These dreams, under my pillow...
It wasn't the fact that he couldn't sleep that bothered him, per se. There were many nights he sacrificed in the benefit of doing something that would entertain him, something that would keep that infectious boredom at bay, deep in the back burner of his mind; but now it was different.
He could not, under any circumstances, fall asleep and let those dreams take over him; not now, not ever. Not if he wanted to keep that semblance of sanity that was left in him alive.
He had to let his thoughts cloud that silence that seemed to say so much more than his words could. That silence always said the truth about him, about how he really was, and how he could've been if he allowed that trickle of emotions he had turn into the waterfall they should have been.
Be he couldn't allow himself that. No, he had to keep himself occupied, away from that demolishing feel of being human.
He had to keep himself awake, away from those dreams that spoke the truth so loud his ears rang when he woke up, and made him feel more tired that he was before laying to rest.
26 hours 4 minutes and 38 seconds and counting since he last slept. His thoughts become more erratic than they usually were, exhaustion fueled madness. But he could live with that, he could live with being madder than he usually was; but he could not, for the life of him, accept the fact that he was capable of human emotions. No. What he experienced had to be some subliminally induced reaction; it had to be.
When he first met John Watson, he thought that maybe he could live with the dull doctor without many inconveniences; ignoring him and if possible keep him in the apartment at the same time. But there was something about him, it had to be. Otherwise he could not explain this incredible silence that he was still trying to evade with meaningless experiments that stopped registering into his mind long ago.
It had to be because of his brother, damn Mycroft, that triggered it.
His ill spoken words, his need to one up him, that foolish rivalry that he could not get out of, could not live behind him.
So what if he was a virgin? Many people were asexual, he knew that, one percent of the world population, give or take a few. Many people were not attracted in a sexual way to any living being. And he was one of them. Work, for him, was his wife. So why in the world was he neglecting her?
He couldn't explain that to himself, all he knew was that he had to get away from everything he knew if he wanted to remain the same, grab on the last threads of logic he had at his disposal.
Cigarettes were not his friend. That role was distributed already, to the source of his inner torments.
It was distributed to Doctor John Watson, recently returned fro Afghanistan due to a gunshot wound to the left shoulder and a psychosomatic limp in his right leg; not the brightest person he'd ever met, but the first to actually surprise him. His mind seemed to work on a different wavelength than the majority Sherlock had the pleasure of meeting. And 'pleasure' was a term he used loosely; in his language it meant he would rather not meet those people ever again. But rarely were his wishes granted, and he had to face them almost on a daily basis.
So those moments when John managed to surprise him with his truthfulness were like a breath of fresh air he had long since been denied. They were what he replaced his drugs with. They were what saved him from denying the world his existence. They were what kept him from deleting himself off the face of the earth. But the drugs couldn't save him from himself anymore, they were long since tossed away due to the fact that if he did them again, his thoughts would stop flowing for a short amount of time, but would come back tenfolds stronger once it was out of his system; and they usually brought with them all of the things he was trying to keep at bay.
There were many ways one could die. But in the end they all came down to one; self destruct.
He could do that oh so easily, and get rid of this incredible boredom that plagued him since he was old enough to have a conscience.
But he couldn't; no, that would mean he had to face that silence, that terribly pathetic resignation and the fact that he was giving up, allowing the silence to win. It was the only thing that kept him alive.
That, and John Watson.
But he wasn't ready to admit that to himself yet. No, he was perfectly comfortable as he was, swallowed up by his rampant thoughts, now meaningless, only there to protect him.
Somehow, to him, writing his problem on a piece of paper would be his doom. Because that meant that he was actually contemplating its existence; writing it down would make it materialize. It would make it painfully real; and then, not even his thoughts would be able to save him.
Once you rule out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true. The words he had spoken came back to haunt him, as he knew they would. He should just give up on speaking ever again; somehow to him it just seemed as his words grew into ghouls, staring at him with disdain because they knew he was crossing the line. They knew he was trying to forget them, trying to forget everything he had ever said or thought. He had no other option, hypocrisy aside, but to push them away, until they either disappeared or became useless.
So he would continue to shove it away for as long as possible, until it either became too real for him to ignore, or it disappeared; in which case, it would mean he panicked for nothing. He knew he had no escape, and thought that maybe life just wanted to spite him for being so, so, against it; swimming against the current.
The nicotine patches he had stuck to his arm, five if you stopped to count, were beginning to wear off painfully fast. He didn't want to start smoking again, no, that was reserved for truly devastating problems, cases, mysteries. Right now the smoke would actually slow his thoughts, and thus allow a bigger silence in between them; he could not allow that.
Think, Sherlock, think; don't let the silence take you over. It's five in the afternoon judging by the way the sun had already set, and darkness overshadowed the busy street outside 221B. Baker street was usually crowded at this hour, hence why he preferred to stay copped up in the apartment, just to avoid mingling with those simpletons.
John should be returning from work in about half an hour; he'd bring two bags of groceries with him, mostly tea and milk; on his surgery days they usually ordered take out. It was cold outside, and judging by the fact that his skin was prickled, he'd say that the temperature from outside wasn't much colder than the one in the apartment. He should turn on the heat, but that would make him sluggish, drowsy. But John's shoulder would cause him discomfort.
"Damn it all" he muttered as he jerked up from his place on the couch, and made his way to see how he could turn the heating on. John usually did that.
He muttered silent curses as he roamed around the apartment, but to no avail.
"Mrs Hudson!" he bellowed from his place near the window, from where he was watching the street; he picked up his discarded violin, and started gliding the bow over the vibrating strings erratically.
But she wasn't at home. Stupid, he reprimanded himself. It was Thursday, she was always gone on Thursdays at this hour; shopping.
The sounds his violin made under his ministrations were almost painful to hear. Soft and the hard and not following a defined pattern; not unlike his thoughts.
The periodic table he recited in his mind was like a mantra to him now. Concentration was an issue; a big one.
He heard the door open before he deduced it was John. He was getting slow. He peeled off the nicotine patches on his arm and put the violin away, slouched on the couch and attempted to look casual, unbothered.
But he wasn't, and he was sure it would be almost impossible for John not to notice; he always noticed these little changes in his behaviour. It was most unnerving.
John's footsteps were uneven; his psychosomatic limp was returning slowly due to the lack of cases and the weather. John never noticed; Sherlock did.
The door opened with a slow creak and John was home, Jacket somewhat damp and grocery bags in his hands. John seemed to be happy to be home, as always; letting out a sigh of relief and letting his shoulders slouch a bit, he made his way to the kitchen after taking off his shoes and hanging his coat in the rack, and began putting the items he brought in their respective places, without as much as a hello to Sherlock.
He assumed he was sleeping; due to the way he was sitting in the couch , with his back to the door, it was almost impossible to even notice he was there. He didn't know why, but the thought made a smirk appear on his face, dragging his cheeks upward, his eyes glinting.
John was muttering to himself, and even though it was too whispered for Sherlock to understand everything he caught a few references to himself coming from John's mouth. He heard 'bloody mad beautiful' and his name in the sentence John uttered, but he could have misheard.
A plan unfolded in his mind, and he laid down completely on the couch, and faked being asleep. He forced his breathing to slow, and relaxed his facial muscles; hand draped on his stomach, while the other one fell gracelessly off the couch, his fingers grazing the carpet. Perfect.
Exhaustion replaced by curiosity, sleep wasn't haunting him for the moment. And what a perfect moment it was.
He thought that from someone else's point of view, it might actually look like they were in a relationship. Sleeping on the couch in the living room with all of his defences down, while John made tea (he deduced by the sounds of clanging cups and boiling water); it was a lie to say that he didn't like this, that he didn't want this.
But it was not going to happen. He was sure of it; he was not sure why he sounded so hurt in his mind while he thought of it, though. Why his stomach seemed to turn into a black hole attempting to suck his life dry.
But there wasn't time to think about this now; every stray thought could prove to be the death of his experiment of sorts. He had to be sleeping; John was in the room already, 30 seconds faster than Sherlock had approximated.
He heard John gasp upon seeing his presumably sleeping self, and regain his composure faster than the speed of light, slowly making his way to the armchair, sitting opposite of Sherlock.
"Sherlock? You asleep?" He heard John whisper and fought the urge to smile, keeping up his pretences. If he had his eyes open, he would unmistakably see John smiling.
That awful smile of his, his eyes crinkled and so, so, easy to love.
If he wasn't pretending to be asleep he would have been startled by his thoughts; love, did he? He couldn't be sure.
In the rare times his libido was awake he would silently masturbate in the shower, and then go back to what he would usually do, so caught up in his work. Always too caught up observing others he missed the most obvious facts about him.
But his dreams, his subconscious, knew him all too well, and maybe that was his greatest fault, that was why he wanted to evade sleep; he saw this as a game. Either he realized what his problems were and won, or his subconscious showed him quite brutally in the form of dreams, and then he lost.
If he indeed loved, if he was capable of feeling such emotions, the doctor couldn't know, mustn't know. It would ruin their friendship, and that he could not risk.
It was already dark outside, but he still felt John's shadow as he moved, silently drinking his tea from time to time, and undeniably observing him. Probably thought about whether to wake him up or not. The times when he slept were so rare he would not dare disturb him, fearing that he would not go to sleep after being woken up and taken to his room.
He could feel John moving, his shadow on him, seizing his whole body, consuming him. Even if he wanted to move, he couldn't, he felt it was impossible. John always did that to him. He vaguely thought about how animals made their prey freeze by staring at them. He did not feel unlike them.
His thoughts were drifting, becoming only whispers, and for a second he felt that he would fall into another of those damned sleeps, full of dreams that he did not want to remember but plague him until it was almost impossible for him to think straight. Maybe he was close to becoming mad; oh, Anderson would love this. Seeing Sherlock locked into an asylum, straight jacket and incoherent mumbling. He would not allow him and Donovan that pleasure.
His thoughts stopped short when he felt John's heat radiating onto his skin. When had he knelt next to him? He could not recall.
He heard John swallow noisily, and felt him pin him with his stare.
"Oh, Sherlock." he murmured, so lovingly he felt his heart throb. John's right hand was now on his forehead, moving a stray strand of hair off his forehead. His fingers were warm, rough, and yet so gentle, like he was afraid of waking him, afraid of seeing his cold eyes open and ruin the moment. He complied, in a way, and allowed John his liberty, trying desperately to make his heart stop beating so excitedly.
He was close to falling asleep, so close, and John's gentle touch somehow managed to turn that tiny feeling into a waterfall of exhaustion, swallowing him whole.
But he allowed it, morality be damned. He would face the consequences, but right now, sleep seemed like a blessing; with John to watch over him, he trusted himself enough to fall asleep.
The cold touch of John's lips to his, the smell of tea invading his nostrils, sealed the deal, and he felt his doubts leave him.
He sighed, his body relaxing, tense muscles turning lax, and fell not into the dark corners of sleep, but into something else.
The first sleep in a long while that did not haunt him, that let him recharge his batteries.
He thought, that maybe it was because his last thought was the undeniable fact that John loved him.
He did not know why he was so sure of it, but he would gladly look further into it when he would wake.
Right now, he had an appointment with his subconscious; he had won.
Both John, and the game.