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Sherlock didn't sleep much during cases - much to John's consternation - but he slept like a log, often for 14 hours after he had solved them.
It was 8am, and Sherlock, predictably, was still in the middle of one of his post-case slumbers when john, walking past his closed door heard mumbling from within. He paused, curious, outside the door - did Sherlock have visitors? But no, it was just Sherlock's voice, muttering gibberish. He knocked softly on the door and called, "Sherlock?", very quietly, but received no reply.
After a minute's hesitation, he turned and headed into the kitchen, and boiled the kettle. By the time the first trails of steam came from the kettle, he had decided it was something after all, and very quietly pushed open Sherlock's door.
Sherlock was stretched out on his bed, the covers half pushed onto the floor, and he was writhing and whispering in his sleep. John was shocked to see that his face was wet with tears.
Feeling useless, he hesitated. He was closer to Sherlock than anyone but still... It was weird even to be in his room, let alone waking him up and soothing his nightmares. Torn, he watched Sherlock until his distress was too much and he gently shook him awake.
"John??"
He grabbed John's arm with alarming speed and strength, and blinked at him, still bleary with sleep.
Sherlock was as surprised to see John was sitting awkwardly on his bed, rubbing his back, and he pretended not to notice as Sherlock quickly wiped his eyes on his shirt.
"It's ok... I think you had a nightmare."
John continued to half hug him as Sherlock clung to his shirt and sobbed a little. He didn't say anything. He knew he was not John right now, just a little corner of human warmth and comfort for Sherlock to hold for a while.
He sat and listened in the half light while Sherlock whispered his nightmares into his chest - a half remembered memory of a song, a dog, a fire, burning gravestones and an empty well. He couldn't recall it properly, but it haunted him every night.
At last, John coughed softly, knowing he was going to be late for work.
"Sherlock.. I have to go. Um. Well, you can.. I just mean if you need someone to sleep with- not sleep with! I just mean if you need company-"
"Thank you, John."
"Yes, right. Good. Ok."
He got up stiffly and tucked the covers a little tighter over him, and left for work.
It was 2 in the morning when john felt Sherlock slip into bed beside him.
"Sherlock? What the hell are you doing in my bed?", he mumbled, but without conviction.
"You said I could." Said Sherlock stiffly. "If I ever had the nightmares again."
"Oh.. ok."
Too tired and sleepy to care, John turned on his side and went back to sleep.
The next time he woke up, it was about 4. An early ray of pink dawn light crept through the curtains and made the room look soft and unfocused. He realised, with a blush creeping over his cheeks, that Sherlock had snuggled up to him as he slept. He could feel Sherlock's breath on the back of his neck and his hand was draped over John's waist. John hadn't really expected Sherlock to actually sleep in his bed. It reminded him of his army days, when it was not uncommon to see men sleeping in a bunk together. It wasn't weird- they had all had nightmares by the end. Still...this was different. He tried pulling away a little but Sherlock sighed in his sleep and nestled his face in John's neck. It was comforting. He fell back asleep.
It was 6am now, and the room was filled with light. He should get up soon, he had promised to help Mrs Hudson with cleaning the flat below in the morning. It took John a second to realise that they had shifted positions again. He was on his back, and Sherlock was lying on him, using his chest as a pillow. Their legs were tangled together and they were hugging each other unconsciously. John was surprised to see his own hand tangled in Sherlock's messy curls.
It was strange to see him, usually so spiky and always with a fast, pointed reply, sleeping so calmly and sweetly, like a layer had been peeled back and john could see past the shell into the soft inside. He wanted to shift Sherlock so he could get up, but he didn't want to wake him up. That would be a very awkward conversation to have. He lay back, debating what to do, one hand idly running through Sherlock's hair.
"Hoohoo! It's me John, I don't know what happened to Sherlock, he isn't in his room. And you promised me help with that mould, young man!"
Mrs Hudson pushed open the door. John froze, caught red handed as he twisted a piece of Sherlocks hair between his fingers.
"Um.. this isn't what it looks like."
Mrs Hudson gave him a wink.
"Live and let live, that's what I always say."
"No, really Mrs Hudson, we're not- I was just-"
Sherlock woke up, and hid his face in the crook of John's neck, murmuring his name.
Feeling Sherlock's lips against his neck.. he flushed brick red
"Get out, Mrs Hudson!" He snapped, giving up.
Mrs Hudson raised and eyebrow and shut the door gently.
"The whole street will know about this by tomorrow," he commented gloomily, stroking the head of dark curls on his chest.
"Mm.. you care too much" said Sherlock, muffled. "I'm sure they're just jealous of our domestic bliss."
John laughed. "All right dear, I'm off to work. Take care of the kids," he joked.
Sherlock reached up and put his hand on John's jaw, sending a wave of warmth into him. His stomach exploded with butterflies and he couldn't stop the startled huff that came out.
"Enjoy work," Sherlock said dryly, and kissed him on the mouth. John was too surprised to pull away, and more by instinct than anything else put his hand on Sherlocks neck and kissed him back.
"Tea, boys!" Said Mrs Hudson, barging in at that very moment.
"Oh, for god's- just. Don't say a word about this, Mrs Hudson."
The next day, Sherlock threw John's coat at him. "Lestrade's got a case. Apparently it's a good one. Cancel your date"
"I don't have a date"
"Well that's a rare occurrence. I thought it was the librarian one?"
"Michelle? No, she, uh.. something changed my mind."
"Good. Let's go."
"So." Said lestrade when he saw them. "This one's interesting. The murderer left a weapon behind, but it's not the one that killed her. Now why would he do that?"
"Interesting," said Sherlock, already donning a sterile suit and striding toward the body.
"Talking of interesting," Lestrade smirked, "Mrs Hudson has been telling us some very interesting things."
John groaned.
"I'm sure she has. Great. Fantastic."
"So, sleeping together now?"
"HE HAD A NIGhtmare," John half shouted, trying to keep calm. "We weren't.. well, ok we were technically asleep in the same bed but it isn't what you think."
Lestrade's smirk grew.
"And what do I think?"
"He. had. a. nightmare. It was nothing weird."
"Yeah, you're right, sorry. Nothing weird about kissing your friend who had a nightmare in bed."
Speechless, John walked over to where Sherlock was still prodding the body. John crouched beside him and cleared his throat.
"Um.. Lestrade knows tha-"
"Yes. Everyone knows. Look at their body language, feet pointed towards us. We're the centre of attention," Sherlock interrupted, all in one breath.
They were talking quietly, under their breath, and they both saw Anderson's unsubtle attempt to overhear their conversation.
"Oh, for the love of god, is their not something more interesting to think about here?" Said Sherlock loudly, gesturing to the body.
"Many would say no," said Anderson snidely.
They had the attention of everyone in the room now.
Irritated, Sherlock grabbed John's lapels and kissed him hard on the mouth.
"All right? Happy, everyone? Good, let's get back the actual case now, please."
He crouched back down to the body, leaving John gasping like a fish in the middle of the room.
He turned and flushed to see Donovan and Anderson watching him closely from across the room.
He took out his pen and notebook and went to stand next to Sherlock again, dutifully writing down Sherlock's observations, not really listening but just letting his hand write the facts as his brain wandered. He felt almost sick with.. something. The same something he had felt waking up next to Sherlock. His... Friend? It was sort of difficult to think of him as his friend when he could still taste the kiss on his lips. He licked them self-consciously and glanced up, accidentally making eye contact with lestrade, who seemed to know exactly what was going through his head.
When they got home, it was nearly midnight. They had spent the whole day running around London, looking for the real weapon, which Sherlock had been convinced was hidden somewhere. He was right, of course, but it had taken hours to find it.
John was exhausted and looked dead on his feet by the time they were back in the flat. He had been ill all weekend but stoically maintained that he was fine all day. Sherlock caught his eye in the mirror as they were brushing their teeth together and looked concerned.
"Are you alright, John?"
"What. Um. Yes, sorry, yep"
He spat a mouthful of toothpaste into the sink and gripped the edge of the basin to steady himself.
"Are you sure? You're very pale."
"Yes, I just.." and then John slipped sideways and the world went black.
When he opened his eyes, he was still looking at the bathroom ceiling. Sherlock was gently slapping his face.
"John. Talk to me, John. Are you ok?"
John mumbled something incoherent and closed his eyes against the harsh lights.
The next thing he knew, he was in an ambulance and being driven to the hospital.
"Sherlock?" He said, trying to sit up. Sherlock's face swam into view above him, and he pushed John back down into the bed.
"It's not serious. Just lie back, you're ok."
The next morning, John woke up with a drip in his arm and a smiling nurse talking to Sherlock and Lestrade, who were standing next to the bed.
"Good morning John, how are you feeling?' said the nurse.
"Yeah, fine, actually."
"That's good to hear. There's nothing seriously wrong with you, you were just very dehydrated. You're fine to go home when you're ready. Make sure you drink enough fluids and don't strain yourself too much."
Then she left the room.
"Well," said Lestrade,"this is what you get for running around looking for missing knives for 6 hours."
Sherlock was pacing, looking troubled. Now he turned to John.
"I am sorry, John. I should have made you go home. Now it's my fault that you're in the hospital, and I-"
"Sherlock. It's fine. It is fine."
Sherlock turned to him and the look of relief on his face was worth fainting for. Lestrade coughed, looking at them both.
"Well. I guess I'll go. Get well soon, John."
Now that they were alone, neither of them seemed to have a thing to say. They were both relieved when the nurse came in and broke the awkward silence.
Sherlock insisted that John sleep in his bed that night.
"Yours is up the stairs," he reasoned, "which frankly I don't think you can manage, you're weak and sick."
He half-carried John to his room and threw him ungracefully onto the bed.
Sherlock's room always surprised John. He wasn't in it much, but it wasn't like the rest of the flat, cluttered and scruffy. It was strangely bare, with just the bed and the wardrobe, and a few neat shelves.
The bed was extremely comfortable, and smelt comfortingly of Sherlock, of sleepy breath and musk and coffee.
He slipped gratefully to sleep.
He awoke like he had the first time, with Sherlock curled up behind him, holding him close with one drooping arm. Smiling foolishly, John lay very still and let the still, sleepy air warm him. It was a few seconds before he realised Sherlock was awake too.
"Good morning," he murmured into John's neck, and it felt so intimate that his pulse quickened. He rolled over so he could see Sherlock's face, and quick as a flash, Sherlock pressed his lips forward in a chaste kiss. John smiled and kissed his neck, very gently letting his teeth graze Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock breathed out and said "oh," very quietly.
John continued to kiss all around Sherlock's neck and below his ears, leaving red marks like cherries. Sherlock made noises that neither of them had thought it possible for him to make, shifting and moaning beneath John's attentive kisses. John loved seeing this side of him, seeing this 'cold, calculating genius' so soft and playful - a completely different man to the one who examined bodies and shouted at people, but somehow, still the same.
Sherlock rarely ate at breakfast time, to John's annoyance, but he stood drinking coffee and contemplating the fingers in the fridge as John ate toast at the table. They both heard footsteps coming up the stairs, quiet but forceful.
"Mycroft," Sherlock mouthed and John leaped up, panicked.
"Your neck, Sherlock!" It was still covered in hickeys and neither of them felt like revealing that to Mycroft.
Sherlock put on his coat as John hurriedly wrapped his scarf around his neck and sat back down just as Mycroft came into the room.
"Mycroft. I was just going out." Mycroft looked him up and down and raised an eyebrow.
"In your pyjamas? How very avant-garde of you, brother mine." He reached forward and tugged at Sherlock's scarf.
"Mycroft! Get off my scarf!" Sherlock tried fruitlessly to pull his scarf back to his neck but Mycroft easily pulled it away and took in Sherlock's guilty, love-bitten neck. "My goodness, Dr Watson," he said dryly. "You have been busy, haven't you?"
"There are more on his back, too," John blurted, unable as usual to bite back the sarcastic remark that presented itself.
"Are there indeed. Well, I was going to discuss a case with you, but you seem to be busy with your boyfriend here, so I'm going to leave the case file here. Do have a look, won't you. England depends on it."
Sherlock sighed dramatically. "Yes, England so often seems to depend on me. I will look at it Mycroft. Now get out." With one last knowing look, Mycroft left.
John and Sherlock exchanged glances as Sherlock took of his coat and scarf again. John kept his eyes fixed firmly on his plate as he said, casually, "Mycroft called me your boyfriend."
"How very observant of you, John." "Yeah. Um. Would you say I'm your, uh. Boyfriend?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Boyfriend, girlfriend, aunt, uncle, grandma, does it really matter? Relationships are usually meaningless and labels even more so."
John looked up at him angrily. "Oh, I'm meaningless, am I? I know you hate talking about this but we should discuss.. this...you know."
"John, I have told you before that sentiment is simply a human flaw, which inevitably leads to-"
"Yeah, fine, thanks for clearing that up!" John shouted, getting up in furious shamefaced embarrassment. Message received, loud and clear.
He stormed out of the flat and brushed Mrs Hudson out of the way, walking blindly to nowhere until he found himself sitting on a bench, in the same place where he had run into Mike Stamford those two years ago. He cursed himself for his blunder. He had thought, foolishly, that because Sherlock had kissed him, seemed to care in the hospital, that he really felt the same way John had felt. Hadn't he seen this before? Sherlock could turn people to putty in his fingers, and he had thought somehow that this was different. Well, forget it. He understood, alright.
He realised suddenly that he was crying, actually crying in a way he hadn't for years, hiccuping, humiliating tears that stung his eyes. "John! John Watson!" He didn't look up. This was just what he needed, someone he knew seeing him weeping on a public bench like a weirdo. Mike sat down next to him and clapped him awkwardly on the shoulder.
"Had a breakup with the missus?" He asked, cheerily.
"The mister, actually," John replied, unable to muster any kind of embarrassment or energy to fight.
"Oh.." Stamford's eyes widened in understanding. "Oh. I guess introducing you to Sherlock went well. Ahem."
"Yeah, well you could've warned me that he's a bloody machine. Apparently I really mean nothing to him at all. So."
To John's surprise, Stamford laughed. "Nothing? You must be blind, mate! I've never seen Sherlock so smitten with anyone before."
"I- huh?"
"I see you two together in the lab sometimes. Trust me, and I've known him a while, you mean a lot to him. Haven't you seen the way he looks at you? Plus, he actually listens to you, which I'm sure you know he doesn't do for most people."
Stamford looked at his watch. "Look, I've got to go. See you another day."
John sat and pondered what Stamford had said until someone else sat down next to him on the bench.
It was Sherlock.
"John. I-"
"Look, it's fine. I know how you feel. Or rather, don't feel. And it's fine. We can just keep being like normal. It's OK."
"I don't want to do that, John. I didn't mean what I said. What I have with you, it is meaningful. It means a lot..the most to me. I'd like it if you were my boyfriend." John couldn't help but smile. He had always secretly longed to hear those words.
"John, I mean it. Sentiment is a human flaw. And it is a flaw that I'm proud to have."