AN: Hello! I am Toasty, aka The-Person-Who-Should-Be-Working-On-Other-Things. Unfortunately, I did this instead. Not strictly slash, but there is definite UST.

Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to people far more intelligent and amazing and British than myself.

Insomnia

John never wakes up before the bullet hits him. But then again, since he moved into Baker Street with the world's only consulting detective, 'per usual' hasn't ever been a big part of his day.

He thrashes, still in the battlefield, still crawling in the dust with his rifle and a red cross on his shoulder, as steel bars lock down around him. This doesn't happen. It didn't happen. It never happens. He couldn't move if he tried, Taliban are moving in, DeLaney is still bleeding out and that's all he can think of, he's got to stop it, stop the blood... He's supposed to reach him, he's supposed to protect him, he's supposed to get him back to his girlfriend and baby girl in Edinburgh...

John grabs at the bars and pulls, twisting, a move he didn't know he remembered, didn't know would work in a dream. He's surprised when they cry out and yield to his fingertips. Soft, not iron, skin. Hands exploding from the sand to wrap around his torso and squeeze. There's the Pashto woman he couldn't save, the kid from his regiment who was barely eighteen and had thrown himself over a grenade, the man with sepsis he was treating that he never knew if he'd lived, and another pair slapping at his chest, long and pale and familiar but not something he's ever seen at this point in his life.

John opens his eyes. He doesn't remember closing them, but it's dark. It's gone dark so suddenly, so quiet, it's not right. Panic wells in his throat, behind his eyes. Everything is going Dalmatian.

John's breathing comes quick and frenzied; his arms tightening around the limbs again and going for a break - must escape, must help - until they yank themselves away violently. Everything feels immensely less frantic without them, and John manages to suck in an adequate breath. Then two. The spots fade.

The vague shapes around him aren't too clear in the shadows, but coming into focus he recognizes his own knees beneath the quilt, and his desk on the far wall next to the gently glowing window. Bed. Baker Street. Home. John relaxes into the overheated bedclothes, reminding himself how truly wonderful breathing is. Then the mattress shifts and he tenses up once more, blinking to speed up his night vision.

Less wonderful is the fact that Sherlock Holmes is lying beside him. That. That is a bit not good.

Sherlock is grumbling and rubbing at his wrists with a cross expression. As John scrambles into a sitting position, heart hammering soundly from the nightmare, the part of his brain that isn't thinking Where does he get off looking cross when he's snuck himself into my bunk is pretty much wondering Was he just cuddling me?

"What the...hell are you doing?" John prides himself on his increasing ability to bounce back from his nightmares. A good shock probably helps.

Sherlock gives him a look; not the look, but almost as annoying. This one was the one that said 'idiot' and usually came with the 'punch me' subtext.

"You suggested I sleep," he points out, the 'obvious' implied.

"Not in my bed!"

Sherlock groans and drops himself onto his back dramatically, like a particularly sullen Victorian maiden in a swoon. The imagery is put off by the sour twist to his face. "An intellect such as mine does not have an off switch, John. I can lay in my bed all day, but I do not sleep, I think. Deductions, experiments, thoughts and ideas, all boggled around in my brain and I must act on them at once, never mind my body and its incessant, pestering needs. My mind is what matters, the transport is simply weight to be carried. I do not sleep because I cannot. There are simply too many interesting things to wonder upon, and more than ample time to do so. Blurring the facts by turning them to dreams is simply wasteful."

He spoke quickly, frantically, and hardly took a breath during his entire speech, much like he did while explaining deductions. Here he pauses, though, and his expression goes rather strange, like his features aren't quite sure how to arrange themselves.

"...I do want to sleep. However, it's simply one of very few things I find rather...beyond me." Sherlock frowns, as if he found his admission that he wasn't completely amazing at something completely out of character.

"Doesn't explain why you decided to bunk in with me and spoon."

"Don't be crude, John. The confines of my own room are much too stifling, too crammed with old deductions and theorems and equations - memory retrieval, John! It's nearly impossible to drift off."

"And...?"

"Well, your room is so delightfully void of cluttering thoughts. It must be so relaxing not to have to think at all."

It's nearly two in the morning and John very much feels like strangling his flatmate now, but he strokes his hand over his face instead and takes a deep, steadying breath. No need for Lestrade to get that kind of call. "So why not kip on the sofa?" he asks tensely.

Sherlock tightens his lips momentarily, and shifts about as if he'd sat on something uncomfortable. If John didn't know any better, he'd think he was fidgeting. Nervously, even.

Finally, he replies softly, focusing forward toward the window that shone weak light on his face. "...I thought I might be more inclined to sleep if I had someone to keep still for."

Oh.

Has he never had a bedmate before, then? Obviously.It is rather hard to imagine Sherlock sharing that kind of intimate space. He's probably a cover-hog, too. Could be a snorer. Probably talks in his sleep, too, seeing as he never shuts up. Never stops thinking, more like. It has to be difficult to lie awake night after night in a perpetual state of 'bored, John, bored'; he could hardly blame the git for laying waste to his violin all night. It was even soothing, sometimes, like a lullaby. Perhaps that was the point.

John almost felt sorry for him. He teetered on the edge between pity and irritation; a place he found himself in more often than not since befriending the friendless man.

Friendless. Plus one.

John opens his mouth, preparing to say something kind and doctorly, when Sherlock - really, it's a miracle he stopped talking for as long as he did - pipes up again.

"Incidentally, it appeared to be working until you roused and tried very valiantly to tear my limbs out of socket. Do learn some decorum, John, honestly."

And that pretty much tipped the scale back into irritation. John flops back down, energy spent. "Sod it."

"But since you're awake, there was a matter about last week's case which I wanted to discuss..."

John groans loudly into his pillow. "Sherlock," he said, stern through the muffling of down. "Go to sleep."

"Well, I was trying, but you-"

"Go. to. sleep."

"Emphasizing each word does not change the fact that it is impossible, John."

John let out the sigh of the long-suffering flatmate and rolled onto his back. "Fine, just...do whatever it is you did before; you said it was working."

He turned his head to meet the thoughtful gaze on the pillow beside his. "...Very well, John, roll over."

"What?"

"Roll over. On your side, like before."

John rolled his eyes and turned over so his back was to Sherlock again. It was strangely disconcerting not being able to see him. There was always a chance this was all a ruse to harvest one of his kidneys 'for science'.

There was a rustle of bedclothes as Sherlock wriggled around, getting comfortable, then a long, pale arm draped around John's chest.

"...Sherlock, is this really necessary?"

"Mmn. Quite possibly. It is one of many possible factors I am willing to test."

Beneath the blankets, Sherlock's knee pressed lightly into the back of John's thigh.

John always thought Sherlock would be as bony and cold to the touch as he looked - not that he spent a lot of time thinking about it. As it were, Sherlock's knee was soft and his arm was warm, just like anyone else's. Human. It was actually fairly comfortable, and John didn't have the heart to tell Sherlock to bugger off because this wasn't something flatmates did. They do a lot of things normal people don't.

It was only a few moments before John realized that the gentle puffs of air on the back of his neck were evening out, and when he whispered Sherlock's name, there was no response. He was asleep. He was actually sleeping.

John sighed with relief, and Sherlock stirred slightly. He made a little snuffling noise and crowded closer, silky curls tickling John's ear. He felt a rush of fondness for his friend spread warmly in his chest, and smiled.

"'Night, Sherlock," he whispers, careful not to wake him. Sherlock slept on, and John settled in as well, feeling exhaustion tugging at his eyelids. He was sure, somehow, that he wouldn't be back in Afghanistan when he closed them again.

He needn't have bothered.

As it turns out, Sherlock really does talk in his sleep. In four different languages.

AN: So...review? :D

Tickle that toast.