Leonard found him curled up in his one and only spot, sound asleep.
It wasn't the first time, and sure as hell wouldn't be the last, but the all-too-familiar scene was now backdropped by new changes. Leonard was a married man who could no longer cater to each of Sheldon's needs, like the father to his overgrown child who refused to move out of the basement. Their old habits needed to become a thing of the past.
That is until Leonard was about to turn off the TV when he recognized the closing credits crawling down the screen and groaned. Sheldon should know by now not to watch Raiders after dark.
Knowing exactly where this was heading, Leonard sighed in defeat and pulled his phone out to shoot a text to his wife, informing her that he would not be joining her this evening. Sheldon was having enough trouble sleeping as it was, there was no way Leonard would let his buddy wake screaming from the inevitable coming nightmares to an empty apartment.
Phone once again secure in his pocket, Leonard assumed the usual position to slide his hands beneath Sheldon's armpits and hoist him up to rest against his chest, then turn to head down the hall. Even in sleep Sheldon seemed to recognize the familiarity of the situation, easily shifting into the embrace without stirring: arms slipped around his shoulders, feet locked into the backs of his knees, head rested in the crook of his neck. Though carrying Penny across the threshold had been an intense struggle, who had to be at least a good forty pounds lighter than Sheldon, the two of them had done this so many times through the years it felt like second nature.
Finally Leonard had trudged his way to Sheldon's bed and went to set him down, intent on retiring to his own room and wait for his roommate to eventually join him, but to his surprise Sheldon refused to release the vice grip around his neck. The man who hadn't skipped a scheduled bowel movement in eleven years, and he chooses now to deviate from the routines he's revered like gods among men?
But even when asleep Leonard couldn't seem to shake off the parasite in the form of a six foot germaphobe, so he finally accepted defeat, kicked off his shoes, removed his glasses, and climbed into bed with him. Sheldon then relaxed his hold, but didn't stray far as he rolled into an uncharacteristic sleeping position on his stomach, resting one large palm flat on Leonard's chest. His bed was barely big enough for two as it was, and Sheldon wasn't helping things since the one custom his body chose to adhere to was to sleep in exactly the center of the bed, leaving poor Leonard no choice but to snuggle in closer or risk falling out completely. After another sigh as he tried to ignore the feel of Sheldon's breath on his face or those long limbs brushing against his own, Leonard turned his head forward to stare up at the ceiling and count Schrodinger's cats until he could somehow find at least a few hours of rest.
And then a sob erupted from the man beside him.
It began as a lone, solitary one, something between a hiccup and a gasp, just like the ones Leonard had thought he had been hearing lately through their shared bedroom wall but had dismissed as his sleep-addled imaginings. The next had more substance to it; stronger, sharper, longer. Then came another one. And another. And another and another and then somewhere along the way Sheldon was fully crying.
Leonard didn't have time to even contemplate what to do before Sheldon had thrown himself on top of him. It seemed that not a square inch of Leonard was not covered by a part of his taller friend, with Sheldon sprawled across his torso, arms wrapped tightly around him, a leg haphazardly thrown over over his own, and head burrowed into his shoulder. Leonard, for his part, could only lay there in stunned silence, too shocked to even return the embrace, completely lost on what to do.
They had a very strict protocol in dealing with nightmares: do not leave the victim alone, do not wake the victim so as not to disturb his REM sleep cycle, do not touch the victim unless he is in legitimate danger of harming himself or others. But it seemed that tonight Sheldon was hellbent on breaking every rule laid out in the Roommate Agreement, and Leonard had barely a clue on what was so different about this dream that was making him act so out of character. But in the end, none of that mattered. Just being forced to witness his closest friend whimper and shudder through such a terrible nightmare made Leonard want to tear through walls if that could just make it stop.
And he was about to, if that was what it took, when a single word escaped from Sheldon's lips between his wracking sobs. It could barely even qualify as a word, more like an exhale of dragging syllables that just barely resembled a part of the English language. It wasn't until he said it a second time that Leonard was able to recognize it.
"Aaaaaaaaaaamy."
And that one word explained everything. The nightmares. The almost-sobs. The barely touched dinner plates. The constant phone checking, as if waiting for someone to call. The surreptitious glances to his top desk drawer, and later the whiteboard by the bookcase. The look on his face from day to day that to most would say he was fine, but Leonard knew said he was moments from breaking apart.
So why, of all the emotions Leonard could be feeling at this revelation, the one most prevalent was… disappointment?
He knew exactly why, and he hated himself for it. Here he was, falling halfway off his roommate's bed, being forcibly and quite physically smothered by said roommate when he could've been cuddling up to his beautiful wife just then, enduring nightmares and tears and mucus, and the name that Sheldon moans out is Amy's. It was selfish and bitter, he knew that well, but feelings can neither understand nor follow reason. His little buddy was suffering and there wasn't a thing he could do about it, like an impossible equation where every solution lay in the woman he could never replace.
So he did the only thing he could, which was to wrap his arms around Sheldon's lanky torso and quietly hold him as the tears at last began to abate. Maybe his motives were selfish, and maybe they weren't, but that still couldn't stop him from doing what was right, to help his best friend in even the smallest of ways to mend his broken heart.
"I miss her so much, Leonard."
The admission was so quiet, Leonard had almost chalked it up to wishful thinking. He hadn't even realized he was awake.
He was still angry at himself for it, but he instantly felt the lead weight in his chest lessening. He could help. He, Leonard Hofstadter, who had never been enough for his parents or siblings or a string of women up until the day a spunky blonde moved in across the hall, was at the very least enough to see a side of the great Sheldon Cooper few- if any- had ever seen.
"I know, buddy," he said quietly as he tightened his hold on the large man he had never seen look so small. "I know."
Then with all the strength he could muster Leonard turned them both to their sides, leaning into Sheldon's chest as he traced soothing formulas into the warmth of his back, giving to his friend in return for allowing himself a moment, just a moment, of selfishness to revel in the thought of being needed.