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John Watson could almost not believe what he was witnessing. As he cushioned his head in his right hand he watched as Sherlock Holmes’s eyelids fluttered against the curl of his bangs, slumped over on his arm, nodding off in the back of a cab. He was swathed in his coat like a great big child, his face lax and his head bobbing. John had to keep himself from sniggering at the sight. He’d never seen the great, attentive Sherlock Holmes give in to the requests of his lanky (and aging) transport. At least not in a semi-public place.
The cab hit a particularly rough bit of the London streets and Sherlock’s head bounced off the window, jerking him back to semi-consciousness. John smirked again, too tired himself to do much but grin at his partner.
“We’re almost home,” he said gently. Sherlock said nothing, blue eyes rolling as he went cheek-to-window once more.
The case had been long, and arduous, and hadn’t left much time for things such as eating, or sleeping, or even paying bills. John half expected Mrs. Hudson to be waiting in their flat, hysterical with worry and/or her lack of money. Maybe a little bit of both; if they were lucky, more with worry. They’d been up since midnight nearly the day before, staking out with the Met, crouching under bridges and standing up in the top of Tower Bridge for seven-odd hours in the bitter Thames wind. They’d shared some tender moments in the seclusion (“This is hardly fitting for a typical romantic outing, John,”) but, as always, were quickly distracted. John shifted his legs, and winced; it seemed as if every ligament and tendon in John’s body was sore, and Sherlock reflected this sentiment.
The cabbie made a rather sharp turn in response to an irate motorist, and Sherlock once again knocked against the window. This time, John pressed against his hand and knocked hisown head, muttering curses under his breath.
“Sorry, gents, that man had a death wish on us,” the cabbie said as he pulled up to the darkened curb of Baker Street. John just smiled sympathetically.
“No worries,” he said as he leaned over, pulled Sherlock’s wallet from his pocket, and slipped the cabbie two notes. “Thank you.”
“Cheers,” the cabbie replied, and John shoved Sherlock’s shoulder.
“C’mon, Sherlock,” he said, his protestations weak. Sherlock opened one bleary eye and reluctantly swung his door open, not even giving a word of thanks to the cab driver. He headed straight for the door, strides wide and unsteady. John waved to the cabbie, pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders and followed suit to the door. The air nipped at his ears and cheeks and nose, and his eyes stung. It was time for a warm bed.
“Come on,” John managed as he shoved Sherlock over the threshold. Somehow the stairs stretched endlessly and the door to their flat was extra locked, for it took twice as long as usual to get inside. It was chilly but at least there was no raw winter wind whipping at them.
Sherlock hung up his coat in one swift move, but remained behind the door, as if puzzled by something. John glanced at him as he hung up his own coat and took off his shoes.
“Tea?” John inquired, but Sherlock simply shook his head violently, and then bounded to the bedroom, all but slamming the door behind him. John blinked and stood, coat in hands, processing what just happened.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, pulling his jumper off from over his head. He brought the radiator to life, contemplated tea, decided against it, and followed Sherlock to their bedroom.
Calling it their bedroom was a bit of a stretch, when it seemed it was mostly John who slept there. It had been case after bloody case for the last four months, and John was pretty sure Sherlock hadn’t sleep for at least three of those months.
When John opened the door, Sherlock had his back to him, curled up on the far side of the bed. He was still fully dressed, with even his shoes on, and was curled up on top of the duvet. John just sighed and crossed his arms.
“At least take your shoes off, you’ve been running around all of London in those,” John protested. Sherlock gave no response, and John swallowed another sigh as he rounded the bed. “Don’t be such a p…” His voice died in his throat as Sherlock’s face came into sight.
He was sound asleep. His face was completely relaxed, cheek bones softened and wrinkles straightened out, lips parted just gently enough that it was an endearing sight. His face was half-buried in the pillow, and his left arm was jutting awkwardly from where it was pinned beneath his body.
Wow, was all John could think as he stared down at his partner. This case—or perhaps series of cases—had seriously worn Sherlock out. He wondered if Sherlock was even aware of what he’d been doing when they arrived to the flat, or if he automatically headed for the bed so he could finally fully pass out without restriction.
John realized his cheeks were warm and he shook his own head, walking back to his side of the bed. Their bed, for the first time in months. He slipped into his pajama bottoms and pulled back the duvet, climbing in. John was a bit disappointed that Sherlock was facing away from him, but he knew that when they woke the next morning there was a good chance the detective would be wrapped tightly around him. Sherlock was such a predictable man. John shut the light off and closed his eyes, settling himself to sleep.
One hour fifteen minutes later John wondered if skipping the tea had been a poor decision. He didn’t typically have a nightcap but as of late he’d been having some chamomile before bed; perhaps his getting-dangerously-close-to-fifty body was becoming accustomed to the aid.
So John was sitting up in his bed, mug in hand, with a cleared space on his bedside table to place the mug when he was finished. His bedside lamp was dimmed, although John had the feeling he could set off the fire alarm and Sherlock would continue to sleep.
After lying down, standing up, opening the window, walking around, taking off Sherlock’s shoes, and laying back down, John was certain tea would do the trick. He was so tired his bones were barely able to hold him up, since his muscles had all but given up. Yet his brain was struck with so many inane, lingering thoughts that he couldn’t quite turn them off.
Sherlock had turned over in his sleep, now facing John, legs askew. He’d rolled a bit closer to John and extended his left arm, clearly searching for the other. John sipped delicately from his mug and watched Sherlock’s deep breaths against the silk of his shirt. Sherlock’s breaths were surprisingly even for such a bizarre sleeper, and his exhale was an almost sigh. John leaned down onto his pillow, placing the mug on the bedside table, and just watched the soporific effect of Sherlock’s deep breathing.
In, out. In, out. Chest expands, lungs expand, oxygen filters into the blood stream. It was such a mechanical effort, and one of the few things Sherlock couldn’t control about his body. John focused on his face, the way his hair billowed in his own breath, and how he made a sound because his mouth was pressed into the pillow. Lips, poised to kiss, always, cheeks a pale pink from the wind, crow’s feet at his eyes, the silver strands weaving into his inky hair.
Twenty more minutes passed, and all John had done was allow a cup of tea to grow cold and admire Sherlock’s distinctive features. John sighed in frustration and looked back at Sherlock, blissfully unaware of John’s insomnia.
“You great… prat,” John murmured. He reached out and brushed a few of those curls, fingering a tuft of silver hair right at the front. It had become more noticeable over the past month, and Lestrade couldn’t help but point it out, and often. John liked it, especially since his own hair had lost practically all its color. “You’re just… lying there, asleep.” John pulled his hand back and clasped his hands together on his stomach. “And I’m so tired I’m just spouting nonsense,” he said to himself.
The mug, a faded Union Jack affair, suddenly began bothering the doctor, and he climbed back out of bed to put it away. It was now nearing two o’clock. The kitchen was a filtered yellow from the light pouring in from the alley outside. Sherlock let out a light snore that somehow resonated from every flat surface in the room.
With a resigned sigh, John fell into a kitchen chair, head in hands, staring off into the distant dark of their flat. It was a right mess, filled with notes and print-outs from their latest case, in addition to the research he’d been doing for his uni class. The one he was supposed to be helping teach.
“I’ll just… go clean up a bit,” John decided, and he made his way across the kitchen to their case-nest, as he referred it. The last thing John wanted to do was exert himself more, but maybe it was the extra push that would tip him over the edge of blissful sleep.
Across their desk lay strewn dozens of stacks of paper in Sherlock’s scrawl, written in a language that was some combination of English and maths. John honestly couldn’t make heads or tails of most of it, and just tidied the piles as they lay.
“Sherlock will put these right,” he said, dragging his feet around the desk. His partner’s chair was covered in swabs of fabric, and John’s beloved armchair had become home to bowls of buttons. Sherlock had been meticulously comparing the two to re-make a crucial piece of evidence that had been damaged. Well, crucial to Sherlock’s standards.
“Oh, Lord, I just don’t have the energy for organizing this,” John said, leaning against the edge of his armchair. He stared into the bowels of the room, not even stopping the childish pout that crossed his face. All of this information would be put away, eventually, with Sherlock’s careful guidance. This was certainly not the time for it.
After the tea had failed, John briefly contemplated warm milk, but that had never worked on him as a child and frankly, he wasn’t quite sure how to prepare it. Warm water and lemon? Same as tea, essentially. Neither he nor Sherlock had sleeping pills of any sort, after a nasty scare with them at the very beginning of their relationship two years prior, so that was out. If John could find a blank space somewhere, he could try reading his novel, but it’d been so long since he last picked it up, he wasn’t sure if he could recall the protagonist’s name.
If John hadn’t been so pre-occupied with his thoughts, he may have noticed the low rumble coming from the hallway and the shaky footsteps that followed. A tousled head poked into the room, blinking sleepily at John, awash in light from the restroom. John glanced up, surprised to see Sherlock awake.
“Sherlock?” John inquired. Sherlock blinked again and jutted his thumb over his shoulder.
“Bath,” was all he said, and he retreated to the hallway. John, renewed from this new intrigue, garnered the energy to stand and cross the room to the washroom, where Sherlock had indeed begun running a bath. Sherlock himself had begun disrobing, much to John’s surprise.
“What… are you doing?” John asked. Sherlock rubbed his eyes and sighed, pulling his trousers off one leg at a time.
“You’re suffering from some sort of insomnia,” Sherlock said in a sleepy voice. “You’ve already tried numerous common-house ailments and failed, I was simply providing another possibility you hadn’t tried.” Obviously, John added mentally.
“So, if I’m the one suffering from insomnia, why are you naked in our washroom?” John asked as Sherlock tossed his socks into the laundry bin. Sherlock stood, the bruises he sustained from this recent case practically glowing on his skin.
“You become much more relaxed with me,” Sherlock offered. “And I only sleep well with you there, so now your insomnia is affecting us both, thus, this remedy should be sufficient.” With that, Sherlock climbed into the tub, displacing water as he went. John wanted to laugh at the sight of Sherlock amid the scattered bubbles, but he was too tired, so he stripped down and climbed in across from Sherlock, settling between his too-long legs. Sherlock had his head against the wall, eyes closed.
“The warm water has a soporific effect,” Sherlock murmured as John pulled his knees to his chest.
“What if we both fall asleep while we’re in here?” John asked, leaning his head back against the opposite wall. Sherlock opened one eye to stare at him.
“Unlikely.”
“It’s two-thirty in the morning and we’ve slept less than four hours in twenty-four hours.”
“Still unlikely,” Sherlock pressed, closing his eyes once more.
“Sherlock—”
“You would never let me drown in a bath tub regardless of how little sleep you’d had,” Sherlock interrupted. John pursed his lips and laid his arms along the edges of the tub, so his left hand rested lightly on Sherlock’s fingers. The two men sat in silence, eyes closed, allowing the warm water to soak their bones. John’s entire body relaxed and he realized that bathing upon coming home would have probably helped a lot earlier. The anxiety and stress of the case washed right off of him, and a new wave of fatigue began to descend. His mind drifted.
They were much older than when they started solving cases together. Sherlock was graying. John was practically white. Every new case was another stress upon the body, another strain upon the mind. This night was the perfect example; he’d never, ever seen Sherlock Holmes fall asleep so fast. Many of the officers on the force they’d once worked with were gone and new, younger recruits had replaced them. Mrs. Hudson was moving to the country in less than a year. Sherlock had been having trouble breathing lately. That was it, really; the constant reminder that they couldn’t solve crimes forever. This wasn’t the first time it had plagued John’s subconscious and kept him awake without realizing it. But it was hard to worry now, in the middle of the night, with Sherlock practically asleep at his fingertips…
When John opened his eyes again ten minutes later, he found Sherlock watching him with a lidded gaze, in study.
“What?” he asked. Sherlock cocked his head to the side.
“Your face,” Sherlock said. “It’s calmed.” John smiled and shifted in the water, sitting up and leaning forward to get closer to Sherlock.
“You were right,” John said in a low voice. “I think I’m ready to sleep now.”
“Of course I was right,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly, and John was simply too tired to even pretend to swat at him. The two men climbed out, having taken, for lack of better description, the purest bath together since they’d known each other, and wrapped themselves in towels. They were freshly laundered, no thanks to either of them. Mrs. Hudson’s doing.
Sherlock was already lying back down, completely nude, as John pulled his pajama bottoms on over his chilly legs. He scoffed at Sherlock’s wet hair.
“Sit up,” he commanded, and Sherlock obeyed. A thirty-second ruffle with a towel and Sherlock’s curls were wild but drier, and he curled up beneath the sheets and duvet, practically cocooning within them. John climbed in beside Sherlock and this time, when he lay down he sank into the mattress, his entire body boneless.
Sherlock rolled over to him, throwing the blankets his way and as soon as John took them, he was wrapped up with Sherlock, nose-to-nose. Sherlock snaked one arm across John’s lower back, fingertips dusting the dip of John’s spine and released a deep breath. John had to admit, he certainly felt more at ease. His problems weren't erased but the bath alleviated them, and Sherlock’s embrace certainly helped. John lazily looped their fingers together between them, and they were both asleep before they could say good-night.