Sherlock opens his eyes to stare blearily up at John, and for once, doesn't make much of an argument, only looking grumpy and paler than usual. Back to the couch he trudges, and then simply falls into it.

"You will be here when I wake up with the list of things I requested," Sherlock rumbles from the couch, his voice layered with sleep. "Or I will throw up in your desk. Every single drawer."

Sherlock throws his arms over his head and curls into a ball beneath his coat. No more than a few minutes pass before the detective's breathing shallows and slows, Sherlock passing into what seems to be bricklike slumber.