01. Sweet Dreams

He rolls onto his stomach and is stirred awake by three simultaneous things: the filthy smell of unwashed hair, the weight of a full bladder, and the sudden chill of his foot slipping out from beneath his warm bedcovers.

Groaning, he rolls onto his back again and stretches, grunting as he wakes his muscles and rubs the sandy grit and gunk from his eyelashes, wiping a hand over his oily face. He drops his hands into his chest, skin cool from being exposed during sleep. He sighs, sits up, and stifles a yawn as he glances at the clock.

Ah, it's nearly noon, he notes. Well, it's to be expected; he did, after all, not get to bed until after three in the morning, thanks to a particularly challenging case that required a bit of breaking and entering.

Unfortunately, this means he has woken up late enough that John will already be out and about, most likely giving a statement to Lestrade on his lunch break before returning to Bart's for his shift.

Sherlock hauls himself out of bed at least to relieve his bladder. He can shower now – it might help him wake up – but he's leaning toward putting that off until he has some sort of hot beverage warm and settled in his gut instead. Coffee, preferably.

Too bad John isn't here to make it for him; John always makes it just right. It never quite tastes the same when Sherlock does it, no matter how well he used to make his own coffee, or how often he has tried (and failed) to mimic precisely the exact process John goes through when he makes it.

An hour or so later, when Sherlock is coming out of the shower, wet curls stuck to his head, he hears the door. John's home; and so soon? Normally he shifts last longer.

"I'm home," he announces tiredly. He had been out as late as Sherlock; it's a wonder he didn't blow everything off and sleep in. But then, John has integrity, and likes to keep up a good reputation about his job, especially after how he nearly lost it the first time. "I wasn't needed today. They said I could go home and rest. I must have looked like a zombie to them; they insisted," John huffs a laugh as he drops off his jacket and shucks off his shoes.

Sherlock steps out around the corner of the bathroom, towel around his waist. "You do look rather exhausted," he agrees as he sizes up John with his eyes. He turns back into the bathroom and adds, "You should go sleep. I will keep my activities quiet for you until dinnertime, if you like. Or longer, if you aren't terribly hungry."

"I'm really not," John replies with a small sigh. "Thanks, I'll go sleep. I hated waking up this morning, but work had to be done."

"Oh, civilian work," Sherlock mutters, "Tedious. I don't know how normal people put up with it day in and day out. What I do is so much more fun. Spontaneity is what keeps life worth living, I say."

"Yes, well. Sometimes I like a little routine so I know when I can get a break," John mumbles as he walks past the bathroom and glances it at Sherlock, one hand braced on the doorframe. He's seen Sherlock in various states of undress enough that it hardly fazes him anymore. Sherlock does, after all, occasionally sleep in the nude if he gets too hot, or is too lazy to shut the door when he goes to pee. "Anyway, behave yourself for a few hours, yeah? Quiet is good and all, but sometimes you're up to your worst shenanigans when you're quiet."

Sherlock smiles into the angled mirror, using it to look at John. "I will try my best to refrain from anything that could be deemed devious. I think I'll read, or browse the internet."

"See? That's perfect. Thank you," John says with a gesture of his hand as he leans off the doorframe. His eyes are squinting and there are bags beneath him. He really needs to sleep. He's been up almost as much as Sherlock has for the past three days.

"Sweet dreams, John," Sherlock says in jest, but John sends him a smile as he heads for his room that stirs a pleasant feeling fluttering in Sherlock's chest. He shrugs it off and resumes toweling off his hair and giving his stubble-littered jaw a shave.