This little gem came to me on another sleepless night. What better to do when you're trying to fall asleep than write about other people trying to sleep? Hope you enjoy it! Please comment if it makes you think of anything worth sharing.

[xxx]


A Chemical Defect

John awoke in a flurry of limbs as he sat up in his bed, his own scream echoing in his ears. Blood, so much blood, Sherlock's dark crimson life fluids painting the unforgiving pavement where his body collided with it at St. Bart's, adding a sense of macabre to the already gloomy day. It wasn't so much as Moriarty had won; it was that John had failed. Failed to protect him, failed to observe, failed to help. And then Sherlock died right in front of him.

So much blood.

With trembling hands, the former soldier grabbed his phone on the nightstand. It took him a minute to manage hitting speed dial. In addition to his quivering hands, he wanted to know his voice would be steady, too.

"Hello?" Came a familiar voice at the other end.

"S-Sherlock," John rasped, voice shaking despite his efforts.

"Another one?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded in the dark, aware that Sherlock could not see the action. Knowing him, he could feel it in the pause. "It – it was a b-bad one."

"Which one?" John's nightmares were usually one of a few reoccurring ones. Formally consisting of any memory or hellish imagined event in Afghanistan, they now consisted solely of memories: when he got shot, when Moriarty kidnapped him – usually resulting in a different ending – or Sherlock's fall three years ago. They could vary in intensity, but reliving Sherlock's fake suicide always proved the hardest to recover from.

When the consulting detective came back, John thought the nightmares would cease. Yet still without fail, they plagued his dreams, resulting in many nights of a shared bed. It was the only way he could effectively calm down. Neither of them complained.

"You jumped," he answered, voice cracking. On a normal night that would be the extent of the conversation. Words did little for either of them. Instead, Sherlock soothed him back to sleep by means of reassuring touches and kisses, a level of intimacy and sentiment present that John never thought the man capable of. Irene Adler caught Sherlock's attention once. John saw plainly that Sherlock had, in whatever way, felt some form of attraction towards her. But in the end, he ripped her apart. "Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side," Mycroft had quoted for him. He seemed to resent the idea of human attachment.

His first night back in Baker Street, John's screams resonated so loudly from his room on the above floor that Sherlock had rushed to his aid. Finding no intruder, he easily deduced a nightmare, and crawled into bed to comfort the disturbed doctor without hesitation. Not a word was spoken between them, but nothing needed saying. He caught on to the nightly pattern quickly, and stopped waiting until John awoke in hysterics for permission to enter his bed. Often times Sherlock would still be awake when John emerged from the throws of the frightening images. His own sleep patterns had not deviated but he did not want to leave John alone.

But he wasn't there tonight. Mycroft had requested his mind alone on something top secret. John was not permitted to accompany him. Sherlock stubbornly refused, stating simply that he would not agree to any case without his friend, but Mycroft presented the matter in such an intriguing manner that he agreed. Just one night, he had said, two at the most. If one happened, and they both knew one would, John was to call him. Sherlock didn't know what he would say – social interactions were not his strong suit – but he would not let John think he had to suffer alone. He wasn't leaving him like that, not again.

John did not breathe during Sherlock's pause. "Where are you now?" He asked after three excruciating seconds, "my room or yours?"

He wouldn't ask how the detective knew his room was a possibility. "Yours," he admitted.

"Are you facing the door or the wall opposite?"

"Neither, I –" He panted heavily as his vision turned red. "I'm not – lying down."

"Lie down and face away from the door." John obeyed, lying on his side, trying to focus on his breathing. Red still swam in his vision. When Sherlock next spoke, his voice lost its instructive tone, and the unintentional condescending harshness it sometimes held, even with him. A velvet baritone spoke to him now in a way that warmed his core.

"Bend your knees a bit and bring your legs up. Rest your left hand next to your face, palm up. Your right hand should be by your side palm down but I'm assuming it's currently holding your phone to your ear." John let out a single hysterical huff, and cursed himself inwardly for not maintaining control of his vocal cords. His eyes still stung with the blood blurring his sight. "Easy, John," Sherlock cooed, "now close your eyes." He let the silence hang for a moment while John adjusted, heart still fluttering in fear.

"You've memorized how I sleep?" John huffed lightly, voice shaking a little less. Something like that had to equate to something along the lines of a compliment from the detective.

"This isn't how you sleep," Sherlock explained, "This is the position you take when a nightmare wakes you. The first night I spent with you I positioned us like this. You've replicated it in these situations ever since. Are your eyes closed?"

"Yes."

"Good." He rested, and then his voice was just a whisper. "I'm right there, John. I'm not away with Mycroft helping him solve some political foreign tensions. He didn't make up a case he knew would convince me to go with him to a boring-as-all-hell meeting between countries so as to exploit my superior ability to read people." John smiled. "I'm right there next to you, whispering in your ear.

"You've just awoken from your dream. Right now I've moved closer, and am partially on top of you to help calm your shaking and whisper in your ear if necessary. My knees are tucked up into the backs of yours. My left arm is under your neck. It fits there so nicely due to how low you're resting your head on the pillow right now. You can't decide if you want to hold onto it or not, so your hand is fidgeting."

"I do," John pitched, assisting in painting the picture. Remarkably, it was working; he could feel the ghost pressure of Sherlock's knees and thighs against the backs of his legs. He wanted this to continue.

"Okay, then, tonight you can make up your mind. You're gripping my arm tightly, holding on for dear life. My right hand is resting on top of yours. I brush my thumb along it until you reach up to inspect my face. You cannot simply turn to look because you're afraid you'll see that gash in my head and see me drenched in blood. Whether or not it's really there you can never be sure with your sight alone because your eyes have betrayed you on more than one occasion, but visual stimuli are what we primarily rely on for information. You cannot stand the possibility. No, you opt for touch instead. You inspect my skin first, then run your fingers through my hair to make sure it's not matted with blood. They linger here a bit longer because you enjoy running them through my hair and need something enjoyable. You brush them along my cheekbones as you put your hand down again; a distinguishing feature, you're making sure it's really me after seeing me die in your dream not so long ago. Perhaps you just like them, too. I like to think of that gesture as a compliment, personally.

"Now that you've reassured yourself it's me and I'm not injured or a hallucination, you permit yourself to breathe." A pause in his flow of thoughts, "breathe, John." The soldier released the breath he had been unaware of holding. The exhale shook, but relieved the sting in his chest. Sherlock waited until his breathing softened to continue.

"You put your hand down, and I cover it with mine again. This time I run my fingers in between yours and hold it tightly. Sometimes you're still not quite free of the dream, mumbling incoherently in hope of escaping the violent images, but not tonight. Tonight you're silent, except for your frantic breathing, which you're focused on slowing before you begin hyperventilating and thus causing a whole new set of problems."

He noticed that his tone had flattened again, his pace increasing and sounding more like his usual manner of deduction in order to keep up with his observations. But this wasn't for him. This wasn't part of a game. There was no one to show off to. This was to ensure John did not have a stress-induced anxiety attack while he was not there. Softening his voice again, he resumed his thoughts.

"I pull myself closer to you. Seems impossible, given our proximity, but I manage. My arms tighten around you." Another half-second break, "I kiss your cheek. Softly, at first; admittedly I'm never sure if you're going to object. But it helps. You muscles relax when the contact is there. So I do it again. Never too firm, you won't respond positively to anything too abrasive. They're always slow, lingering on your cheek or temple or hair, trying to induce a calm state. Sometimes your breathing evens out in a few minutes. Sometimes it takes longer." John can actually hear the gears in Sherlock's brilliant mind turning as he deduces exactly how this night would be playing out had he been there based on context clues John wasn't even aware he had given. "Tonight it takes longer."

The doctor could not believe this tactic was working. Even more so, he found himself once again completely taken aback by the detective's unparalleled observation skills. He himself had never noticed a pattern to Sherlock's methods of soothing him, but suddenly he was thankful for them. Every movement and touch Sherlock described in that velvety whisper, he could feel, whether or not he chose to mime them. The gentle brush of his thumb over his skin, the lacing of their fingers, the tightening of the embrace, and every kiss from impossibly soft lips against his skin, damp from sweating in the night. Balancing the phone on his face, he rested his right arm by his side as it was meant to be to feel Sherlock's arm over his as well, accompanying the nonexistent strokes from his nimble digit. Sherlock had specified where his lips fell against his features, but not how often. John found himself imagining more comforting brushes from those supple lips than he normally received.

"The more your breathing slows, the less effort it requires to regulate. Gradually they even out and soften. The tension in your back, your legs, your chest, your arms, it all resides. You're coming down from the unpleasant high. The more you relax, the more my hold on you slackens. You whimper in protest – yes I do hear those – but it's necessary. Any tension I hold within my own body, yours may begin to reflect again. So I uncoil with you. Your arms go slack first, then your legs and feet, your back and neck, and finally your chest, and you can breathe comfortably again. I often wonder if you're conscious of the fact that you synchronize your breaths with mine, but never dare to ask in case it is a subconscious move. Bringing that to your attention could shatter its effect."

He was aware. In these moments of desperation of mind, he clung to Sherlock in every way imaginable. He was dependent on the other man to fall asleep now. And when he awoke, broken and traumatized, the brunette sleuth was his anchor, his sedative. For three years the reoccurring image of Sherlock's death had kept him awake each night, eroding his sanity. Upon hearing Mycroft's request the other day, he feared that without his flatmate's consoling touches, the brutal memories would win. Sherlock was instead distracting him with more pleasing sensory illusions.

"I slowly lower myself off of you to rest at your side. The haunting images are fading, releasing their grip on you, so it's safe for me to cease shielding you. Probably better, in fact; makes it easier to inhale and relieves that claustrophobia associated with tension. Apart from that our position remains the same. My thumb is still brushing yours, and it will continue to do so long after you've fallen asleep again. The touch is feather-light, barely there, but you can still feel it. Your fingers twitch every now and again in response, trying to will more pressure, perhaps. I don't oblige. Stronger stimulation will keep you from sleeping. I'm trying to return you to a resting state."

John was fighting to stay awake now. Counterproductive to Sherlock's cause, but he knew that as long as Sherlock could sense that he was awake he'd continue to talk. He'd let a few hints of his own state of mind during their time spent together slip through his thought stream. He wanted to hear more of Sherlock's own personal thoughts. It was becoming more and more difficult to remain conscious, as he did not open his eyes in fear of no longer feeling the detective's ghost pressed against his back, stroking his thumb, kissing his hair. He knew the kissing was supposed to have subsided by now, but this was part fantasy, too.

"You push closer to me and sigh deeply. Sometimes that sound makes me wince. It's pained and tired and stressed but at the same time it's reassuring. You're going back to sleep. You mumble my name to yourself –" does he really do that? – "and then you're asleep again, breathing softly and rhythmically again. I squeeze your hand gently. Now it's my turn to relax."

John wanted to ask him what he meant by that, but he was too tired to speak. He felt Sherlock's chest rising and falling against his back, a template for his own breaths. For the first time in a very long time he favored the dream over reality, and let it overtake his mind. Sherlock wasn't really there, but his voice was real and the scene he described was very real. So what if the touches he currently felt weren't technically there. They had been, and would be again. That was the promise Sherlock was making him now as he talked him through this night. With one last imaginary kiss to his hair, John drifted asleep again, not to be plagued by another nightmare this night.

Sherlock smiled to himself as he listened to John's breaths slow on the other end of the line. He heard the familiar mumbling of his name, and then his best friend was asleep, his phone still on and pressed to his ear. He suppressed his chuckle at the thought of John asleep with his phone resting on his face. If he stayed still all through the night, as he usually did, he'd likely wake up with it in the same position, and perhaps a mark on his face.

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock whispered into the phone one last time, and then hung up. Some nights were best spent with him continuing the motions and whispering in the sleeping man's ear to ensure he evaded another night terror. But tonight he would sleep soundly on his own.

Love is a dangerous disadvantage, he had once said. He did not know if this was love – he had never felt it before – but when John finally settled back to sleep after fits of screaming and crying and sweating, he could not find a reason why this could possibly be a negative thing.

[xxx]


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