Chapter Text
Sherlock hadn't been himself for months, John could see that. He had become very...what's the word?
Withdrawn.
Not himself.
Just not at all /there/.
"Cup of tea?" John asked, smiling warmly at his companion, who was sat watching the news with a blank expression on his face.
"No thanks." Sherlock replied without moving his eyes from the television screen.
"Alrighty then." John didn't bother making himself a drink if Sherlock wasn't going to have one. Cups of tea are best shared with a friend.
Something had changed in Sherlock that John couldn't quite put his finger on. If anyone had tried to ask John what he thought it was, he wouldn't have been able to answer. Because to an outsider, the behaviour John would have described would seem the norm. But to /John/, the man that knew Sherlock Holmes better than he knew his own head, the behaviour was very abnormal. So abnormal that John couldn't even find thoughts, let alone words, to describe it.
For months John had noticed things change. And he didn't understand it at all. If there was a logical explanation for it, which there wasn't, then John would be able to sleep at night. But John was no Sherlock Holmes, and he found it hard to face things to which he had no explanation, and no way of achieving one either. In some ways John felt helpless, because in his mind he knew everything was different, but he could do nothing about it as he had no idea how to address the problem, because he wasn't even sure if there was a problem to begin with! There must be a problem, but what?!
John was beginning to question his sanity.
"I'm going to bed now." Sherlock suddenly announced, his coat creating a breeze as he rose from the sofa and dashed for the bedroom.
"But it's nine-thirty!" John protested.
"Exactly. I'm tired." The door slammed.
This is precisely what John meant. Sherlock never, repeat, /never/ went to sleep of his own accord. He either slept because he /had/ to, or slept because somebody else forced him to (mainly John). Also, admitting that he was tired was too uncomfortably out of character. To an outsider, sleeping and feeling tired would seem a perfectly normal thing to do. But for Sherlock it wasn't. Especially not at nine-thirty in the evening.
"Whatever..." John was use to this same old routine by now. He sighed, switching channels to some wacky horror film about kids and an It and worst nightmares...
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
John sprang upright gasping, beads of sweat running off his face as he scanned the room for a "Thing". His heart was pounding as he was all about ready to yell for help when he realised that he'd just had a bad dream. His nightmare wasn't real, no "Thing" would ever make that come true.
His pulse slowed as he turned the television off, promising himself that that was the last time he /ever/ watched a horror film before bed.
Sighing, Doctor Watson retired to the bedroom.
Sherlock was asleep, or so it appeared. His face was buried in his pillow, curled up into a ball under the duvet. He gave the sweetness of a small child; quiet, peaceful, and fucking adorable.
John gently slipped into bed, settling down to do some proper sleeping. He nestled himself just beside Sherlock, so he could fall asleep listening to his favourite sound...
...
...
...Was Sherlock sniffling?
John concentrated.
That breathing was abnormal. He knew Sherlock's breathing anywhere, it was definitely abnormal.
"Sherlock, are you awake?" John whispered.
Silence.
The slow, wheezy breathing continued, and John noticed that it was caused because the nose was blocked. Why was his nose blocked? Had he been crying?!
He heard Sherlock's voice in his mind, "Don't be so ridiculous, John."
No, of course Sherlock hadn't been crying. What a stupid assumption! He probably just had a cold coming or something.
John dismissed himself, feeling stupid, and submitted to the incessant nag of sleep.