It was this time of night that Sherlock liked best.
London quieted down slightly for the evening, the sound of cars impatiently barreling through the streets diminishing somewhat, the noise of pedestrians and friends dissolving altogether. The lights of the city turned down just enough to see the blackness of the sky, but not quite enough to see the stars. The air was slightly cooler, and somewhere out there, criminals were doing bad deeds. In the cover of darkness, men and women were murdering, stealing, kidnapping. Night time.
However, as much as Sherlock appreciated(appreciated? Bit not good, Sherlock, said the John's voice in his head) these actions, as one of the hundreds that occurred may actually give him a challenge, allow him to stretch his brain, it was not because of the criminals that Sherlock enjoyed this part of the evening.
It was the time of night that Doctor John Watson entered REM sleep, and Sherlock's newfound favourite thing to do at night was to watch the Doctor in this state.
John would get up from his chair at approximately ten o'clock each night, put down his glass of water, stretch slightly, the sweater of the day riding up his stomach a few inches, his eyes squeezing shut as he yawned, and then:
"Well, off to bed."
Sherlock would nod from the window, where he would be poised with his violin, contemplating playing a Schubert or perhaps something more complicated. "Good night, John." He wouldn't turn around.
John would nod in return, even though knowing Sherlock couldn't see, and would leave the room. Sherlock would listen to his footsteps creak around the apartment, in the bathroom, his bedroom, the bathroom again, until the squeaking of the bedsprings indicated the man's descent into bed at ten-fifteen.
Sherlock would choose the Schubert, or the Bach, or the Rachmaninoff, it really didn't matter, but soon enough he was sending John to sleep in a sweet lullaby of notes, expertly played, expertly timed.
Sherlock would play until eleven-fifteen, when an exhausted John would slip from stage 4 sleep into REM sleep, and in response Sherlock would gently place his violin on the coffee table. Sherlock would be in John's room seconds later, his nimble movements and knowledge of which floorboards to avoid stepping on allowing him to sneak into the room unnoticed.
The dark-haired man padded forward, his feet sticking to the floorboards in the way that only bare skin can- silently. He crept up to the side of the bed and slowly, so slowly, sat down. John tended to sleep off to one side of the bed, no doubt a habit picked up from his various nights out with gallivanting with women. But he nearly always slept on his back, as though he couldn't bear to face away from what was before him. Facing forwards, forever facing forwards, and remaining positive. John.
Sherlock would remember how tense and uneasy John's REM sleep had been when he first moved in with Sherlock; John had been fidgety, had mumbled under his breath as he dreamed of war and of death, and sometimes he would jerk himself awake in his moving around, and Sherlock would dive to the floor, listening to John's ragged, pained breaths. Eventually the man would wipe a sleeve across his brow and then lay back down, surrendering once more to tormented dreams. Sherlock would come back to the edge of the bed and watch his new friend sleep once again, fascinated by the expressions playing across John's face while his eyes remained shut.
Eventually, though, as his time with Sherlock grew in the waking hours, John's terrible dreams seemed to melt away. He began sleeping through the whole night, his fidgeting gradually lessened, and after a month he no longer mumbled to his dead comrades. Sherlock was just as intrigued by watching John sleep as he was before; the change in John's sleeping dynamics did not bore him in the slightest. There were different things to notice now that the panic was gone. Things like the way John's fingers would curl and a smile would spread across his face as something good happened in a dream, or the way he would sigh slightly and roll over on occasion, more often than not toward Sherlock.
After almost two years, Sherlock still watched John for several hours a night, his friend an endless source of interest for him. Over the past few months, however, things had changed ever so slightly; John had taken to whispering Sherlock's name in his sleep once every few nights. Sometimes it was a low mumble, a reprimand against something his dream Sherlock was doing, and to those the real Sherlock would smile, only imagining what he had done to deserve John's chastising. Other times John would say Sherlock's name and sigh a long, desperate exhale directly afterward, and to this Sherlock had no proper reaction. He wasn't entirely sure what to make of it—familial? Romantic?
Sherlock had also taken to holding John's hand for a good part of his visits.
He did so now, reaching forward and sliding his fingers through John's hand, resting calmly beside its sleeping owner. Sherlock played with the callouses on John's fingertips, left over from the war, or perhaps the many years of rugby the man had played before he had met Sherlock.
As Sherlock rolled John's fingers lightly in his own, John sighed and smiled, mumbling Sherlock's name and nestling further under his covers, his fingers curling forwards slightly, trapping Sherlock's fingers together with his.
It was at these moments that Sherlock's heart would start beating irrationally fast, and his normally pallid cheeks would flood with heat. He would find himself smiling as well, feeling the strange ache in his heart and wondering why he wasn't grimacing at it.
Sherlock was no idiot. He was not going to even try to pretend he had no clue what was going on—that only happened in stories. He was clearly attracted to John, so hearing John say his name with such adoration was bound to make him pleased. Sherlock never really bothered with a sexual identity crisis—he didn't seem to have a preference for either men or women, so when his feelings for John made themselves apparent he did not have a meltdown, he did not need a counselor, he was not insecure.
He had not been lying when he said he was married to his work, however; just because he was attracted to John it did not mean he wanted a relationship. He was quite content with their current arrangement. Sherlock's late-night escapes into John's room were all the sappy time he required. John's soft whisper of his name was all Sherlock really needed.
A few weeks ago he had fallen asleep during one of his nights visiting John. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, as always, but something inside of him twitched and then he was lying next to John, watching the shorter man breathe, his face now only inches away. Sherlock had watched him, his heart thudding painfully in his ears, until suddenly it was morning, and light was streaming in through John's thin curtains. Sherlock had sat up in surprise and panic, prepared to explain himself in his usual manner of feigned indifference, but John simply remained asleep, a small frown on his face as cooler air met the side of his body Sherlock had been lying beside. Sherlock practically ran from the room, and later at breakfast, John seemed normal, so Sherlock assumed the man had not woken up and discovered him during the night.
Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he had gotten such good rest.
Now, he glanced down at John's sheets and felt a delicious pull to be lying on them once again, to feel John beside him as he slept, warm and comforting.
Sherlock knew something was going to happen to him soon. Things were quickly spiraling downward, as Moriarty planned they would, and Sherlock could only see darkness at the end of the tunnel. Would he be around for much longer? How many more of these nights were there left?
John sighed rolled over to his back once again, his eyebrows coming together in an almost worrying expression.
John was alone.
He was all alone.
Sherlock was gone. Had left him. Had jumped from that roof and plummeted to his death, his head had cracked against the ground, his beautiful, beautiful mind bleeding onto the pavement below. His eyes open, lifeless, staring into nothing as John flipped him over, agonized moans spilling from John's lips as he beheld his dead friend. John's head had been spinning, he had been seeing in double, it just wasn't possible he was gone.
But it was. Sherlock Holmes had been dead for three months. He hadn't burst through the door of 221B Baker Street after the ceremony, a whirlwind of coat and dark hair, apologizing. He hadn't been at the hospital, he hadn't been at the Scotland Yard, he hadn't been at the café. Sherlock remained gone as the days went by, and John was alone.
It was horrible, far worse than when John had returned from Afghanistan, the visions of his fellow troops stepping on mines and getting shot down in favour of Sherlock's pale, lifeless, blood-soaked face haunting his dreams. He twisted and turned in his sheets at night, crying out for Sherlock as his eyes moved under his closed lids, watching as Sherlock plummeted through the air like a fallen angel, dark and beautiful.
He had never told Sherlock that he had woken in the middle of the night to find the man asleep beside him on the bed.
John wished he had, wished he had confessed to Sherlock the next morning, but if he was being entirely honest with himself, he wasn't sure it had even happened. John had awoken to find Sherlock lying next to him, fast asleep, a small frown on his face. John stared at him, barely breathing, his mind sluggishly trying to understand why Sherlock was in his bed. Too tired to really try and figure it out or to be suitably annoyed that Sherlock had kipped out in his room, John had decided to go back to sleep. He was out again in seconds, Sherlock's strangely soothing warm body beside him, their hands resting a few centimetres apart on the sheets.
When John awoke again in the morning, Sherlock was gone, and John was confused. Had it…actually happened? Maybe John had dreamed the whole thing—he was far too well-rested to have woken up in the middle of the night. When he came down for breakfast, Sherlock was exactly the same as always, and John had no idea what to think. He decided to put it from his mind as more pressing matters invaded their lives in the form of Moriarty.
But now that Sherlock was dead(dead, actually dead, Sherlock), all the moments he had spent with his best friend were replaying in John's mind on a near-constant basis, making his chest ache with longing. John wished he had cherished those moments more as they were happening—after all, he would never get any more of them. He decided with a sudden clear conviction that Sherlock had indeed slept in John's bed that night, if only to add to his memories of the man, give John more to remember.
He clung to Sherlock as the days went by. Despite what everyone thought would happen, John spent all his time at their apartment in Baker Street, sitting in his chair, smelling Sherlock everywhere around him, hoping it would fill the void in his chest. John would talk to him, tell him off, even crack a smile when Sherlock was acting particularly childish. He knew Sherlock wasn't really there, but if he closed his eyes and just breathed, he could almost feel him. Feel the excitement, the danger, the allure that was Sherlock, for even just a few seconds.
John just needed to make it through the day until he could sleep again, when he could abandon life for a few short hours. His horrible dreams would wake him, but if he was lucky, he could get a pleasant dream, where he was actually with Sherlock and not imagining it. In those dreams Sherlock was alive.
One night, three months to the day of Sherlock's death, John had a particularly good sleep. His dreams were pleasant and happy; he and Sherlock working, he and Sherlock eating at their café, Sherlock playing the violin to get Mycroft to leave the room, happy things. He didn't have a single nightmare, and when he awoke the next morning, he felt completely well-rested and almost… content. He hadn't felt so refreshed in months, basically since the night—
John's eyes widened fractionally as a desperate, horrible hope emerged in his chest. He quickly glanced over to the other side of the bed, breath stuck in his throat. On the pillow beside his rested a single black hair, long and slightly curled. The pillow was indented. John rested a hand on the mattress beside him, and the sheets were warm.
The breath that had been stuck in John's throat ripped out him in a dry sob and his hand fisted into the warm sheets, fingers flexing and shaking into the fabric. He sank down into the sheets and breathed, and they smelled like him, Sherlock, like soap and cigarette smoke and blood and John began to sob, his tears staining the sheets because for the first time in months, his pleading and hoping had pulled through. Sherlock was alive.
John wasn't alone.
Hi guys, just want to say that if anyone's interested in me writing a follow-up to this, let me know. If enough people are for it I'll write a little more for this story, maybe like a reunion scene or something similar :) Also the title is from the City and Colour song Sleeping Sickness.