This is based off a little head cannon of mine: Sherlock finds John's presence to be relaxing and, after a certain point of exhaustion, is willing to do pretty much whatever the doctor says. John finds this out.

Disclaimer: If I owned this, or were Moffat in any way, shape or form, would I write this fanfiction or be looking at more ways to break your heart? I don't own Sherlock.

The first time it happened, it was an accident, really.

Sherlock hadn't slept for six days, twelve minutes and counting. Thoughts bounced and bounded inside his skull, disorganized. His Mind Palace was gaining a few leaks. Information passed through the forefront of his mind that shouldn't have been. He had already given up frantically running around the place, fixing crack after crack and shoving memory after deduction after observation in their rightful places three days ago.

Sherlock lay curled up on the couch, aware that he looked like death. He pulled his dressing gown tighter around his shoulders, hoping that the minimal warmth would be enough to slow his mind, if only a little. It didn't.

The detective then heard footsteps coming towards the flat. It took a few moments for him to realize it was just John. Some concern in the back of his mind tugged at him slightly, muttering something about no one seeing this. If he weren't so tired, he would have ran towards the direction of his room to hide. Unfortunately, he was too drained. He faintly heard shuffling in the kitchen, a whistle sounding and the soft sounds of cups clinking.

Sherlock tried to focus more acutely on those sounds, but they seemed far away and fleeting. The white noise was filling cracks in the Palace and making them gashes. He tried to curl further in on himself in the hopes of disappearing and hiding from the ever present buzz. No such luck.

"Sherlock."

John's voice is clear as day, slicing through the haze of noise. Sherlock looks up, just letting his senses become enveloped. Dark blue eyes pulled him in, allowing him to float along the warm waves hidden beneath the iris's surface. Scents wafted around John, crisp and sweet. There was the smell of lavender and chamomile, tea and the barest hint of sterile serums and medications. The buzz in his mind was still there (it would never go away), but it was irrelevant. He could feel himself become irrationally warm, as if he were being wrapped in one of those oatmeal jumpers he secretly loved to see John in. It had all the makings of home.

"Sherlock, can you please sit up? I have tea for you," And his hands were helping him hook his legs over the edge of the couch, warm and cool, calloused and soft; a delicious contradiction. He gave the detective the cup, and Sherlock reveled in the pleased surprise he sees in the ocean when he begins to drink the tea.

John smiled slightly and it took his breath away, leaving a trail of warmth that followed the comforting heat of the minty tea. Sherlock blinked and set his tea mug to the side of the couch, feeling warm and content, the background hum of his thoughts soothing. Another strange contradiction; knowing he was thinking and observing and deducing, but not paying attention to it, feeling a sort of mindless nirvana.

"Sherlock, let's get you to bed."

The detective blinked before he got to his feet, vaguely hearing himself mumble something along the lines of, Of course, anything for you. John looked back at him with a sort of expression caught at crossroads: looking bewildered, content, confused and shocked, all at once. Sherlock swayed on his feet for a few moments and allowed himself to be led away by John's (warm, safe) hand.

He obediently slipped into bed, pulling the covers over himself. It wasn't quite as warm as with John, but it would be okay.

"Well, Sherlock, someone seems a lot more pleasant while half asleep!"

He heard the laugh in John's voice and of course he agreed, because John was happy and he felt content and, of course you're right, John, whatever you say.

He saw his friend's expression twist in one of confusion, "Are you always like this while half asleep?"

Hum, only with you.

A small smile that made him feel warm all over and proud of whatever his response was, "Sleep, Sherlock."

Sherlock drifted away without a second thought.

The second time was an experiment.

Sherlock was irritated after he had to spend many grueling hours with Anderson, of all people. He was not in the mood for chatting, or pretending to be polite, or even to be manipulative. If it were his choice, he would have gone to his room and hid the entire day. He wanted no interaction at all.

But John had to ruin that.

John was in the living room, sitting in his armchair, legs tucked beneath him as his eyes roamed the page they were on. Tea was already set out, fresh from the pot, for the both of them and sent smells of lavender, chamomile and mint throughout the flat, mixing with the sweet vanilla of a lit and quite-out-of-place candle. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. John was up to something.

John looked up at the man and just smiled. A little warmth bloomed in his chest, a feeling of Déjà vu taking hold. It was almost as if that smile had appeared somewhere before. Sherlock glared at him and John just turned back to his screen, vaguely gesturing for the detective to take a seat. The detective warily did so, curiosity piqued despite his general irritation with the human race.

For several minutes, nothing too eventful happened. Sherlock reached for his tea and drank slowly, scrutinizing every detail of his flatmate to figure out the doctor's plan. John soon began typing in that methodical, rhythmic way of his. Sherlock's previous irritation was pushed back, away from this new puzzle. What could John be planning?

There was still nothing.

Sherlock continued to observe and deduce, but couldn't seem to figure it out. The soft scents mingling around him, mixed with the warmth of tea in his tummy and the constant quiet tap tap tapping of John on his keyboard were lulling. As he continued to listen and breathe in the soothing smells, he could feel himself growing fuzzy, warm. Sherlock briefly wondered whether John's jumper had wrapped around him without his noticing.

He couldn't for the life of him remember why he had been so irritated before. Did it have something to do with someone stupid? He couldn't really recall. Those memories had joined the white noise of his mind.

Now John had been interjecting a few questions for Sherlock, who was trying to vaguely gather his awareness. Yes, I suppose I feel quite tired. Yes, John, I'll sleep. You're right; of course. I don't feel like talking about why I was irritated. Maybe later. Yes, I suppose I should go to bed.

After John had settled Sherlock down for a well-deserved nap, he considered the experiment to be a rousing success.

The third time was quite deliberate. So were the fourth and fifth times. And, of course, the magical tenth time where Sherlock had lazily kissed John and John had kissed back.

Sherlock had kept each and every one of those times filed away, hazy around the edges and dream like for sure, but still important.

Sherlock briefly contemplated the universe's seemingly endless abundance of irony. It seemed that it had decreed that whenever his transport was exhausted or overloaded that John would hold sway over his mind. It was a strange contradiction; to give over his mind when his body forced him to. Sherlock wouldn't have it any other way.

He is then pulled from those thoughts by a (safe, homey) hand carding through his curls. Warm and cool, calloused and soft. And of course, the soft voice of his lover pulling him under. "Sleep, sweetheart."

Of course, love.

How was Sherlock to refuse?