A study in friendship-Johnlock

Sleep

*a few days later*
That night, both John and Sherlock were sleepless. John lay awake in his bed, listening to the strains of the violin from downstairs, worrying about Sherlock. He'd only met him a week ago, and he was already one of John's best friends-but John was worried. Sherlock rarely ate, and never slept. It shouldn't be possible for anyone to go without sleep for as long as he seemed to be, and still not want to rest. He had offered Sherlock sleeping tablets, taken from the GP where he worked-but they had been refused. All he wanted to do was think all day, and play all night.
Settling his resolve, John got out of bed, and pulling on his dressing gown, searched for his slippers. They were nowhere to be seen-oh. He'd left them downstairs, by his chair. He sighed, and stepped out of his room, onto the cold, wooden stairs. They creaked ominously as he padded into the living room, barefooted. Sherlock was standing at the window, eyes closed, playing. He didn't appear to have heard John, so he walked up behind him, and laid a hand on his shoulder. 'Sherlock!'
The younger man spun around at his touch, falling backwards against the window.
'Good God, man. What's wrong with you?' John asked, grabbing his shoulders and steering him into his chair. 'You need to sleep.'
'No, John. No time.'
'What do you mean? You don't have a case, Sherlock, there's nothing to think about! Nothing to do! You have to sleep. I'm just going to go make you a nice cup of tea, and you're going to take these tablets, and you'll sleep. Okay?'
'NO, John. Not... Sleeping...'
John sighed. 'Fine. But drink the tea?'
He stepped into the kitchen, and started boiling the kettle. He pulled out two tea bags, and two mugs, and set them on the counter. When the water was done, he made the tea, then sneaked a look at Sherlock. He was sitting with his eyes shut, hands clasped in front of his face. John reached into his dressing gown pocket, and pulled out a small bottle. He took out two tablets, and mixed them with one of the tea mugs. He slipped the tablets back in his pocket, picked up the tea, and brought it over to Sherlock.
'Here. Drink this.'
Sherlock looked up, groggily. He took the tea, and sipped it gratefully. John couldn't help thinking how much like a child he looked, with tousled hair, holding his mug like that, who was refusing bedtime. He noticed with amusement that Sherlock was wearing his slippers. Sherlock set the tea down, and yawned.
'Yes, that's it.' John murmured to himself, as Sherlock finished the tea, and yawned again.
He stood up, and gently but firmly, he brought Sherlock to his feet. 'C'mon.' As they were slowly crossing the floor, John supporting Sherlock as he started to sway, he smiled to himself. Looking after people, again. It was what he liked best-it sounded soppy but it was true. Suddenly, Sherlock slumped into John's arms. 'Dammit.' The tablets had taken effect a lot faster than he had expected. He put one of Sherlock's arms around his shoulders, and walked slowly towards his bedroom door. Praying that Mrs Hudson didn't come in now, he held Sherlock's unconscious body up against him with one arm, as he opened the door with the other. Carefully, he laid Sherlock on his neatly made, un-slept in bed, and pulled off his scarf and coat, hanging them on the door. He folded back the covers, rolled him under them, in his shirt, trousers and socks, then, laughing to himself at the absurdity of the situation, he tucked his flatmate into bed. He switched off the light, and went back to the lounge, where he picked up his tea, then remembered his slippers were in Sherlock's room. He went back in, picked them up, and sat on the edge of the bed to pull them on. He yawned. All he wanted was sleep... He couldn't sleep here. Not here. He pinched himself, hard, and stood up quickly. Taking one last look at his patient in the bed, he went back upstairs, closing the door quietly behind him.
****
The next morning, John woke up bright and early- and he didn't want to. He rolled over, trying to get back to sleep, and then the memories from that night came rushing back. Sherlock! He got out of bed, and looked for his dressing gown on the door-before realising he was still wearing it. He shoved his feet into his slippers, and walked tiredly down the stairs. He figured he had a good idea what parenting felt like. He made a cup of coffee, and then went in to check on Sherlock.
When he got in, he was unsurprised to see that the young detective was still in bed, fast asleep, wrapped tightly in his blankets, a mop of messy curly hair peeking out over the duvet. John smiled, in satisfaction, turned, and left the room. When he got back to the sitting room, he saw with a shock that Mrs Hudson was sitting there, on his armchair.
'Oh! You were in Sherlock's room. I should have known' she chuckled.
'Mrs Hudson. Sherlock is not my boyfriend.'
'So explain that, then young man!' She pointed at Sherlock's closed bedroom door, from which John had just emerged.
'He wasn't sleeping-so I gave him something.'
'I'll bet you did.'
'Mrs Hudson!'
'Sorry, love. Is he asleep now then?'
'Yes.'
'Oh, bless you. I've been worrying about him, you know- always playing that awful sad music, never eating, never sleeping, it's almost as if he's pining for something.'
John nodded.
'Well, I'll best be off. Leave you two to it. Morning!'
She fussed her way out of the door, leaving John in the silent, empty room. He went to the kitchen, and explored the cupboards for breakfast.
****
Sherlock woke up feeling extremely confused-yet unsure why, which made him even more confused. He was in bed, in his clothes-well, except coat and scarf: someone had hung them up on the door. He felt tired and yet not tired, and he could hear someone singing, and clattering from the kitchen. He got up unsteadily, and tottered to the door, which opened before he could reach it.
'No, no get back to bed,' John forced Sherlock back into his bed, and threw the covers over him. 'Stay there, doctors orders. I'll bring you some breakfast- DON'T argue.'
Sherlock sank back weakly, head spinning. Suddenly the door banged open again and he winced.
A plate of bacon and eggs on a tray was placed on the chair next to his bed, along with a glass of milk. 'Milk?' He mumbled sleepily.
'Yes, milk.'
'Milk is for... Little kids.'
'Yes. And so is refusing sleep, and being put to bed by a responsible adult. Sherlock Holmes, drink your milk.'
Sherlock didn't argue.