All Through the Night
Word Count: 1825
Author Note: This fic idea originally came to me after listening to a song popularly known as 'All Through the Night'. This song was originally known as 'Ar Hyd y Nos' and was a Welsh folk song written by John Ceiriog Hughes. It has been translated and re-translated several times. The version I heard was actually rewritten in English by Sir Harold Boulton in 1884 and set to the same tune as the original song. Why this song sparked this idea, I don't know, except I liked it. Just some background for the story, John and Sherlock have reunited three years after Reichenbach and are living again as roommates in 221B for about two months. Two short drabbles, the first as Sherlock's thoughts and feelings and the second as John's. I may write a reunion story as a prequel to this in the very, very near future! Sorry for rambling, and enjoy!
Warnings: A few mentions of pre-established John/Sherlock, with boundaries. I apologize for spelling and grammar errors, I wrote this in just under an hour.
While the moon her watch is keeping
All through the night
While the weary world is sleeping
All through the night
Sherlock
Sometimes, Sherlock watched John sleep.
At first, it was for scientific purposes, of course, Sherlock would tell himself as he gently pushed open the door to John's bedroom, blending in with the darkness as he slipped across the shadows to the rocking chair in the corner of the room. Sherlock would scoot the rocking chair forward inch by inch, for closer observation, he would explain to himself, until he was sitting less than a foot from John, close enough to see his face, but far enough so John wouldn't waken. Sherlock learned, upon the first time he 'observed John's absolute resting pulse, which was only completely accurate while he was asleep', that his military senses were still very sharp and the slightest touch would awaken him. Sherlock earned his first black eye in three years that evening.
He knew better, now. He kept a safe distance, and kept his hands to himself. Usually.
Some nights, Sherlock would watch John's lips, and only his lips. They twitched at the corners when he was having nightmares, and were usually followed by quiet, distressed moans and thrashing limbs. Once, Sherlock thought he heard John whisper his name during one of his worse nightmares. When his lips tightened, he was close to awakening. He would draw his lips into his mouth, then pout them out and open them, inhaling deeply before opening his eyes.
On occasion, John would smile. The corners of his mouth would upturn ever so slightly, and small wrinkles would crease around his eyes. It took a month after moving back in to 221B before John smiled in his sleep. Sherlock recorded it in a notebook, reasoning up some experiment about a person's dreaming habits during the night being directly associated to their mood during the day. He had long since abandoned the experiment.
Other nights, Sherlock watched John's eyes. Often times, they would flutter open half-way, rest on Sherlock for a fraction of a second, then close again. Even under his eyelids, Sherlock could see the quick movement of his eyeballs, deep in REM sleep, moving rapidly from side to side. He would often reach out and gently touch John's eyelid, always surprised at the movement underneath.
For the first several weeks of Sherlock's return, he rationalized all his reasons for watching John in his sleep. Watching the eyes could help him better understand the effect sleep and dreaming has on a person. Watching the nose when he was sick explained what effect illness had on the body's REM and sleep cycles and if it would later deteriorate his mood. Observing the amount of small moans and whimpers and sighs he made would often correlate to his anger the next morning. Sherlock let his quick mind design experiments and conclusions and theories and deductions for his own self-assurance.
Eventually, though, Sherlock stopped. He no longer deduced facts about John as he slept or tested experiments or concluded or theorized. He simply watched. Sometimes specific parts, but more often, just John. He would watch all of John. He would smile when John smiled. He would long to reach out and hold him when John had a nightmare scene. He would close his eyes and enjoy John's moans and sighs, a bit too much, sometimes. After a fight or a long day at work, he would lean closer, whisper sweet nothings, and pour out his heart to the sleeping body.
John was beautiful when he slept, and Sherlock could not deny it to himself. He was beautiful any day, but even more so in his sleep. Usually he wore nothing but pants, on colder nights, fleece trousers and a neutral colored top. As the night progressed, his hair would become less tempered and more wild. When John came downstairs in the morning, it was always flat and tamed, obviously brushed. Sherlock knew why.
He kicked around a lot, and Sherlock would sometimes find himself adjusting the blankets or adding another when John looked particularly cold. His chest would rise and fall between 18 and 22 times in a minute. When he had nightmares, he arched his back slightly. On the few nights when John was completely at ease, he sometimes wouldn't move for hours except for his chest rising and falling, and little smiles crossing his face. These nights were very rare, and Sherlock treasured every one of them. Every movement he made, even the violent thrashes, was near perfect. Sherlock thought so, at least.
Watching John sleep became more than a mere curiousity, but a fascination of Sherlock's. And an indulgence. To see John so peaceful, so relaxed, and so calm...it gave Sherlock happiness. And hope. Hope for John to completely forgive him.
John
John needed to watch Sherlock sleep.
He had his reasons, which sounded absurd even to himself. First of all, the man almost never slept. Most of his time was spent doing research, running experiments on road kill, dragging John around London, or searching for new cases. When he did sleep, it was a rare event and usually only lasted an hour, at the most, before he was up and out again. That was the most rational reason, the one he would repeat to Sherlock when he woke up and caught John staring at him.
Secondly, watching Sherlock sleep was intriguing. Sherlock had told him once that you could tell a lot about a man from his sleep. John had yet to master the skill of deduction, but watching Sherlock sleep was fascinating none the less. Watching such a tense, secretive man completely unwind awed him. Sherlock would sprawl across whatever surface he had fallen asleep on the best he could, using the arms of chairs as head rests or four kitchen chairs pushed together as a make-shift bed. He didn't move around much when he slept, something John was aware he did a lot of. Occasionally he would turn on his side or let out a sigh of content. Only once had John seen Sherlock have a nightmare.
Third, if it was possible for the perfect, beautiful man to become more perfect and beautiful in his sleep, he had done so. John had caved in and shared his undying feelings for Sherlock almost two months back, shortly after the detective appeared at the door of his cheap apartment, case in one hand, bouquet of flowers in the other.
"Isn't this what you people normally do to apologize?" That comment had earned him a solid smack across the face.
When Sherlock slept, it was like the world was at peace, because he was at peace. His usual tense look would fade into relaxation. His shirt would become untucked and his brown curls would fall in every direction, flattening in the back of his head. His lips were always parted slightly, although he'd occasionally bite the bottom one when a look of concentration crossed his face. His arms would hang off the side of whatever he was sleeping on and his legs would bend slightly at the knees, as though he rehearsed it. It was all so relaxed, yet perfectly choreographed,
John resisted the urge to curl up next to Sherlock and rest his head on his chest and tangle their limbs together and sleep the day away. He knew Sherlock had boundaries, he had always known. Three years in hiding hadn't done much to improve them, either. They had discussed it. Their relationship, whatever it was, or wasn't, had limitations. Pushing the limitations was permitted, a quick kiss when no one was looking, or a hug that lasted a second too long. But John knew better. Sherlock needed his sleep, and he was not the man to disturb it for his own selfish reasons.
John did have selfish reasons for watching Sherlock sleep, though. It brought him happiness and relaxation as well. It made him smile to here Sherlock's steady, deep breathing. Knowing the man was off in another universe, his mind temporarily off the case, was gratifying. Sherlock was almost always under stress of some sort. Stress to solve a case, stress to find a criminal, stress to preform an experiment right, stress to pay the rent. Watching him at complete ease was something John rarely got to see, and when he did, he took advantage of it.
Also, when Sherlock slept, he didn't talk. Didn't ask open-ended, strange questions. Didn't ramble on about some chemical in one of his experiments which would potentially increase the capacity of the human brain to retain trivial facts. Didn't use the wrong words to express his feelings. Didn't accidentally make an idiot out of himself. John loved Sherlock's voice more than anything in the world. It was soft and silky and smooth and rough and deep and seductive all at the same time. His voice drove him insane. But, sometimes, the silence was all John needed.
John's most important reason for watching Sherlock sleep was one he had yet to admit to even himself. He was scared. He was terrified.
He was afraid that if he turned his back on Sherlock, Sherlock would leave.
Again.
He knew it was irrational. Sherlock had apologized countless times for leaving, for being gone three years, for not telling him anything. He had listening to John rant and scream and shout at him for hours on end, and accepted it all. He had kissed every inch of John's face, even venturing down to his neck once, whispering apologies in his ears and begging for forgiveness. Sherlock had stayed for two months. He had no enemies who weren't locked up or dead that would consider trying to kill him. No one hunting him down. No reason why he would leave.
But the fear wouldn't leave John alone.
He was well aware of Sherlock's nightly visits to his room. Being aware of it was the only reason he slept at night. He awoke when the creaky door was pushed open and a near-silent man began pushing a rocking chair closer and closer to his bed. More often than not, he longed to open his eyes, grab Sherlock by the collar, and drag him in the cold, lonely bed and hold him. And when he woke up to Sherlock leaving the room, panic overtook him. His pulse would race and his palms would become moist. Was he leaving for good? Did he leave this early yesterday? Why doesn't he sleep?
But when John went downstairs, there he would be, watching crap telly or reading out of a textbook or tinkering with one of John's possessions. Still there, at 221B.
John was scared, terrified, even, and watching Sherlock sleep gave him desperately needed reassurance and peace. So he did.
Sleep my child and peace attend thee, All through the night Guardian angels God will send thee, All through the nightA/N: It's not my best, but I really, really wanted to write it. Hope you liked it! By the way, both of the verses in italics were from the song and I thought they kind of applied to how each character watched the other sleep. Feed me reviews if you would like a prequel/sequel of some sort!