"I don't like it, John."

"Shut up, Sherlock."

"But John-"

"No, Sherlock, shut up. This is good for you. Now just try to relax."

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably once. Then started kicking furiously and rolling and twisting and trying to get away.

John rolled his eyes into his pillow. "What are you doing now?"

"I feel constricted, John! The walls are closing in!"

"Sherlock, you're not claustrophobic. You are acting like a hypochondriac today, though. Now, relax. If you just try to sleep, it'll come eventually."

Sherlock twisted himself into a sitting position. "How do people even sleep in these things? I can't move my arms!"

"That's only because I zipped you up all the way and it's a narrow sleeping bag. Maybe next time you won't poke me while I'm trying to sleep."

"I feel like a cacooned marshmallow."

"Why a marshmallow?"

"It's too damn fluffy!" Sherlock began bouncing and shifting inside the sleeping bag again. "And I'm only acting like a hypochondriac because nature is proven dangerous and lethal. We'll probably be eaten by a deer or infected with malaria overnight. Sometimes I fall asleep with my mouth open! What if I get stung by a bee on my tongue?"

"I'll be happy, you'll at least shut up until the swelling goes down."

"I'm allergic to bees, John!"

"And I'm a doctor, Sherlock. You don't think I don't know what my best friend is allergic to? I brought the epee pin I always carry in case you're stung, or if one of the various things you lick at a crime scene contains almonds."

Sherlock was silent for a bit, before laying back down and staring at the ceiling of their tent. Then he whispered, "What if I'm silently murdered while we're asleep?"

"I'll turn myself in in the morning, now shut up!" John rolled over, putting his back to the detective.

"Why are we out here again?"

"This will be good for you, Sherlock. You kept telling me how bored you are all the time, so we'll see how occupied Mother Nature will keep you."

"Too occupied, John. You know I hate dirt and bugs and man-eating animals."

John didn't answer, but Sherlock could almost hear him rolling his eyes. He wriggled the sleeping bag closer to the doctor, and rested his chin on his arm. John was feigning sleep, his eyes screwed shut and his breathing even. "John." Sherlock whispered. "John, I still have no use of my arms." No answer. "John, I need a cigarette."

"You don't have use of your arms, Sherlock. You can't smoke." John whispered back and could feel Sherlock's frown on his arm.

"Unzip me, then." He whispered back.

"No." Silence filled the tent again.

Sherlock dropped his face and buried it into John's arm before groaning loudly in frustration. John didn't respond, or even flinch. Sherlock dug his nose further into John's skin, trying to poke him with his face. Still no reaction. Sherlock stuck his tongue out and licked John's arm. John turned over and began swatting and hitting Sherlock like the piñata the sleeping bag made him. Sherlock made a desperate attempt to inch-worm his way out of John's reach but the military man grabbed his foot and drug him back across the tent floor with ease, sitting across his hips and pinning him to the floor. "I will walk out right now and leave you to try to find your way home. That is, IF you can get out of the sleeping bag. Now go to sleep!" John punctuated each word with a jab of his finger to Sherlock's ribcage.

He climbed off and shoved Sherlock across the tent, the tall man rolling to a stop in the middle of the floor. He stared at John's back for a moment, before inching towards him again. John heard the rustling getting closer and said, "You push my buttons again, and I will be forced to either kill you, or tell Mycroft that it was you who stole his cat. Which you need to give back. I'm done trying to keep Boots alive."

Sherlock slithered up and lay his head on the end of John's pillow. "I'm sorry, John."

The doctor's shoulders visibly softened, and John rolled over to face him. Apologies from the detective were so rare, John couldn't resist forgiveness. "Why are you being so extra annoying tonight?"

Sherlock tried to shrug inside his cotton prison. "You know how I get. My..." He trailed off slightly. "Well, it acts up." He dropped his eyes. John reached out and pulled the zipper on the sleeping bag, letting Sherlock's arms free. He knew how hard it was for Sherlock to talk about his Aspergers. "And I guess I get more frustrated with myself when it does. I'm sorry I take it out on you."

John smiled. "You're lucky I can take it. Most people would leave."

Sherlock laughed. "I know. And I am lucky."

"Now, go the f*** to sleep."

Sherlock reached across the tent and pulled his pillow over, rolling once and landing his face into the cotton. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight."