Author's Note

This is a reboot. Apologies to those who have stayed with me all this time, who have reviewed and followed the story along its old course. I really appreciate the support and what you've done for me, but the old SiC wasn't going the way I'd intended. I'm afraid this reboot will follow a darker path, allow for (what will hopefully be) more depth of character and more depth of plot (with the introduction of a new character… I'm incredibly and dorkishly excited about this btw). I'm sorry for those who love a fic full of fluff, blatant displays of affection and sentiment – this is none of the above. The plan is for a story surrounding the complexities of the mind, inklings of PTSD and insomnia; the undercurrents of something more leading to what will eventually be the formations of a relationship. I love this direction – I just hope you all will too.


Chapter One

"Sing me to sleep, sing me to sleep

I'm tired and I want to go to bed.

Sing me to sleep, sing me to sleep

And then leave me alone.

Don't try to wake me in the morning

Cause I will be gone."

Emily Browning - Asleep

(.:.)

Dear James,

You haven't written back in a while, I've been waiting for a reply. I understand how busy you must be; though you more than anyone save Mrs Hudson must know how long the days are becoming recently. I thought you might be interested James – they've switched me from those damned diazepines to the z-meds, Zopiclone if I recall but I've all but lost interest. Mrs Hudson bless her keeps me regular, reminds me when I forget, makes sure I throw the old ones away. I'm only on these for four weeks – the whole tolerance and dependency thing. If all else fails I'll be on Circadin in about a month's time.

Things seemed incredibly hectic over your end the last time we spoke. I have phoned but there's been no answer, I suppose it must be just short of madness over where you are if you can't speak. You always have time to talk James, I've never known you not take a call. I hope things are okay with you, you must tell me if they're not. I might be a little fragile right now my friend but I'll be damned if it stops me helping you out when you need it. You've done so much for me – well it's about bloody time I returned the favour.

Updates… yes, you always ask for those. So here we go. From one medical professional to another – things could be better. You know how it is. I'll end on a happy note; get all of this guff out of the way. Despise talking about it, but I recall you prefer hearing it now rather than later so here goes. Diazepines didn't work, the heat doesn't help. Summer's kicked in over here and for once in British history the sun doesn't seem to want to piss off. Nights are warm and I exceeded my allotted dosage almost a week into the course of the drugs. Doctors took me off them not long after that when they began to kick in during the day. Yes, yes – I know what you're probably thinking. It was stupid of me – I know, I'm a doctor I should know. You're right James- as always. But it comes to a point where you look down at those little tablets and ask yourself how much it could actually hurt – how much damage could one more really do? Apparently a lot. To conclude James – I'm an idiot. I'd prefer it if you didn't think less of me for it.

They've given me something for the stress, pills to take during the day. I can't remember the name – you'd think I'd be able to wouldn't you? Those got swapped out last week, I haven't gotten used to them yet. Can't remember what they're called – they're blue. That's all I need to know. They can't give me medication for the nightmares, that's a psychological thing, something they hoped the meds would fix. Therapy's been bumped up to twice a week – Camilla's nice. I told you about her last time didn't I? Lovely woman, still manages to do my head in though. Makes a good cup of tea though – I'll give her that.

Enough of this. On to the good news. I wanted you to know Harry got married the other week. Managed to make the ceremony, walked her down the aisle for the second time (what will hopefully be the last). Mary seems to be a keeper – I'm so happy for her. They went on their honeymoon over the weekend; she's still there I think. They've gone to visit Mary's family, gone to see her dad. He served like we did would you believe it - small world. Harry keeps telling me I need to get 'back in the game' – though a double date with my sister and my sister-in-law and a 'friend' of theirs sounds like my idea of hell. In all honesty I'd take Afghanistan over that any day – and that's seriously saying something.

I hope you're okay James. Mrs Hudson asks after you every now and again, wonders how you are, how the kids are, how Emma is. We both do actually. I know things are busy for you right now – I recall things being a little 'up in the air' when I read your last letter. I need you to know that I'm fine – I've got this. People fuss far too much… I've been to war for heaven's sake. I'm still the same person who held that gun all those – you know they actually took that off me? Second week into the treatment programme. They seriously need to find better bloody things to worry about.

I'm sorry, I'm ranting. I'm here, waiting patiently for your next reply. I don't go far so expect a speedy response. I hope all is well James, give my best to the wife and kids.

Regards

John.

(.:.)

John scrubbed his hand over his face, stubble rough against his palm as he carefully slipped the paper into the waiting envelope. The light in the living room had a hazy-like quality, much like the steam that billows from a freshly poured cup of coffee, lulling, warm and incredibly therapeutic. It teetered on the edge of uncomfortable, John writhing a little in his seat, material of his shirt sticking irritatingly to his skin. With shaking hands he unbuttoned a few from his neck down, relishing his new found freedom, Adam's apple bobbing slightly as he swallowed without restriction, mouth dry, the doctor reaching for the coffee he knew had grown cold around the time he'd written 'updates'.

With his other he reached for his pen, tried to recall the address he'd come to write down about once or twice a month, thrice if he was lucky and his friend found himself with time on his hands. He muttered under his breath, scraped through the papers and the files that littered his desk, wondered vaguely how on earth he could have lost the biro so soon after putting it down. John pushed a pile of random literature litter to the side, what seemed to be an encyclopaedia hidden beneath a pile of out of date and misused takeaway menus, barely containing his relief when he found his pen seeking refuge against the gravitational pull of a wad of blue tac, though he soon found himself battling against it as though it recognised his intentions and wasn't quite ready to give it's prize up without a fight.

"Oh come on," he muttered.

It came free with a deft 'pop', John placing his mug back on the side after he'd swilled his mouth with the dull, lukewarm liquid, wincing a little at the taste. He delved further beneath the piles of papers, searching semi-frantically for the sticky note pad he recalled seeing tucked away between the pages of one book of another, possibly a dictionary, highlighted memos used to mark down pages of interest. It was a scavenger hunt at its finest, probably one of the hardest of its kind as it came with no clues and relied purely on the doctor's memory, though he'd long ago given up on putting anything in order and simply relied on his scrabbling around to find what he needed. He bit his tongue and swam through old case files, medical notes, patient files and old letters, all of which were strewn left right and centre across the desk until there was nought but a hint of mahogany left for Mrs Hudson to polish. The woman continued to insist she wasn't his housekeeper, though the siren call of dust always seemed to be able to rouse her from her flat downstairs no matter what John would say to try and discourage her. These were the only times the apartment would ever reach some sort of order and, though he'd never admit it to her, the days where that dear old lady would breach the barriers of his home and set him to work with duster and polish were some of the best days he had to recent memory. She had a habit of singing Vera Lynn whilst vacuuming the carpets, Frank Sinatra when she'd don her yellow rubber gloves and sort through the plates and mugs that would accumulate and barricade the kitchen. On better days he'd look up the songs on Youtube and they'd sing along together, doctor and landlady joining hand in hand in the middle of a clean room upon completion, his hand on her waist and hers around his neck and they'd dance to the songs that reminded her of her childhood – those that made her smile so much. Those were brighter days.

"There you are," he sighed, pulling the notes from between the pages of a medical journal.

He tugged a little too hard, swearing under his breath as he felt his elbow connect with cheap porcelain. He wasn't the man he once was, not as quick as he'd been in his twenties. Maybe back then he'd have been able to catch the mug before it'd have a chance to shatter on the floor, before it'd have a chance to scare him out of his seat or stain the carpet. But he wasn't twenty two anymore.

He heard a plate smash downstairs, felt how hard the wood of his desk was beneath the crushing pressure of the palms of his hands, noted how he'd braced himself, how fast he'd moved from his seat. In the back of his mind he thanked that twenty year old he'd stowed away back there the day he'd taken a liking to plaid and wool, grateful he still had a spring in his step. Camilla would be pleased to know the physiotherapy was paying off, though the situation itself would have her sitting with that semi-concerned look on her face that wound him up so much. He ran a hand through his hair, balanced more of his weight onto the flat of his desk to give his aching hands a rest. It was turning out to be one of those days.

"Are you alright dear?" He heard called up the corridor, footsteps frantically climbing the staircase.

"Fine," he murmured, huffing out a shaky breath, "Mrs Hudson I'm fine," he offered back a little louder.

He turned, found his landlady hovering at his front door and ringing her hands as though she was cleaning them. He smiled at her.

"Are you sure? I heard a bang-"

"I know Mrs Hudson – it was an accident. I'm sorry."

"Oh John."

Mrs Hudson was a woman of habit, something John Watson found most endearing. It made the sweet lady entirely predictable, something John had found he needed more than anything else. On a Monday she did her washing, did his too if he hadn't gotten round to it (which was the case more often than not). She had Maude around for lunch on Tuesdays, Bethany and Jessica in on a Thursday tea time where she always cooked whatever the local butcher had on offer that week. John had memorised her schedule as well as he'd come to learn her personal habits, the way she always wore gloves when doing the washing up, how she only ever used lemon washing up liquid because she didn't trust the green, the ways she cheated on cross word puzzles by making him Google the answers or how she always found a stray strand of hair to twirl whenever they watched daytime television together on Wednesdays and Fridays. And John had come to love them all, especially this one in particular.

She scurried over to him, quick as a mouse, and wrapped her arms around his waist, head resting in the crook of his shoulder, scents of lavender and powder washing over him in waves of comforting nostalgia. He smiled again fleetingly, buried his nose in her hair and offered her a quick kiss against the crown of her head in return, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and squeezing her once as he did so. Yes, her habits were as well known to him as the scars on his own body and the veins on the back of his hands, but each gentle hug or timid kiss always managed to take him by surprise.

"I'll clean it up – don't you worry."

"No, no," he sighed, smoothing out the lines either side of his eyes with rough fingertips. "I'll sort it out – my fault."

"What happened?" She muttered, tone soft though there was a hint of something else, something that made John's lip twitch. It was as though she was talking to a petulant child, a toddler that had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar and had been taken by surprise doing so, dropping everything in the process.

"Caught it with my elbow," he sighed, bending to pick up the shards of blue tinted ceramic, batting at her hands when she made to assist. "Shouldn't have put it so close to the edge – really do need to tidy up."

She carefully righted herself, crossing her arms over her chest. John grinned, shaking his head.

"You think so?"

"Yes Mrs Hudson I know – I'll do it tomorrow."

"Good man – not too late now John," she murmured, hand settling lightly on his shoulder. "You've got two tablets tonight dear; I've set them on the side for you."

He sighed, "What would I do without you?"

"Lord only knows."

John retired not long after his landlady had retreated back downstairs, probably to mimic his actions and pick up the shattered pieces of whatever it was she had dropped earlier. He'd never really understood why her nerves were as shot as his own, why loud noises startled her, bangs had her heart racing or smashed mugs had her dropping her own plates and/or crockery. She was a remarkable creature, a woman who'd dealt with Sherlock's random gunfire as easily as a mother would deal with the misbehaviours of her child, but when it came to things smashing she could never seem to hold her own. She was like a child in the middle of a lightning storm, fascinated by the forks but wickedly frightened of the claps of thunder that followed.

The night wasn't unusually warm, though John found himself unusually unsettled. The taste of mint sat heavily on his tongue, the air in his room thick and rough despite the window having been open for the majority of the day – despite him advising him otherwise. He sat perched on the edge of his simple bed, hands folded in his lap, eyes against the wall as he breathed. It was Camilla's routine, a therapy she'd stamped her name on though even he could have thought it up given five minutes and a cup of good coffee. He breathed anyway, deeply and slowly just like the doctor ordered, tried to rid himself of the thoughts and plans of the day so that (as she put it) he'd go to sleep 'a blank slate'. In her mind, if there was nothing occupying your head then there'd be nothing to dream about, nothing to wake you back up. Theoretically it was a stroke of genius, practically it was fucking useless.

John tugged off his shirt and trousers, looping his belt over the headboard before falling gently back against the mattress, closing his eyes a little as his head became encased in pillows. He found himself immersed in the familiar green glow of his digital clock, turning to check the alarm was on for tomorrow though, more than likely, he'd ignore it and put it on snooze more times than anyone would deem necessary. He lay awkwardly atop the blankets, basked himself in the comfort the infrequent breeze brought him as it washed warmly over his bare chest, curtains flickering against their rails, traffic passing in a steady stream outside the barrier of his window. To John it was like whale song, much preferring the sounds of car horns and night revellers than silence, the sort that made your ears ring as they'd struggle for something to latch on and listen to. The noises of London were his own personal lullaby, familiar and predictable and comforting in a way he could not put into words. It was the only music that could weigh down his eyes enough for them to close completely, and tonight, the good doctor found, was no different.

(.:.)

Falling is just like flying John-

"Sherlock!"

There was no way to tell if the name on his lips was a remnant of nightmare or his own words that sat so bitterly on his tongue, but his mouth was arid all the same. The room wasn't big enough to contain him, he couldn't breathe, couldn't move, though those sturdy four walls rose up so far and so high around him he felt cast adrift. His body was ragged, his throat acid washed and his tongue like sandpaper as he swiped it over his lips, sweat salty and sour in his mouth. It had been one of those days, and one of those days almost always turned to one of those nights. He blamed the bloody mug.

He blinked away the images of blood, bones and mobile phones, fumbled around blindly for the glass of water he'd sat next to his clock, fingers dabbing vainly at puddles of what could only be his drink spilt from his more than active sleep. It'd be something Camilla would be interested in – that he knew. He felt ragged, used up, caught somewhere between sleep and reality, didn't even know the day. The time – well that read about half past twelve, his usual waking hours whenever sleep eluded him, whenever it had better things to do than offer him the respite he knew he was so desperate for. John massaged his eyes with the heels of his palms, legs swinging heavily over the side of his mattress, toes brushing the cool carpet of the floor. It made him feel more comfortable, something he'd often talked about with Camilla, the feeling of having a hard surface beneath the rough pads of his feet, something strong and sturdy and unlikely to crumble – walls and floors only ever did that when he closed his eyes against them. No, the floor that lay beneath his feet acted as an anchor to his drifting body, tethered him to the waking world when his mind floated hazily elsewhere, a balloon caught in an updraft with its string tied to a post. It wasn't a perfect solution, but it was better than nothing.

He ran a hand deftly though his hair, noticed then the knife's edge of light that pierced his darkened room, cleaving his modest bedroom directly through its middle, the point of which teased his toes almost playfully. He shook his head, thoughts and nerves scattered, something niggling the younger man at the back of his mind, forcing him to question what lay before his eyes. The window is closed John. The curtains aren't moving. You closed the door John – remember that. You locked it, slid the latch across didn't you? You know you did – he told you to.

"John?"

Fuck.

"John – are you alright?"

"Why does everyone keep asking me that?" he muttered, head held in his hands.

As John's eyes became accustomed to the dark he found himself drawn to a darkened mass located just in front of the door, legs crossed and shoe heels resting against the desk, long limbs blocking out areas of light, arms crossed across what John assumed to be his chest, the glisten of two eyes illuminated by the light of his bedside clock and that which leaked from the window to his left.

"Are you alright?" He asked a little more slowly, voice sterner.

"How long have you been there?" The doctor grunted back, gathering sheets around his waist.

"Long enough."

John snorted, pleased to hear him smile. It was something that, like Mrs Hudson's habits, he'd become accustomed to. To hear someone smile was the equivalent of feeling someone's heart break, to smell a thought, to touch a memory. It took time, but time was something John Watson had plenty of. Sherlock Holmes smiled about as often as John did nowadays and so when Sherlock Holmes smiled John made sure to take note and pay attention. And thus the good doctor began the process of memorising the expression, implanting it in memory, became so accustomed to evaluating every detail that sight became sound. There was the sound of the movement, the slight hitch in breathing as the process of exhalation changed. These two men didn't laugh like they used to, but a smile was a smile and that was most precious of all.

"I could have shot you, you know."

"But you didn't – did you."

There was a slight shuffle of movement as he shifted his position, the souls of two shoes coming to rest flat against the floor, the shift fluid and semi-silent, far too well practiced for John to feel it natural.

"Sherlock-"

"When did they take it off you?"

He sighed. He was far too out of practice – far too tired for all of this.

"I'm not going to even ask you how you know that."

"Then don't."

John resorted to child's play, the older man burying himself beneath his covers, turning his back on the man that had invaded his space, the man he'd found himself praying for for more nights than he cared to remember. The wall that met him, the wall that sat mere centimetres away from his nose, greeted him blankly and exuded an almost anti-warmth, seeming to suck the heat from his body yet radiate a cool calm at the same time. It was more relaxing this way, though the doctor could still feel his companion's eyes boring into his very spine, the weight of which had settled itself comfortably between his shoulder blades as though that in itself would have the power to roll him over and force him to face up to his ghost.

"I told you to keep your windows closed."

John felt the sheets tighten in his grip, bed linen wrapping around his fingers and constricting his digits to a point where he felt as though their tips would drop off. He closed his eyes.

"You did."

He sounded slightly irritable, though (like Mrs Hudson the day previous) he seemed to be stepping lightly, forcibly gentle with him. "I say it for good reason John."

"I know," he murmured.

John knew he knew, was well aware of how desperate his invitations seemed to the man who saw everything. Something as simple as leaving his window open – so subtle to those who went through life seeing nothing. But to a man cursed with an intent and incessant habit to observe all… it was a sign. It left the doctor vulnerable, left him open, turned him into a duck sitting and waiting to be plucked from its box but it was all necessary. He needed his friend, needed to know, needed to be comforted with the fact that the man that now sat in the chair at the foot of his bed was not the apparition his psychologists had almost convinced him of, but the man of flesh and blood he'd seen jump from the top of Saint Bart's in a desperate bid to save his life. For that was the person he'd held on to, back when they'd admitted him, back when he'd told people of his return, of his rebirth. Because who'd believe a shell-shocked veteran that a suicidal fraud had returned from the dead? Certainly not the local authority that'd locked him away under supervision, fearing for his sanity, fearing for his life. It had been plastered in the papers, his name, his companion's name, how far they'd both fallen for each other, how far John had left to fall before he too wound up shattered across the curb. Only when he'd given up his belief had they released him, kept stupid with pills, never again to speak a word to anyone save Mrs Hudson, his damned guardian and keeper, about the man in the coal blackened coat that drifted in and out of his life as often as the women that shared his bed.

Months at a time he'd be gone. There'd be months where he'd stay, and his landlady would stand at the door and cry when the familiar sound of violin music would drift down the stairway to reach her fading ears, and she'd embrace him just as tightly every time he returned, bring her gifts from far off countries, tell her tales of adventures John could only dream and/or speculate about. It was these relics; these mementos from his travels that kept the good doctor in a sane mind, lined up as they were on the mantel piece beside the skull John hadn't had the heart to throw away. They were physical signs, talismans of a reality only a handful of people shared. But it meant that he was alive, that he was real to more people than just him, and that kept him stable, even when, as soon as he stepped outside and crossed that imaginary threshold, he had to return to playing to part of the detective's widow, the man the great Sherlock Holmes lied to and left behind.

The open window was an invite, a sign to say 'I still believe', something the ex-detective had obviously read as a sign that John had a blatant disregard for his own safety.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?" The answer was almost immediate.

John swallowed, tried to bring some dampness back to his barren mouth, "Stay – please?"

The silence that followed seemed to stretch on for an eternity. It was a selfish desire, something that John would have never normally asked for, but he was a desperate man and desperate men tended to desperate things. He knew that better than anyone. Sherlock had a job to do, ghosting through life, over boarders, through countries like a wraith in a bid to catch and rid the world of the dregs of Moriarty, the loose ends he'd left behind after his most sudden of departures. The police had never found his body, nor had they tracked down any of the men that had worked for him. And that had been the ex-detective's cue – his calling so to speak. And John had spent the past two years watching and waiting as papers printed headlines revealing that another murder had taken place, that another man had turned himself in, that another offshore account had been discovered and so on and so on, the veteran doctor reading between the lines of every article, relevant or not, to try and find Sherlock's stamp, the mark that would reveal unto John's prying eyes that he'd been there, that it was his doing.

"You know I can't John – I'm sorry."

There was a tenuous undercurrent to the usual steadiness of his voice, something that hinted of emotions he didn't dare express. It wasn't his thing – sharing. Nor had it been John's, but such beliefs had been drugged out of him a long time ago. John knew how hard it was for him, knew how difficult it must have been to disappear. London was his home as well as his playground, his anchor. 221b was his sanctuary, fate just didn't allow him the time to utilise it.

John swallowed hard. "Sherlock – please. Just so I know."

The door clicked shut, the light snuffed out like that of a candle.

"Alright John."


I lied. There will be fluff. I do apologise for starting off on such a sombre note, I am in the creative process of writing Chapter Two and I assure you it's ten times brighter.