“You have got to be joking.” Lestrade said, his eyes wide with disbelief. “No.” he stood up and walked over to the display of monitors. “They can’t do this to us!” He stared as flight 1306 went from delayed to cancelled. John joined him beside the computers, rubbing a hand over his tired face.
It had been a long case. Two and a half weeks of running all around Jakarta, Sherlock hardly stopping to breathe. Mycroft had sent out Lestrade to ‘help’, aka watch Sherlock, around the ten-day mark. But eventually they were successful and now the trio was headed back to Britain.
However, their flight from Amsterdam to London had been delayed with heavy snow and was now cancelled. It had already been a long day and the end was nowhere in sight. Sherlock was sitting in one of the chairs in the gate area, his eyes closed and fingers forming steeples. He appeared to be perfectly calm as John walked by to join the long queue of people forming in front of the desk.
Another two hours later and some strong-arming the attendant, Lestrade and John returned to Sherlock victorious with a voucher for a hotel room. Apparently many flights were cancelled in Amsterdam, as the hotel they ended up at was not the Hilton to say the least. John was almost certain he saw a cockroach scuttle under the desk as the attendant handed Lestrade a key.
“You were lucky. This is the last room.” He said, attempting a smile. Sherlock stalked away with Lestrade stumbling after. John managed a nod before following the two to room 231. Lestrade and John were about to fall over asleep as they opened the door and discovered the one queen-sized bed.
“You have got to be joking.” John said, walking into the room, checking to see if there was maybe another bed or even a couch. But there was none. Just the one bed.
“No offense, blokes. But I’m sleeping out in the car before I share a bed with you two.” Lestrade said, dropping his suitcase in a corner.
“There’s already half a metre of snow on the ground.” Sherlock began in his usual manner.
“You’ll freeze to death.” John interrupted. Sherlock glanced at him.
“Or be buried in snow by morning.” Sherlock put his suitcase down and strode to the window, leaving the doctor and inspector to sort out the bed situation.
“There’s always the floo-” John stopped as they both watched a cockroach scuttle across the floor and hide under the bed. “Or not. Brilliant.”
“We could sleep in shifts?” Lestrade suggested as Sherlock dramatically sighed and spun around to face his compatriots.
“Oh, bloody hell. Can’t we all just share the bed and be mature about this? I’m fairly certain we all know how to keep our hands to ourselves.” Lestrade leaned on one leg, sticking his foot out like he always did when he was upset. John crossed his arms and glared at the corner of the bed. “Good. John you’re in the center, Lestrade left and I’ll take right side.”
“Hang on. Why do I have to be in the middle?” John asked, looking between the two. Lestrade and Sherlock just looked at each other then back to John.
“For obvious reasons.” Lestrade said. And the matter was settled.
John was in the center, on top of the sheet but under the duvet with Lestrade on his left and Sherlock on his right. John had his arms folded across his chest and seemed to be having a glaring contest with the ceiling. Sherlock flicked off the lamp on the nightstand and the only light came from the streetlights outside. The only noise was the sound of a few rustling sheets as they settled themselves.
“This will never be mentioned to Donovan, Anderson, or any other member of Scotland Yard.” Lestrade said to the darkness.
“Or Mycroft.” John added, grimacing as he imagined the even slyer looks he would get from him. “Or Molly…or Mrs. Hudson.”
“Obviously we will not mention it to anyone.” Sherlock said. John couldn’t see him but he knew he’d be rolling his eyes.
“Right.” Lestrade said. “Good night.” And he rolled over and fell asleep, exhaustion winning out over any awkward feelings.
John sighed and blinked a few times, the room was rather bright due to the moonlight reflecting off the newly fallen snow outside. He sighed and begged internally for sleep but was strangely awake.
“John?” Sherlock whispered. John didn’t answer, pretending to be asleep. “I know you’re awake.”
“What, Sherlock?” John whispered back.
“Your foot is touching my leg.”
John’s head turned sharply to glare at Sherlock, who was gazing calmly at the ceiling. “You…your leg is touching my foot.” He said, sharply enunciating every word. Sherlock looked at him then shifted a little, breaking the contact between them. “Thank you.” John turned, refolded his arms and shut his eyes again.
A few minutes passed.
“Sherlock, I really don’t want to have pillow talk with you.” John sighed. Sherlock didn’t say anything for a minute or two.
“I just wanted to say you did well on this case. Could not have completed it without you.”
John glanced to Sherlock, a little confused. He didn’t answer for a minute or two. “…thank you.”
A few minutes later, “John?” but John had already drifted off to sleep.
An hour or so later, John jerked away. For a moment he was confused as to where he was and why he felt so cramped. Then Lestrade’s heavy snores on his left, and Sherlock’s deep steady breathing on his right reminded him. Lestrade had taken much of the duvet and though John had managed to tug some of it back, it was much less than he was due. Sherlock chose that moment to roll his head over and use John’s shoulder for a pillow, his curly hair itching the side of his face. John stared at the ceiling and cursed the universe for its sick sense of humor. This is going to be a long night.