A/N: I wrote this after the release of the first movie, then allowed it to sit in my computer gathering dust. And shame on me. One shot, pre-slash. I don't own Holmes or Watson or Mary or any of it. But it's brilliant.

Watson didn't know what had awakened him. He lay in his bed staring across the room at the small window, its darkness confirming the lateness of the hour. In a flash, he knew exactly what had drawn him from sleep as a light gust of warm breath brushed his bare back. That part of his mind that was still so mired in sleep urged him to ignore it, and he might have, had a deep voice not begun to rumble just behind his ear.

"You smell like a soldier," Holmes said from behind him.

"I'm sorry?" Watson's mind was not yet able to deal with the demands his friend often imposed upon it.

"Oh, don't be," Holmes said, intentionally misinterpreting Watson's remark. "I rather like it."

"What do you mean, I smell like a soldier?" Watson realized he was being led away from the question at the center of the matter, but at the moment, he couldn't bring himself to care.

"Although I'm sure they've been washed several times in the interim, you're wearing a pair of pants you wore in your army days. They still smell faintly of the chemicals used in the making of the explosives utilized in Afghanistan."

He hadn't realized it earlier when he had put them on, but Holmes was right. Watson sniffed experimentally, lifting the blanket slightly in a manner he hoped Holmes wouldn't notice. "I don't smell anything."

"Ah, but you do not have my nose, Watson."

Fair enough. Watson closed his eyes and began to drift back to sleep. Wait. "What are you doing in my bed, Holmes?"

"Attempting to sleep." Holmes's voice was surprisingly matter-of-fact.

"Why?"

"Because it is just past two in the morning, and I am tired."

"Why are you in my bed?" Watson had dealt with quite a bit from his friend, and his frustration was beginning to seep into his voice.

"Would you believe I had a nightmare?"

"I'm almost sure of it. Why are you in my bed?" Holmes's voice betrayed nothing, but Watson was sure his friend was rattled. If Holmes didn't want to admit it, Watson wouldn't push. He decided to continue the conversation in as upbeat a manner as possible, even if it hurt him to be so abrupt. He could not see Holmes's face.

"I've been told it is procedure, after one has had a nightmare, to get into bed with an adult."

"If one is either a whoremonger or a three-year-old."

"It would be difficult to be both."

"But you are neither."

There was a short pause, and Watson thought he was almost close enough to hear Holmes considering this. "Are you asking me to leave?" he asked finally.

There was another pause, and it was Watson's turn to consider. He knew the practical, and in any other case expected, response would be to tell the man to leave and have done with it. In the morning, he would pretend nothing had happened, and eventually he would be able to convince himself he had dreamed it all. But Holmes would never play along with that. He'd bring it up, or ask why Watson hadn't. He'd press and pester Watson until he was forced to examine more closely why he had wanted to ignore the incident in the first place. Couldn't have that. He considered briefly telling Holmes to stay, but would that not be tantamount to admitting the very thing he had been so studiously ignoring for months? He finally settled on finding a rational answer.

This request could be considered a favor, one which should be judged and granted on merit. Watson realized that he had Holmes's full attention. He hadn't pressed yet, so he was waiting. Apparently, he would not resume his quest for sleep until it had been approved. Right, add that to the plus column. Agreed to go to dinner with Mary; plus. Ruined dinner with Mary; minus. Placed winning bet at boxing match in Watson's absence; plus. Refused to give him winnings to prove a point; minus. Got him out of fight with two large men; plus. Got him in to fight in the first place; minus. Taken on challenging case to clear good name as a medical professional; plus. Cost him tea with Mary's parents; minus. Saved his life on a regular basis; plus. Endangered his life on a regular basis; minus. Hmm.

Watson thought over the past few weeks of irritation and half-hearted covering for Holmes's boredom madness while he stewed in the knowledge that Watson would be leaving. At first he had thought it was because Holmes had no cases to keep him busy, but slowly he had realized that Holmes feared his departure. And then Watson remembered the explosion which had so recently and so nearly cost him his life, and along with that memory came one of an old German doctor with a terrible beard. At the time, and for a few hours after, Watson had thought he had imagined the resemblance the doctor bore to his friend. He had thought it the delirium of a mind gone half mad with pain and drugs. But later, when he had finally spoken to Mary, she had told him the truth of it. Around being hunted by the police and dodging the general public, Holmes had found time to craft that awful disguise and break into the hospital to see him.

Watson was suddenly very aware of the distance Holmes was keeping between them. He was close enough for Watson to feel his slow, even breath, but that breath was the only thing connecting them. Holmes was keeping a conscious distance between them, almost asking for permission. Watson suddenly became aware of a tension he hadn't noticed building within him. "Well, come on then," Watson said, barely aware he had spoken aloud. Holmes's arm slid around Watson's waist, and he settled into a deep sleep, his head sometimes moving in a rough rhythm against Watson's neck. Though he was still so very tired, it was a long time before Watson followed his friend into the peaceful land of sleep.