A/N: Fill for a prompt over at the bbc Sherlock prompt meme: "Just a little something about the joys of a bed piled high with pillows? Soft ones and firm ones, big and little. Even a cold bedroom and a paucity of blankets can be cozy, if you pile the pillows and cushions around you […]"

The Art of Pillow Giving.

The pillows were multiplying.

There was no other way of saying it. They were surely budding off or undergoing some sort of inanimate object version of asexual reproduction.

Every time John blinked his drowsy, pain medication induced blink (the ones that tended to last a few minutes between every flutter of the eyelids), a new pillow seemed to appear on his bed, by his side, snuggling up to his body like puppies seeking after warmth. His bed was surely being overrun with pillows by now.

When John first crawled into bed, he was certain there had only been a single pillow - his personal pillow that he'd own for the past three years. Last time he counted them (and it honestly couldn't have been more than five minutes ago) there had been seven. Painfully lifting his head from where he was lying on his bed, John could now count at least ten. There were soft ones, firm ones, big and little ones, and ones in all shades of the spectra. There were ones with tassels, ones smooth like silk, and others fluffier than any pillow John had ever seen before.

It was a bit horrifying how they were all mystically appearing on his bed without his knowledge.

John shifted in spot, trying to sit up, trying to get a better look at the situation. His ribs protested his every movement by shooting up throbbing jolts of pain every twitching flail he made.

"John, stay down."

John froze as the baritone voice washed over him. His eyes snapped upwards where Sherlock suddenly appeared, a frown on the taller man's face. John furrowed his own brows in response. "I'd prefer not to, Sherlock. Help me up, won't you? My back is getting stiff."

John wriggled a bit more, but Sherlock only glowered at his flatmate with his arms crossed. "Don't make me repeat myself. Lie down," the man said strictly.

John could feel a tick on annoyance stirring behind his temples, behind the growing throb that was a building headache. "I've been lying down all day. Sherlock, I just have a small stab wound. I'm fine," John protested in a strained voice at Sherlock's persistent demand. "And I'm taking a load of medicine for infections and pain already," John added pacifyingly, because a part of him was sure that was genuine concern he heard in the detective's voice.

The younger man, however, would not budge. "The wound will not heal if you insist on irritating the healing process by moving so much."

"Christ, Sherlock. You sound like me now … not that you ever listen," John muttered amusedly. "Don't worry, I'm the doctor; I know how much I can pull at it without ripping out the stitches. And I'm not the one who's liable to jump into the Thames in the middle of the night," John continued, quirking an eyebrow at the other man.

"That was only once." Sherlock gave a huff. "Nevertheless," the detective said lowly, letting the word stretch into John's conscience, "You have no reason to emulate my behaviour."

"Glad to know you realise your own appalling actions," John chuckled to himself.

"They are merely unconventional. Regardless, I get results, unlike the imbeciles in the Yard," Sherlock snipped back.

John let out another short round of muffled chuckles. John knew he could continue arguing with Sherlock all night long, but that wouldn't get him anywhere; he knew perfectly well he could never win against that infuriating genius. So, with a soft sigh admitting defeat, slowly, the doctor eased himself back down on his bed, pausing only momentarily as Sherlock walked over and awkwardly fluffed one of the pillows.

John blinked. Was it just him, or were there now eleven pillows on his bed? "By the way, have you been crossbreeding rabbits and pillows?" John wondered mildly, "You know what I say about your experimenting..."

His words startled Sherlock enough. "Excuse me?"

John waved a hand at his bed, "You know, this," he commented, "Where are they all coming from?"

There was a short pause (and frankly, since this was Sherlock of all people, a short pause was quite a long thing) before the man shrugged, face blank. "I don't know what you are talking about, John. I suggest you go back to sleep," he said before turning around and leaving the room.

John stared incredulously after his flatmate, but the man continued out of John's room like he hadn't just miss the blatant growing pile of pillows on John's bed. John shook his head to himself muttering the oddness of crazy geniuses, before turning his head to curl back to sleep. He'd expected to lie on his bed for a long time, like a victim with insomnia (because God knows how much sleep he'd gotten already today), but something about all the pillows piled around (and on) him made his firm bed feel something like a cozy cloud. The pillows seemed to cuddle around him like a soothing hug, urging him to relax and give in to dreamless oblivion. It was wonderful.

And so, the next moment John opened his eyes again, a few hours had passed.

And there were another four pillows burying him under.

"Sherlock," John finally decided to call out, "Sherlock."

The man appeared at the second shout. "What, John?" the man asked in an exasperated voice that sounded like he was annoyed - but John knew Sherlock better than that; Sherlock had been paying too much attention to his room for him to answer his call so quickly.

John smiled at his flatmate, before playfully throwing a pillow among the – what was it now? - fifteen he was piled under, over at the younger man. "Not that I don't appreciate all the pillows, but you know, Sherlock, a simple 'sorry' will do," John commented lightly. "Not that you have anything to apologise for," the doctor tacked hastily on.

Sherlock was quiet for a second, looking like he was about to deny everything, before: "I should've acted quicker," the man rushed out quietly, his eyes skidding off to the side to avoid John's direct gaze.

John made a soft disagreeing sound from the back of his throat. "Sherlock, the man had a gun trained on us. Who would've noticed the second man with the knife in that situation?"

"I did!" the detective growled out angrily, "There were two men - it was obvious from the start. But I couldn't react fast enough when the second one leaped in."

"But I did."

"Last minute. Only barely realising he had a knife," Sherlock pointed out. "Or that he was even there at all. Much too late to do anything about it."

John rolled his eyes, "Sorry for not deducing it. I suppose you knew he would have a knife before you even saw him?"

"Yes."

John shook his head, "Look, Sherlock..." John wanted to tack on the obvious: "If you hadn't scampered off ahead and had actually told me what was going on and what you deduced before dragging me into it..." but Sherlock already knew that, and there was no point in rubbing it in his face. In fact, that was exactly what Sherlock was 'apologising' for. Or rather, unable to verbally apologise for and making do with the pillows instead. So John couldn't say it - not so directly. John rubbed the back of his head carefully, making sure his sides didn't pull too harshly, "Look, it's fine, Sherlock. The stab wound's not that bad. Just … don't do it again, alright?"

There was a short silence as Sherlock studied him for a second, undoubtedly seeing every thought that ran across John's mind and then some. A moment later, Sherlock hummed out some sort of reply which John was certain was only mildly close to a promise, before the man bent down to pick up the pillow John threw at him. He gently propped it back on John's bed ... along with another one.

"... thanks," John said hesitantly. John really wanted to know where Sherlock was getting all these pillows.

"You're welcome," Sherlock replied dismissively, but John could easily pick out the tone of apology underneath that simple sentence; he hadn't known Sherlock this long for nothing. Sherlock stepped back outside without another word, leaving John alone in his room once more with an amused little smile on the doctor's face. Seconds later, the soft lull of the violin echoed peacefully through the flat, pulling at John's conscious like a lullaby. John let his smile stretch wider as the man closed his eyes again and let Sherlock's song overtake all his senses until he heard nothing more. Sherlock was awfully sweet when he wanted to be, that so-called sociopath.

And so, hours and hours more passed without John realising. By the time John woke up once more, there were three additional pillows by his side. John could only laugh softly and pull them closer to himself, creating a make-shift nest to submerge himself under, looking forward to drifting back to sleep to wake up to the discovery of new pillows.

By the time John finally got better (or well enough to move around without too much pain), there had been over forty pillows in total, each one different from the last.

John was certain they would be a pain to pack up (where does anyone store over forty pillows?), but John didn't mind too much – at least not at the moment. Because, technically, he was still hurt, and until he was fully healed, John refused to move them anywhere but on his bed. To some, they may have only seemed like an overflowing stack of pillows, but to John they were much, much more than that. Pulling up his blanket, John snuggled deeper into his bed, allowing himself to be swallowed whole underneath, because John couldn't help but truly cherished how the pillows were oh-so warm, cozy, and above all, filled so entirely with Sherlock's love and care.

a/n: edit(06/2017):Guess what, Blue Teller's written a companion fic to this called "The Art of Pillow Hunting", to answer everyone's burning need to know where Sherlock found all these pillows from. Link is in my profile :)