Title: Human pillow
Author: fanficwriter101
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Fandoms: Sherlock
Disclaimer: The characters from the show aren't mine, they belong to others. No copyright infringement intended. Any characters you don't recognize are mine. Feedback would be nice, positive feedback would be nicer. Enjoy!
Category: Sherlock (BBC) PWP fluffy genfic
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sherlock, John, Mycroft
Series: No
Spoilers: None intended
Summary: Sherlock likes to stretch out on the couch. He doesn't care if it's already occupied.
Archive: Just tell me where it's going
Additional 'stuff': This was based on one of two brilliant drawings of John and Sherlock together on their couch on deviantart. Suggestions for a better title welcomed!


The first time...

John was sitting on the couch, newspaper on his lap folded small enough to just show the crossword, a pen held in his left hand. He timed his crossword-solving so he could get most of it done while Sherlock was out.

He knew from experience that Sherlock was simply unable to ignore the blank squares on a crossword and if he left the room to pee or make a cup of tea he would find Sherlock with *his* crossword, busily filling in the clues John had left blank, when he came back.

It was Sherlock's turn to do the shopping. John also knew from experience not to add too many items to any shopping list when Sherlock went alone. 

Either Sherlock got bored or distracted while wandering up and down the supermarket aisles and simply abandoned his basket if he considered he had wasted too much time in the shop, or, if he did manage to bring anything home, John was always surprised how a list on which he had clearly written 'bread' or 'milk'  Sherlock somehow managed to read 'sellotape' or 'superglue' instead and John would end up going shopping for the food they actually needed a short time later.

In what John knew was not anywhere near enough time to have made it to the supermarket, shopped and walked back, Sherlock was in the doorway, unsurprisingly empty-handed.

"John, you really can't expect me to battle the ridiculous crowds at that shop simply to satisfy your need for milk in your tea!"

John didn't bother pointing out that both he and Sherlock took milk in their tea. Mostly because he would have had to shout as Sherlock had headed into his room to divest himself of his coat, scarf and gloves but also because he knew from experience it would be a waste of breath.

Sherlock walked back into the room and flopped onto the couch, bending his legs to fit and resting his head and shoulders on John's lap, narrowly avoiding being impaled through the back of the head with John's pen as John snatched both the pen and paper away just in time.

"Oi!" John protested.

Sherlock looked up at John guilelessly. "Hmm?"

"Sherlock, move!"

Sherlock's puppy-eyes met John's narrowed ones. "But I'm comfy!"

"Sherlock, three seconds to get up or I'm shoving you off!" John warned. "One..."

Sherlock ignored John, instead reaching up and taking John's paper and pen, eyes scanning the blank squares of the crossword.

"Give me that back! Two..."

The door opened then and a very surprised Mycroft stared at the sight of his brother lying with his head in John's lap, John clearly startled by his unexpected appearance, a direct contrast to his brother's reaction.

"Uh...Mycroft...Sherlock!" John's hands pushed Sherlock into a sitting position but that was as far as Sherlock moved.

"Good evening John, Sherlock. I trust I'm not...interrupting."

John felt his cheeks heat up. "I was just about to push Sherlock onto the floor. Sherlock, Get. Up. Now."

Huffing loudly, Sherlock sat up and put his feet on the floor. Ruffling his hands in his hair he finally looked up at Mycroft. "Well?"

"Hmm...yes, well...I simply popped round to invite you to..."

"No, busy."

John frowned. "Sherlock, at least let Mycroft..."

"Shut up John."

That was, as Sherlock would later ruefully recall, the final straw for John and he leaned over and shoved Sherlock, hard.

Sherlock slid onto the floor in an undignified heap, his brother's amused expression adding insult to very-near injury.

"Mycroft?" John invited the older Holmes to continue.

Mycroft smiled gratefully at John as Sherlock decided not to bother moving and lay on the floor a few feet away.

"Well, as I was about to say, I've been invited to the Palace to celebrate..."

The rest of Mycroft's explanation was lost on John as Sherlock reached up and pulled John onto the floor by his ankle, leaving them both sprawling in an undignified heap.

Mycroft decided his visit was at an end. One hand on the doorknob, he turned back to the two entangled men. "Friday evening Sherlock, I'll send the car for you at seven-fifteen."


The second time...

Sherlock was *exhausted*. He'd taken the Eurostar to Paris, spent hours arguing with a station full of police officers who flatly refused to speak *any* English,  and more tedious hours trying to understand the heavy Northern accent of a middle-aged man who was clearly too stupid to have stolen anything, let alone an early Picasso from a chateau with a state-of-the art security system.

Sherlock had only taken the case because the man's wife had pleaded in repeated emails and phone calls over three days while Lestrade didn't have anything for him in the same period. He resolved never again to make the same mistake as he had months earlier in Belarus and now again. As he emerged from the cab he looked up at the muted light coming from the living room window - John liked to close the curtains as soon as dusk darkened the sky - and smiled with tired relief.

John looked up as the door unlocked and opened - since their run-in with Moriarty, he made a point of locking the front door at every opportunity - and he was shocked at Sherlock's disheveled appearance. "Sherlock?!"

Shaking his head, too tired even to respond, Sherlock threw off his scarf, gloves and coat, leaving them on the floor as he crossed to the sofa. Dropping down he lay with his head resting in John's lap.

"What happened?"

"The wife lied. Her husband wasn't framed. He was too stupid to have actually stolen the painting."

John decided to ignore Sherlock's position and concentrate on other things. "Have you eaten at all?"

Sherlock tipped his head back, gazing upside-down at John's concerned expression. "I had a croissant and some strawberry preserve on the train."

"How much of the croissant did you actually eat?" John persisted gently. Sherlock hadn't said if the croissant was for breakfast or dinner but John was quietly pleased Sherlock had actually eaten *anything* during the day.

Pouting, Sherlock moved his head back to a more comfortable position. "It was stale."

John sighed and slid his hand under Sherlock's shoulders. "Up. I'll make you some soup. I got some nice fresh bread rolls from the new bakery round the corner."

Sherlock yawned and lifted himself onto his elbows. Almost immediately, he flopped back down with a *whump* onto John's thighs. "Too tired to eat."

John's worry-meter shot up several notches. "Sherlock, you shouldn't be this tired." He rested the back of his hand on Sherlock's forehead. He was warm but not over-hot. "Did you...do anything...in Paris?" John deliberately left his question open-ended. There was no telling what Sherlock might have 'done' in the fourteen hours since John last saw him.

Sherlock sighed deeply. "Contrary to popular opinion John, I am human. I do get tired."

Sherlock being frustrated over a waste-of-time case wasn't unusual. Sherlock not eating was *definitely* not unusual but Sherlock admitting he was human. Beyond unusual. John wasn't even sure there was a word for...whatever that was.

The knock at the door startled both of them.

A muffled voice called through the closed front door. "It's Lestrade."

"Come in." John called, forgetting Sherlock's current position.

Lestrade opened the door and walked in, two thick manila folders in his gloved hands, staring in surprise at John and Sherlock. "Am I interrupting..?"

John huffed. "Sherlock couldn't be bothered to walk the extra few feet to his room so he's using the sofa as a temporary resting place."

Sherlock frowned. "You have a case."

Lestrade shook his head. "No...well, yes and no. I have a cold case. Family's making a fuss about it to their local MP who just happens to work at the Ministry of Justice. We were at school together so..."

John took the folders from the DI. "Anything we should know?"

"Yeah. If you solve the case, I'll buy you a sofa bed."

John smiled and levered Sherlock gently upright. "That much fuss?"

Lestrade nodded, a pained expression on his face. "That much. Thanks. 'Night."

As soon as the door closed, Sherlock twisted to reach for the folders.

John shook his head. "No Sherlock. Food, sleep then work. Whoever this is, they're dead. It can wait until tomorrow."

Sherlock scowled, frowned and pouted but he didn't argue. He couldn't as he had to yawn at that moment.

"Go and get ready for bed and I'll bring the soup in on a tray." John said firmly, getting up, taking the case notes with him into the kitchen.

Sherlock's mouth opened to make some comment about how John sounded more like a mother hen every day but then he changed his mind and walked slowly to his room.


Sherlock's eyelids were drooping as he swallowed a few mouthfuls of admittedly tasty chicken soup - John had discovered the addition of a few ingredients transformed tinned soup into something much more appetizing and Sherlock actually enjoyed trying his various recipes - and slowly chewed a couple of bites of the soft white roll. He yawned several times as John popped in and out, checking Sherlock hadn't actually fallen asleep.

John lifted the tray as Sherlock's hand moved slowly down, the spoon dropping from his opening fingers. "Okay, I think that's enough."

Sherlock smiled tiredly. "Thank you."

"You get a good night's sleep and we'll tackle the cold case in the morning."

Sherlock yawned, squirmed down into the bed and nodded, already almost asleep.

John leaned down, pulled the bedclothes over Sherlock's shoulder then walked to the door, flicking the light off as he closed the door behind him.

The third time...

The afternoon after Sherlock's French excursion, John was determined to watch the rugby - he had always preferred the game to football and had enjoyed playing through school and university - and sat with a large packet of tortilla chips and two bottles of beer on the table in front of him. He knew he didn't have to work Sunday or Monday so he knew he could safely indulge in more alcohol than he usually drank.

Sherlock came home a short time after the game started and John made it clear he was busy, just a different busy to Sherlock's definition, watching the rugby.

Pouting, Sherlock walked into the kitchen and starting combining evil-smelling chemicals, the smell wafting into the living room within seconds.

"Sherlock! Whatever that is, stop doing it!" John shouted.

"It's an experiment John." Sherlock responded, appearing in the living room with an innocent expression on his face.

John wasn't placated. "What in, creating a new stink bomb recipe? Stop it and come and watch the rugby."

Sherlock didn't reply and headed back into the kitchen for a few brief minutes but he soon returned to take up what he had come to think of as his usual position on the sofa. For the sake of odour-free peace, John let Sherlock, yet again, use his lap as a pillow.

After no more than three minutes, Sherlock looked up at John. "Bored."

John reached across and lifted the top one of the pile of folders Lestrade had left the previous night. "Here...make a start on Lestrade's cold case."

Sherlock read the thick folder's contents, yawning more frequently as he worked his way through the numerous sheets, photographs and hand-written notes.

Occasionally he would mutter a scathing comment about the conduct of the investigation or some aspect of the case and John would smile at Sherlock's indignation.  After the second half started, John said: "Beer please Sherlock."

"That's your second." Sherlock sounded vaguely disapproving.

John frowned, a little cross. "This from a man who takes illegal drugs on a regular basis."

Sherlock bent his head back and locked eyes with John. "Hardly 'regular' John."

John's raised eyebrow silenced any further comment Sherlock may have been about to make and he reached for the bottle, handing it up to John.


Mrs Hudson could hear the TV, knocked then tried the door, finding it unlocked. She had baked some cakes for her knitting circle and had leftovers which she didn't want to waste.

Opening the door, she looked across to the sofa. John was dozing, Sherlock's head resting on his lap, John's hand lying lightly on Sherlock's chest, moving with Sherlock's every breath.

Smiling, Mrs Hudson closed the door quietly behind her. 



Next story in series - Human Pillow - Two.