Written for a prompt on Tumblr: Sherlock watches John sleeping. It went slightly... odder than I'd expected. I'm not entirely sure what to think about it, to be honest... Anyway, there'll be three parts to this. Reviews are wonderful!
"It was the dog."
They're the first words Sherlock has spoken in over five hours. His eyes fly open, bright and wide and almost inhuman, mouth parting slightly in amazement at his own deduction. He tips forward, jumping lightly down off the edge of the armchair he'd been perched on, and paces in light, long-legged strides across the lounge and back again, hands steepled under his chin. He seems afire with the light of discovery – if brain power and adrenaline were visible, Sherlock would be glowing.
"It's the dog, it must be, it all makes sense- the smudge of mud on the skirting board, the random nature, no noise, no witnesses, nothing else misplaced, of course it's the dog, those scratch marks around the edge of his basket must mean he's been hiding them under the cushion, of course she wouldn't have washed it yet, she's only had it two weeks and she's rather absent minded, so he took them, hid them, something to do with the scent and marking his ter-"
He is interrupted by a loud, prolonged and rather waffling snore.
The pacing stops. The hands unsteeple and drop to his side. The eyes narrow slightly, eyebrows lowering in mild irritation. A moment later there is another snore, this one shorter and softer – more of a grunt, really – and John Watson's head lolls to one side, resting against his shoulder. His mouth is half open, eyes rolling slightly under his eyelids as REM sleep set in. His fingers twitch every so often, the echoing memory of holding a gun running through his muscles.
Sherlock sighs, the annoyance fading from his face and being replaced with something softer. It's not exactly fondness, not exactly tenderness, but the slight upwards turn of one side of his mouth and the relaxing of the lines around his eyes betray the warmth he feels.
They've been working on a case since lunchtime the day before – two days before, thinks Sherlock, glancing at the clock and noting the glowing 2.14 that beams from the kitchen. John had dubbed it The Case of the Vanishing Knickers, which had amused both him and Lestrade greatly and merely made Sherlock raise an eyebrow of incomprehension and vague disgust at their low humour. For over a week, items of the Italian ambassador's wife's clothing had been disappearing, and when a pair of new and expensive underwear had disappeared she had called the police, afraid she was being stalked.
Sherlock, being Sherlock, hadn't slept at all on the case. John, in turn, had suffered from sleeplessness the night before with Sherlock's mournful violin playing drifting through the floorboards at one in the morning. Another day's worth of running around London interviewing various friends – and enemies – of the family and swinging in and out of cabs had taken their toll, and when they'd both finally returned back at the flat at nine o'clock that evening, John had been heavy-eyed and yawning.
Watching his friend drooling slightly, still upright on the sofa, Sherlock feels a sudden rush of warmth in his stomach, both light and heavy, entirely alien. He blinks, frowns for a second, and places a hand somewhere under his diaphragm, but the warmth stays there, curled like a sleeping kitten. He stayed up for me, thinks Sherlock, and again, the warmth – it takes him a moment to realise that it is emotion, and the thought makes his nose twitch disapprovingly.
The warmth stays nonetheless.
It doesn't really matter that he fell asleep, thinks Sherlock, surprised with himself, because he still stayed. The image of John, sat on the sofa and watching, waiting,protecting, as Sherlock delves down into his mind palace and starts connecting threads, flashes through his mind – the soldier on guard.
A moment later he is trying to convince himself that he must be delirious from lack of sleep, because his thoughts are straying dangerously close to 'it's the thought that counts' Hallmark territory.
He throws his violin a longing, vaguely mournful look, and then turns his back on it – he's well aware John's already had to sacrifice a night's worth of sleep for it, so he owes him one – and now the case is solved there's really no need for him to play anyway. So instead, he paces over to the kitchen table, movements still quick and sharp from the adrenaline, picks up John's phone, deduces which number is the speed-dial for Lestrade, hovers his thumb over the button-
-and stops, sighing. The last time he called Lestrade in the middle of the night for a case he got a hazy, "Nnnghblrgh wha'?" from an evidently just-woken-up Detective Inspector, and then had to listen to abuse and a lecture about respecting normal people's sleeping habits when Lestrade realised he'd been woken up so Sherlock could tell him how the colour of the victims' cars meant the killer had to be an Asian, middle-aged male. He thinks that, if he did it again, even for a solved case, Lestrade might attempt to throw things at him through the phone.
He makes a mental note to test his theory the next time Lestrade annoys him, and replaces the phone on the table. Then he paces the kitchen for a bit, just for a change of scenery, still feeling the restless after-effects of solving a case.
A moment later, another snore buzzes through the flat, accompanied by a small thump and a muffled babble of discomforted sleep-speech. Sherlock wonders briefly if John has fallen off the sofa, feels mildly amused by this idea, feels guilty for feeling amused when he remembers that John is only ordinary and actually needs sleep, then returns to the lounge and decides it's a moot point anyway because John has merely slid sideways onto the sofa.
It's not a very comfortable sleeping position, legs dangling off the front of the seat and body twisted sideways on the seat and one arm still sort of hooked over the backrest. Sherlock watches for a moment, and then lets a small smile curl the corner of his lips. He gently moves the arm back down to John's side, preventing the inevitable moment when it would have fallen and John would have hit himself in the head. Then he shifts John up the sofa, until his head is pillowed on the Union Jack cushion and there is room for Sherlock to lift his legs up and arrange them, slightly bent, into a more comfortable position.
John makes no noise during this other than a small burbling groan when he is being shifted up the sofa. Sherlock instinctively makes a soft shushing noise and the noise stops – much to his surprise. Then he takes off John's shoes, unlacing them and placing them neatly side-by-side next to the coffee table, and disappears.
He returns a minute later carrying the warm brown blanket John keeps at the end of his bed, and drapes it over the sleeping man. Without really knowing why, he fusses with it, tucking the end under John's feet and tugging on the edge until it is uncreased over the still form. A moment later John makes another whirring sigh and shifts over onto his back, and there are creases everywhere again, but whatever impulse made him smooth it in the first place seems to be appeased, and Sherlock doesn't touch it.
He watches for an indeterminate period of time, settling himself in the armchair opposite. He studies the soft lines of John's face, the way his eyelids twitch, the movement of his lips as he breathes, the little jerky movements his feet make as he dreams of running, the gentle furrowing and unfurrowing of his brow as emotions run across their unconscious canvas.
Sherlock finds himself mesmerised. It's a bit like solving crimes, trying to work out John Watson's dreams, except far more difficult, and far more intriguing. Finally he gives up, resigning himself to the fact that he has far too little data to make a conclusion past the vague notion that it's somehow connected to his war experiences and isn't a bad dream.
He stands, deciding that tea may well be a good idea at what is now half past three in the morning, and as he does the old armchair lets out a long, loud squeak – more of a screech, thinks Sherlock irritably as John suddenly twitches, muttering blearily under his breath. His eyelids flutter once, twice, and then part into slits. A slurred, "W's't S'l'k," escapes his lips as he teeters on the fine line between dreams and consciousness.
After an infinitesimal hesitation, Sherlock steps forward and crouches down so their heads are level, and murmurs, "Go to sleep, John. You deserve it." And then, without really knowing why, he smoothes coarse, sandy-brown hair out of the way, leans forward, and presses his lips against John's forehead.
This seems to work. John lets out a soft, sighing breath, shifts his legs slightly, and his eyes fall closed again.
Sherlock stays there, long after the REM sleep has passed and John has stopped making noises, kneeling on the carpet next to the sofa, eyes wide and silver in the darkness, with one pale finger pressed hesitantly against his mouth.