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The ghost of a swear clings to John’s lips as he jolts out of REM sleep. The flat is silent, almost stifling, and he knows why he’s awake long before the quiet atmosphere is broken. Sherlock has started to tease haunting notes from his E string. Once his heart’s calmed down, John casts off his sheet and pads to the door, opening it just an inch. The violin sounds (they’re not quite music) stop, but only for what amounts to a half rest in Sherlock’s favourite time signature. A full rest would be too much like courtesy. John’s mouth turns in a tired grin, his right hand rising up to scratch an itch between his eyes as his left stretches its fingers to remove whatever physical stresses linger from his interrupted dream.
The noise coming from his flat-mate’s bow still falls grossly short of soothing. John has heard him screech a few times, always with purpose, always with a kind of indignant flash of emotion, but the current abuse of the E string isn’t indignant. It isn’t a screech, it’s a whine.
John brings his left hand, sore in the palm, up to his face to join his right and sighs into the mask they make. He gives his nose a final rub before dropping his hands to his waist; his arms find themselves loosely crossed as he tries to dip into the emotion of the sound. He knows Sherlock would call it romanticising. It’s white noise, that’s all. Only it feels like it has a very distinct colour. And what’s further, it’s not even remotely loud enough to have been what actually woke him up.
There’s another rest.
“Are you going to come downstairs?”
Sherlock’s voice is pitched low. John’s not sure he would have heard it from his bed. Based on the question, he would have expected a biting tone—something teasing in a way Sherlock never manages to make entirely friendly. Instead, it strikes him as curious. His left hand tightens again above his hip. In place of an answer, John grabs a wrinkled vest from the top of his dresser and makes his way to the first floor with a bit more force than necessary. He’s tugging it down past the waistband of his boxers when he reaches the flat proper, entering through the kitchen so he can turn on the kettle. He hasn’t decided whether he’s going to make weak tea or give in to wakefulness with coffee, but he’s not about to suffer through Sherlock’s latest opus without a hot beverage.
The detective puts down his bow. He sits perched in his chair in the near-dark, still holding the violin to his neck in perfect form, staring at John with a pair of cold opals reflecting the light John’s turned on above the sink. Sherlock blinks like he’s clearing something from his eyes, gives his head a tiny shake, and opens his mouth. It’s another few seconds before he actually speaks:
“Be careful.”
John stares back at him, slightly blank.
“Be careful,” Sherlock says again, gaze flitting pointedly to the floor. “I…made a small mess. Haven’t cleaned it up yet.”
John looks down with more than a little apprehension. His bare foot is right next to a puddle of something. And a shard of something. Lots of shards of something. Through his tired head, John has a spark of realization. He sighs.
“Did you want a fresh cup, then?”
“I didn’t really want the first one.”
“Yeah, that’s obvious.”
The doctor snatches a dish towel for blotting up the tea—it’s cold, and though a hot spill might have cooled in the time it took him to descend from his room, John knows it’s been cold for hours. He made it himself before going to bed. There’s a small stain on the cupboard as well, and tiny scratches from where the mug struck. He gives it a quick rub with the damp towel, more for show than anything. Then he picks up the pieces of mug on the floor.
John’s not great at estimating the volumes of puddles, but from the lack of trail through the kitchen he figures the cup had been at least partially drunk before it met its demise. It’s not the first time he’s cleaned up spilt tea or broken porcelain. It is the first time he’s done it with mess made on purpose…As far as I know, anyway. He dumps it in the bin and wipes his hands on his undershirt.
“I’m not your bloody maid, Sherlock.”
“I didn’t ask you to clean it up. You didn’t even have to come downstairs.”
“You woke me up.”
“That’s not a reason to come downstairs.”
The responses aren’t delivered with the same force as usual. They sound detached. The last line in particular grates over John’s ears as wrong somehow. Sherlock is still staring. He’s gone back to his violin, at least, plucking between the G and A strings without any true tempo.
John can feel the tension growing in his jaw and along his shoulders. He’s angry, but there’s something more. There’s a prickle at his brain stem. Now that sleep has all but abandoned him (he grabs the instant coffee from the shelf), John plants his feet and forms a battle strategy.
He takes a slow, deep breath and lets it out as the kettle starts to gurgle. He feels the prickle again.
“Any reason you’re staring?”
“…No.”
It’s not a long enough pause for Sherlock to sound bored, like he was exasperated by the very question, but it is a pause. It doesn’t sound particularly defensive, either. John still gets the feeling it’s a lie.
“I’m making coffee. Do you—”
“No.”
Not a lie that time.
He doesn’t turn back to the sitting room until his drink is firmly in hand, coloured with a splash of milk and warm where his knuckles meet the body of the mug. Sherlock’s still staring, but it’s no longer head-on. He’s turned toward the mantle and started using his peripheral vision, like it’s somehow more covert.
John lets himself sigh again. “I’m not going to disappear, you know.”
There’s a quick twitch in Sherlock’s brow, a downward tug at the side of his mouth that over-corrects to a manic smirk before his expression schools itself back into neutrality. The prickle at the top of John’s spine has evolved to a stitch, and rubbing it doesn’t help at all.
John’s no longer annoyed but his neck stays corded, his shoulders tense. He looks down into his coffee instead of across the narrow gulf between them.
“…Something wrong, Sherlock?”
The detective doesn’t answer. John glances up.
“Oh.”
It’s the first good look he’s gotten at his flat-mate since dinner. Before bed, Sherlock had been his usual post-case brand of haggard. Now…
“Christ, Sherlock, what’s happened?”
The detective’s eyes are red-rimmed, blown wide to combat the urge to squint (a measure to preserve Sherlock’s dignity, John is certain—at least what dignity is left). His hair is more than messy, it’s littered with tiny knots all along the lines of his temples. He’s clean, at least, so he must have showered, but the hem on the bottom of his vest is partially unravelled.
“Sherlock—”
“Nothing’s happened. I’m just tired.”
John sucks in a breath and wets his lips after he releases it.
“You’ve been up nearly four days, of course you’re tired. No—don’t start. Greg told me you didn’t take the same breaks I did. Why aren’t you asleep? Is it the case? Did you think of something else, was there something..?”
‘Bitter’ is the only word quite right for describing the slow curl of Sherlock’s mouth (‘tragic’ might come close, too, but that’s romanticising things again). He’s started to tap on the neck of the violin with his thumb; faint gasps from the E string echoing forth whenever he hits it too close.
“I can’t sleep.”
“…Right. Why?”
“It’s not the case, John. I can’t sleep. I am trying to.”
The doctor cracks his neck gently from side to side as the prickle flares again, the feeling of something being Not Quite Right. And some of the anger. He brings his coffee back up for a sip so his left hand can clench around the warm mug instead of forming a fist. Much better use of its time. “It doesn’t look like you’re trying. It looks like you’re throwing tea cups around and playing your violin.”
“John.”
“Sherlock. I might suggest you actually lie down in a bed for once. You know you own one? It’s in your bedroom.”
“John.”
It’s the tone that stops him cold. Sherlock’s baritone had stretched thin. The luxurious, silky quality had gone ragged, crackling like an old radio broadcast, all in the span of a single syllable. John holds his tongue, and his coffee cup gets lowered again to his thigh. He watches a muscle twitch on the right side of Sherlock’s face. Every small contraction makes the pain in his brain stem that much worse.
“…John, this is how it’s supposed to work. This is how it’s always worked.”
“How what works, Sherlock?” John’s voice is slow and even, the opposite of the detective’s clipped delivery.
“Me. It’s how I work. I work—”
The pause seems to be for effect, but the look in Sherlock’s eyes is like he’s lost his place.
“—and then I sleep. I sleep when it’s done, when the transport is done. When it’s…My cycle is a reasonably stable wave-like pattern with a greater amplitude measured to the crest than to the trough. The crests representing my wakeful periods, obviously. I reach the so-called rest position and I get to rest. I don’t control it, I don’t decide; it’s physics, it’s governed by scientific laws, John. All of those laws are currently being brokenand it’s not how it’s supposed to work. Three days.”
Long legs draw themselves up into Sherlock’s seat. He sets his violin down in the case to his right in favour of steepling his shaking fingers, then goes on:
“Three days is the normal period, the average maximum between rising from the rest position and falling back to it, assuming the surrounding medium is not far more compelling than usual, which it rarely is. Tedious. After three days, the physical ramifications begin to overtake the benefits of an uninterrupted cognitive process. If I can no longer trust the validity of my observations, the ability to make them is rendered inconsequential.”
John understands sleep deprivation—he’s a bloody doctor. What’s more, he was an army doctor. He’s seen it in action. He’s seen it in action with Sherlock, even. But never like this. John mirrors the path of Sherlock’s violin with his drink, placing it on the floor beside his chair so he can lean freely forward.
“You’re hallucinating.”
“Not currently.”
“You’re saying you do hallucinate, when you stay awake for longer than 72 hours.”
“…That is historically accurate, yes.”
“I bet that’s unpleasant.”
Sherlock’s face breaks into a grin and he laughs harder than John’s heard in weeks—months, maybe. It’s unrestrained, and John is just beginning to smirk in return when he realizes Sherlock’s shoulders aren’t shaking with mirth, and that the tears on his face are real, matched to the hitching gasps of sobs, not gales of laughter.
Before the doctor’s brain can fully comprehend it, his body has crossed the few feet between them in a crouch. He catches his flat-mate by the shoulders and stares into bleary pale eyes that soon wrench shut.
“Shhh, just…Sherlock…” Fuck. “It’s going to be alright. It will be fine, just…deep breaths, alright? You know you need to calm down, and you know deep breaths will help, so…Right, that’s it. In and out.” His left hand slides forward to rub in a circle at the detective’s nape, pressing hard against the soft dressing gown covering his back. “You can control this, Sherlock…I know you can.”
“I can’t. It’s going to start, John. I just want to sleep.”
“You will sleep. We’ll get you to sleep, Sherlock, you don’t have to worry. I’m here. I’m a doctor, remember? I can help.” He stops his impromptu massage so he can take Sherlock’s face in both rough hands. “Sherlock, look at me.”
“…No.”
“Open your eyes, Sherlock.”
It takes tapping into his inner Captain, but the brunet blinks back to reality and focuses on returning John’s gaze.
“…Good. Thank you. Keep looking, this is important. I am not a hallucination. You can trust me. I am going to help you get to sleep. Do you understand?”
“John, it’s a minor nervous breakdown, not a total loss of language comprehension.”
“Sherlock, do you understand?”
The detective’s glare is somewhat diminished by its wet sheen, but he doesn’t try to shake out of John’s grasp.
“…Yes. Yes, I understand. You…are not a hallucination. I do trust you…And you think you’re going to help me get to sleep.”
“I am.”
“Doubtful.”
“First step: try some optimism. Now get up, Sherlock.”
John can feel the barest hint of stubble rasp on his palms as he straightens his legs and lets his hands fall away from Sherlock’s cheeks. He extends one back to help Sherlock stand but the man ignores it, kicking his longer legs down to the floor and swaying up alone, both arms crossed firmly over his chest.
“Next step, doctor?”
“Have you ever taken anything for it?”
It takes just a fraction of a second (and a nasty snort from Sherlock) for John to recognise his misstep.
“Anything legal, Sherlock.”
“Chamomile, melatonin, valerian root, diphenhydramine…What might you suggest? St John’s wort?”
“It was just a question.”
They’re standing nearly toe to toe, staring each other down. John rolls his neck again—it’s not fair how intimidating Sherlock manages to look with tear tracks on his face and hair that would make a rat’s nest jealous, but two can play at that game. He falls into At Ease position but for his tilted-up chin and holds Sherlock to his petty glare-show.
It’s only ten seconds until the detective flinches, a long-fingered hand shooting up to rake through the curls above his ear.
“I haven’t found any supplement that helps. They just make me tired, they don’t put me to sleep, and I’m already tired, so that’s not a very effective solution.”
“What about zolpidem?”
“I have no desire to knock myself unconscious or experience even the slightest dose of anterograde amnesia, John.”
“Well, Sherlock, beggars can’t exactly be choosers.”
“I don’t beg.” His voice cracks again. John winces.
“Okay, alright. Fine. No drugs. Let me make you another cup of tea.”
“Because it worked so well the first time.”
“Sherlock—mn.” The soldier breaks out of his stance when his hands swing forward. They stop short before he can reach up to throttle the younger man, and John crosses them over his chest just as Sherlock’s holding his own, pinning them under his arms. “…Work with me, please. I can’t help if you don’t let me.”
“You can’t help regardless.”
“Optimism, Sherlock. Go sit down.”
“I’ve only just got up—”
“On the sofa, Sherlock. Change of scenery. I’m making that tea.”
A reply hangs on the brunet’s chewed lips, but he swallows it and turns to tuck himself into the largest chair in the room. He faces the back cushion, shoulders hiked up. They arch even more when John flicks on the main light. There’s a groan, but Sherlock stays in precisely the same position until he hears the clack of a mug set down on the low table.
John’s voice is quiet but firm: “Shove over, then.”
Sherlock shoves over. He bends himself almost double to cover his chest with his knees like a tower shield, and doesn’t reach for the tea (or even glance at it).
John drops onto the sofa by his patient’s feet, slowly extending his arm. He hesitates for a second over Sherlock’s thigh, then places his hand on the much more innocent calf. “Tell me what you’ve tried, beyond the…pharmaceuticals.”
“Everything.”
The doctor gives a little squeeze. “More specifically?”
“…Ugh…”
“If you want, I could get my laptop and search for homeopathic cures for insomnia. We can go down the entire list, Sherlock. I’ve got all day.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t.”
“What have you tried?”
Sherlock aims a weak glare at the hand on his leg, sighs roughly, and shrugs.
“Everything, I said. Everything with a scientific basis, anyway. Homeopathy, John, really.”
“When did you start…this? You must have slept normally as a child.”
“I didn’t do anything normally as a child—”
A wry smirk wrestles onto John’s face, but he wipes it quickly away.
“—Still…I suppose my sleep cycle was…more regular, yes.”
“How did your parents send you to bed? Stories, or songs, or anything?”
The detective huffs and turns his neck to stare at the sofa cushions some more. He shuts his eyes for just long enough that John wonders...
“Sometimes my mother would read from textbooks.”
“Science?”
“Mathematics.”
“What about your father?”
“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
When they snap open, Sherlock’s flashing eyes are greener than John has ever seen them. They glow in stark contrast to the redness in his sclera, and John’s struck still until the younger man’s voice snaps him back to the present.
“He—”
But that’s all he gets out before a pause. Sherlock blinks, frowns, and presses his cheek against the sofa again.
“He would make me tea. Never helped. But he would also…He would rub my back. Or my stroke my hair. Sit in bed with me until I fell asleep.”
John’s hand feels heavy where it rests near his flat-mate’s ankle. It cramps a bit, but John resists the urge to flex his fingers. He grits his teeth instead, and waits for Sherlock to go on.
“When I was very young, he would sleep next to me. I suppose I felt…protected.”
“Every kid’s got monsters under their bed.”
“Mm. Dragons, mostly. Or corrupt Admirals of the Royal Navy.”
“Definitely have to watch out for those.”
Like before, the quip brings a smile to the detective’s pallid face. It’s tight and somewhat hollow, but sincere under the fragility. And this time, it doesn’t end in tears. Thank God. John finally gives into his pain and squeezes Sherlock’s calf, sliding his hand off after to properly curl it into a fist. Sherlock rolls onto his back with two jerky motions. He sits up just enough that he can retrieve the fresh tea and hold it under his nose.
“I’m not thirsty,” comes as an explanation before John can ask.
“…Probably better that way.”
A semblance of peace settles over them as Sherlock breathes in the slightly sweet vapour. The muscles in his face have gone slack, but his arms quiver with suppressed tension. John’s eyes follow the mug back to the table when Sherlock is finished, lingering on the wet surface, then sweeping back to his flat-mate. Sherlock’s are on him again, and they’ve gone grey with a wet sheen of their own.
A swallow struggles down John’s throat.
“Let’s try something.”
Sherlock’s brow furrows for just a second; he nods. The furrow returns for an encore when John stands up and crosses the flat. He stops in the kitchen, leaning momentarily on the table as he glances back to Sherlock and beckons with his head.
In response, Sherlock merely tilts his own.
“You’re not going to fall asleep on the sofa. Your bedroom’s liveable, isn’t it?”
John continues down the hall to Sherlock’s room. He’s turning down the sheets when Sherlock joins him, falling against the doorframe. It’s dramatic and pathetic at the same time—John can tell the half-buckling of the other man’s knees is unintentional. He finishes shaking out the quilt and walks around to the bed’s far side. Confusion and mild alarm are still written clear on Sherlock’s face, and John’s not sure if the alarm is from his own actions or just a natural, secondary symptom of Sherlock being puzzled.
He takes a calming breath before he sits down on the top sheet and gestures to the other half of the bed, where the bedclothes have been pulled back.
“…I don’t understand.”
“I don’t have any textbooks, Sherlock. I thought we might make do.” He pairs the words with a slight raise of his brow, more placating than suggestive.
Pale eyes flicker to a few places within the room, give a quick look back toward the main area of the flat. Sherlock opens his mouth. It clicks softly shut. Then he suddenly shrugs the dressing gown off his shoulders and surges forward. He’s halfway into bed when his muscles seize again, brain working overtime. Dry lips purse for a split second before he actually manages to speak.
“This isn’t necessary, John. I…apologize if I gave you the impression—”
“Sherlock. Just get in. It’s fine.”
“…Alright.”
The detective ends up perched on the very edge of his bed, positioning his body the bare minimum of horizontal required to be called “lying down.”
John, with a little smirk, pulls the covers up around Sherlock and ushers him closer to the middle. He’s trying to get a pillow to stay standing against the headboard for his back when the fresh silence is broken.
“Don’t you have a joke to be making? Something about Mrs Hudson finding us in bed together?”
John’s smirk wilts fast. “…No, Sherlock, I don’t.”
The brunet glances toward the open door, gaze lingering in the empty space. “Don’t you, though? It’s so important to you.”
“It’s not as important as this. It’s not as important as you, right now, getting some sleep.”
“It’s not as important as me?”
Sherlock turns back from the door. Of course, that’s what draws his attention. John affectionately tacks narcissist onto the end of that thought.
“Yes. It’s not as important as you. Do you still trust me?”
“…Yes.”
“Good. So try to relax.”
The doorframe is only spared one more glance before Sherlock shifts to stare fully at his doctor.
John stares back. He knows what he wants to do, in theory, but knowing doesn’t make it easier to put into practice. There’s a bridge to be crossed, and he suspects it might be one-way only. He pulls on the coat of Dr Watson in his mind, which relieves some of his anxiety, and places his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder with a new wash of confidence. Tension eases out; he can feel the muscles beneath his fingers go petrified, then quickly melt into a boneless state. John slides his touch further, reaching toward the brunet’s spine and the spot on his nape that worked so well in the sitting room. A soft breath whistles between them from Sherlock’s nose.
In the seconds after the crossing Sherlock curls into himself once more, but John has taken the place of the sofa-back. His forehead nearly touches John’s chest, with how the doctor leans over him—John’s left hand is resolute in its duty, massaging in tight circles, while his right pushes into the bed to keep him (mostly) upright. Sherlock sneaks his own hand forward to wrap lazy fingers around John’s wrist. He sighs.
The concern in John wants to ask how it’s working, if he feels better, if the demons or dragons or Admirals have gone, but he forces his mouth shut, fearful of breaking whatever spell has descended on them both.
Sherlock moves closer. John lets him.
There’s a tug at his wrist, and John gives in. He bends his elbow to carefully lower himself to the bed, then transfers his anchor hand into messy dark curls. Sherlock has tucked against him completely now. The detective’s fingers, having accomplished their task at John’s wrist, fall flat against the warm fabric of his vest. A wide palm holds itself against his heartbeat.
Sherlock’s breathing is deep and even, and though his eyes are still open—barely—they’re unfocused.
John stills his chest as his flat-mate’s cheek comes to rest on his sternum, next to the man’s own hand. He watches Sherlock’s thumbnail trace over slightly-parted lips.
“Good night, John.”
He lets out the breath he’s been holding and swallows a fresh one, trying to adjust to the weight over his lungs. Somehow, it already feels familiar.
“…Good night, Sherlock.”