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It was stupid really.
Sherlock should have been above things like this. He was a great detective after all. Great detectives didn’t let things get under their skin. They didn’t let cases gone wrong stick with them.
Just because he had failed didn’t mean he needed to live in the moment forever.
Just because the consequences had cost his client their life didn’t mean he needed to replay the details over and over again.
Yet there he was.
He supposed he could focus on the positives. It was incredibly lucky after all that him and Watson had gotten through it alive…
Although all that made him think of was just how close they had gotten and how it was all his fault.
It was this same guilt that had manifested in the form of nightmares. The very same nightmares that had woken him up.
He found his pocket watch on his bedside table and by candle light he was just able to make out the time; It was barely past two in the morning…
Objectively speaking it was far too early to even consider getting up.
Normally that wouldn’t have bothered Sherlock, but he had barely slept all week and he was beginning to feel the effects, both emotional and physical.
His body ached horribly from head to foot, he had never been a particularly graceful person but recently he had felt so completely uncoordinated, and his eyes burnt even when they were closed.
Although he was most bothered by what had happened to his mind.
He was used to working under stress, yet it appeared all of this had been too much even for him.
He no longer felt like he could think clearly; and that terrified him.
He just wanted to go back to feeling normal, but for that to happen he would need a good night's sleep, and he couldn’t get quality rest until he felt normal…
It was a perfectly curricular problem with no answer as best Sherlock could tell. He felt almost certain that if he could think correctly he would have been able to find a solution, but that only served to upset him all the more…
What on earth was he going to do?
He hated this.
Everything seemed so much worse than he was sure it actually was.
Even the familiar setting of his room felt wrong in some way. It was just so dark, so small…
The shadows dancing along the walls kept startling him half to death even though the logical part of his mind knew that he was alone- Yet being alone didn’t feel right either…
With a self pitying smile he realized that he was longing for his flatmate's company.
What a foolish thought that was.
Watson was sound asleep in his room, and Sherlock couldn’t exactly wake him up and expect him to keep him company…
Yet somehow he felt convinced that Watson's presence would chase off any further nightmares or bothersome thoughts.
Even just being close to Watson would have been a comfort.
There was a particularly comfortable armchair in Watson's room… Maybe he could sneak in, get a little sleep in the chair, and then slip out before Watson was any the wiser.
Had Sherlock not been quite so sleep-deprived he doubted he would have even considered such a plan, but by this point he was desperate.
So he grabbed his candle and tiptoed out of the room.
It was barely a few feet from his door to Watson’s, but his mind still convinced him that there was something frightening waiting for him in the darkness of the living room.
He felt his heartbeat start to race as he stared out into the pitch black.
With far less care to be quiet he rushed to Watson’s door and all but threw it open.
He quickly remembered why he had been being so mindful in the first place.
“Holmes? Is that you?” Watson sat up, his voice still heavy with sleep.
Sherlock froze in place, not particularly eager to answer the question.
“Holmes?” Watson repeated, this time sounding somewhat concerned, and although Sherlock wasn’t keen to embarrass himself he was far less interested in scaring Watson.
“Yes, it’s me, Watson,” Sherlock admitted, stepping forward hesitantly.
“Good lord, what time is it?” Watson asked with dismay, then before Sherlock could begin to answer he added, “Why, it’s still dark out! What case could possibly be important enough to warrant waking me at such an unholy hour?”
“There’s no case,” Sherlock replied slowly, although the idea of pretending he had a real reason to be there was very tempting.
“No case?- Is something wrong?” Suddenly Watson sounded much more alert, “Are you hurt, Holmes?”
Sherlock wanted to explain that there was absolutely nothing wrong with him- Well, there might have been, but it was nothing serious.
He was just being stupid.
He was just failing to control his train of thought.
He was just failing himself and Watson-
But none of that was physical, none of that was real.
So of course he didn’t need help.
And all he really needed do was inform Watson of that fact, but instead he stood there staring at him.
“Holmes? Holmes, what’s happened?” Watson was really sounding scared now. He was getting out of bed and coming over to check on Sherlock-
This was all so silly.
Sherlock tried to explain that there was no real problem whatsoever, but he couldn’t seem to bring himself to say a word of it.
The only thing that left his lips was a truly pathetic whimper as quite against his will he broke down into tears.
He tried to convince himself that there was nothing to cry about, that he was above such pointless displays of emotion. But a mind that craves sleep desperately is not a thing to be reasoned with.
So instead of pulling himself together, putting Watson's fears to rest, and leaving, he found himself standing there as if nailed to the spot, sobbing all the while.
“Sherlock! My lord, will you please tell me what’s wrong?” Watson pleaded, as he carefully took the candle out of Sherlock’s hands and set it down on the table. He took only a moment to turn on some more of the lights before his attention was fully focused on Sherlock.
“Here, let’s get you over to the bed,” Watson said, gently guiding Sherlock to it.
Sherlock should have left- Should have wanted to leave. Yet even though he knew that it would have been very logical to want to flee, he didn’t. Although he hated that Watson had to see him like this- had to worry about him, he didn’t want to be alone, he wanted to be there with Watson because Watson’s company offered him the kind of security that nothing else could.
Even if he could have found a way to make his body do anything he told it to, he still would have stayed put.
“Are you injured?” Watson asked, already eyeing him up and down for the smallest spot of blood.
Sherlock managed to shake his head, although he still couldn’t come up with any kind of verbal response.
“You’re not hurt. That’s good,” Watson said with a very small hint of a smile, “Do you feel sick?- Have you… Have you taken anything?” He asked very pointedly.
Sherlock shook his head again.
“Is this anything physical at all?” Watson sounded very uncertain at this, as if the idea of Sherlock being brought down by a simple emotional problem was completely ridiculous; which it was.
But of course the answer to this was ‘no’ as well.
“Oh,” Watson was clearly caught half way between relieved and baffled, but at least this way he knew that there was no real threat to Sherlock’s well being.
Watson took a seat on the edge of bed at Sherlock’s side.
“Did something in particular happen?”
Sherlock shrugged his shoulders.
“Is there any sort of outside problem that actually needs to be addressed?”
This time Sherlock could confidently shake his head.
“Good…” Watson said with a slow nod, “Would you be open to physical comfort?” He asked hesitantly.
Normally Sherlock would very quickly reject such an idea, but this time he found himself nodding instantly.
“Alright…” Watson said, he moved slowly and gently making it easy for Sherlock to draw back if things grew to be too much. But Sherlock didn’t fight back at all as he was pulled into Watson’s arms, instead he clung to Watson as if he were the only thing keeping him from falling back into the abyss of his own thoughts- which he very well might have been.
Time seemed to stand still for a while.
It was as if everything in the world but Watson had simply vanished.
Watson’s nightgown was soft against his skin, his body was warm and his heartbeat steady.
At some point Watson had started combing his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock had stopped crying.
Slowly Sherlock’s senses returned to him.
The air was cold, his body ached horribly, and his thoughts were slow and loosely connected; the main thing he could really process was the desperate need to sleep that consumed every inch of his being.
But of course he would have to return to his own room, it simply wouldn’t do to impose on Watson like this…
“I apologize,” Sherlock said, slowly and reluctantly pushing himself off Watson; god, he felt so cold.
“What for?” Watson asked with a frown.
“All of this. I don’t wish to disturb your rest anymore than I have…” Sherlock knew he should have been getting up and leaving, that he should have wanted to, that he should have found all of this horribly embarrassing and been glad to put it behind him; yet he didn’t move any further.
“Do you really want to be alone?”
Before he could think better of the truth he found himself saying, “No.”
“Then… Then why don’t you stay,” Watson sounded completely unsure of himself, as if he didn’t even know what he was suggesting.
“Stay?” Sherlock repeated, “Well… I could sleep in the armchair,” It had been his original plan after all… Yet he found himself wanting more, even if he couldn’t quite put a name to what that more was.
“You could,” Watson replied with a nod, “Or you could sleep here,” He said motioning to the bed.
“But… Where would you sleep?” Sherlock asked, because there was no way the statement meant what he inexplicably wanted it to.
“I was thinking that we might share a bed,” Watson said sounding nervous yet hopeful, although he quickly added, “It is just an idea of course, not at all necessary if you wouldn’t like, I-”
“I shouldn’t mind a bit,” Sherlock cut in. He didn’t know why he wanted this, but he knew for a fact that he really did want it.
“You’re sure?”
“Quite.”
There was a beat of silence, then Watson pulled down the covers and they climbed into bed together.
It should have been awkward, all knees and elbows as they tried to settle down in the small bed, but it was easy. Sherlock felt as familiar with Watson’s body as he did with his own. Although this was the first time they had shared a bed, it was far from the first time they had shared such little space.
Sherlock might have been somewhat touch adverse, but the times he wanted physical contact it was always a need fulfilled by Watson. Almost without realizing he had devoted valuable space in his memory to cataloging all of these incidents.
Even now he found himself carefully storing away every bit of sensory information the moment offered, He took note of the way Watson’s arm felt thrown over his waist, the faint smell of cologne that seemed to come as much from the sheets as from Watson’s skin, the strong fingers idly running through his hair, the feel of his leg hooked over Watson making sure their bodies stayed flush, and the rise and fall of Watson’s chest he could both feel and hear with his head resting against his chest.
As he slowly counted every sensation he felt himself teeter on the edge of consciousness. Some part of him wanted to force himself to wake back up so he could continue enjoying the moment, but he lacked the energy for such a feat.
Although he knew that Watson would still be there in the morning.
Yet it was a different realization that really put a smile on his face; whenever he needed something like this, regardless of the reason or time, Watson would always be happy to give it to him.
He fell asleep without trouble that night. The thoughts which had haunted him before felt so far away as if they had been nothing more than a bad dream, instead his mind was filled only with thoughts of his dear Watson as he finally drifted off to sleep.