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“Watson! Do you like coffeee? I lovvvvvvee coffee it does this tingly thing to my brain and it go reeeeeek like a little tiny mouse like- RATHEW! It goes reeeeeee and abracadabra. It’s like a German rhubarb pie and I hate pies because why do they do that mushy squishy thing but I love you because when I hug you you do that mushy squishy thing and it is nice and everything is nice except for the reeeee sound and the German rhubarb pie but other than that everything is lovely and jubly and-“
John startles awake. It’s 2 in the morning and he had just managed to fall asleep. He couldn’t hear half of what Sherlock was saying and only understand half of that so-
John was pretty fucking confused.
”Sher- mate- wh-what? It’s- bloody hell mate-“ a yawn broke John’s sentence off, “it’s 2am. What’re… what’re you doing here? Talking about… Germans? And pie?”
Sherlock blinked at John and started giggling, a bit manically, and showed John the DrWho mug, “I drank your speedy juice,” he declared.
John still looked lost, “you did drugs… from my mugs? Hey that rhymes!”
Sherlock rolled his eyes, “no, WATSON. I had coffee. Coooofie. Cookies. Oh! What a lovely idea Watson! Let’s go eat cookies-“ the detective grabbed his flat mate, who was only wearing his pants and an old concert T-shirt, and dragged him to the kitchen, getting the cookies out and starting to eat them.
”This is from… coffee? Christ Sherlock-! How much did you drink?” John demanded, worried.
”Bleven…teen…” Sherlock said, crumbs falling from his lips.
John looked gab-smocked, “and you watched Gravity Falls???”
Sherlock giggled again.
John sighed and pushed Sherlock into a seat, “sit, eat your cookies, drink all of this,” he said and put some water with electrolytes in front of the crazed detective.
Sherlock, for once, listened without complain.
John sat down opposite from him, rubbing his face and yawning.
He loved Sherlock, and he loved him dearly.
….but what the actual bloody FUCK Sherlock??
John scrubs his hands over his face again. He hadn’t fallen asleep until after 1am. And that less than one hour of sleep… had not been good.
He was shaken and shaking, his heart drummed in his chest, feeling like it could burst right out of him at any moment. He felt the sweat drying on the back of his neck, damp circles under his pits and at his chest. His hair was starting to unstick itself from his now- greasy forehead.
His ears rang. Well- they always rang-
But it was bad right now. It always got bad at night. It also got bad when he was freaked out and emotional, like how he was now.
He had been so tired. He hadn’t slept in two days, hadn’t slept well in weeks.
It was silly of him to think his exhaustion and tiredness would beat his emotions and terror.
His old injury sent dull pangs of pain throughout his leg, down to his foot and up through his thigh, finally stopping at his hip. The pain found a home deep in his bones, blossoming, as if watered by the tears of his pain.
John cleared his throat feebly, trying to zone back in entirely, trying not to give that dreaded ‘100 yard stare’.
Sherlock observed quietly, “nightmares?” He asked softly. It was the voice of someone who was used to what they were seeing, but concerned anyways.
It was the tone of someone who wasn’t asking the question for the first time. Or second or third for that matter-
John winced a bit and nodded, “yeah… yeah, something like that,” he said and cleared his throat, “better?” He asked, changing topics.
“You were disassociated for quite a bit, Watson,” Sherlock says… gently?
”Oh- s- sorry mate! I hadn’t realized- lovely and jubely on my end!” John tells his flatmate.
”No, it’s not, but that’s quite alright John. Would… you like to hold hands and talk about it?”
Watson shrugged but let Sherlock slip his hand into his own anyways.
”Better?” John asked again.
Sherlock hummed, “it’s quite an odd feeling, that is. Of allowing your brain to de program, to let the waves swirl around as they please. It’s… enlightening, even. It’s a special feeling and- and it’s wonderful, Watson,” the detective breathed softly, “until it’s not.”
John looked confused, “how… how do you mean?”
”On one hand, it’s a total release of control. Freeing and wonderful and authentic and stimmy and-“ Sherlock releases a sigh, “on the same hand, it’s a total release of control. It’s frustrating and worrying and annoying and scary and… it’s like going from complete elation to laying on your bed and looking at the ceiling and just thinking to yourself ‘good lord… is this what I truly am like? I’ve made… an absolute fool of myself.’
It’s like confirmation that masking is there for a reason. It’s confirmation that a part of me- no, not a part. The fundamental ‘wirings’ of my brain… is loud and annoying and odd and something that people… do not want to be around.”
”I mean- I-… woah mate. That sounds…that sounds bloody awful,” John says gently after a beat of silence, “but I thought you… didn’t… mask around me?”
”I try not to mask around you,” Sherlock agrees.
John doesn’t hear what Sherlock said so he just smiles and nods, “yeah!”
Sherlock looks confused for a moment, “Watson. That was not an appropriate reaction to my statement. Are you experiencing grater hearing problems than what is average for you, due to night terrors?”
”Uhm… yes?” John answered slowly, as if unsure himself, “no but wait- that’s- that’s not what we were talking about, yeah? We uhm- you and. Masking.”
Sherlock looked John over for a moment before allowing the change of topic, “yes… as I was saying. I try not to mask around you but… it feels as though a part of me… that a part of me will forever be masked. That the mask has- morphed itself to my skin and- I’m no longer able to separate them. It’s like… I lost a part of myself I never even knew I had.”
John just stared at Sherlock. That sounded… terrifying. In every sense of the word truly and utterly…
Terrifying.
”Watson?” Sherlock asked, uncharacteristically gently.
”Yeah, mate?”
”Perhaps we should shop for a new mirror in the bathroom tomorrow.”
John froze.
Sherlock-
well, of course Sherlock knew. What didn’t Sherlock know?
John just nodded in response. He chewed on his lip, suddenly finding the table very interesting.
”John… do you wish to kill yourself?” Sherlock asked in the same tone. He placed his hands on top of his flatmates.
”No,” came John’s answer, almost immediately. His voice was raspy and broken, desperate.
”Good. Because I do not wish you dead either, Watson.”
John swallowed thickly and nodded. Tears welled up in his eyes and he didn’t even bother trying to stop them as they rolled down his cheeks. He cried. Deep, broken sobs escaped from his chest. It wasn’t the blubbering cries of a panic attack. It was the sickening, full body racking, sobs of someone in grief. Someone in mourning. The cries that feel like your entire being collapsing in on itself. The cries that threaten to bring up more than just pained noises, threatens to bring up your dinner. The cries that leave you numb, exhausted.
The cries of someone who oh so desperately needs a break.
The cries of someone who is broken.
”I’m sorry,” John whispers to Sherlock between his tears.
”I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry-“ he repeats over and over again.
Sherlock moves closer to John before taking his roommate into a hug. He holds John close, squeezing tightly, rocking back and forth a bit, trying to soothe him.
His eye catches on the marks on the inside of John’s forearm. He’s not exactly surprised, but it still makes something deep within him twinge.
”I’m a terrible person,” John breathes out into Sherlock’s chest.
”No, you’re not. You just… have masked, in a way I suppose. Going so long believing that you are a bad person, that you have convinced yourself that you truly are,” Sherlock says after a moment.
”I feel like I’m breaking,” John says, as if a confession.
”No, I don’t think so,” Sherlock answers in a steady voice, “but I believe that your mask is.”