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It's a rare occasion when it happens, but when it does, John is always up, always there, always watching for signs of distress and annoyance and self-repugnance.
It's usually on nights following a particularly challenging case- a case that pushes and pushes and gives no room for the man to breathe. He's a train wreck on those nights and can barely think straight, but the case pushes and pushes, and the pressure pushes and pushes and builds and pounds and barrels through and rocks his body until he's shaking on the edge of the bed, pressing the heels of his hands up into his eyes and groaning as silently as he can because god forbid he wake John.
But John is always already awake, there to stifle the pressure. John reaches to smooth a hand down the ruffled back of Sherlock's shirt, startling the almost-sniffling figure, and Sherlock turns around to face him quickly, attempting to hastily apologize for waking him before John is calling him idiot and shushing him and kissing his hand.
And then Sherlock's face falls once again and he genuinly looks like he's going to burst, or melt away, or cave in on himself because the pressure is too much and the inability to sleep on it is twisting everything into this impossible situation.
When Sherlock speaks his voice is weak and cracking and he's pleading with drained eyes and an open face. "This is impossible John, I've got it wrong. I can't understand where I've messed up, and we've only a day left and there's still so much that needs to be done, and how can I if I can't..." he groans and digs his fingers into his scalp, hanging his head. "-and the noises, John, they won't give me a damned second. I can't think, John; they won't leave. Me. Alone."
Sherlock shakes his head and looks up and finds John's comforting blue eyes because they are his rock, he is his rock. He suppresses a sigh, but his voice is only slightly higher than a whisper. "I can barely breathe, John." And for some odd and completely unacceptable reason, there's a hint of embarassment in that voice. He sounds ashamed, and John will have none of it.
"Sherlock, come here, lie down." Sherlock stares John full in the face and sees a similar expression of pain plastered there, almost reflecting his own, but no-John's is worse because Sherlock is the one causing that pain, that worry, and so Sherlock drops flat back onto the bed and scoots toward him.
John presses thin lips against the man's forehead, and for a fraction of a second, after a flutter of eyelashes, Sherlock suddenly feels very heavy with sleep. "Good, now turn around for me?"
With a quick glance up at those crystal blue eyes, Sherlock does as he says, John spooning him from behind, and feels John's hand resting against one of his own. John lifts his palm to his mouth, and Sherlock finds he can no longer keep his eyes open. Their linked hands find their way to Sherlock's chest, coming to rest right above his heart. The thumps come and go and come and go and come and go so quickly that John lets out a little surprised gasp, wishing it wasn't this man who had to constantly deal with the anxiety of it all and never get a minute of sleep on such days- and on top of it all, the man was ashamed to be overwhelmed.
"Alright, now just, concentrate on my breathing- maybe count my breaths if that helps- and you'll just breathe with me now, okay? Until your heart rate slows, Sherlock."
The breaths are perfectly in synch, John's deep lungful forcing Sherlock to swallow more than he has been. The rise and fall of John's chest against his back is enough to lull him to sleep, but his heart is still pounding and his thoughts are still scratching the inside of his brain, so he follows John. At first it was a game of chase- John inhaling first and Sherlock imitating a second too late, and John catching Sherlock's late breath and breathing out with him, and Sherlock again missing just that split second that would help them find the perfect balance.
But eventually he catches and releases with John, and his thoughts are cracking and settling and the noises are dimming. And now John is talking, telling him about his days in the army- how he had anxiety attacks all the time- and he's saying it's perfectly normal, everyone has them, some just worse than others, and that the fire never leaves-it's always there and that's the fucking worst part- but you have to learn to control it, to tame it.
And now Sherlock is snoring- softly but surely- and John is ruffling his curls with his hair, and the fire that was burning his guts, the weight that was crushing his lungs is gone, and Sherlock can finally sleep.