Poor Sherlock has been without a case for nearly a week. He's caught a bad cold, and though he despises staying home without entertainment, he quite enjoys being pampered by you. But it's torture, lying around all day without a good murder to solve.

You're lying on the couch, his lanky body settled neatly between your legs. His head rests on your stomach, eyes closed with his face snuggled into your jumper. You know he's not asleep, but you're grateful for the peace and quiet of his temporary contentment.

His icy blue eyes flutter open and he looks at you reading. Reaching up, his pale fingers wrap around the pages of your book and gently tug it down so you'll look at him.