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“The Gloria Scott.”
“The Gloria Scott,” Sherlock echoes. There's such a weighty sense of finality to his voice, tone deep in his chest. The case is drawing to a close.
John lets out a heavy sigh. He turns and lays the printed land registry down on his nightstand and looks back at his laptop. His audio editing software is still open, and he's not tired enough to sleep. He might as well carry on.
“Do you mind if I finish this edit?” John asks. He looks down at where Sherlock is still laying across his shins.
“Feel free to,” Sherlock says absently.
John keeps his gaze on Sherlock. “Are you… going to bed? Or… well, whatever it is you do to wind yourself down. Hopefully with the volume at a minimum. Pretty please.” John really only attempts at levity. He does hope, but he knows that Sherlock's late-night habits are, for the most part, cemented.
“No.” Despondent.
John blinks. “I mean– are you– are you going to move? At all?”
Sherlock doesn't respond. Perhaps he hasn't decided yet. Perhaps he doesn't know. Perhaps he truly doesn't care to move at all, even if this position isn't comfortable in any regard. John throws a little sympathetic look his way, but he doesn't seem to pick up on it whatsoever.
He pieces together just a few more bits and pieces of audio, restoring the comments about the orchid at the estate and shifting things around to put just enough emphasis on it while keeping it hidden in plain sight. He weaves everything in alongside their own heart-to-heart and relistens to a few of the rougher spots. Eventually, he just decides to be done for the night. He unplugs his earbuds from his laptop and lays both down on the nightstand beside the microphone.
Sherlock hadn't moved much, save for the idle rubbing together of his index and thumb on his right hand. For someone with such a problem sitting still, he remained perfectly stationery laying over John's shins. Not uncomfortable for John– Sherlock was acting as a grounding weight, actually– but probably not the most convenient of a spot. As John watches him, Sherlock's fidgeting hand slows, and then stills.
John is about to test whether Sherlock has fallen asleep when Sherlock takes an inhale through his nose that seems much wetter than intended. It's a truly pitiful sounding sniffle.
“Sherlock,” John starts. He keeps his voice soft, inadvertently a bit like he's afraid he'll scare Sherlock off. He only pulls the covers back on the empty side of his bed in offering when Sherlock turns his head.
Sherlock frowns at John. “I'm not going to be able to sleep,” he complains, even if he's not truly deterred. “You know this. You snore.”
“I'm not asking you to sleep here.” John pats the spot in bed beside himself. “I don't think I'll be able to sleep for a while, anyway, so, er…” When Sherlock's expression briefly conveys an apology, John shakes his head. “Physical comfort. Just c’mere.”
Sherlock carefully eyes John, then the empty spot in bed. He swallows like he's trying to dislodge the lump in his throat. Finally, he sits up and clambers over John to lay beside him beneath the covers. “Physical comfort?” He questions.
John turns his lamp off and pulls Sherlock in close, slinging an arm over his shoulders. Then, he abruptly realizes he didn't actually ask first. He pulls away slightly. “I mean, yeah– bit too bold, probably, sorry– you don't have to stay, I just thought it might help.”
“It's good.”
“Sherlock,” John tests.
“If I didn't like it or the idea, I would have already moved. Or, better yet, I wouldn't have taken the offer at all,” Sherlock explains. He takes John's hand and pulls his arm around himself, tucking himself snugly against John's side.
John tries very, very hard not to think about the way their bodies slot together.
The way Sherlock nearly goes limp against him.
And the way Sherlock's narrow frame is so easily cradled.
They lay there for a long, quiet time. The only thing that let John know that Sherlock was still awake was his continuous unsteady breathing pattern, like he was choking back one slightly more forceful exhale that would surely open the floodgates.
John doesn't make him speak. Not until he can't feel Sherlock's hammering pulse just by touching him, anyway.
This is an unorthodox embrace between them, yet John can't even bring himself to mind. It’s nice to be able to provide some real, tangible comfort. It's nice to hold. He hopes, for Sherlock, that it's nice to be held.
“You have to tell him eventually,” John murmurs.
“I'll crush him,” Sherlock repeats, quieter than he had before. “I couldn't. I… I've solved it, but…” He pauses to swallow thickly. “I could drop the case.”
“You won't. And– listen, I know in the grand scheme of things, I technically haven't known you that long–”
“In the grand scheme of my things, you've known me for quite a long time,” Sherlock interjects.
John scoffs. “Not as long as you've known Victor. Okay?” He rubs Sherlock's shoulder, rucking up the sleeve of his T-shirt. “Do it for him. He deserves to know who his father is. And– and besides, if you drop the case now, Lionel's suffering doesn't end. They deserve for this whole thing to come to a close.”
Sherlock stares back at him silently, eyes wet and gently reflecting soft light from outside.
“Your justice-oriented brain isn't going to let you drop a case, anyway. I think you'd have an aneurysm or something,” John concludes, attempting levity.
A moment passes. The only movement from Sherlock is his gaze flicking downwards and remaining there.
Sherlock speaks. “Yes. I suppose you're right. Whatever there is, it needs to be heard. If I say nothing at all– if this final grand conclusion is allowed to dangle in the air above the people who need it most– then I would be doing Victor a disservice. Not only as a client, but as a dear friend.”
“There we go,” John murmurs. “He'll come around. Or… well, he might not, actually, but what you're doing is overwhelmingly compassionate. You care about him. There's no malice in that.”
Sherlock takes a deep inhale. Then, he turns on his side, slings an arm over John's middle, and practically collapses on him like a push puppet with its button pressed. “How long have we known each other?” He sighs out.
“Good couple of months, I think.” John then considers how ridiculous their position is considering that particular factoid, and by the way Sherlock's head raises just slightly, it's very clear that he caught onto that as well. John just gives a resigned sigh. “We've been in worse positions.”
“Worse? You'd consider this bad?” Sherlock asks.
“No– okay, no, I meant– more intimate.”
A pause. “Indeed.”
“You slept on me. On Christmas.”
“Well.” Sherlock splutters. “We were drunk. Does it count?”
“Hmmm,” John hums noncommittally.
Sherlock lets out an annoyed huff. “You can excuse stupid things that you do while you're intoxicated, but I can't?”
“I'm not saying you can't, it's just, ah… Like, that's pretty hard to forget, mate.” A pause. “Anyway, I do stupid stuff all the time.”
Sherlock abruptly sits up, propping himself on one elbow with the other hand gently resting on John's chest. “In that case, the stupid things that you do while drunk should count towards any other time. There is the saying that drunk words are sober thoughts, you know. That must also apply to actions.”
“Sleeping on me is a sober thought?” John asks. He bursts out in barely-restrained laughter when he watches Sherlock's brain severely misfire, and Sherlock's own wry laughter follows shortly behind.
“I'd say more so the common outcome of a good case, combined with added impaired judgment from the alcohol and coincidental positioning,” Sherlock explains, very matter-of-factly.
“You're still saying all of this like it was bad.”
“I'm stating it logically,” Sherlock says. “That was what happened.”
“Mmyeah?” John teases.
“I won't say it was a deliberate decision. Drunk decisions typically aren't.”
“Sherlock.” Stop dancing around it, you knob.
“I liked it,” he finally spits. “If that's what you're so desperate to hear.”
“Right, yeah…” John trails off, nodding, then tries to be as annoying as possible, biting back a grin. “Liked it how?”
Sherlock seethes at being needled in such a way (serves him right!). “You're very… warm. And… provide a comforting presence to me. Happy?”
John smiles fondly at him, a hand absentmindedly coming up to rest flat on Sherlock's sternum. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I am. Good answer.”
Sherlock lets his eyelids flutter at the touch. His composure just barely slips. “Yes, thank you,” he manages.
Almost spurred on by the reaction, John lets his hand slide up, grazing the hollow of Sherlock's throat, up the side of his neck, finding and resting eventually on his cheek.
Sherlock actually, physically shivers.
Still, he remains leaning over John, propped up on one elbow. He has this flat expression on his face, though, his eyes widened a little, his brows furrowed just slightly. John almost pulls away, fearing he's made Sherlock uncomfortable, but he makes a deduction of his own. If Sherlock doesn't like a touch, he will have nothing to do with it. Surely he would've moved by now if he felt uncomfortable.
That, and Sherlock's face burns like a brand against John's palm.
“You know,” John begins, trying to distract both of them from any sudden revelations, “you're surprisingly easy to get answers from, when you're drunk.”
Sherlock huffs part of a disbelieving laugh. “Am I, now?”
“Yeah, I think you told me your middle name, actually,” he lies.
On a sudden switch, Sherlock looks absolutely fucking mortified. John can't help but howl with laughter.
Sherlock shakes him by the shoulders. “Oh, tell me you forgot it,” he pleads.
“Sherlock, I was kidding,” John manages through pained wheezing.
“Thank God for that,” Sherlock huffs, and flops down on his side again next to John.
Neither of them get much sleep that night. Sherlock's body naturally shuts down later than what is probably healthy, and John was still kept up with the sudden reemergence of grief for his father. Still, John tried to distract both himself and Sherlock, and it seemed to have worked.
They spoke of everything and nothing for hours on end, until Sherlock finally wore himself out. Sherlock dozed off, half on top of John, one bent wrist beneath his chin and the other resting gently on John's collarbone.
Yet, by the morning, John found that maybe Sherlock's guilt wasn't completely quelled after all.
Truly, he didn't think it would be.
John woke to his bedding made around him, the duvet pulled neatly to the edges of the mattress and tucked affectionately over his shoulder.
But his bed was empty all the same.