They were somewhere between buggering and understanding exactly what they meant to each other, and John was feeling and emotion quite alien to him – abject panic.
He didn't fancy himself the panicking sort, not at all. When the piss hit the pavement, he was all business – dodge here, shoot there, kill her, save him – but this was not war. In fact, it was the opposite side of the "All's fair in…" line, it was – well, you know.
Except he didn't, not really, he didn't know jot, and was so completely out of his depth that it was almost laughable. Almost. Bloody Sherlock.
He hadn't slept in his own room in almost a week now, too caught up in the newness of pale skin and the sounds of the thought-incorruptable, corrupted, to consider relinquishing a single moment. And Sherlock was warm.
The thing that made tonight different from all those others – a week? Forever—was that he'd never had to think about it before; it had always been a lurid look, an ecstasy of fumbling, and somehow between evening and morning he was in Sherlock's bed, never once3 questioning how or why.
But now it was three in the AM, breaking from an ongoing case before they exhausted themselves, and Greg was sleeping in the living room rather than slogging back to the Yard or an empty flat. John knew that he and Sherlock couldn't—couldn't—do anything tonight, and yet when John moved to climb to his own room, he was interrupted by a shake of Sherlock's head and a flick of the eyes toward the detective's own quarters. With a hesitant glance to make sure Greg was, indeed, passed out on the couch, John did as was expected, and retreated to Sherlock's room.
And here, panic.
Sherlock was, miraculously, expediently, beneath the sheets, sharp face turned to the doors, eyes almost closed, not quite asleep. Beneath the cocoon of blankets—he stole them all, rolled himself as if a cigarette—John could see he wore no shirt, and a single visible, elegant calf was splayed halfway across the mattress. This was a test; he was expected to sleep as Sherlock did, almost bare.
Surely a week of sleeping naked and spunk-slinked was worse than this but, as Sherlock's dark, inscrutable gaze swept curiously over his form, John felt his hands shaking as he stripped off his filthy sweater, his tee-shirt, his trousers and loafers and socks. This was not a war, this was –
Sherlock's eyes widened before the self-proclaimed sociopath could catch his accidental display of human shock, and John looked down, trying to determine what he had revealed.
He colored, seeing his unfortunate choice of pants, bright red and a throwback from a uni holiday in Rome – red pants at New Years, his friend Sergio had insisted those years ago, guaranteed his luck. Luck was clearly not with him as he had scrabbled for a clean pair of undergarments that morning.
And here, now, was the time for dry barbs about John's color choice, but instead all Sherlock did was pull back the sheets and offer John a smirk that was almost a smile, and that was something that was almost a smile, and that was something John would not refuse. He clambered into the sheets, accepting the tacit invitation as Sherlock turned away from him, to slip a heavy arm around Sherlock's ribs. No one, least of all John, could have guessed how much Sherlock responded to being held, but John could go so far as to admit he enjoyed that facet of the detective. For once, hi palms had free reign to Sherlock's thin chest and warm, milky skin. He could keep the man tight to his body and, at least for the night, assure himself that Sherlock was safe. The idea was absurdly comforting to a level that was absurdly uncomfortable.
They didn't do more than lay like that, too exhausted for whatever words might have been brave enough to creep into the borderlands between their brains, but John, for all that this unprecedented expectation to simply sleep at Sherlock's back, was utterly content.
He slept.
Until he woke.
John had blacked out, dreamless, but surely not for long—the room was still-grey and dark with lingering night. If no nightmares came to him he should have slumbered until morning,; he was tired enough. What had caused him to –
Sherlock had left the bed; a single sweep around the room saw him crosslegged in a chair, in naught but his pants, looking sickly and shadowed in the blue light of his laptop.
John considered not saying a word, knowing better than anyone that Sherlock kept the oddest of hours, although…although he'd always stayed with John, when they'd slept together. Maybe that was it, that precedent, which caused john to open his eyes fully.
"…Sherlock…?"
There was nothing but a non-committal sound of acknowledgement.
"Are you coming back?"
"No. It's too hot."
The blankets, John now noticed, were pooled around his feet, the room indeed uncomfortably warm (for London, not for Afghanistan, he would be fine, but Sherlock-) They'd both only gotten two, three hours of sleep, but Sherlock could be so stubborn…
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. I cannot sleep in this heat."
John could tell he was being irrational, but somehow the words stung a little. Any more prodding, and Sherlock would just get angry and John wasn't worried, he wasn't.
He slept.
Or tried to.
He floated, somewhere between awareness and oblivion, interrupted only by the click of Sherlock's laptop. Every time he tried to drop into sleep, dull, fast-chandings dreams trickled behind his eyelids, disappearing but for faint echoes as he woke again. Each time, he reached for Sherlock, and each time, he remembered.
The room was still in shadow, the morning barely begun. John was tired and strung tight, out of place and once more panicking. He wanted to forcibly put Sherlock to bed. He wanted to know what Sherlock was thinking. He didn't want to provoke his ire, but didn't want a detective in a foul, sleep-deprived mood; wanted to understand why he was so upset and why Sherlock's name was the only one on his mind. He wanted to sleep. He didn't know why he felt so out place and sullen and flinched at every creak of the floorboards as if that heralded Sherlock's return.
Until the moment it did.
He felt the length of Sherlock's body as it oozed across the mattress, dropping the laptop in the middle of the bed and siting over it, hunched awkwardly in the absolute center of the bed, like some great leggy bird.
The need to touch Sherlock was overwhelming. John dragged his pillow to Sherlock's side, dropped on top of it, curled himself around Sherlock's knees, and rested just the side of his fingers on Sherlock's thigh. It was all he was brave enough to do, but it was enough to be felt.
"You don't have to…" Sherlock murmured, cautious, almost baffled (but surely not; not Sherlock). John curled tighter and said nothing. It was almost enough, almost –
Sherlock's hand dropped heavily between John's shoulder blades, cool in the room's cotton-stuffed tepidity. It slid slowly down John's spine, fingers ghosting briefly under the waistband of those horrid pants – oh, Sherlock liked them – then back up to rest, damp and permanent, just behind John's neck.
And he stayed there, silent, typing with one hand, never stopping contact with John, occasionally stroking him. Like a dog. John rested his chin on Sherlock's thigh. Exactly like a dog.
And John slept.
HiguysI'mback... I've never done JohnLock before because, well, holy balls its scary and hard and so much genius precedent but... there is this contest over on tumblr and Reapersun might DRAW me something and *keysmash* - I had to enter. Anyway, the redpants are obviously Reapersun's. In case you're wondering why that had to happen.
Also, if you're interested, I've updated my profile page with information about the book that I have recently published. If you like soft yuri, this might be something you'd like.