A/N: The idea for this came after I happened across Annie Lennox singing a variation of the Scottish lullaby Dream Angus on YouTube. Scottish singer, Scottish lullaby, John Watson is of Scottish heritage, hmmm. . . . So here is the result.
Lullaby
Groaning in despair and frustration, Sherlock tore his eyes from the never-changing network of cracks on the ceiling, and flipped over in bed. Despite the bone deep exhaustion that had overtaken his body, his mind refused to quiet. Thoughts whizzed through his brain at furious speeds, bouncing around like molecules in the kinetic theory of gases. Here he actually wanted to sleep and couldn't!
Extracting himself from the tangled sheets, Sherlock made his way out of the bedroom, only to pause. What now? Pacing the floor between the kitchen and lounge and tugging at his hair in desperation, he weighed his options.
Drugs had worked in the past to quiet his mind, but Sherlock had promised his flatmate that he was now clean, and John's friendship meant too much for him to sacrifice it for one night of insomnia aid.
Cigarettes? Sadly, that was also not an option as John had found and disposed of Sherlock's last emergency pack that had been hidden away. Really, John is getting to know my habits much too well.
He could try the violin. Music usually helped when he found himself mentally hyperactive. But that might wake John, and after the weeklong physically challenging case they had just wrapped up, even Sherlock had to concede that John did deserve his rest.
Somehow, it all came back to John, John, John. Wait! John. Yes, that was the answer! John could help him. He was a doctor after all. Surely the man could give him something. Do something. Anything.
But John was asleep. Lucky man. And John did not like to be awakened when asleep (as Sherlock had found out only too well from past experience), especially when plagued by fatigue. Surely this could be considered an extenuating circumstance, could it not? John was always extremely vocal in his desire for Sherlock to get enough rest. Would he not want to assist in this instance?
Decision made, and good intentions to let his flatmate continue sleeping deleted, Sherlock made his way up the stairs and into John's room. Pausing to let his eyes adjust to the nominal lighting provided by the streetlights, he examined his slumbering friend.
Positioned on his stomach, John had one arm under the pillow, while the other cradled his head atop of the pillow. While the signs of a difficult and often-traumatized past could not be completely erased from John's face even in sleep, the peaceful and more youthful expression that currently graced his friend's face reawoke Sherlock's hesitation at rousing his friend.
His desire for sleep, however, overrode all else, and placing a long, slender hand on John's good shoulder, he gently shook his friend.
Nothing.
Sherlock tried again, this time putting a bit more force into the effort.
With a snort and a grunt his flatmate awoke, peeling his eyes open to squint at the consulting madman.
"Sherlock," John croaked out, his voice deep and rough with sleep and he identified the intruder. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"I can't sleep," Sherlock responded, apologetically shrugging his shoulders. "My thoughts just won't stop."
John groaned, flipping over onto his back and covering his eyes with one arm. "Right. OK. So what do you want me do about it, Sherlock?"
John processed the silence that followed his question. The doctor knew the frustration of being unable to calm his own occasionally restless mind. He couldn't even imagine the agony of the problem in someone of Sherlock's mental capacity.
Turning on the bedside lamp and hauling himself out of his warm nest of bedding, John stood up and, holding up the covers, motioned for Sherlock to get into the bed. Once the detective was settled, John withdrew a book from the drawer of his bedside table and tossed it to his friend.
Catching it in his lap, Sherlock examined the cover and turned to John with an inquisitive look. "1001 Brain Teasers, John?"
"Well, we can't all be born with your genius. Us idiots out there in the world can only try our best to reach even a tiny modicum of your mental prowess," John stated, half seriously and half sarcastically. "Look, I know you'll probably have the entire book solved in 15 seconds, Sherlock, but I thought it might help focus your mind a bit while I go make you some tea, yeah?"
Ignoring Sherlock's eye roll, John threw on his dressing gown, and slipping his mobile phone into one pocket, made his way down to the kitchen.
Waiting for his flatmate to return, Sherlock tossed the puzzle book to the side after a cursory glance, and curled himself around his friend's pillow. They had on occasion shared a bed - several times during cases way from home when it was the only option available; a few instances when Sherlock had fallen ill and John wanted to keep a close eye on him; and once when Sherlock refused to leave the side of a badly-injured John after a chase gone wrong.
He breathed in the unique and comforting smell that clung to the pillow and defined John. It once again reminded him of the mystery of how this man, this doctor, this seemingly innocuous battle-scarred former army doctor had worked his way into every aspect of his life. He, Sherlock Holmes, who had never been reliant on anyone, was completely dependent on this humble pillar of strength. Yet he also knew that John was equally dependent on him as well by this point. Throat tightening and eyes pricking, he clutched the pillow tightly to his chest, burrowing his head deep into it as he realized that he and John were now irreversibly fused to each other by their mutual need.
Sherlock was quite aware that certain emotions would forever elude his understanding and patience, even as he experienced them himself. His insatiable need for John Watson being one such example. The consulting detective had also learned the painful lesson that there were times when his unquenchable thirst for understanding and logic must be set aside, and emotions allowed to take precedence.
Bare feet shifting on the cold floor of the kitchen, John's thoughts drifted off as he waited for the kettle to boil. He had long ago accepted that the relationship he and Sherlock shared was unconventional, but had decided that what transpired in the privacy of their home was no one's business but their own. It worked for them, and that was all that mattered. Besides, who would expect "normal" from a cohabiting self-proclaimed sociopathic consulting detective and an adrenaline-addicted war veteran?
Before "the fall," John had always been hypersensitive on how people viewed his relationship with Sherlock. Having lived through Sherlock's "death" and his subsequent revival had made John realize that he no longer gave a damn what anyone thought. While not romantically involved, there was no doubt that the duo loved one another, were devoted to one another, would kill for another - though John found himself often taking on a somewhat parental role in his relationship with the man-child madman.
Shaking himself back to the present, John retrieved his phone from the pocket of his dressing gown and searched the internet for ways to lull a troublesome flatmate to sleep. As he browsed possible ideas, an incoming text popped up.
Try singing him a lullaby. It always worked for Mummy. - MH
Bloody git. Doesn't he have enough other things to watch over as the British Government? was John's uncharitable first thought. The second being a mental reminder to have Sherlock do another sweep of the flat in the morning for bugs planted by Mycroft and his minions.
Thanks for the advice. And Mycroft - PISS OFF! - JW
Exhaling in frustration, he prepared Sherlock a mug of soothing chamomile tea, and padded his way back up to his bedroom.
Arriving back in his room, a fond smile formed on John's lips as he discovered Sherlock cuddling his pillow.
"Budge over, Sherlock, and sit up."
Passing the mug of tea to his friend with an order to drink up, John climbed back into bed and passed the interim internally processing Mycroft's suggestion.
There was only one lullaby that John would even consider singing, a Scottish one his beloved grannie had sung to him as a child. In a way, the lullaby had been a gift passed down from his grandmother to him.
The lullaby signified for him happiness, peace, and comfort, and it was the memory of his grandmother singing it to him that had helped him maintain his sanity in times of overwhelming stress and anxiety, such as his when his parents had passed away, when a nearly-dead Harry had been hospitalized for blood alcohol poisoning, and during the painful recovery after he was shot in Afghanistan. And not to be forgotten, through the endless dark days following Sherlock's "death".
There was a time when John had expected to one day have a family. To have children who would inherit the lullaby. He now knew that his future - whatever it entailed - lay with Sherlock, and felt this would be the appropriate time to "gift" the lullaby to Sherlock.
There was one problem, however. John had never sung the lullaby aloud.
His thought was abruptly halted by the appearance of an empty mug in front of his eyes. Grasping the cup, and sending an annoyed glare at his bedmate, John placed it next to the bed, clicked off the light, and slid under the covers, relishing the heat radiating from his friend's body.
"Come on, then," he invited Sherlock, who also slid down, turning on his side with his back to John. Placing his arms around Sherlock, John spooned the detective from behind, embracing him in a cocoon of warmth.
Resting his head atop Sherlock's dark locks, John closed his eyes and with his grandmother's voice in his mind, began humming the gentle tune of his youth. As he felt more confident, his soft tenor voice exhaled the words passed down through the generations.
Can ye no hush yer weepin'
A' the wee bairns are sleepin'
Birdies are nestling, an' nestling' the gither
But my bonnie bairn is waken yet
Dreams to sell, fine dreams to sell,
Angus is here wi' dreams to sell o
Hush my wee bairnie an' sleep wi' oot fear
Dream Angus has brought you a dream my dear
Hear the curlew cryin' o
An' the echoes dyin' o
Even the birdies are cuddled up sleepin
But my bonnie bairn is weepin' greetin'
Dreams to sell, fine dreams to sell,
Angus is here wi' dreams to sell o
Hush my wee bairnie an' sleep wi' oot fear
Dream Angus has brought you a dream my dear
Soon the lavrock sings his song
Welcoming the coming dawn
Lambies coorie doon the gither
Wi' the yowies in the heather
Dreams to sell, fine dreams to sell,
Angus is here wi' dreams to sell o
Hush my wee bairnie an' sleep wi' oot fear
Dream Angus has brought you a dream my dear
Pressed up against John, Sherlock relaxed with contentment as he felt the vibrations of the song transfer from John's body to his. John's breath as he sang gently stirred his hair. Not since childhood, when his own mother had used lullabies to soothe his restless brain, had be felt so safe and secure. His thoughts finally quieted as he focused on the song and John's voice.
It was moments like these - preserved carefully in his mind palace - that made the sacrifice of his deception during "the fall" - and even John's subsequent agony - worth the price. Without that painful, but necessary separation, this moment would likely never have been possible.
Nestled within the arms of his friend, his partner, Sherlock knew this was the only home he ever could want. As he finally drifted into the sleep he so desperately sought and needed, his whispered "thank you" was answered by a gentle kiss to the crown of his head.
FIN