It was a rare occurrence for Sherlock Holmes to still be in bed by the time John woke. They had a long night that previous evening—with the triple murder, Anderson’s idiotic banters, and Mycroft’s surprise appearance (which led to Lestrade being extremely flustered). Sherlock needed that night of sleep and John was lucky enough to even get the detective in bed. On some nights it took John two hours, others three with bribes. But last night all he had to do was politely ask him to join him and the lanky scientist with a head of messy curls followed him without a word.

When he woke, the hour was just itching its way up to nine-thirty and his arm had fallen asleep next to him. This was the first thing John noticed—the first thing that told him that Sherlock was still asleep. The door to the room was also closed and there was no racket coming from the rest of the flat. Sherlock’s head was nestled in John’s shoulder, but it was entitling his limb to numb and buzz with annoyance. He was about to move it when Sherlock’s eyes opened, too.

“Morning,” he said into John’s neck. He only moved his head slightly. Just enough for John to get a good look at him and not too far away where he would crave body heat.

John smiled his John Watson smile back and rested his forehead against Sherlock’s. “How do you feel?” he asked quietly.

Sherlock swallowed and opened his mouth to respond, but he couldn’t find the words to say. John noticed his eyes. They were very glassy with the drawn out exhaustion finally taking ahold of him and they were pale, paler than their usual sea green. John frowned.

“My body is catching up. There’s only so many nights I can go without sleep before this happens, hmm?” he eventually managed in a sleepy slur. Sherlock dragged his hand up to his face where he struggled to rub away some fatigue still plaguing his skin. John took the chance to move his pixilating arm to a more comfortable, blood flow-friendly, position.

“I can go make some tea if you’d like,” John suggested after awhile. He quite liked these mornings in bed with Sherlock. They never said much usually, but enjoyed each other’s proximity and warmth instead. It was an admirable type of silence almost like the one of a shared smile, but longer and more exerted.

Sherlock pressed his lips into a line and tugged his eyebrows closer to his lashes. “I can wait. Please stay,” he said with a heaving, weary breath. Throughout all his medical history, John had never seen someone so extensive with his or her bodily limits as Sherlock was. He had never seen someone who could go without eating for a day or two and forget to sleep for another handful. The only time Sherlock seemed to notice these poor habits were on days like these when his body simply wouldn’t allow any more reckless behavior. John imagined that he had this ability due to his drug behavior in his earlier years. Drugs always did damage on natural behavior cycles, only most people seemed to resolve it once they quit. Sherlock, on the other hand, didn’t seem to have that capability.

John eyed Sherlock. Frizzy curls curtaining his lesser blue eyes, fair skin elongating adeptly shaped bones. It was almost astonishing how much a person’s flesh could echo their mind.

From their bedside table, Sherlock’s phone buzzed once—short and to the point. Lestrade.

Sherlock, without moving his eyes from John, stretched an arm behind him and managed to clutch onto his mobile. He had to squint at the letters once he brought it up near his face. “Case to do with a school invasion,” he mumbled as he tossed the phone towards the foot of the bed.

“We can go down a bit later,” John recommended thoughtfully.

Sherlock pressed his mouth to John’s jaw and replied, “You spoil me, John Watson.”