Chapter Text
Doctor John Watson has had his fair share of fatigue before. Living with Sherlock Holmes, it was inevitable: whether it be the musical numbers at all hours, jumping up to his every beck and call or gallivanting about London like wayward teenagers. In the army, he was trained to sleep deeply within minutes, for he never knew when he’d next be allowed to. All of that had manifested a remarkably patient person who could survive on little sleep – though not to the level Sherlock put himself through.
Even with such a skill, John was certain he’d never felt so tired in the entirety of his life. Coming home from a difficult shift of snivelling elderlies and a child wetting themselves in his office, he’d wanted nothing more than to settle on the couch with some greasy food and unwind. Sherlock had other plans in mind. He barely stepped three feet in the room before he was twirled by the shoulders and marched down the stairs to interview a handful of officers at Scotland Yard.
And he’d done so. Begrudgingly. The second time he arrived home, Watson was adamant he would be staying in the rest of the night, Sherlock be damned. Holmes was rarely so lenient. Five minutes into his arrival, kettle not even boiled yet, the consulting detective declared an advancement in the case, partly based on the information John had collected, and of course he needed a partner for his travels.
“Ask Lestrade.” John had muttered, biting his acerbic tongue. Sherlock had refused, then, claiming nobody was a better helpmate than Doctor Watson. So there he was, for the third time, starving and exhausted, trekking through shrubbery and slippery mud in search of a piece of evidence that would pin the crime on an officer’s cousin. What they were looking for exactly, John had no idea.
Come dusk, he was beyond mere exhaustion, dizzy and incoherent. As Sherlock barked orders at the police squad, he slumped on a nearby bench, cheek in palm, mumbling about needing a nap, even just twenty minutes. He actually began to nod off despite the bustle around him, sirens and flashing lights hardly a deterrent. A hand on his shoulder roused him into a state of alert, reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there – because he could hardly carry a gun in the surgery – and scanning the terrain for enemies.
“Relax, it’s just me. Let’s go home.” Arms dragged him to his feet, and he couldn’t restrain a frustrated whine. Why couldn’t they just leave him to sleep?
John neglected to see the shared looks between Sherlock and Greg, too busy tugging his arm free with furrowed brows. Their silent conversation was rapid and undetectable; had Greg not been swamped with work, he’d send them to the manor. As it were, John was in work the next morning and his things were in the flat. Sherlock assured he would deal with whatever inevitable outburst was to come and with that, he was ushering John towards the main road for a cab.
Sherlock was decent enough to keep his mouth shut, only poking John every so often when his elbow threatened to slip from the window. A banged head would probably result in a total meltdown. The calm and collected façade lasted as long as the first set of steps up to 221B before it crumbled. Mrs Hudson was out, thankfully, but that also meant John was free to screech as loud as he wanted. And screech he did.
“Come on bubs, let’s get in our pjs.” Sherlock prompted. Only, his gentle touch was shoved off as if John had been burned by his fingers, face reddened and eyes glittering with unshed tears.
“‘M not fuckin’ little.” He argued, stomping through the front door as if it helped his case. Sherlock swallowed every ounce of annoyance bubbling in his stomach and settled for a relaxed atmosphere.
He didn’t respond to the comment, instead starting a small fire in the hearth to warm their numb toes and fussing about with blankets and cushions. John was stumbling like a drunkard, vision blurry and head swimming. What he wouldn’t give to lie down and pass out for a few blessed hours. But now his mind was whirling in the closest territory to sensory overload a neurotypical could experience; and though his body was near boneless he would not be able to settle until his headache dispersed.
Sherlock observed from afar, boiling enough water for two even though he was certain John would not be consuming tea, decaf or not. Suddenly searching for the perfect mugs was the most important task as John dropped heavily into a chair at the table, his coat shushing as he moved. Holmes didn’t need eyes to know what was going on, based on grunts and muttered curses and the squeak of rubber soles against the lino. He daren’t offer help, however, simply listening and casting brief glances behind to ensure John didn’t topple on his face.
John’s hands were trembling both from lack of energy and the cold. His fingertips were numb and tingled unpleasantly in the sudden heat of the fireplace, making the undoing of his laces a challenging task. Frustrated tears prickled his waterline, the burn only upsetting him further as now he couldn’t see properly. His sight consisted of colourful blobs even after he’d scrubbed them with the back of his hand.
A childish screech emanated from the base of his throat, and he threw the ends of his laces in temper. It was time for intervention. Wary of fists, Sherlock crouched and removed his shoes wordlessly. John watched him, flushed and slightly panting as conflicting emotions flooded his system. Sherlock felt confident that it was a sign of acceptance, reaching up to wipe away a stray tear that had escaped. All hell broke loose.
“Get off! Let go! No!” He was dancing between headspaces, unable to process actions or filter words as his resolve was decimated by the second.
Sherlock ducked as a palm flew his way, encasing the wrist in his hand and kissing shaking fingers. It only spurred on John’s ire as he dove for Sherlock. The violence was just an outlet for his temper, Sherlock determined, that he was only little and didn’t know any better as they grappled. The screeches reached new volumes, his struggles evolving into full body flails, limbs striking blindly. How he possessed the energy to put up such an impressive fight, Sherlock didn’t know, but what he lacked in foresight he made up for in agility.
Floods of tears soaked their shirts, but Sherlock managed to shuck off their coats and haul John up. He was hit several times, not enough to cause more than a red patch on their journey to the living room. Watson was openly sobbing, legs kicking fruitlessly as he was carried, toes barely grazing the floor. They made it to Sherlock’s armchair in one piece, and with a deep breath, he tipped backwards and landed with the momentum to hike John’s back to his chest and wrap long arms tightly around his middle. John shrieked when he realised his arms were pinned by his sides, but no amount of kicking or heel digging freed him.
Sherlock tipped his head back to stay clear of pointy elbows, grip tight so that John could scream to his heart’s content. He cried hard, wet coughs punctuating his anguish until Holmes was worried he’d make himself sick. Lips pressed to the shell of Watson’s ear and shushed relentlessly. John’s biceps relaxed, no longer strained like a coiled spring; Sherlock trusted that it would remain that way and began to gently trail his fingers up and down his skin. There was no doubt he was in headspace now.
“There’s a good boy, it’s alright. I’ve got you.” He repeated the phrases over and over, and gradually John sank into his lap, soothed. If he had been tired before, Sherlock reckoned he was enervated and minutes away from collapse.
Finally, Watson deflated, the last of his energy reserve depleted. Sherlock coaxed him up bit by bit, silencing whines with chaste kisses until he was in a position to lift them both from the armchair. The little doctor automatically enveloped him, head dropping heavily onto a boney shoulder.
“Good boy, you poor thing. You’re just overtired, that’s all. That was my fault, silly me, taking you out when you needed a nap. Yes it was, gorgeous creature.” Sherlock murmured toward his neck, kissing the soft patch of skin behind Jawn’s ear as he paced the floor. Bouncing would only irk him, so Holmes just squeezed him close and drew nonsensical patterns into the back of Jawn’s checkered shirt.
Jawn’s grip was so firm that Sherlock was able to briefly make use of both hands to fix a bottle of water and two cold compresses. A brief interlude in the bedroom to gather pyjamas and a nappy and they were back on track, trudging up the stairs to John’s room. He was more likely to wake up big in time for work if he stayed in his own bed, not that he was aware enough to notice Sherlock’s absence.
The baby was situated on his back, a pillow propping up his bottle so he could drink sans hands. The cotton pads were laid and pressed gently over his closed eyelids – John sighed as the cooling effect extinguished the worst of the burning on his retinas. Now that he’d calmed to the point of becoming nonverbal, Sherlock could manipulate limp limbs into the legs and arms of his pyjamas, nappy fitting snug over his hips. He wasn’t likely to wet during the night, but it was a precaution with the bottle before bed. The last thing either of them needed was a late night mattress stripping.
“Good boy, I bet that feels much better, huh?” Jawn didn’t reply, which didn’t matter as he was yanked up until his head rested securely on a pillow, the duvet tucked tight around his body.
Bottle empty and compresses warm, Jawn was unconscious quicker than it took for Sherlock to gather said items. Holmes chuckled, switching off the light and leaving the door ajar. Guided by the living room lamps, he made his way back downstairs and pottered about washing the bottle and tidying the kitchen, mostly for John’s sake.
How’s the spud doing?
Asleep. Finally. SH
Finally?
He gave a valiant battle. SH
I see.
Thank you.
Do not contact me unless it’s a case 7 or higher. SH
Noted.
The morning after, John rose with a groan. His throat scorched and his eyes were irritated, irises illuminated by bloodshot veins. It took several minutes of blank staring at the wall, perched at the end of his bed for John to feel alive enough to move. A shower was in order. Clothes gathered, the doctor ventured down the steps to the bathroom. It was in the kitchen he bumped into Sherlock.
“Morning.” His voice was hoarse, and clearing his throat didn’t seem the strengthen the volume.
“Morning,” Sherlock scanned him. “John. I made you some coffee.”
John grumbled, accepting the mug eagerly. “You’re a star. Have you slept at all?”
“No,” Sherlock retreated to the seat closest to the window. “I didn’t want to.”
John took a sip, eyes falling shut at the warmth eased the inflammation in his oesophagus. “How come?”
Sherlock averted his gaze. “Wanted to make sure you slept properly. Not going out today; I can sleep later.”
“You- what?” Sherlock’s boundaries didn’t exist, social etiquette a manner he did not posses, and John dreaded to think what he was implying. Noticing the alarm on his face, Holmes raised defensive palms.
“Relax, I only popped my head around the door to check on you a few times during the night. You slept like a baby…literally.” He smirked at the glare shot in his direction. John observed him as he finished his mug, setting it down on the table for Holmes to sort, considering he was in such a good mood.
“Er, thanks. Sorry about last night.” He rubbed the back of his flushed neck, forcing himself to maintain eye contact.
Sherlock waved a hand, disregarding his apology as unnecessary. No rebukes were permitted – John had needed the release, and Sherlock was happy to assist him. For the sake of keeping John’s self esteem in tact, he didn’t mention the fresh bruises littering his torso after being used as a punching bag. Watson puffed out a sigh, not entirely convinced, and dashed for the bathroom with another mumbled thanks. Sherlock watched him go, a fond smile on his lips. John Watson never failed to intrigue him.