Disclaimer:Sherlock Holmes is created by sir ACD and this incarnation of Sherlock is owned by Moffat and Gatiss. I do not own anything nor do I gain anything but amusement from writing this.

AN: This is just a short, fluffy little drabble that I wrote for the wonderful Trulywicked on her birthday.

Nighttime Musings

In…Out

In…Out

'Breathing is boring'. Sherlock remembered telling that to John, well of course he remembered, he hadn't deleted a single conversation he'd had with the other man. It was the truth when he said it. Breathing was boring back then. Things were different now, just like he was different.

He wondered if John would ever realize the impact that he'd had on Sherlock, how deeply one short little ex army doctor had imprinted himself inside of Sherlock. If Sherlock believed in such things as souls he would be inclined to believe that John had crawled inside his because no matter what Sherlock did or tried, he couldn't get John out.

In…Out

In…Out

Breathing was important. Sherlock had not realized how important it was until John's breath had stuttered and stopped when that creep they had chased had turned on his heel and plunged that dirty blade he carried into John. It wasn't scientific or logical but despite everything Sherlock's breath had stopped right along John's, right until John's chest had started to rise and fall again.

Sherlock was still pissed that Mycroft had gotten to the man before Sherlock had. Sherlock had had all sort of lovely things planned for the man who'd hurt his John. No matter that Mycroft was all about cake, power and Lestrade, Sherlock had to admit that his brother knew him pretty well…Mycroft probably knew what sort of pretty little experiments he would have conducted on the man too and had vanished him before that could happen. Stupid, controlling Mycroft.

In…Out

In…Out

Still…Sherlock shifted in his sitting position in bed, leaning against the headboard and looked down at the man sleeping next to him, curled up against Sherlock's side. Perhaps, just perhaps, Mycroft had had a point this time around. Taking temptation out of his hands had allowed Sherlock to concentrate on John, make sure the doctors treated him the best way they could and that John, stubborn idiot that he was wouldn't take on more than he could handle just to get out of the hospital.

He was home now though, home right next to Sherlock where he belonged and breathing just like he should. In and out and in and out.

Smothering a yawn, Sherlock looked at John again before he shifted until he was lying in bed, facing John…Breathing the same air his lover did.

Funny, funny little John. How did he do it? How could he make Sherlock anchored just by being himself? Sherlock reached out and ran his fingers through short, soft blond hair; let his thumb stroke across a weatherworn cheek. It didn't matter, Sherlock decided. For once he didn't have to know why or how. As long as John was there, as long as John was with him nothing else mattered.

He yawned again and closed his eyes, shuffling closer and wrapping his arm over John's waist. Even sleeping was easier now, now that he could fall asleep to the lullaby of John's breathing.

In…Out

In…Out