonously. He threaded his fingers through his grey hair and suppressed a sigh. It had been a long afternoon.

"The boys should be up there," Mrs. Hudson commented, and then added, "You're going to the pub with John tonight, aren't you?"

Lestrade offered a small smile and nodded.

"Go right up then, dear."

Greg took the stairs by two. Although his head was a mess and his body was nagging with a certain type of guilt, he pushed on and stepped into the flat. His eyes roamed around the disheveled room (noting that Sherlock must have been in quite the mood that week) and spotted no detective, nor doctor. "Anybody home?" he called futilely, for there was no response.

Greg took it to himself to walk into the kitchen, which too was empty. He popped open the fridge, reassured himself that everything was okay after he'd spotted the fragment of a corpse, and snatched an apple. He took a healthy bite as he tapped on Sherlock's door.

Again, no response.

He clasped onto the door handle and pushed slightly. He was hoping Sherlock was in here, doing whatever the bloody hell he was doing, so he could figure out where John was. Instead, as he peaked his head in, he found both Sherlock and John, entangled in a mess of limbs, sleeping soundly.

Greg had to bite his tongue so as to not chuckle.

He checked his watch. A quarter to seven. He'd told John earlier that he'd be at the flat at seven thirty. He didn't see why popping in earlier would be so bad…until now. Greg flicked on the lights and grumbled, "Wake-y, wake-y."

Sherlock's eyes flickered open and Greg could see the panic wash through his very bones within the instance. Lestrade had known about their relationship for quite the time now, but he had never seen them so…intimate.

John followed soon after, once Sherlock had nudged him with a loose elbow. "Oh my god," he managed as he sat up, "Greg?"

"Rise and shine, good-looking," he mumbled through a bite of his apple before chuckling light-heartedly to himself.

John glanced at his clock and then looked back at the D.I. "I thought you were going to come at seven thirty."

"Yeah, well my wife 'an I got into a bit of a fight. Needed to get out of the house. Came early." He raised his eyebrow and then watched Sherlock as he pushed his hair out of his eyes and slipped out of bed. "Didn't know what I was walking in on. Sorry."

"About going to the pub tonight, I take it," Sherlock deduced groggily as he fidgeted with a vial on his wardrobe.

Greg had learned a long time ago that with Sherlock it was just best not to ask how he'd known things. So he didn't.

"Give me a minute to change and we'll go," said John, who swung his legs to the side of the bed and pushed himself off the mattress. Greg nodded and sluggishly walked out of the room.

•••

As Sherlock shrugged on his dressing gown, John fumbled in his drawers for a decent shirt to wear to the pub. He could hear Lestrade musing about in their sitting room—fiddling with the television stations, poking around Sherlock's discarded experiments—but he couldn't help but wonder: did Greg find what he walked in on odd?

Sure, walking in on your two best mates sleeping in bed together was not a common occurrence, but he had known about their change in relationship a while ago. Did he find it repulsive?

"There's no point," Sherlock said from the edge of the mattress. He was seated with his knees tucked against his chest, arms wrapped around his legs, and his chin resting atop his knees.

"Hmm?"

"Worrying over what Lestrade thinks."

John frowned as he pulled on a burgundy cardigan and glanced around for his shoes. He wasn't surprised Sherlock had figured out his thoughts, the detective was gentle with it. He didn't persecute John for having them, but was trying to comfort the doctor in his own, peculiar way.

"If he really was unnerved by it he would've left. He's still a bit on-edge about his wife. Like I said…no point in agonizing." John could see Sherlock's sleep-induced curls frizzing near his eyebrows and his normally sapphire eyes cooling to a drained grey. He couldn't remember the last time the violinist had slept before that day. John smiled. If it took Sherlock practically passing out on top of John for him to get sleep, he was okay with it. It helped him and John couldn't see any downsides with Sherlock being less antsy.

"Could you try and get some sleep while I'm out?" John asked quietly as he glided on his watch, "For me, at least."

Sherlock skimmed his eyes up at John and made an ambiguous noise. Apparently not.

But, on the other hand, John knew that once he was back home, Sherlock would find comfort in his arms and would calm down enough to sleep. He didn't need to worry with this, either.

"Go," Sherlock mumbled from behind his pajama pants. He gazed at John with large, childlike eyes.

"I'll be home before midnight. Hopefully."

"I know."

John made his way over to press his mouth to Sherlock's temple before leaving with the detective inspector.