A tiny piece that came to my mind because I was looking for something cute to write. So, then. Enjoy.

I don't own anything, not even the title. Simply borrowing.

Lay Thee Down Now And Rest

Five Times John finds Sherlock sleeping in an impossible position and does not succeed in waking him, and One Time he doesn't even try

1

The first time it happens, John is surprised, to put it mildly.

They are just sitting in a cab, on the long way back from the third crime scene that day, after Sherlock has successfully solved the case involving connected triple murders and an old family secret.

John finds himself longing for his bed, warm and cozy and comfortable, and has to try hard to stifle every single yawn that wants to escape his mouth.

Sherlock, in contrast, seems perfectly alert and awake, still, his head turned away from John, staring out of the window, into the dark passing by, most likely with one of his intimidating death glares.

Never mind, John decides and rests his head back, closing his eyes.

When he opens them again, mere minutes later, he suddenly notices that Sherlock has slumped forward, barely kept upright by his seatbelt, his head hitting the back of the driver's seat with every bump the cab takes on the road.

"Sherlock," he addresses his flatmate and reaches out, shaking his shoulder. "Sherlock."

No reaction.

Continuing the shaking, more determinedly now, John finally evokes some response from Sherlock, an indefinite moan.

"Go 'way," he mumbles, waving lazily with one hand.

Only then John realises that this is his flatmate sleeping, falling asleep, however, in a cab.

Brilliant, he assumes.

"Come on, Sherlock," he tells him. "We're almost there. You can sleep when we're at home, not here. It's not too comfortable, is it?"

"Don't care," Sherlock mutters, sagging forward again.

John sighs and grabs Sherlock's arm, determined to rest him back against the seat.

Unfortunately, in the very same moment, the cab turns right, and suddenly, Sherlock's head is on John's shoulder, and John doesn't know what is happening.

"Sherlock!" he protests, his flatmate's head feeling heavy on his shoulder. "You can't sleep here either."

Instead of an answer, Sherlock only starts snoring softly.

Sighing again, John lets his head slump back.

2

The second time it happens, he just comes home from work, after a rather boring and nonetheless terribly and oddly exhausting - three children with flu, one woman with measles, several other people with the common cold - day, longing for nothing else than a hot shower, a cup of tea and a good film.

The flat is quiet when he enters, and hope rises in his heart that Sherlock might be out, maybe investigating, on a crime scene with Lestrade, or at Bart's. Hope that maybe, just maybe, he can once have an evening when he can do what he likes, what he wants.

His hopes tremble for the first time when he realises that both Sherlock's ominous coat and his scarf are still at home, and knowing his flatmate, he is absolutely sure that Sherlock would not leave the flat without these two precious pieces of clothing.

Starting to boil water already, he figures he still has the time to take a short shower before his so far absent flatmate starts pestering him with some kind of request concerning shopping, experiments or cases.

Changing into his dressing gown and grabbing a towel, John, in rather high spirits, strides down the stairs from his room and heads for their bathroom.

Which is, as it turns out, occupied.

By Sherlock, lying in the bath tub, fully clothed, and sleeping, his head resting on its edge.

For a moment, John is absolutely dumbfounded.

Grabbing his towel more firmly and huffing under his breath, he finally approaches Sherlock and taps his shoulder in order to wake him.

No reaction.

Well, of course. Because John has learnt as much in the months he's been sharing a flat with Sherlock: If Sherlock Holmes decides to sleep for once, there is almost nothing that can wake him before he chooses to wake up.

"Sherlock!" he demands nonetheless. "Wake up and get out of here, I want to take a shower."

He hasn't really expected a response. And isn't surprised when he doesn't get one.

God, how can one even fall asleep in a position that uncomfortable? He finds he doesn't want to know.

Sherlock's head is still resting on the edge of the bath tub, on his cheek, one arm is dangling out of the tub, the other one hidden behind his back. His legs are bent, being too long for the tub, looking as if somebody had squeezed them inside of the tub, or if he has tried to crawl out of it, already half-asleep.

John doesn't even want to think about how his flatmate has managed to get into this position.

Brilliant, really.

"Sherlock," John tries again, shaking his friend's shoulder. The only reaction this elicits is that Sherlock's head is now slowly slipping, slipping until his entire body collapses back into the tub and the back of his head hits the tub with a sudden force.

Only now it is that Sherlock's eyes spring open, and at the same time, John suddenly feels guilty for disturbing his friend's sleep that rudely.

Sherlock blinks confusedly for a few moments before his eyes focus on John and he lets his head loll to the side with a groan.

"Wha'ta'ya want," he mumbles, ridiculously slurred.

"I want to take a shower," John simply has left to reply before offering Sherlock a hand. "Come on. Get out of there and go to bed."

Blinking heavily for a few more minutes, Sherlock finally grabs John's hand and allows himself to be hauled up from the bath tub.

John only sighs when Sherlock stumbles against him, half asleep once more.

The sofa will have to do, he decides.

3

John knows by now that silence in the flat when he comes home is not always a good sign.

Yawning, he drags his suitcase upstairs to the living-room, probably making enough noise to even wake Mrs Hudson downstairs.

Never mind.

Aware of how stupid it is to feel tired after only sitting around in a train for more than eight hours, he attempts to stifle another yawn, and fails.

If he had known that visiting Harry would be so… complicated, without any direct train connection available and a building side at one station causing his train to take an entirely different route, he maybe would have thought about it before heading for his sister's two days ago.

But now, finally, finally, he is back home, unwilling to move his heavy suitcase any further, simply leaving it behind in their living-room.

Tomorrow, he thinks as he stumbles into the bathroom and brushes his teeth, not aware of the pill packages lying openly on the shelf above the wash-bowl.

His clothes, after hours in an over-heated train, feel uncomfortably sticky, but John doesn't bother with finding the energy to take a shower now. Tomorrow, too, he decides.

Harry actually has told him to call her as soon as he has arrived home, John remembers vaguely while he trots up the stairs to his bedroom, but since it's in the middle of the night already, half past one o'clock, this will have to wait, too.

Oh, finally. His bed.

John allows himself to sigh contently as he approaches it without bothering to switch on the light and lets himself sag down on it.

Only to jump to his feet again with a horrified scream.

Something soft. There is something soft in his bed. Soft.

With trembling fingers, still somewhat shocked, John fumbles for the lamp on his bedside table, and as soon as he has succeeded in switching it on, he becomes aware of a lump in his bed, a lump hidden beneath his duvet and a blanket.

"'ohn," Sherlock mumbles, bleary-eyed, rubbing his nose. "You… bome."

In the first moment, John doesn't know what to say.

Sherlock. In his bed. Sleeping.

"That's… my bed. You're in my bed," he finally settles on, fully bracing himself for a snarky reply.

"I bow," is all Sherlock mutters, sneezing violently. "Coulbn' sleep. Bore cobfortable." He sneezes again.

Finally, finally John realises what's wrong. "You've got a cold," he observes, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Sherlock's eyes have closed already. "Bm."

No, is all John can think, despite Sherlock's obviously miserable condition. He starts poking his best friend. "You've got your own bed, come on. I'm tired, and I really don't need you contaminating my sheets. Sherlock, wake up."

Sherlock furrows his brow in discomfort. "Bm," is all he slurs, not opening his eyes.

When John grabs his limp arm and tries to hoist him up, he doesn't react at all, and eventually, with a loud sigh, John gives in.

"Fine," he grumbles. "You stay here. This one night. I'll kip on the sofa."

Sherlock huddles more neatly into his blanket.

Stupid, John tries to tell himself as he switches off the light again and makes for the door. Abandoning his bed for his best friend? But somehow, he finds he cannot bring himself to drag Sherlock out of there and disturb him, not when he's still more than half asleep.

"Thabk… you," comes a clogged whisper from the bed.

One night on the sofa will be just fine. John smiles as he trots downstairs again.

4

Sherlock dies, and John grieves.

John starts to live again, and Sherlock returns.

Everything is back to how it's always been. Almost everything. John is bound to get married, but for the time being, they live together in 221B again.

Sherlock is still Sherlock, the man John has known to be his best friend, pompous and insufferable and brilliant as always, but then, something's different.

Something.

They haven't talked much about where Sherlock has been, but John is aware that for him, is has not been too easy either. He can hear him scream some nights, after all.

They still don't talk about it too often.

John spends hours each day with Mary, busy planning their wedding, and one evening, he comes home to a silent flat.

Once more.

Rubbing his eyes and deciding that he may need a cup of tea, he starts to boil water and then takes a seat at the table, yawning.

That is when he hears the first whimper.

John jerks around immediately, startled, but can't see anything. Not Sherlock, not lying on the sofa. Only then he notices the blanket having half slipped to the floor - and becomes aware of a certain lump, lying in the void between the sofa and the table.

Forgetting about his tea, he hurries over to his best friend, lying on the floor, his legs entangled in the blanket, tossing. And moaning.

Grabbing Sherlock's shoulder and shaking it is no use.

"Sherlock!" John tries to alert him as he keeps shifting, lines embedded in his face, clearly distorted. "Come on, Sherlock, wake up!"

Nothing helps, as John has to find out only moments later, neither shaking him nor slapping him. Instead, his tossing only gets worse, his moans become more strained, his breathing more ragged.

John feels desperate. "Sherlock…," he whispers, for the lack of anything else to say.

Nightmare. Another one. And absolutely nothing he can do.

Determined all of a sudden, John crawls closer, lifts Sherlock's head until it is resting on his thigh, and grips one of his best friend's hands.

He has no idea what Sherlock may be dreaming about, what he is seeing, all that John has to know that it's scaring, and it hurts, going by how tense Sherlock is, and how clammy his skin feels.

And he wants it to stop, but there's nothing he can do if Sherlock doesn't wake up. Only hold his best friend, his best friend he's been missing for three years, and hope that Sherlock will know he's there.

5

John doesn't find Sherlock sleeping often after that one time. He moves out, purchases a nice, comfortable flat together with Mary, and although he continues to visit Sherlock, of course, the nights he spends at 221B grow fewer and fewer (they never cease, however).

But Sherlock is still an important part of his life, and so it still happens.

This time, Sherlock almost gives John a heart attack.

He is just climbing up the stairs to Mary's and his flat, coming home from the pub with Greg (Mary is still out, together with his sister and a few other friends, their two-year-old daughter staying at Mrs Hudson's), fiddling with his keys, not bothering to scan his surroundings when he suddenly notices something further up the stairs.

Legs, ending in black leather shoes, clad in dark trousers, legs belonging to a body sitting on a step, head resting against the wall and slumped forward, arms lying limp.

"Sherlock!" John calls out, dropping his keys at the sight of his best friend.

His nose is crusted with dried blood, a bruise is forming on his right temple, there are several scratches on his face and his hands, reddish spots stain his dishevelled scarf.

John may not be the world's only consulting detective, but he can certainly say when someone has been in trouble. Involved in some kind of accident, by the looks of it. And Sherlock clearly has.

Crouching down in front of his best friend, John carefully rests a hand on his shoulder, addressing him again. "Sherlock."

Sherlock doesn't even stir.

Taking his face in both hands, John tries again, and this time, one of Sherlock's eyelids flutters. "Shn," he mumbles with a blood-clogged nose. "Forgot the keys…"

It is difficult for John to puzzle together what has happened. But then, the details are not important right now. What he can be sure of is that Sherlock has, somehow, managed to get into trouble, probably during investigating, has intended to come to John's flat, not knowing that John hasn't been at home back then, and has left his keys to John's flat at 221B, ending up falling asleep on the stairs.

"I'm not going to ask you what you did this time," John tells him while grabbing his arm, "but you can't sleep on the stairs. Come on."

Sherlock yawns lightly, but does not make an effort to get to his feet.

In the end, John doesn't have any other choice than to hoist him up as well as possible and practically drag him to his and Mary's living-room, placing him on the sofa where he frowns for a moment, mumbles John's name and then collapses against the pillow.

John is worried about concussion, yes, but knowing Sherlock he is aware that his sudden sleepiness is most likely only an after-effect of a days lasting case. Sherlock bats away his hand as John clicks his fingers directly beside his ear, and John knows this to be a good sign.

He is still busy cleaning the abrasions in Sherlock's face and on his hands when Mary comes home, a tiny bit intoxicated, and lets out a yelp.

"He's fine," he hurries to reassure her.

"Jesus, John, what happened to him?" she wants to know nonetheless, kneeling down in front of the sofa, in front of Sherlock lying on it, still in his coat. His coat displaying clear signs of abuse, too, as do his trousers.

"…encounter… with… biker," Sherlock slurs, to John's surprise. "…way… back… after…case…"

"Ssh," he makes while trying to wipe away the dried blood from Sherlock's nose. Private case finished, then. Exhausted, sleepy, as always.

Tossing the bloody towel aside, he grabs a plaster and carefully tapes it to the last of the scratches. Aware of Sherlock's even breathing, he carefully and rather complicatedly removes his coat and scarf and shoes, then adjusts his legs on the sofa and spreads a blanket over his best friend.

"We'll best let him sleep," he tells Mary and after a final look back, a soft smile tucking at the corners of his mouth, follows Mary into their bedroom.

5+1

John knows that it is perfectly normal for Sherlock not to sleep for days on end. Normally, he is too occupied with a case, too focused to deem something dull and boring and time-consuming as sleep important. Normally.

John can see, despite his own sore body, that Sherlock obviously hasn't slept for days. Days.

Six days, exactly, that is how long it has been since his accident. Since John has happened to sit in exactly that cab that has been bound to crash into a truck. Cabbie dead, passenger in hospital.

For six days now.

John doesn't remember much of the past five days, his memories are hazy at most, but he can recall Mary, and Sherlock.

Mary has left, not willing, but having to, stopping by at Baker Street and taking their children home, their daughter and son who have spent the afternoon with Mrs Hudson, giving Mary the opportunity to stay with John.

And now only Sherlock is left, having been reading in a magazine, as far as John remembers.

Then John has fallen asleep, and now that he has finally succeeded in blinking his eyes open again, he can see Sherlock, sitting in one of those horribly uncomfortable plastic hospital chairs, the same he has been sitting in for six days as Mary has told John in a quiet moment, the chair drawn as close to his bed as possible.

Sitting in one of the chairs, having slumped over in the meantime, his head resting on John's bed, his dark curls almost brushing the skin of John's right arm.

And, oddly enough, he is holding John's hand, even in his sleep.

Although John still feels rather fuzzy, the world turning around him occasionally, and although he still doesn't know what exactly has been wrong with him in these past five days he has definitely not spent awake, he feels a smile form on his face.

Sleeping. Sherlock is sleeping, once more in a position his neck and back will not thank him for once he wakes, especially not now, when both of them have become older.

For a moment, John ponders if he is supposed to attempt to wake Sherlock, to tell him to go home, to sleep in a proper bed, eat a proper meal and take care of himself.

His throat feels sore, too, and he keeps his mouth shut. Not because of his sore throat, though.

Rather because he has noticed, despite his own fatigue, how exhausted Sherlock looks, how worn and worried. Because he doesn't want to wake his best friend, to disturb his for once peaceful sleep. John knows Sherlock well enough to be utterly sure of the fact that his best friend would insist on not being tired, on being fine if he is to be woken now - and would refuse to go back to sleep.

Which is absolutely not what he wants.

Even if he tries to rouse Sherlock, even if Sherlock agrees to going home and giving himself some rest, this is not what John wants, either.

Because it will mean that Sherlock is leaving, that the hand holding his is bound to disappear, that the sound of soft and even breathing John finds so comforting and pacifying is bound to cease.

Aware of his own eyelids drooping, John closes his eyes and concentrates on the feeling of Sherlock's hand in his. His best friend, best friend, who seems to need his sleep so urgently.

And who seems to need John, going by what Mary has told him about Sherlock staying, all the time, talking to John when he assumed no-one could hear him, about gripping John's hand when he thought no-one would see.

John smiles to himself as he slowly drifts off, with his sleeping best friend by his side.

Best friend, yes. Definitely.

Even as he is close to nodding off, John wonders how it all has happened. How something that has begun with 'Afghanistan or Iraq?' has turned into the most wonderful friendship John has ever experienced. How he has come to have such a wonderful, brilliant, annoying best friend.

Sometime, is his last coherent thought, he will have to tell Sherlock. To thank him. To tell him that… But then, Sherlock probably already knows. They both know.

His breathing adopting the same rhythm as Sherlock's, John finally gives in to sleep, knowing that Sherlock is here.

Thank you very much for reading. Kindly leave some feedback if you happen to be able to spare the time.