Hello, all! This is actually a ficlet that I wrote a while ago and published on Tumblr. I went through it again recently and really want to turn it into a series! For those of you eagerly awaiting an update to my Potterlock fic, I sincerely apologize. You have nooooo idea how guilty I feel about having let that fic go for so long without an update. I promise I'm working on the next chapter! I just started my second semester of college and I have a lot more free time this semester compared to last. I'm going to try and keep on a regular schedule now!

Anyhow, I hope you all enjoy this ficlet as much as I enjoyed writing it!

John knew that Sherlock was a stubborn man. Of course he knew that. The self-proclaimed consulting detective was even more stubborn when he was on cases. He refused to eat. Refused to sleep. Refused to acknowledge that his body was anything except for "transport." One of these days, he was going to collapse on a crime scene or get himself admitted to the hospital. John tried his best to get him to eat when he could. He managed to get a piece of toast in him every now and then, but that wasn't enough to fuel his body. It was something though, and John prided himself on every time he managed to get Sherlock to eat something.

Getting him to sleep was a completely different story. John wasn't even sure if he'd ever seen Sherlock sleep in his bed in the whole time they lived together. Only on two separate occasions had he caught the man sleeping. One time was in the back of a cab. Sherlock had had two cases in a row. One that had stretched on for six days and the next for three. A total of nine days without sleep. His body had simply refused to keep going and the moment he'd slid into the back of the cab he'd been practically comatose, his head resting on John's shoulder. Sherlock had drooled on his shoulder, but John didn't wake him up until they were home. The second time he'd seen Sherlock sleeping had been on the sofa in the living room of Baker Street. John had gotten up especially early that morning. He had an early shift at the surgery and had to be there at five in the morning. He'd come downstairs to find Sherlock sprawled out on the sofa. One of his arms was hanging off the edge of the couch, fingers touching the floor. His lips were parted just enough for a soft snore to sound through the room. John couldn't help but find the noise endearing. He'd covered the detective with a blanket and then went on his way.

Lately though, John had started noticing a pattern. After a rough string of cases or a particularly challenging one, Sherlock would go to the kitchen table and start on an experiment. John never understood why. The man was clearly exhausted. But he refused to go to bed. Even with John's gentle prodding. Only if the detective was practically dead on his feet would he go immediately to his bedroom. John was determined to get to the bottom of this odd occurrence.

John hadn't discovered what was going on though on purpose. No, it had been a complete and utter accident. John had said goodnight to Sherlock four hours ago. Their case hadn't been particularly hard to figure out, but it had required a load of physical exertion. John was sore from head to toe and exhausted, but his mind wouldn't let him sleep. Every time he closed his eyes he could see the sands of Afghanistan and smelled blood and sand. He wasn't sure what had triggered this, but he was hoping a cup of tea would help him.

He walked down the stairs quietly, his bad leg falling a bit heavier on the steps than usual. When he entered the kitchen he saw that Sherlock was still at his microscope. Exactly where he'd left him. "Sherlock, you should head to bed." he said, brushing past him and to the kettle. Sherlock didn't respond, but that was normal for him. John ignored him as well for a few moments, busying himself with making tea. "You want a cup?" he asked, turning around to face his friend.

It was then that he noticed Sherlock's face was almost perfectly lax. No look of concentration on his face at all. And in fact, it didn't even look like his eyes were open. He was sleeping sitting up! John had to make sure he was right though and he could only thing of one way to do that. Being very quiet and very careful, he took a few steps up to the kitchen table. He reached carefully around the sleeping detective and carefully pulled the glass slide from the stage clips.

Sherlock didn't make a noise of protest. In fact, he snored.

John couldn't help but laugh and then carefully inspected the slide. Whatever it was, it wasn't important. Sherlock wasn't even on a case. He carefully washed it off in hot water and then sat it on the kitchen counter. Once his tea was done he leaned against the counter and just watched the ridiculous man in front of him.

John was almost finished with his tea when Sherlock's head eventually lulled to the side. He nearly smacked his forehead off of the kitchen table. He picked himself back up in a rush and put his eyes back to the eyepiece. "Have a nice nap?" John asked.

Sherlock jumped at the sound of John's voice, eyes shooting over to see him leaning comfortably against the counter. His eyes then narrowed and he tried to busy himself with his experiment. "I was not napping." he replied stubbornly.

"Sherlock, you were snoring."

"Was not."

"Were too!" John said, a bit of a smile spreading across his face. Honestly, Sherlock was worse than a child.

"You don't have any proof." he said indignantly. He was perched at his microscope, looking as if nothing had happened.

"Yes I do." John said smugly and sat his mug down to pick up the glass slide.

Sherlock turned his gaze over to John, to his microscope, and back to John once more before his eyes widened fractionally. "H-How…?" the man stuttered.

"Gotchya."