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At the conclusion of The Reigate Squire, Sherlock was miraculously energized. He even ran right past Mariana and John almost all the way down the pavement. (showing off, of course)
By the time they made the train, he was thoroughly out of breath and shivering, but he felt fine. He felt awake. It felt like a breakthrough from the last few days. The grand conclusion of the case wiped him clean of his drowsiness.
When they reach the flat, Sherlock is dead on his feet. His limbs are leaden, and he and John still have to trek up the steps to 221B and in general do the standard routine before getting into bed. Sherlock has doctor’s orders about his bedtime tonight.
“Ah– Sherlock, before you go upstairs, could you have a look at a couple of emails I received?” Mariana asks from behind them.
Sherlock turns at the bottom of the stairs. Oh, Mariana, you saving grace.
“Mari, he's exhausted,” John sighs.
“I'm invigorated,” Sherlock insists. “I said so before. I can survive a couple of emails.”
John scoffs. “You hate emails!”
“I don't hate emails. I don't like being polite in response to them.” He turns back to follow Mariana into 221A, doing his best to keep his footing on hardwood that feels as though it threatens to swing out from beneath him.
Mariana gives John a little smile as she turns to follow. “It'll just be ten, maybe fifteen minutes tops, and then I'll turn him loose and he'll go to bed.”
John relents and starts up the stairwell to grab his laptop, figuring he might start in on the edit if everyone else will be staying up a little bit longer. In the meantime, Sherlock settles on Mariana's couch, and she brings him her laptop.
“It should be the top five, but if they're out of order, then I've starred them and you should be able to find them that way,” Mariana explains. “Just a couple of things I thought might pique your interest. If they do, I'll forward them to you.”
Sherlock manages a smile, despite the way his face still aches from being hit during their last case. “Yes, that's fine. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.” He just barely catches the amused smile in response to the nickname as he averts his attention to the emails in question.
Mariana slips into her bedroom down the hall to get herself ready for bed. Sherlock settles a throw blanket over his lap as he reads through the emails and any attached documents. He gets through the first two - one very obvious affair, one easily solved missing person case - before John comes back down the stairs, rambling on about software updates or planned obsolescence in new technology or something of that sort.
He watches John get himself set up to sit at the opposite end of the sofa, plugging his laptop into the wall, opening up his editing program, the works. Sherlock fakes attentiveness each time John glances up at him, offering different emotive versions of the same hum as an occasionally required response.
John carries on waffling even as he turns and walks into Mariana's kitchen to put the kettle on.
The deeper tone of John's voice, even while his volume is slightly raised to keep himself heard, is easy on Sherlock's ears. It doesn't matter what's being said, especially not now. Sherlock just likes to listen to him talk. He sometimes thinks about going back and listening to the episodes that John puts out, if not for the fact he hates the sound of his own voice when recorded. Maybe he would just pick out the more mundane sections where John prattles on about some random topic or sets the scene of their surroundings. Then again, John will do that unprompted.
Sherlock isn't really listening. He looks back at the screen of Mariana's laptop, but her inbox is absolutely blinding white (seriously, light mode? sometimes he wonders if he's not the oddest one around here) and any attempt he makes to hold his eyes open is futile. He turns the brightness down to the lowest setting, only to immediately fall victim to the soft, dimmed lighting of Mariana's flat.
The quiet atmosphere drags the consciousness from his weakened body. He doesn't mind.
He leans his elbow on the arm of the sofa and rests his cheek in his hand. He's out before he even realizes his eyes have closed.
Mariana slips out of her bedroom, clad in the most glorious, softest, purple polka-dotted set of pyjamas, her hair in a long braid down her back. She takes one glance at Sherlock on her sofa, and then at the very much still waffling John making tea in the kitchen. She steps past the threshold. “Are you on the phone?”
John stops and turns around. “Sorry, what?”
“Who– Er, who are you talking to?”
John's brows furrow in confusion. “I mean, myself, mostly, but I was talking to Sherlock too.”
Mariana smiles. “He's asleep.”
John blinks. “You're kidding.” He sets down everything he's doing at once to poke his head into the living room and, sure enough, Sherlock is out cold still sitting up. John sighs.
They step out into the living room, Mariana smiling fondly down at Sherlock, while John looks like he's going to scold their (sleeping!) detective.
“He really needs to get to bed,” John says. “This is what happens when you make an exhausted man read emails.”
“It was just going to take a couple of minutes,” Mariana laughs.
“He just finished a case, though.”
“He said he was fine! I trusted his judgment!”
“Didn’t you see his face? Overworked and underslept, I'd say–”
Mariana interjects and puts a hand out. “Wait, stop.”
“What?”
“Do you hear that?”
They both stop. Nobody moves a muscle. Over the regular London traffic and the sounds of the city, they can hear the gentle sound of Sherlock snoring.
“Aw, oh my god,” Mariana whispers, trying her best not to laugh too loudly.
John chuckles in that unmistakably fond way of his. “Oh, no, I can't sleep around other people because they snore and they snort and they breathe weird–”
“John! Don't make fun of him!”
“He's a big hypocrite, that's all I'm saying.”
“He's tired.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” The smile hasn't left his face yet, his gaze still on Sherlock's sleeping form. He rarely ever sits so still.
Mariana glances over at John, smiling just as much. “He's cute.”
“Yeah, sometimes.”
She raises a brow and looks over at him, her fond smile very quickly turning into a knowing one. “You think he's cute?”
“Sometimes,” John says. “When he's not setting the couch on fire or doing some insane experiment at the dining room table, maybe.”
“You know you like him anyway.”
“Of course I like him, we live together.” He pretends not to notice the smug look in her eye when he turns his attention back to Sherlock. John bends down and lays a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, giving him a gentle shake. He keeps his voice soft. “Sherlock, come on.”
Sherlock wakes with a slight jolt and a deep inhale, then rubs his eyes. “I was looking at emails…”
“You were asleep sitting up.”
“They’re… very boring emails. But I need to finish reading them to see–”
John cuts him off by shutting Mariana’s laptop and setting it aside. “Noo, nope, you’re not doing any more work tonight. Come on, up you go.” He holds a hand out.
Sherlock stares blankly up at him for a good couple seconds before he actually realizes what John wants him to do. He pulls the throw blanket back and takes John’s hand, pulling himself to his feet. “What– sorry, what are we doing?”
“You are going up to bed.” John wraps an arm around Sherlock’s middle and pulls Sherlock’s arm over his shoulders to hold him upright.
“But I don’t want to.”
“You will,” Mariana chimes in. “Don’t worry about the emails, they can wait until tomorrow.”
Sherlock looks insulted for some odd reason, like they’ve just called him incapable or incompetent or something of that sort. His annoyance is short lived though, and he sinks instead into confusion as John starts to practically haul him to the door so they can head upstairs. He turns his head to look back at Mariana. “You’re just going to– to let him do this to me?” He calls.
“Um,” Mariana says. “Yes. It’s… for your own good? You need the rest.” Sherlock grumbles in return.
John pulls the door open with some struggle, and pulls Sherlock out into the hall. “Night, Mari,” he calls, and Mariana gives a little wave before the door shuts.
“I don’t want to go to bed yet,” Sherlock insists again, his mind rebelling against such a sudden decision made on his behalf. He’s conscious now! Certainly they can trust him to make his own bedtime. “I told you, I feel invigorated, my mind– my mind is sated, Watson, that’s all– It’s a hearty reprieve from the throes of boredom!”
By the positively unamused expression John gives him, there must be some irony Sherlock has missed. Probably the fact that John is still bodily hauling his barely-functioning body up the steps. Probably that. “Sorry mate, still under doctor’s orders.” John pulls him up the first step. “You need to get some sleep, you know.” Up the second. “Or at least have a lie-down– Jesus Christ, move your legs.”
Sherlock reluctantly cooperates to keep John from throwing his back out. It’s a reluctant, conscious effort. “But it’ll take too long,” he complains, and even he can sense how petulant he sounds. “I have to shower first.”
“Can’t help you with that one, mate,” John sighs, still holding most of Sherlock’s weight. “Just promise me you won’t pass out when you do. I’m not dragging your slippery arse out of the shower.”
“You’re a doctor, you’ve seen worse,” Sherlock remarks, his foot slipping slightly when he lets John’s body heat get to him a little bit too much. He does try to be bothered by it, surely. He tries to be bothered by how willingly John puts in the effort to care for him. He tries to be bothered by John’s warmth, the steady hand over his ribs, the way they fit so perfectly against one another. He rights himself to take some of the weight off John again.
“There’s a difference between unending warzone gore and witnessing my flatmate’s bare arse.”
Sherlock huffs. “Fair point,” he manages, and turns his head away to try and hide his smile. Still, John can feel the way he shakes with silent laughter. John just rolls his eyes. They eventually accomplish the herculean task of making it to the top of the steps and into 221B, and John cuts him loose to do whatever it is he needs to do.
By some absolute miracle, Sherlock does not pass out in the shower. He does almost slip and fall about three times though, slippery hands gripping the shower railing in a desperate attempt to drag himself back up again, tired muscles shaking with the strain. During the time he remains comfortably upright, he lets the wonderfully scalding water soak into him, letting it go bone deep. He considers sitting down once or twice just to let it hit his back while he rests, and then realizes that sitting on the shower floor would be gross, and then eventually remembers that John will want to shower after him so he should probably stop using all the hot water. When he’s scrubbed the day off himself, he throws pyjamas on, brushes his teeth, and wanders out.
There’s something so simple, so intoxicatingly mundane about simply being nowadays. He gives credit to John for that. Sherlock would consider himself well-adjusted to a routine closer to something vaguely human-like, even with the missed nights of sleep and the drugs and the everything-else. Oh, the perks of living with someone exceptionally grounding. He may not be entirely flexible when it comes to changing the concrete ideas in his head, but he’d consider himself… malleable. A little softer.
He doesn’t pause in the hallway to consider picking up his violin. No, he really is too exhausted for that now. He just lets the bathroom door open wide behind him and hauls himself off to his bedroom. He leaves his door cracked just enough to splay long, thin lines of warm light from the hallway on the hardwood.
Bed already straightened from that morning (grueling task for him, mind), he crawls beneath the covers, flat on his back, and sinks into his mattress. The sheets are soft and cool on his skin, and for once, there's a pleasant equilibrium in temperature. Body too warm from the shower, chilled by the sheets.
Sherlock lays there, too tired to move much. The ambient sounds of London do have a good try at lulling him to sleep, gently muffled through the walls. He lays there long enough to trace his gaze over the patterns on the ceiling just above his bed at least five times. He lays there long enough to hear the shower turn on in the next room over.
The temperature equilibrium doesn't last nearly long enough. He's still awake by the time he's just cold again, and that's the only thing that makes him move. He curls up, pulls the covers tighter, rolls over a couple of times to cling to the fleeting warmth, but it's no use. He knows he'll warm back up eventually, but it really is dreadful while it lasts.
He'll be asleep eventually, he guesses. There's no getting around it, not tonight.
Eventually.
Sherlock rolls over onto his right side.
Eventually.
There comes footsteps, and then a gentle knock at his bedroom door. Hesitant. Familiar. Sherlock only answers with a hum, though he makes himself sit up when John pushes the door open.
“Hey. Just thought I'd check on you.”
Sherlock stares blearily at him, finding and piecing the words together for a little remark. “If I had fallen in the shower, I assure you, you would've heard.”
John breathes a laugh. Good. “Yeah, right, good job on keeping yourself alive, I guess.” He clears his throat. “No, I just… I guess, I should ask if you need anything. Or if you're feeling okay.”
Sherlock has to prop himself up on an elbow. “I feel… okay,” he answers.
“Good. That's, uh- that's. Good.”
Why are you being awkward. Stop it.
Sherlock stares at him, expecting more. There isn't any, but John looks like he needs something. He's just a backlit silhouette to Sherlock at this position, so there aren't any clear expressions that Sherlock can pick out.
“You've showered?” Sherlock asks.
“I have, yeah. Thinking about heading to bed pretty soon,” John says. “And by heading to bed I don't mean sleeping, I mean scrolling on my phone for half an hour. Well- I mean, I'm going to sleep anyway, just– later.”
Sherlock scoots himself closer to the wall and pulls the covers back.
“Um. What–”
“Lie down,” Sherlock says. Less a demand, more of an invite, but he doesn't really have the words for it to be an invite right now, so he corrects himself. “Lie down, or… go to your own room. You're just standing in the doorway and it's bothering me.”
Sherlock might not be able to see his face, but he can at the very least hear the disbelief in John's voice. “In– sorry, in your bed?”
“It'll save me from having to hold my head up,” Sherlock replies. He punctuates his statement by letting his head drop back down onto his pillow, though he keeps the covers held back.
He finds satisfaction in hearing his door shut. He finds even more in hearing John approach.
John hesitates for a good couple of seconds before he takes his place next to Sherlock. He pulls the covers over his lap, but he doesn't lay down. “Sherlock, you know I snore.”
“It's my room,” Sherlock responds. “If you fall asleep and start snoring, I have every right to kick you out.”
“Oh, yeah, great. That's just great.”
Sherlock grabs an extra pillow that was pushed against the wall and lays it beneath where John's head would lay. “Lay on your side,” he instructs.
John sighs and does as he's asked, laying down on his side facing Sherlock. “Better?” He asks.
“Much,” Sherlock replies. He looks up at John from his slightly lower position, trying to pick apart the running thought processes and the expression and the look in his eye. “You're worried,” he finally lands on.
“I am, yeah.”
“Why?”
John stares at him. “Sherlock, you collapsed.”
“I told you, I chose to collapse to keep Forrester from sharing any details about the note–”
“You scared me,” John butts in. “You're never sick, you're always moving, I– I guess it was just because I've never seen you so unwell, but you collapsed. What was I supposed to be, other than worried?”
This certainly takes him by surprise. “I… didn't realize it affected you so,” Sherlock replies. “It was a fake collapse.” He knows the response is weak. Just a reiteration. There's no other way for him to reassure John.
“Well, you did a bloody good job of making it look real.”
“Thank you.”
“Not the point,” John huffs. “Just– I don't know. Do what you have to do during cases, be impulsive, whatever, just maybe…” He sighs, without conclusion or solid point. “I don't know.”
“You can trust me to, at the very least, have caution when putting myself in harm’s way,” Sherlock says, his voice coming out slightly groggy and languid now. “I trusted you to be there. To catch me. That was the caution.”
John cracks a slight, weak smile in the dark, and Sherlock feels his heart skip a couple of beats. “Well, I'm glad you can trust me.”
“Of course I can,” Sherlock murmurs. “You have your wits about you, John.”
“Thanks, mate.” John pulls a hand up to trail through Sherlock's hair, and turns this moment and their positions (decided really based on Sherlock's convenience, he needed to be able to read John's expressions) into something unexpectedly tender.
Sherlock lets his eyes flutter closed at the astoundingly gentle touch. He lets John continue, undoing and rumpling damp ringlet curls. He shudders a few times when John scratches a particularly good spot at the back of his head.
He wonders, in his sleep-addled mind, if John has always been this way. Perhaps being gentle and caring and incredibly patient is in his nature. Maybe he was raised that way, intended to be a drop of good in the world. Or, maybe John just mellowed out through the years and this is the man he has become. He hasn't known John for very long, after all.
Sherlock reaches up, gently taking John's hand from his hair. He lowers it, holding John's knuckles to his lips.
It's not a kiss. Not really. Not technically.
“Sherlock,” John whispers. “C’mere.” He opens his arms, and Sherlock wills himself to move just enough to wind both arms around John's middle. John pulls him closer, arms wrapped around his shoulder blades.
Sherlock drifts off with his face pressed into John's breastbone.
***
John figures he didn't snore enough, because Sherlock let him stay.
No night terrors either, though he remembers waking up once or twice.
Once, he jolted awake for some undefined reason to find Sherlock half on top of him, both hands stationary and halfway up John's nightshirt (how???????), completely dead asleep.
The second time, he wakes on his stomach, his face against Sherlock's neck, settled between Sherlock's slightly spread legs. He only stays awake long enough to reassure himself that Sherlock does like to be mildly crushed sometimes - consequently processing absolutely nothing else about their positions.
They wake properly in the late morning, strangely refreshed, both laughing softly as they untangle themselves from the other when they finally decide to get out of bed.