Telly. It was a delicate subject. John liked it, mostly, he could stand the mediocre acting and cheesy plots he came across, he loved the good stuff like Doctor Who and this new show about some actor, Benedict. It was something to do when there weren't any cases and he was starting to get a bit bored.

Sherlock had a completely different opinion.

He didn't call it just "telly". It was always "crap telly". Because to him, it was all ridiculous. Why watch a stupid sci-fi show about things that weren't real when you could be solving a nice homicide?

There was that, and the awful 'mystery" shows that Sherlock solved before the opening credits and called a disgrace to actual crime scenes and detectives. At least to a certain consulting one.

So when John plopped down on the sofa with a fresh cuppa and looked around for the remote, Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Must you? I'm doing research," he said, not looking up from his laptop.

"I've had a long day, Sherlock. Telly helps me relax," John had found the remote and the screen flickered on to the news. It was talking about the random shootings occurring in downtown London, something they had solved just yesterday.

John skimmed through the channels, finally finding an episode of Doctor Who. Even though it was an old one he had seen already, he snuggled on the side of the sofa, against the armrest, tea already half-empty.

Sherlock sighed as John was absorbed in watching the Doctor. Research would be hopeless.

As soon as John went to get another cup of tea, Sherlock quietly shut his laptop and put it on the floor. He got up and padded to the couch, sitting where John had just been. Still warm. He grudgingly moved his gaze to the telly, just to watch til John got back.

"I think you need a doctor," (he was assuming) the Doctor said, leaning in to kiss a blond woman. Bright light filled the screen, and John came back into the room, stopping halfway. "Are you watching Doctor Who?" He asked, surprise and amusement mixing in his words and his grin.
Sherlock ignored his question, eyes still on the screen.
"John."
"Yeah?"
"I think I need a doctor."
"What? Why?" John's tone grew worried. "What's wrong?" He was in front of Sherlock in an instant, putting his tea on the coffee table, blocking his view of the telly, eyes searching for a problem.
"I'm fine, John, I just thought...never mind." he shook his head, and muttered something John didn't hear.
A confused look clouded John's face, but disappeared as he sat next to Sherlock.
"So," the amused and surprised grin was back, "since you didn't see the beginning of the episode, Rose goes back to save the Doctor but she absorbs the Tardis, his spaceship, and kills the daleks, the enemies, but since she absorbed it it'll kill her, so the Doctor absorbs it himself by...." John trailed off, looking like he was thinking hard about something very funny, which he was, until he remembered the scene he had missed, the only scene of Doctor Who Sherlock had seen.
Then he grinned. "You git! Is that why you said you needed a doctor?"
"Possibly."
"You could've just asked!"
Before Sherlock could answer, John leaned over and kissed him sweetly. When he pulled away, he scooted up to Sherlock so their thighs touched, and rested his head on his shoulder.
Sherlock just gave a small smile and relaxed further against the sofa.
The episode ended and John was ready to brush his teeth and go to bed, but a sleeping Sherlock in his lap kept him on the sofa. His head was nestled next to John's stomach, partly resting on the armrest. Most of his lanky frame was curled up on John's lap, one arm under his head and the other clinging to a handful of John's jumper. It was rare for Sherlock to sleep, especially on the sofa, and John involuntarily smiled at the thought of Sherlock sleeping on the sofa just because he wanted to be with John.
So John didn't wake Sherlock up, or go to an actual bed, but pressed a kiss to Sherlock's hairline and shifted to go to sleep with him.