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Summary
Sherlock is tired.
John senses a shift.◒
“I’m tired, John,” He murmurs. Barely a whisper. John swallows, feeling irrationally helpless.
“I can see that,” He responds quietly, tracing an eyebrow with the pad of his thumb. “Sleep, then,” He can hear the crack in his own voice—a perfect match for the one in his chest. He hopes that Sherlock won’t notice, won’t try to pick it all apart.
“Not what I meant,” He rumbles, as he drifts off and away, leaving John alone in wakefulness to wonder what the hell had just happened.