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When Sherlock sleeps, everything else fades away. His coat and scarf are hung up by the door, unresolved cases are set aside for another day, and the near-constant whirring of his sui generis mind finally slows. For a little while, he isn’t the internationally renowned Sherlock Holmes, first and only consulting detective. He’s just Sherlock, the good man hidden within the great one. And anyway, it’s Holmes-Watson now.
Most nights are fine. Ordinary in a way he’s learned to love. But sometimes, it all catches up to him, a lifetime of running headfirst into danger just to feel the high. He still thrives in it, of course, he always will, but he doesn’t particularly enjoy when it invades the safety of sleep. When his guard is lowered and his judgement clouded by dream-logic, and the ever-dependable laws of reality no longer apply. Tonight is one of those nights. Stirring, twitching, that rare serenity on his face abruptly broken by a furrowed brow and a flicker of a grimace. And then his eyes flutter open, still sleep-soft but zeroing in on John in an instant, his breaths coming sharp and shaky as if he’d been drowning.
“What? What is it?” John murmurs. He’s half-asleep himself, but it only takes two gasped-out words for him to understand.
“Swimming pool.” Sherlock pushes closer, clutching at clothes, hands, whatever he can reach, anything to reassure him that it wasn’t real. That the man in front of him is real. Alive. Safe. “Swimming pool, but.. everything went wrong.” He presses his forehead to John’s collarbone, hard, verging on uncomfortable for both of them, but John only threads a hand into Sherlock’s curls and waits for him to continue. “I- I was too slow, couldn’t get the bombs off you. Couldn’t stop the sniper. And then you were- you-” he trails off with a shudder. John tries very hard not to think about that night, because the what-ifs have always scared him too but right now Sherlock is close enough to hear his heartbeat, awake enough to register the slightest uptick in its tempo.
“It’s okay. I’m okay. That was a long time ago. We got out of there just fine, and look where we are now.” He trails his hand down Sherlock’s neck, then his back, tracing abstract shapes along his spine, the motions aimless and soothing. Sherlock sighs, relaxing, melting in a way he never would in daylight, but for now, he lets it happen. Lets himself let go. Lets himself believe that he could hold this moment forever, encase it in resin or submerge it in formaldehyde, keep it on the mantelpiece next to the skull and pinned beetles.
He’s quiet for so long that John starts to think he’s fallen back asleep, before Sherlock finally mumbles “Thank you.”
“Hm?”
“Thank you. Needed that. Love you. And she’ll be here in about…” He pauses, eyes narrowed in drowsy concentration. “Four seconds.”
John shifts back, just enough to get a good look at Sherlock’s face and try to figure out what the hell he’s talking about. Sherlock doesn’t have a chance to elaborate, because of course, he was precisely right.
A gentle click , and the door swings open, six-year-old Rosie backlit by a nightlight in the hallway, a shadow that seems far too large for her stretching across the carpet.
“Couldn’t sleep,” she announces before clambering onto the bed, a stuffed rabbit grasped in her tiny fist. Then she flops unceremoniously over her parents, eliciting a small, immediate “ oof ” from both of them. John laughs, the sound soft around the edges, and Sherlock attempts to manoeuvre a blanket over the squirming child.
“Tell me a story?” Rosie cajoles, puppy-eyed as she nestles in between them.
“Hm… just one. And then you’ll go to sleep. Promise?” John asks, and Rosie nods emphatically.
“Tell me about a case!”
“Alright, flower.” He hesitates for a moment, searching back through his memory for something suitable- the brutal murders and elaborate conspiracies that Sherlock favored had long since been deemed off-limits for storytime, at least until Rosie got older. Finally, he settles on one and begins to recount it. Rosie curls up with her head pillowed on his shoulder as Sherlock wraps an arm over both of them. Reflexively, Sherlock interjects every time an important detail of the case was omitted, a habit that his husband meets with a look equal parts annoyed and endeared. Soon enough, though, he’s drifting back toward sleep, lulled by the steady cadence of John’s voice and the warm, easy contentment of a quiet night.