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Sherlock slipped into the bed, forcing John to slide to the middle and Mary to scoot dangerously close to the edge. She rolled onto her side and flung her left arm over John; she wasn't one to complain about having to cuddle closely with either of them, though it was late and she was too tired to want to do anything more.
Sherlock flopped and wriggled and coughed, clearly out of sorts. "Which of you smells of mint and menthol?"
Mary grimaced and tried to stretch without bumping John. Since they'd retired to the cottage, with its damp, seaside air, her arthritis had grown appreciably worse "Sorry, my neck's a little—" she began, just as John said, "My knees are sore."
"Old people," Sherlock snapped, and rocked his head roughly into the pillow. "I'm sleeping with old people."
"You have your own bed upstairs," John told him; Mary could detect equal parts annoyance and fondness in his voice.
"I know. It's just." Sherlock inhaled and Mary felt the bed shift as his body tensed.
She reached her arm across John to graze Sherlock's shoulder. "It's okay. We all fit. Go to sleep and you won't notice the smell."
"I don't mind," he said, and turned onto his side to face them, freeing up more space for them all in the bed.