"John?"
John sits bolt upright on the couch, rubbing at his eyes as he stands. "Sherlock? Are you OK?"
"I..." The taller man stands in the hallway leading to his bedroom, feet bare, pajama pants and t-shirt and dressing gown, hair tousled and eyes a little sleepy but still too alert , and he's Sherlock, John knows he's Sherlock, but he's not the man John knew, not anymore.
"What's wrong, Sherlock?"
Sherlock looks away, petulant but resigned. "My movie turned off."
John smiles sadly. "They do that, Sherlock. Every movie ends."
"But I'm not asleep yet. And it's not supposed to turn off until I'm asleep."
John frowns. "Sherlock, we talked about this. Remember? Three weeks ago?"
Sherlock frowns and screws up his nose, his mouth, his whole face thinking, and John wants to cry, wants to burst into tears over just how hard it's become for Sherlock to think, to remember.
"Sometimes..." The voice was soft, but deep and luxurious and John had never heard anything quite so amazing and wonderful in all his life and he wished, just wished, he could hear it spouting wild stories that proved to be true and calling him an idiot, just once more, please, just one more miracle.
"Go on, take your time, Sherlock." John's voice is quiet and soft and understanding.
"Sometimes I don't fall asleep before the movie ends."
John nods, and smiles reassuringly, and Sherlock folds his arms over his chest and rubs one foot over the other and looks like an eight-year-old trapped in a thirty-seven-year-old's body. "That's right. And what did I say to do when that happens?"
"I'm... I just go to sleep. I don't..." Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut and thinks and John shakes with the inability to make it stop, to make this just stop, but he controls it quickly, he has to, because if he falls to pieces it upsets Sherlock, and he can't do that, can't put him through that, because he's been through enough, they both have.
"Tell you what." John looks at Sherlock, who opens his eyes and watches John. "I'll put the movie back on. Just this once, mind." Sherlock nods, jerky movements betraying his frustration. John waits until he turns back to his room, and follows him.
The room is the same as it's ever been, except that now it has a decent sized flatscreen television bolted to the wall, and a DVD player, and a small stand that holds a couple dozen movies that Sherlock has picked out for himself. John grabs the remote for the player and clicks over to the 'play' selection before he realizes what's wrong.
"You... you changed out your movie, didn't you?" He whirls around to see Sherlock sitting in bed, knees tucked up to his chest, arms around them, shoulders hunched in. He's rocking slowly back and forth.
"The first one ended, and I wasn't sleepy, John..." The voice is anguished; he knows he did something John has told him not to do, knows he's disappointed John, but he did it anyway because he wanted to, and now he knows John is unhappy. John blows out a long, slow breath through his nose.
"Alright, Sherlock. We've talked about this."
"I know."
"Then-"
"Because I wasn't sleepy and you were and I didn't want to wake you up so I thought just one more movie, I'd be sleepy then, but I wasn't and I knew you'd be angry and I'm...I'm..." Sherlock's head was now buried between his knees, and John hears the sniffling.
You're sorry, and I'm a heartless bastard. He walked over to the bed and sat down at the foot of it. He waited, his right side towards Sherlock, just waiting, knowing. A moment later, the bed shifted, and Sherlock was pressed against the side of him.
"I'm sorry, John." The voice was small and low and so not like Sherlock, not like he used to be, but John knew that was in the past and this, this was real and now and Sherlock was different but he was still Sherlock.
"It's alright, Sherlock." John put an arm around those shoulders, those once boney and pointed shoulders, now full and round and healthy. He pulled Sherlock a little closer. Sherlock put his arms around John's torso and hugged him, cheek pressed into John's chest, hearing John's heartbeat, his breathing. Legs sprawled out awkwardly beside him now, twisted around John in ways John had never been able to imagine.
"You're my friend, John."
John closed his eyes. "Yes, Sherlock, I'm your friend."
"And you love me. Right?"
"Yes." John could almost get through this part without crying. Almost. "Yes, Sherlock, I love you very much."
"That's why you take care of me."
It's why I've always taken care of you, even before you needed it this much. "Yes."
"I love you too John."
And that was the breaking point, that was the part of this almost nightly ritual that shattered John's heart into a million, billion, trillion tiny pieces until he was sure that Sherlock had died that day, and John had died with him, and this was just some weird alternate universe, and he put his other arm around Sherlock and held him tightly, planting soft kisses on the top of his head and breathing in the scent of him, of his hair after a shower and the apple scented shampoo he'd insisted on when they'd been at Tesco yesterday because it had an elephant, and elephants never forget things John, maybe I won't forget things anymore John, please John, please, I really want this one.
John knew what had happened, because he was a doctor, and despite Sherlock's best attempts, faking your death wasn't as easy as he'd hoped, and something had gone wrong. He'd jumped from St. Bart's roof, but he'd misjudged something, miscalculated, and rather than landing on the open truck bed full of hospital linens before jumping to the ground and splashing the blood-bags Molly had given him around, he'd jumped into the truck and hit something, hit his head...
"I'm sorry, John."
"Don't be, Sherlock. It's fine."
"I made you sad."
"No, no, don't think that."
"I don't think that. I know."
John nodded against the top of Sherlock's head. "Of course you do."
"Will you..." Sherlock pulled away for a moment, looking up at John, those green eyes looking just as they always had, like they saw right through John and into him and around him and in every direction all at once. John sighed and smiled and nodded, and Sherlock smiled and snuggled his cheek and ear back against John's chest for a moment before shifting away and moving to one side of the bed. John climbed up, under the covers, and held out his left arm. Sherlock snuggled down next to him, pressing the length of his body against John's side, right ear over John's heart because you have a good heart, John, and maybe if I listen to it I'll know how to be good too, I want to be good, John, and John pushed play on the remote and pulled Sherlock closer.
"Sweet dreams, Sherlock."
But Sherlock was already drifting off, the only reply a small murmur that rumbled through John and into John and around John and filled the room, going in all directions at once until John finally closes his eyes from the pressure of it all.
He falls asleep there, holding Sherlock close, while a movie that neither of them is watching plays on.