Five Times that Sherlock Bothered John's Sleeping Pattern
1.
"John! John, wake up!"
John groaned and buried his face into his pillow, desperate to block out what was slowly forming to one conclusion: Sherlock was onto something.
Considering that they hadn't had a particular case, John could only imagine that Sherlock was doing something potentionally stupid. In which case, John potentionally didn't care.
He grumbled a response, a low, half-angry sound that was in the back of his throat. He doubted Sherlock would hear it, but he was too exhausted to try to make himself heard. Hopefully Sherlock would just-
"John! John, we're out of dihydrogen dioxide!"
The door to his bedroom flung open, banging against the wall. John flinched and sat up, staring at Sherlock with a bemused, albeit angered, look. "You... woke me up... because we're out of hydrogen peroxide?" John asked. "Just- Just to clarify."
Sherlock, through the gloom, frowned at John in that spectacular way that said obviously without the word. "I need it for my experiment, John. It's crucial and time is of the essence, so if you could pop down to Tesco's, I'll have to manage it without for the time-"
"Get out."
John interrupted Sherlock before the detective could continue. Through the darkness of the room, John watched Sherlock's expression change from one of annoyance to one of sheer disbelief.
"What?"
"Get out."
"But John, I need-"
"Get out!" John grabbed the nearest pillow on his bed, throwing it at the detective. It hit with a soft whump.
"That was hardly effective-"
"Sherlock!"
There was a moment of silence where Sherlock seemed to be contemplating John's state of mind. John was seething. He was irritated and exhausted, and it did not bode well, especially for Sherlock's health.
"... Good night," Sherlock replied stiffly, brushing out of John's room and closing the door softly.
John only huffed and burrowed back into his blankets, cursing the likes of Sherlock's sleeping pattern.
2.
John had his head resting on his hand, staring blearily at the pacing detective in front of him. They had been going on adrenaline for the past thirty-six hours, not to mention the copious amounts of caffiene for John. It wasn't a particular case that involved running and jumping and chasing, but a lot of... anxiety. A lot of life or death and John hadn't been able to drift off during the night. Now, it was catching up with him, this lack of sleep, as he watched Sherlock ponder over the case.
"There has to be something- something, what am I missing, what am I missing, the one thing, one clue, where is it-"
"Sherlock," John rasped, opening his eyes. He hadn't been aware that they had closed, but he imagined that he should have expected it. He was too tired. He couldn't hang onto consciousness much longer. He should have just went to bed.
Sherlock stopped and looked back at him, frowning. A peculiar expression passed through his features as he paused, his eyes taking on a distant look.
"Sherlock?" John sat up a bit, blinking hard. He recognized that look in the detective's eyes.
"Sleeping, the bedroom, of course; how did I not see, how did I not notice that? That's so obvious! Stupid!" Sherlock pivoted, rushing to the door. "John, come on!"
"Where are we going?" John questioned, hauling himself onto his feet. He swayed slightly and cursed their sleeping routines.
"The ventilator in the bedroom, don't you see, don't you get it?" Sherlock barked, flying down the stairs.
"I'm tired, Sherlock, of course I don't understand," John complained as he followed his flatmate down the stairs.
3.
"John... John, for God's sake!"
Sherlock's voice was far too close and John was far too tired to contemplate it. "Go away," he murmured, voice thick with sleep. "Lemme sleep..."
"John, get up!"
John only groaned and pressed his face further into the darkness. He had only recently gotten over a particularly bad bout of the flu- he'd picked it up from surgery, and even now, he was treating patients with it- and Sherlock dragging him all through London had done nothing to diminish the mental fatigue that he was battling.
"John, you're drooling on my coat. It's dry clean only."
There was something within those first six words that didn't fall right. He sat up abruptly.
He was seated in a cab, sitting entirely too close to Sherlock, and he appeared to have been asleep... on the detective's shoulder.
Sherlock gave him a disgusted look, brushing off his shoulder and fixing his jacket.
Over his now-crimson face, John rubbed his mouth. He hadn't been drooling. Sherlock was a liar. "Sorry. I'm so sorry. Haven't been sleeping well."
Sherlock huffed, looking out his window. "You sleep too much. It's terribly dull."
John sank a little lower in the seat, crossing his arms, still blaming Sherlock for his lack of sleep.
4.
The heat was bearing down on him, choking him. The sand did nothing to clear his lungs, either, but he was doing his best not to breathe in the particles. His fingers brushed over the wound that he was working on. There was a lot of blood. Too much blood...
The explosion stopped him. There wasn't time to react. Wasn't time to think. The force sent him flying, and he couldn't die, couldn't die, because he was the doctor and the rest of them needed the doctor and the sand was choking him and there was pain, real pain, zinging through one of his upper limbs, he couldn't tell where, but the pain was intense and-
"John!"
John flinched and sat bolt upright, choking and gasping. His hands clutched immediately at his shoulder, at the one point of persisting injury that he had gained from Afghanistan. There was no blood, there was no blinding sun or dusty sand, but only the darkness of his room, sweat drenching his back, and the two pinpoints of Sherlock's eyes in the darkness.
A dream. Just a dream.
"Oh," John breathed, raising a hand to rub his eyes. Sherlock removed his hand from John's shoulder, a hand that John hadn't been aware was there.
"You were screaming."
John nodded a bit numbly. "Yeah. Sorry. PTSD."
"I know. Why?" The way Sherlock says the one syllable word makes it seem like a demand, not a question.
"Why what?" John replied, clearing his throat. He could still taste sand on the back of his tongue. He looked back to Sherlock to find the detective offering a mug to him.
"It's water."
John took the mug and sipped at the cold refreshment gratefully, letting out a shaky breath.
"Why are your symptoms flaring?"
John shook his head, setting the mug down. He had no idea. Nothing had even triggered it, not that he knew... He couldn't think of anything.
Sherlock was silent for only a moment before ghosting out of the room, closing the door behind himself.
5.
John couldn't sleep. It was impossible to fall asleep when Sherlock was grating away on the violin downstairs. He had no bloody idea what Sherlock was thinking of this time, but at three in the morning, it couldn't be that important.
"Sherlock- Sherlock," John hissed as he thumped down the stairs, pushing the living room door open. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"
"Composing," came the lethargic reply, the music pausing as Sherlock scribbled something down.
"It's three in the morning!"
"Is it?" Sherlock replied, although not in a tone of surprise. A moment later, the bow was being pulled back across the strings.
John let a quiet swear break past his lips before he turned and stomped back upstairs. It just wasn't possible to get any sleep around here!
+ 1
"John, the weather is dreadful; you're going to have to cancel your day trip to-"
Sherlock paused when he walked into the living room of the flat, his eyebrows knitting together. John was on the couch, half sprawled out, an arm dangling off the side. His eyes were closed, his breaths were even, and he didn't react as Sherlock spoke. All in all, the quick deduction said that John was asleep.
Sherlock sighed, his breath forming a puff of condensation in the air. Cold, abnormally cold, outdoors, the snow was light but piling up, making travel frowned upon if not totally unsafe. John would want to cancel his plans- he was going to... well, Sherlock didn't recall the exact dull details, except for outdoors and girlfriend- but John wasn't awake to do that now.
Sherlock shook his head, dislodging a few flakes of stubborn snow still clinging to his hair. He shrugged out of his jacket and turned to hang it up before he paused, fingers halfway to hanging the coat on the hook.
He looked back at John briefly before he crossed the room, silently draping his coat over the sleeping form of his flatmate.
Just this once... he could let John sleep.
I haven't been able to use Document Upload for some reason, so I'm glad this copy 'n paste thing popped up or I wouldn't have been to put this up.
I'm hoping to make a long multi-chapter of a series of unrelated 'Five Things' drabbles. I have ideas... don't know if I'll get to write them today... spent the morning in the ER. :/ Dear John, where were you this morning? I looked for you...
Nevermind me. Reviews are little bursts of adoration personfied.