John sighed when he saw Sherlock sprawled out over all three of the couch cushions, covered in no less than two blankets, his head propped on the arm rest as he stared, glassy-eyed with boredom at the talk-show program currently prattling away through the night. John hadn't been able to get back to sleep after his most recent nightmare (an afghani child, half his body blown away and bleeding profusely). He had sat in bed for a while, trying to forget the look of horror and pain which had remained burned in the backs of his eyes, just listening to the sounds of the city at night, and the muffled talking of the telly downstairs. After awhile, he had donned his slippers and shuffled down to the sitting room to join Sherlock for some company, to get the afterimage out of his head.
"Budge up," he'd mumbled, just loudly enough to be heard over the inane chatter, as he stood looming over Sherlock's head, arms crossed across his chest for warmth- a tee shirt was not quite warm enough in the current season when not wrapped in a blanket (or four, in Sherlock's case).
Sherlock only groaned into the armrest, a groan which could loosely be heard as "Don't wanna sit up," his right arm draped lazily over the side of the couch cushion, hanging out from under the edge of the blankets.
"You don't have to sit up," John sighed, coming around to stand in the way of Sherlock's view, "Just move over." Sherlock slowly complied, rolling more onto his side and scooting back against the back of the couch, his left arm gripping the blankets to keep them from sliding off. John lifted the edge of the blankets and crawled in under them as quickly as possible, to keep the cold air from rushing in. There was just enough room for him to lie comfortably, though his back was pressed in firmly against Sherlock's chest.
A short period of adjustment, and soon Sherlock found himself perfectly spooning his best friend, their knees and legs parallel as their height difference allowed John to rest his head on Sherlock's right arm, already warming back up in the oven Sherlock had created under the blankets. John's mind had already released its fixation on the violent images, and the warmth began to lull him back to sleep. Sherlock sighed gently into John's hair, a smile of contentment on his lips as he slowly, tentatively curled an arm around the shorter man's waist (to keep him from falling off the couch, of course), just as he observed his breathing slowing to a state of unconsciousness. He hoped the laugh track on the late-night sitcom which had just started wouldn't wake him.