Title: Sleep When I'm Dead
Author: Keelywolfe

Exhaustion was something John was more than passing familiar with. He was a doctor, course he was, years as a house officer, sometimes eighty hours on call morphing into military service. He knew exhaustion, the bone-deep bite of it, the kind that hazed the mind, slurred the speech, until you found yourself suturing by rote, waiting for another bloody body to appear in front of you as if by magic, until the last one was carried away and you could only stand there, staring stupidly at the gleaming metal of the table, waiting for another patient that never came.

He knew it, had bloody well had dreams about it, but even that hadn't prepared them for this.

"You all right?" Close enough to him that John startled awake, only just catching himself from flailing out with a fist and turning one of the Detective Inspector's concerned eyes into a remarkable shade of black and blue.

"Hm?" John sputtered, scrubbing a hand over his eyes and looking wildly about. The room, such as it was, hadn't changed overly much; a dodgy little hotel room whose appearance was not much improved by the body currently lying in the middle of it. The body Sherlock was currently bent over, muttering under his breath about fibers, pollen, God knew what else that John was in no condition to interpret just now. Bright and chipper as a chickadee, wasn't he, without so much a cup of tea before they'd been dragged out of bed at the tail end of three am, no, Sherlock wouldn't be dragging his feet and thinking longing thoughts in the direction of their warm sheets. There was a murderer loose on the streets of London, one who had a cherry tree that would be in bloom soon, and Sherlock was nearly glowing with energy and excitement.

For just a brief, resentful moment, John spared what little thought processing power he could still lay claim to at hating him. Not just a little hatred, oh, no, he beamed a hatred at Sherlock strong enough to start wars, to burn down buildings, to stop that heart of the rotten bastard who was the key to John's lack of sleep—

"Doctor?" Lestrade's hushed voice broke through John's attempt at mental murder and he started again, already flushed with guilt. It wasn't as though the blame couldn't be laid directly at his own feet.

Over thirty years. Thirty years of celibacy and John Watson had been the one to break through the walls, touch that pale, slim body, watch Sherlock's eyes widen in surprise with each new experience, then close tightly at the first ripple of ecstasy. Thirty years and oh, who wouldn't be a smug bastard at that? Surely someone a touch purer than John Watson and just the memory sent a shiver down his spine and somewhat lower, making John shift uncomfortably, pulling his coat just a little tighter around him.

He wondered if this was how Frankenstein felt, once the delight in creation had faded and dimmed to horror as he realized that his greatest work was, in fact, a monster.

Not that Frankenstein was real, or that Sherlock was a monster, no, it was a bloody metaphor and ah, fuck, he needed a coffee because once Sherlock had discovered shagging, he'd taken to it with all the enthusiasm of a mysterious double homicide and while John's prick was suffused with the happy soreness of the like he'd never known, sleep-deprived brain was close to begging for mercy.

"John, are you feeling all right? You look a right bit peaky."

"Mercy!" John blurted right into Lestrade's concerned face. He could feel the blush creeping up towards his hairline. "I mean, coffee, haven't had a coffee yet this morning."

Perhaps Sherlock dying wasn't the answer, perhaps it needed to be him, because right at that moment, John might have been happy to join the corpse on the floor, anything to escape from Lestrade's look, that one that said he might not be Sherlock but he was a detective in his own right.

It would seem that God did, in fact, care about the well-being of one very tired doctor, enough to make Lestrade only nod and turn back to Sherlock, who was currently sniffing the muddy hem of their dead man's trousers. "Yeah, know what you mean. Don't even feel human until I've had my first cup of the day. My wife says—"

The source of his wife's wisdom would ever be one of the minor mysteries to John as Sherlock chose that moment to leap to his feet, interrupting them with a loud, "I need everyone out, now."

Protests rose immediately, from Anderson and his crew, from…bloody, what was her name, didn't matter, John had mentally dubbed her the bitch the very moment she'd first called Sherlock a freak. Their protests didn't make much a difference, either, not when Lestrade spoke over them all, ushering them out the door before tossing back over his shoulder, "Five minutes Sherlock, make them count."

"Oh, I intend to," Sherlock said. It was the voice that should have warned John, that warm, dark tone promising lovely, terrible things, it should have only it took too long to ooze through that treacly mass that made up John's thoughts at the moment, far too long for him to even realize before the wall was already hard beneath his shoulders and his mouth was already caught, soft lips and too-sweet tea-flavored kisses, the lemony biscuits Sherlock favored late in the night and he was already sinking into it, his hands easing their grip on Sherlock's shoulders as he let him push him forward and-

"Hold up!" John sputtered out, tearing his mouth away, evading Sherlock's insistent attempts to take it back. "What in the name of Christ do you think you are doing?"

"We have five minutes," Sherlock said, his voice even deeper than normal and John shivered, swallowing hard, Christ, bad as Pavlov's dogs, wasn't he,because he knew that tone, knew exactly what it meant. "John," Sherlock said, a little sharper. "You've got five minutes."

Just like John should know exactly what that meant. Right. Only, no, not really, and he sighed, and had to settle for asking the obvious. "Me?" John asked, equal parts exhaustion and bewilderment gifting his voice with a troublesome whine. "I've got...what do I need five minutes for?"

Though he had a sinking feeling that Sherlock's hands on his belt were more answer than he really wanted…yep, that was most eloquent and he slapped Sherlock's nimble fingers away from his trouser buckle as quickly as he could.

"Are you out of your mind?" he hissed. "Are you seriously bloody mental? This is a crime scene, half of Scotland yard has an ear against the door-"

"Four and a half, John," Sherlock informed him, unperturbed, and perhaps no one but John would see the smoldering heat darkening his eyes, "You've never been the most eloquent of speakers but I have discovered an alternate use for your mouth that is ever so...mind clearing."

Said mouth dropped open, gaping like the worlds tiredest, most annoyed fish. "I am not about to—" only to lose his train of thought, derailed at the station, sorry, all tickets will be refunded, as Sherlock swept in to press damp, open-mouth kisses against John's jaw, slick tongue against his ear and the edge of sharp teeth on the soft lobe left John tipping his head back in an incoherent plea for more.

"Please, John," Sherlock breathed.

Sinking to his knees was practically a form of self-defense, his own hands nowhere near as clever as Sherlock's as he fumbled open his trousers, parted the slick leather of his belt and reaching in, finding the hot, thick heat of Sherlock's prick.

He'd done this before, done it many times, barely awake, just listening to the sweet, soft sounds drifting down to him. Done it before in pure exhaustion but it was still nothing like rote, pressing a kiss against the tip, licking the slick fluid welling there, parting his lips and letting Sherlock press inside with a soft, half-stifled moan.

Not by rote, not at all, but it was still easy, easy to draw sharp, stilted breaths through his nose, easy to cup Sherlock's hips, urge him silently to thrust, to ride into the dark, slick heat of John's mouth. Easy to suck and relax, work his tongue against the foreskin on each withdrawal just to hear Sherlock's stuttered gasp, until his hands were scrabbling at John's too-short hair, cupping his jaw, urgent against the muscles straining there as Sherlock pressed in deep.

"John," one deep, choked cry and Christ, John could have come from that alone, hard as a stone behind his own zipper and there was no time, no time at all to even scrub his hand over his straining cock before Sherlock hauled him to his feet and kissed him, licked at the salt-bitter taste still slick on John's tongue before he pulled back, whispering against John's too-hot, swollen lips.

"Thank you," Sherlock breathed. His eyes were open, blinking slowly in the brighter light, close enough that John could see his lashes trembling, the bare flush on his cheeks.

"Yeah, cheers," John muttered, shifting his pants uncomfortably and anything else died ignominiously unspoken as Sherlock whirled away, the door bursting open to let in a flood of people who were actually being paid to be out of bed at arse o'clock in the morning.

Hopefully none of the other detective would be too keen on figuring out why his mouth was suddenly swollen and Sherlock was all but oozing around the room, rather than his normal scarper. At least John had already been wobbling on his feet.

"Here." Something was thrust in his general direction and John didn't even have the wherewithal to flinch this time. Blinking hazily, he finally managed to identify it as a paper cup. A coffee cup, oh, glory Hallelujah and John snatched it away before it could grow wings and flitter away from him in the cruelest hallucination ever.

Hot enough to burn all the way down, obviously the bitter dregs drawn from the bottom of a thermos and John only just stopped himself from licking the cup, although he did run a finger around the inside, licking away the last dribble.

"Ta, that was brilliant," John sighed, finally turning to look at his benefactor. And promptly wished he hadn't.

"Right, I'm sure it was," Lestrade said blandly, one brow rising and if John ever saw that look directed at him again, he was going to shoot Sherlock, in the drawing room, with the revolver, and to hell with his theories about Cluedo. Lestrade's next words made him want to change it to nasty whack on the head in a hotel room with whatever was on hand.

"Might want to dust off the knees of your trousers, John," Lestrade said, just under his breath, then added louder, drawing everyone's attention to Sherlock, "Well, what have you got?"

"Oh, I've got a great deal," Sherlock said, eyes glinting, "I've gotten more than you –"

"And what about that dead body, then?" John interrupted loudly, the hot taste of panic warring with coffee and something else slightly more bitter on his palate.

"Which is exactly what I was speaking about," Sherlock said impatiently, "Do pay attention this time, Inspector, I do have other things to be getting on with tonight."

John leaned back against the wall, listening vaguely as Sherlock explained in great detail about the murderer, about bluebells only indigenous to certain parts of Britain and therefore, certainly from a prestigious greenhouse, only one of which would also use this particular brand of fertilizer.

Listened and didn't hear a word, lost in the warm fog of exhaustion and his throbbing cock, one of which was sure to be alleviated very, very soon, and it didn't take Sherlock Holmes to deduce which one.

Ah, well, he'd been exhausted before, many, many times before and not a single one of those times had ever been so perfectly wonderful.

John relaxed against the wall, didn't bother dusting off his knees, and smiled.

fin