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It was long after midnight, nearly time to begin a new day. John lifted his head from the cradle of his pillow. "Stop pacing and come to bed, hmm?"
Sherlock paused in the path he'd been stalking across the room. He'd stripped down to his underwear before being distracted by the news alerts on his phone, and now John could see him shivering in the cool night air.
"How can you possibly expect me to sleep right now?"
"You don't need to sleep."
"I'm not really in the mood—"
"Just come here and we can keep each other warm, okay?" John twitched back the covers in invitation and Sherlock sighed and crossed the room to climb into bed.
John turned off the bedside lamp and shifted on his side so they were facing each other, foreheads and knees touching, hands clasped in the space between. "All right?" he asked.
Sherlock shook his head and made a sound somewhere between a sniff and a sigh and John traced one hand up his chest, stopping to curve his fingers over his shoulder. "We'll get through this."
"How?"
"We've been through worse."
"How?" Sherlock repeated.
John's head was at a loss but his heart knew exactly what to say. "Together," he whispered, and pulled Sherlock closer, trusting that somehow they would eventually feel better.