It was three o'clock in the morning and Sherlock Holmes couldn't sleep. He had spent the last 40 minutes laying on his left side, willing his mind to stop whirring but on it went. He groaned, flipped onto his right side and punched his pillow twice before flopping back down again. He tucked his right hand under his cheek, closed his eyes and breathed slowly in and out through his nose. He peeked one eye open. It was only five minutes past three. The long shadows on his walls danced in the light from the lamps outside and the occasional headlights from a vehicle making its way down the street.

He growled and closed his eyes again. He started to recite the Greek alphabet backwards to himself while he breathed slowly. It was admittedly a rather pedestrian sleep tactic but Mycroft had taught him to do it when they were boys.

Omega, Psi, Chi, Phi, Upsilon, Tau, Sigma…

Somewhere on Baker Street, a neighbor's dog began to howl. A beagle from the sound of it. Sherlock heard the dog howling and decided he needed to have his water bowl filled – the animal was loud but sounded hoarse.

Sherlock cleared his throat and resumed.

Rho, Pi, Omicron, Xi, Nu, Mu…

A car backfired just outside his window. He grunted again and rolled to his back. His mind diagnosed the car backfire (faulty catalytic converter) while he tried to concentrate on his breathing.

Lambda, Kappa, Iota, Theta, Eta, Zeta, Epsilon, Delta, Gamma, BETA, ALPHA!"

He realized he was reciting them out loud and decided to give up on the entire enterprise. He sat up and eyed the clock.

Ten minutes past three.

"That's it. I'm done." He stretched his arms above his head. He considered frivolities like sleeping and eating to be wastes of time anyway. He was also pleased that Mycroft's go-to insomnia remedy didn't work on him. Smaller minds such as his brothers' were susceptible to easier methods.

His stomach gurgled as if begging for attention. What was it? Tuesday? Wednesday? He'd last eaten a real meal on Saturday. He and John had taken afternoon tea with Mrs. Hudson and later that same evening he ate John's leftovers taken home from his birthday dinner Friday night.

His stomach gurgled again. With so much going on in the life of the only Consulting Detective in the world, he could hardly be expected to remember inconvenient minutia like eating every day. Stretching again, he placed his bare feet on the floor and rose carefully. His stomach protested loudly, perhaps a nosh was in order.

It wasn't until he tried to stand at his full height that he noticed the other bodily inconvenience that plagued him. He adjusted himself and threw his blue silk dressing gown over his shoulders to block the pre-dawn morning chill. His stomach and member both throbbed as he shuffled his feet to the kitchen. First a cup of tea, a piece of toast, or perhaps a slice of the strawberry rhubarb pie Mrs. Hudson has sent up for John's birthday. Once his hunger was abated, Sherlock could attend to his other problem.

He knew perfectly well the cause of his insomnia. The cause was about five-foot-six and a half inches tall and sleeping in the upstairs bedroom. Sherlock had been instantly attracted to his flatmate the moment he saw him enter the laboratory at St. Bart's with Mike Stamford. When John agreed to move into the flat on Baker Street and Sherlock found how truly keen John was to assist him in cases as well as how adept he was, Sherlock felt as though he ought to send Stamford a gift.

He didn't know what manner of gift was appropriate for that sort of thing and since the only person Sherlock had to ask was John himself, he merely sent a text:

John is proving to be a more than adequate flatmate. If you're ever in need of services, please do stop by. SH

He supposed he could have asked Mrs. Hudson but then he'd have to explain exactly why he felt the need to thank the man who'd introduced him to John and he was sure the dear old woman would immediately see through his subterfuge.

She'd come up to the flat the previous evening about an hour and a half after John and the new woman he'd been seeing left for their date.

"I thought you could use the company." She simply said holding up a carton of raspberry ripple and an ice cream scoop.

He snarled, "What makes you think I want company? I don't. There's far too often one person too many in this room." He gestured to the sitting room.

Mrs. Hudson's voice took on a scolding tone, "Really Sherlock. You mustn't speak that way of John. Where would you be without him?" She made her way past him and entered the kitchen.

"I don't mean John!" Sherlock shouted louder than he meant to. Mrs. Hudson's face suddenly expressed that she understood.

"I meant, her." Sherlock snarled. "Julia. She's no good for him. She can't make him happy, not like I…" He'd gone too far, said too much.

Mrs. Hudson said nothing. She carried two heaping bowls of ice cream to the table in the sitting room. She avoided sitting in John's seat and patted the arm of Sherlock's chair, bidding him to sit with her.

"I think Julia is rather pleasant, dear." She offered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes like a petulant teenaged girl.

"You're missing the point, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock said dramatically flopping into his chair. He took a spoonful of ice cream and spoke in spite of having his mouth full.

"I never said she wasn't pleasant." He wrinkled up his nose as if the word itself smelled rank.

"John needs more than 'pleasant'. He needs adventure - danger, even. He ought to have a partner that challenges him intellectually and morally. John's a war hero for Christ's sake. He can't be satisfied by weekly jaunts to the cinema or boring candlelit dinners at the same boring Indian restaurant. Julia doesn't even know that he hates Indian food. It wreaks havoc with his digestion. At this rate, he'll eat himself halfway to esophageal ulcers by the time she tires of him and he'll go all to pieces."

Sherlock was standing on his chair, half-empty bowl of ice cream in one hand, spoon in the other. Melting ice cream was dripping down his arm. He realized where he was, gave a sheepish look to Mrs. Hudson and sat again.

Mrs. Hudson's careworn face sported a pitiable expression.

"I thought as much." She said after a few silent moments.

"Thought what?" He shoved a spoonful into his mouth.

She cocked her head at him, "Oh, my dear Sherlock. You're in love with John." She motioned to place her hand on his arm, but seemed to think better of it.

Her words stunned him momentarily and his jaw went slack. He hadn't considered it would be obvious to anyone else. He'd only recently admitted it to himself. Clearing his throat, he shoveled more raspberry ripple into his mouth.

"You can tell?" His voice had wilted to that of a wounded child. He sighed heavily and dropped his chin to his chest.

Mrs. Hudson's heart ached for him. She crouched next to him and gripped his forearms. She watched as his shoulders shuddered as if he were trying to suppress a sob.

"Sherlock, you are the most brilliant man on the planet, how can you be so utterly ignorant on matters of the heart?"

He sniffled and took a drink of air that made him cough slightly.

"What do you mean?" he asked, narrowing his eyes at her. She paused thoughtfully and wet her lips.

"Sherlock, it is not my place to share any confidences I happen to keep; with you or with John." She paused and looked away briefly but when she looked back at him she held his pale eyes as she spoke.

"You ought to tell him how you feel. His reaction may not be what you think."

Sherlock coughed again and it turned to a sardonic laugh.

"Oh, yes. That is a truly brilliant plan, Mrs. Hudson. I should tell my friend – my best friend, my flatmate and my business partner, as it were, that I'm sexually attracted to him. He'll no doubt swoon and leap into my arms. We'll spend three weeks in bed together, dash off to City Hall to get married and retire to a coastal hamlet to raise purebred Yorkshire terriers and a menagerie of adopted orphans. You really should be the Consulting Detective and I the landlady, your plan is so remarkable I can't see what could possibly go wrong besides EVERYTHING!" He bellowed. Mrs. Hudson went back to her seat and nervously stirred the remaining ice cream in her bowl.

Sherlock paced as continued to rant at a frantic pace. He paused only to point at her or at the ceiling to emphasize a point.

"Do you know what will happen if I tell him? I'll tell you. He'll stumble adorably through a few sentiments: 'it's fine that you're gay. My sister Harry's gay. But I'm not. I enjoy our relationship as it is, let's remain friends.' Then, slowly…" Sherlock hugged himself. "Everything will change. A wall will form between us. Brick by brick every time there's an uncomfortable silence, or if he catches me looking at him or if I touch him in a friendly way he'll retreat and slowly but surely, the wall will be built until the day comes that it's so high, I won't be able to see him over it. There'll be nothing left of us and he'll move out." Sherlock sighed, deflated. "He'll promise to keep in touch, to call or get together but we won't. Our entire dynamic will cease to exist and I'd rather pine after someone I can't have in close proximity rather than lose him bit by bit."

He finally collapsed into his chair, exhausted. Mrs. Hudson put her hand on his and squeezed.

"Or, you could tell him and see what he says."

They sat there looking at each other in silence until they heard keys turning in the lock. Sherlock's eyes snapped to the door and leapt from his seat to feign looking out the window upon seeing John and Julia enter.

"Oh, hello Mrs. Hudson." John said pleasantly. "You remember Julia." The two women exchanged friendly smiles as Mrs. Hudson stood and collected he bowls. John saw the ice cream carton on the kitchen counter.

"Ooh, raspberry ripple! My favorite."

Mrs. Hudson put the bowls and spoons in the sink and picked up the carton.

"All out I'm afraid, John." She gave him a peck on the cheek and waved to Julia as she went to slip out of the flat.

"Sherlock, think about what I've said." He snorted in reply and looked away. In that moment, she knew an actual rabid raccoon would be elected PM before he would take her advice. She stepped out the door and they heard her footfalls fade away as she went down the stairs.

"What did I miss?" John asked suspiciously.

"Oh, erm – Mrs. Hudson just wanted to talk about a case. Her case." Sherlock said nervously. He shoved his hands in his pockets and crossed back over to stand behind his chair.

"She has a case?" John asked, gesturing over his shoulder in the direction of the front door.

"Hmm? Oh, yes. A case, a very complicated case…involving her…son." Sherlock lied. He was trying to appear casual so he plopped down sideways, dangling his long legs over the arm of this chair.

"Her…her son?" John looked over his shoulder. "She hasn't got a son." He knit his eyebrows together – why would Sherlock lie about something like that?

"Ah, yes. Um…as I've said, very complicated. Her son was never born. There. I've solved it." He hopped to his feet and made toward his bedroom.

"Goodnight, John. Julia, always a pleasure." He slammed his bedroom door and left them agape without a backward look.

"What in the hell was that about?" Julia asked laughing.

"That," John said flourishing his arms in the air like the Ring Master at a circus, "was the great Sherlock Holmes. Welcome to my world." Dropping his arms by his side, he shook his head and laughed. As usual Sherlock couldn't behave himself and left John annoyed, amused and apologetic.

Julia entered the kitchen and took a bottle of white wine off the rack.

"Care for a glass?" she asked.

"Oh, ta. Yes." John replied smiling. He fished the corkscrew out of a drawer and handed it to her before retrieving two glasses from the cupboard.

"John, why do I feel like we've interrupted something?" Julia asked pouring the wine.

"Because we've interrupted something." He said simply. He nodded with a smile as Julia handed him a glass. He turned to look at Sherlock's closed door. He pursed his lips together and absentmindedly swirled the wine glass in his hand. Julia tucked her feet under her bum as she sat in Sherlock's chair and switched on the television. She awkwardly stared at the back of John's head, waiting.

"Excuse me a moment, will you?" He asked politely. "I've got to ask him a question." He gestured towards Sherlock's room. She gave him a knowing smile and nodded.

John rapped his knuckles on Sherlock's door.

"Sherlock, it's me. Erm – may I?" There was no response but John turned the knob and peeked the door open.

Sherlock was sitting on his bed in a meditation position with his eyes closed but he didn't seem to be wandering the halls of his Mind Palace.

"Erm – Sherlock? Mate, are you alright?" John asked as he closed the door behind him.

"Ah, the most banal of questions." Sherlock replied.

John clicked his tongue in annoyance and rolled his eyes. The room was quite dark and there was a warm, inviting smell in the air that John recognized as Sherlock's aftershave lotion.

"Banal or otherwise, I know you better than you think. Raspberry ripple? You're upset about something so what's going on?"

"Just having some dessert with Mrs. Hudson. That's all." Sherlock steepled his fingers under his nose, his forefingers pressed against the Cupid's bow of his lips.

John narrowed his eyes at him. "You only eat that flavor when something is bothering you. You told me that the first time I brought some home. I told you it was my favorite and you remarked that I had the palate of a teenaged girl." John said smirking at the memory. "It's your favorite too but you don't eat it unless you have a problem – that's how you console yourself."

"Isn't it rude to abandon your girlfriend during a date?" Sherlock stretched his legs out in front of him.

"Sherlock, you're deflecting." He took a step closer to the bed and crossed his arms over his chest. "And I haven't abandoned her, I came in to talk to you."

Sherlock saw the wine glass. "White wine? You hate white wine. You've told me many times. You only drink red wine and you hate Indian food. It gives you horrific heartburn and makes you outrageously flatulent."

John sighed and put his glass down on the dresser. "Never you mind my flatulence!" he shouted, instantly wishing he hadn't said it quite so loudly. Regaining his composure he began again.

"This is madness. I have a perfectly nice companion for the evening out there waiting for me, yet here I am with you." John spat.

"Then go. Go. I had no intention of distracting you from your carnal pursuits." Sherlock replied coldly.

John pulled a surprised face. "Carnal purs – Sherlock you almost sound jealous!" He put his hands on his hips.

Sherlock turned from him and stood staring out the window.

"For your information – not that this is any of your fucking business – but Julia and I have not slept together. I haven't got off with anyone since I moved into this flat – to the point that I'm beginning to think it's cursed." His face was red and his eyes were fiercely blue.

"Oh please John. Why would you lie to me? She's spent the night. I've pulled long hair from drain in the shower." Sherlock retorted.

"That doesn't mean anything." John said through gritted teeth.

Sherlock laughed sarcastically. "So these chaste sleepovers of yours – what do you do all night? Play cribbage?"

"We…talk and go to sleep." John said after a pause. The flush in his face was slowly retreating back down below his collar.

"How quaint."

"Quite." John sighed. "Julia is Catholic, ok Sherlock? She's traditional. And it's fine with me." John defiantly took a sip of the almost forgotten glass of wine. Sherlock caught him wincing at the taste.

"So, let me get this sorted." He began taking steps across the room towards John. "You are eating food you hate which exacerbates a medical condition that you are very well aware of and it gives you painful acid reflux. You're drinking wine you do not like for no reason other than she likes it and you're too timid to tell her that you simply prefer something else. She bores you to tears and can't carry a stimulating enough conversation and to top it all off, you're not even sleeping with her? John, I do not claim to be any authority on human interpersonal relationships but something is not quite right here…"

They were only a few steps apart. Sherlock laughed at John's reaction. He was slack jawed and confused as if he'd never put all the pieces together. John very much wanted to argue to the contrary but he couldn't find a single reason to defend his relationship with Julia. She was a perfectly nice person but she was boring, as much as John hated to admit it. The longer John thought about it, the fewer commonalities he could come up with.

"My dear John." Sherlock said laughing. He wrapped his arms around John and hugged him tight. When he let go, their faces were a breath apart. Sherlock could smell the white wine on John's breath and John made no attempt to pull away.

Sherlock clapped his eyes on John's face and he swore he saw John wet his lips in anticipation. John still hadn't moved a single muscle until Sherlock cleared his throat and it was as if a spell were broken. John ran his hand through his hair.

"You…you are a…" John said sighing.

"I know." Sherlock replied with a smile.

"I walked in here with a sodding girlfriend." John said laughing.

Sherlock smiled "Always happy to help, John." Soon he too was laughing.

John shook his head in disbelief but Sherlock could see the relief written all over his face.

"You know…" John began before leaving. Sherlock looked up.

"If anything is wrong, you can talk about it."

Sherlock nodded. "I know."

John looked up at the ceiling and sighed.

"I mean it. If you have a problem, all you need do is talk about it."

Sherlock nodded. John turned for the door and just as his hand grasped the knob, he turned back.

"Out loud. You can talk out loud about any problem you have."

"Thank you, John."

John pursed his lips together and opened the door, quickly shutting it again.

"And just so we're crystal clear – you can talk about anything that's bothering you out loud to me. All you need do is open your mouth while I'm within earshot and speak." He stared at Sherlock to make sure he'd made his point.

"Much obliged." Sherlock thought he'd leave but it appeared that John had something else to say. Or do. He stood there patiently waiting with his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels. After a few moments, it was clear that John was waiting for Sherlock to speak first.

At last, John simply smirked at Sherlock and walked out of the room shaking his head and he pulled the door shut behind him. Sherlock placed his ear to the door to eavesdrop on the upcoming exchange between John and Julia.

"Bloody thick door…" he complained, the voices were muffled. He quickly searched for a drinking glass to aid in his eavesdropping but clearly Mrs. Hudson had been in and cleared all of them out of his room. At that moment, the conversation on the other side of the door grew progressively louder, so he jumped back to the door to listen.

"I didn't know you didn't like it! Why didn't you tell me? We could have gone somewhere else!"

"I tried to tell you! I didn't want to hurt your feelings. I suggested ten other restaurants – you insisted! You kept banging on about it being 'our place'!"

"It was our place!"

"Well our place gives me extreme digestive distress!"

Sherlock heard the distinctive sound of a slap and suddenly his door was flung open. Julia stood there fuming. Her nostrils flared, her hair was tousled and her cheeks were bright red. He moved to speak but her hand flew across his face, delivering a hard slap.

Without another word, she turned on her heel, grabbed her purse from the sitting room table and left the flat with a slammed door. Three pictures fell off the walls and the glass shattered.

John and Sherlock looked at each other rubbing their left cheeks. They began to laugh.

"I'm not certain I deserved that." Sherlock said.

"I am." John laughed "If not for this, for something else." Sherlock watched as John downed the entire glass of wine Julia had left on the table in the sitting room. He grimaced.

"Bloody awful stuff." That is when Sherlock saw John do the thing that was keeping him awake.

John licked his bottom lip, untucked his dress shirt and pulled it over his head. He winked at Sherlock, and called him a git. His undershirt had partially lifted up over his chest and John pulled it down again.

"Thanks for that, by the way. My ulcer thanks you, too." John playfully tossed his shirt in Sherlock's face before saying good night. Moments later Sherlock heard John's footfalls climbing the stairs up to his own bedroom.

Now, several hours later, Sherlock had been laying in his bed trying not to look at John's shirt, which he'd draped over the chair at his desk.

"Why would he do that?" He pondered as he made himself some tea.

He clearly wasn't loaning Sherlock the shirt, the sleeves would be far too short. It smelled heavily of John; his cologne, whatever that product was he used in his hair and the most arousing scent of all – John's skin. Sherlock often inhaled the earthy scent John exuded when he was sweaty. It was that scent which truly aroused him at the beginning of their relationship. Back when they first met, John's psychosomatic limp kept him walking two steps behind Sherlock but he never complained or asked him to walk slower, John would walk faster to compensate. As a result, Sherlock grew quite accustomed to the scent of John sweating.

Sherlock poured the hot water from the electric kettle a split second (by his count) before the kettle would whistle and possibly disturb John. He opened the fridge and smiled to see the strawberry rhubarb pie. John had cut it in half and stuck a note to the cling film over one half of it:

Sherlock-

As this is my birthday pie, all I ask is that you only eat your half. Failure to leave me half of my own pie will result in my putting my foot up your skinny, posh arse.

John

Sherlock grinned wider, removed the glass pie plate and thrust a fork into it. He grabbed his tea and went back to his room.

He toed the door shut and sat on the edge of his bed eating the pie as the tea went cold on his nightstand. He was finishing the half that John had claimed as his own while staring at the blue dress shirt.

"Why would he throw this at me?" Sherlock pondered. "Does he want me to wash it? It's too small for me to wear and anyway, he looks better in this shade of blue that I do." He balanced the pie dish on his knee as he leaned forward and pulled the shirt from the chair, feeling the soft cotton against his palms.

He took a sip of the now tepid tea and scowled. Unsure of how long he'd been eating and contemplating, Sherlock checked the clock, it was a quarter to 5. He lifted John's shirt to his nose. He inhaled the intoxicating aroma of the older soldier who was distracting him from his usual routine. He closed his eyes and breathed in John's scent down to his toes. The butterflies in his stomach sent pleasurable tingling sensations further south and he was once again, erect. Sherlock stared down at the bulge in his pajamas. He puzzled, trying to recall the last time someone – anyone - of any sex or gender caught his attention in this way.

Sherlock Holmes was not the sort of man to have a particular "type" in a sexual partner. He found certain people attractive, alluring; even fascinating. The Woman, for instance. Irene Adler. She'd caught him so off guard and was so aggressive in her flirtations Sherlock was certain he was the only man or woman who'd ever turned her down. The sex would have been wild and exciting, he was certain but like any other past time, Sherlock was also certain the excitement would fade with time and he'd rather be able to think of Irene and have the fantasy unspoilt. And of course there was dear Molly Hooper, who was clearly harboring a crush on him could be his in an instant if he chose to flirt back. But Molly was far too sensitive a person to become involved with. John wasn't afraid to call Sherlock out on his bullshit, Molly would go along with whatever lunacy Sherlock sank to. Molly wouldn't have been able to handle Sherlock at his worst the way John could. And thus, it all circled back to Dr. John Hamish Watson, the unconventionally handsome and uncommonly brave (even for a soldier) man Sherlock found himself infatuated with.

Sherlock always viewed sentimentality as a weakness. It was a burden not worth baring. Sentimental people sometimes made sentimental choices that got their hearts pulverized, or worse. John had opened Sherlock's eyes to the positive side of that emotion, even if it diluted one's judgement and ability to make the otherwise cold, plain, obvious deductions.

He took one final bite of the pie and lay back on his bed holding John's shirt to his face. His head went foggy with arousal and he was about to give in to his human condition and pleasure himself when he heard a hard thunk from above his head. Then there was another. The fantasy about John was going to have to wait. He took only a moment to selfishly stow the dress shirt into his pillowcase before he dashed across the sitting room and up the stairs. He took two stairs at a time climbing swiftly and quietly to John's room. He heard John grunting through the closed door so he thrust his shoulder into it and flung it open, hoping to catch the assailant off guard. Instead, he heard John's familiar voice and knocked him on his arse.

"Sherlock Holmes what the bloody hell are you doing? Couldn't you have knocked?!" John jumped up to his feet.

Sherlock didn't know what to say. "Oh – I – I'm terribly sorry John. I heard a noise and I thought – I thought…"

"What? That I was being attacked?" John asked sounding angry. Sherlock nodded and John's face became less angry.

"Well, erm, thanks." John rubbed the back of his neck. "Sorry I woke you. I was doing my usual morning exercises. You've never told me you could hear me before. I'll go for a run or something instead."

"You didn't wake me. I haven't been to bed. Well I have – I've been in bed, just not…sleeping."

John's face was a mixed up expression of annoyance, amusement and confusion.

"Yes. Well. Sorry to hear that. I'll just go for that run, then." John took a step back. Until that moment, Sherlock hadn't noticed John uncommon state of undress. His chest was bare and the tight joggers he was wearing left very little to the imagination. The star-shaped keloid scar on his shoulder stood out; an angry pink against his pale chest. John watched Sherlock's Adam's apple rise and fall as he swallowed slowly.

Sherlock fixed his eyes on John's gold chain bearing a round, gold medal displaying the image of St. Michael. It bounced lightly off of John's pale chest as he walked to his dresser and pulled on a t-shirt. John never took that chain off, which pleased Sherlock immensely.

He'd searched for weeks to find exactly the right image of the saint on a medal for John's birthday the previous year. He finally found it just three days before the birthday dinner in a small shop in the East End. The medal showed the archangel, wings spread wide, wearing armor, carrying his shield and holding his sword aloft as if to warn his enemies that there was still time to turn back – that only defeat and death awaited them if they proceeded with their attack. Most of the other depictions Sherlock found showed St. Michael in the midst of battle with the Devil. The angel stood above the demon ready to strike a deathblow to evil with his sword.

Sherlock had the reverse side engraved:

Sancte Michel : cum homo hoc custodire non

Sherlock didn't actually go to the birthday dinner of course but Mrs. Hudson promised to give John the gift and take the credit.

The morning after the dinner, Sherlock caught sight of the chain when John dropped his keys and the medal fell out from under his t-shirt as he bent over to retrieve them. He had also taken to fiddling with the medal when he was thinking, as if it were a talisman capable of bestowing wisdom on its owner.

John was pulling his trainers on when Sherlock realized he'd been saying something but he had no clue what it was.

"Sherlock? Hello? Are you in?" John asked teasingly.

Sherlock coughed. "Sorry, I was elsewhere. Thinking." He then mumbled something barely comprehensible about being tired.

John's face shifted into Dr. Watson mode watching the light flash in and out in Sherlock's eyes. He took his wrist and felt for his pulse, keeping an eye on the second hand of his watch. He then placed the back of his hand to Sherlock's forehead and used a small pocket light on his keyring to check his pupils.

"Is there a bed chamber in your Mind Palace?" John asked teasingly.

Sherlock was too tired to retort but whenever he'd retreated to that particular corner of his Mind Palace, John was always there waiting for him and there was never any resting involved.

"You need sleep mate. Honestly. Do you want to have a lie down here?" John gestured to his bed.

Sherlock began to mumble a protest but his knees were shaking. This really began to worry the good doctor.

"Sher-Sherlock?! What have you taken? Tell me, are you on anything? Don't lie, this is important." John caught his friend before he could tumble to the floor and half-carried, half- dragged him to the bed. John checked Sherlock's arms for marks and used his fingers to pry open his friends' eyelids to look at his pupils again.

"Just sleep…need to sleep." Sherlock mumbled. "I'm fine. Go run. I'll be fine by the time you get back."

John frowned at him. "Are you certain?" he asked but got no reply. His friend was sleeping.

He felt at Sherlock's neck for a pulse and put his hand down the front of Sherlock's shirt to feel his heartbeat. John pushed the wild curls from Sherlock's forehead and was surprised to see the twitching eyelids indicative of REM sleep. He exhaled deeply and decided that it was extreme fatigue and not some self-inflicted drug addled chaos Sherlock had succumbed to.

He pulled a set of earbuds from his coat pocket and plugged them into his phone while pulling up a playlist. He selected a song and pushed the earbuds into place. He cast one last look at Sherlock before closing the door behind him.