“You’re not sleeping with me.”
“Why not? It’s perfectly reasonable to wish to test this hypothesis and you already live with me anyway.”
“You’re NOT. Sleeping. With me.”
“But John,” Sherlock whines, following him around the kitchen like an unhappy toddler in a too-expensive scarlet housecoat. John wants to kick him. A familiar impulse, that. “There have been many claims already made that sleeping with a bedfellow improves the quality of sleep. I honestly see nothing against sharing a bed with me for a certain amount of time to serve as a sleep study of sorts. It would have been incredibly useful data for this case.”
The case he is referring to was more than a little ridiculous and absolutely no reason for John to allow Sherlock to nip into bed with him. A woman from Brentford had found her husband dead in their guest bedroom. They had been sleeping apart due to his dreadful snoring, and according to her sleeping apart was so detrimental to his health he might as well have dropped dead just like that. It had been fairly easy for Sherlock to deduce in under two hours he had in fact been murdered by their neighbour who was so angry with him for consistently parking his car in front of his house he’d snuck in through the window and smothered him with a pillow. Still, her outlandish theory appeared to have awoken Sherlock’s curiosity, and despite her being proven more than a little bit wrong he had thrown himself unto several articles and two books on sleeping patterns and was now apparently looking for empirical evidence gathered all on his own.
“Just the fact that you see nothing against it is reason enough to say no. If there’s studies out there already can’t you just take those at face value?”
Sherlock looks so aghast at those words John might as well have suggested the ritualistic butchering of a basket of baby bunnies. He supposes that for a man of science like Sherlock taking another’s test results at face value might, actually, be much the same. He also has the niggling suspicion that Sherlock wouldn’t look nearly that horrified by the actual butchering of a basket of baby bunnies.
“What could you possibly have against sharing a bed for a brief period of time? Are you worried people might talk? The walls of my bedroom aren’t made of glass, John, London won’t be able to see us, nobody has to know.”
“People already talk, that’s hardly the problem,” John says gruffly, wiping down the surface of the kitchen counter with a dishcloth decisively. It’s rare for it to be empty enough for a proper wipe down, so he decides to make the best of it now he can.
“Are you worried something might actually happen? Fascinating.”
“I am not – Sherlock. No. I just feel I’ve given up enough of my privacy living with you as it is, can I please keep a couple of hours to myself every night?”
Sherlock’s face screws up with discontent and he turns with a huff, the housecoat swishing around him dramatically. John is fairly convinced that’s the only reason he wears the damn things, anyway. They add something of a theatrical element to his moods.
“It’ll just be for a week or two,” Sherlock says a few hours later as they are sitting in a cab, on their way to a fresh crime scene Lestrade called them to. “Fourteen days, at most.”
“No,” John says.
“We’d aim for a set number of hours of sleep every night, perhaps the common eight, and see if it makes a difference with our usual sleeping habits when there is a partner present,” Sherlock says as they are both leaned over the headless corpse of what, judging by the unusual outfit, appears to be an aging circus clown.
“No,” John says.
“I’m sure it’s got to do with natural instinct, after all when sleeping with another present there are two individuals who might detect potential predators and subconsciously one might feel safer and therefore sleep more deeply,” Sherlock says as they are prowling about the campsite of an almost abandoned circus, the scent of sawdust and old cotton candy tickling up John’s nose.
“No,” John says.