A/N:

A tiny little one shot I wrote while working on my creatively named "TOW They share a bed" that didn't fit in there but I found too fluffy to discard.

The middle of the night and John was asleep. His bed was warm, so so warm. His duvet clung to him snugly, embracing him in a gentle hug. He wasn't dreaming, not that he was aware of anyway. Three a.m. and the world was a perfect place.

Until someone yanked his blanket away and got under it, rolling themselves into a tight little ball and taking up more than half of the space and of the duvet, which would have been the polite thing to do. Suddenly, the world was not so perfect anymore.

And sadly, it happened far too often for John to jerk awake abruptly as was the natural thing to do for an ex-soldier when someone invaded their little piece of heaven. Instead, he woke, yes, but wasn't really awake when he spoke.

"'sup?" His hands clung to the blanket in a desperate hope to keep part of it for himself.

"Nothing," a familiar baritone answered from the recently-occupied side of the bed. "Just got back. Sleep, now." But John was waking and he remembered the other occasions his bed had played host to the owner of that voice. Usually when he was ill or injured. So, he must be one of those now, John figured.

"You okay?" he asked in a voice that was dripping with the slur of sleep.

"Hm? Oh, yes. Small cut, nothing to worry about. I cleaned it." John sighed deeply and turned onto his back, rousing himself to full wakefullness.

"Show me," he said.

"No really, it's all right," Sherlock said.

"You're a doctor?"

"... no."

"Then let me see it," John demanded. There wasn't a lot he could do to help Sherlock he had to admit, but he could take care of him. And he would do a damn fine job of it. He felt the mattress dip next to him as Sherlock shifted on it and sat up.

"Cover your eyes," he warned before switching on the lamp on the bedside table. John threw his arm over his eyes. He gave them a moment to adjust to what little light shone through before sitting up himself. Sherlock showed him his arm. Taking his hand to turn the arm around, John inspected the wound. It looked nasty, but not deep or serious enough to warrant sutures.

"Did you clean it?" he asked and touched the finger of his free hand to the edge of the cut to feel the temperature. It was slightly warm and Sherlock flinched a little, but the skin was also dry and firm.

"Yes. I used your antibacterial wipes. You need to buy new ones." John nodded and made a mental note to go to the chemist's the next day. With Sherlock in the house you always needed a steady supply of them, it wouldn't be wise to delay the purchase even a single day.

"All right. Turn off the light." John laid back on his back and then it was dark again. Once more he could feel Sherlock shift and turn and steal more of the blanket. They had a little fight over it, both tugging at their ends, until Sherlock sighed in exasperation and let it go.

"You need a bigger blanket," he said annoyed.

"You need to start sleeping in your own bed," John retorted. Sherlock heaved a breath of pure suffering and dragged his body closer and then over the side of John's. He rearranged the duvet so it covered both of them snugly and tucked the sides under their bodies. It was warm once more, if slightly uncomfortable for John with six feet of detective draped over him. But it was also nice in the dark. He wouldn't allow anything like this in the light of day, but for now it was okay when he knew Sherlock would be gone before he even woke up. He always did.

After a while, when John was almost back to being asleep, he put his hand onto Sherlock's head and let his finger play with the curls of his hair lazily.

"Ow," Sherlock whispered sleepily when John came upon a snarl in his hair.

"Sorry, love," he apologized and stilled his hand, patting Sherlock's head once.

Sherlock let it slip. John was too tired to know what he was saying even subconsciously. He wouldn't remember it when he woke up and if he did, he would pretend it never happened.