A Couple of Days in the Life of the Polyphasic
The first time that John sees Sherlock sleep is when he arrives in the flat around two-twenty in the morning, just in from pints with the yarders. John stumbles into the flat, beer keeping him warm from the January chill that seems to permeate all of London, and stops with the door still open. John has never had to try and keep quiet when he comes in late- usually, Sherlock's with him and when John returns alone, Sherlock's bent over the kitchen table, peering into a microscope. Sometimes he's stretched out on the couch, a book braced against his hips, the telly a dull roar in the background. Once or twice John's caught him in the bathtub, eyes closed, nose barely above the water's edge, as he soaks away the day's overload of information into something more manageable. On one more memorable occasion Sherlock was stretched naked on the hard floor, half hard with a bottle of lube beside him. But he's never sleeping.
So John thinks he may be justified in staring when he realizes that Sherlock's not just curled up in John's armchair out of spite at having been abandoned for the night, but that his breath has evened out, that his mouth is just parted, head braced against the palm of his hand, elbow teetering on the edge of the chair arm. Sherlock's face is smooth, vulnerable, defenseless, and John thinks it may be the most adorable thing he's ever seen. Which probably means that he's more pissed than he realized. He can't tell whether to stay still in the door until Sherlock wakes, or to risk moving past him to examine the blossoming bruise swelling underneath his own right eye.
Luckily, as per usual, Sherlock makes the decision for him. With cheerful abandon, his cellphone alarm goes off, the high-pitched beeps bouncing around the flat like a dying siren. John's heart leaps into his throat and he pushes the door shut with a muffled bang. Sherlock merely opens his eyes, and stares dumbly at the floor for all of four seconds before switching his gaze to John. "And how was watching the idiots of Scotland Yard debase themselves even further than usual? Hard as that is to imagine."
Someday, John will convince Sherlock that his aversion to pubs is not only sad, but it's also unBritish. He's very sure of it. He's also sure that he'll give it up as a lost cause when he sobers up. And really, is it any more unpatriotic than turning down knighthoods? "Lestrade says hi," he says instead and staggers toward the stairs.
He manages two of them before Sherlock lets out a small noise, the same kind he makes when his mind takes a particularly amazing leap or when John manages to do something particularly brilliant in bed. Particular, as it were. John ignores him, and manages to shut and lock the door to the bathroom before Sherlock can barge in after him. "The least you can do is bring up the bag of frozen peas" he calls through the door before working the zip on his pants.
He relieves himself, flushes and washes his hands, all the while listening to Sherlock mill about on the other side of the wood. John gives in and unlocks the door before the detective chooses to go for the lock picks. Sherlock bursts through the door the instant after John's turned the key, unsurprisingly sans the frozen veg.
John's leaning in toward the mirror, fingers tracing the faint discoloring decorating his cheekbone. Sherlock peers over his shoulder at the reflection, sharp gray eyes cataloging the bruise the same way that he examines slides. "Congratulations. You're succeeded in participating in the time-old tradition of attacking one's drinking companions," he says, voice dry and just hinting at amused. "And I can't imagine why I've been wanting to stay away."
"Maybe because you inspire violence in the sober, much less anyone with lowered inhibitions," John mutters and turns away from the mirror to lean against the sink. At this angle, Sherlock's clavicle is at eyelevel. John imagines he can see a faint redness from last night, when he had straddled Sherlock's hips and licked every bit of salty flesh from Sherlock's ears to his navel. He shakes his head. "It was an accident."
"Really?" Sherlock tips his face back toward the light, and dips in close, a rather cruel parody of a kiss, to John's drink addled mind. He closes his eyes, lets Sherlock manhandle his head as he will. For a moment, they're both silent. John jumps when Sherlock adds, " and I'd hoped Anderson had finally managed to say something stupid enough to deserve physical retribution."
It takes John a moment to work through the sentence. "You're hoping that Anderson punched me." It's a bit insulting, to learn that not only does your lover hope you've been smacked around, but that you've been smacked around by someone who said lover absolutely despises.
"I'm hoping you beat some sense into him. The fact that you let him get a hit in only marks you as the gentleman I know you are."
John lets his head fall back and laughs, one hand grasping Sherlock's shoulder weakly. "I don't have any problems with Anderson. Or Sergeant Donovan. Or any one in Scotland Yard, for that matter." Never mind the fact that he wouldn't have let any of these potential assailants hit him: if his time abroad had taught him anything, it was hit first with everything you had and hope you're alone when you've run out. Hell, his time in primary school had taught him that. Another lesson missed, along with the solar system.
"Of course not, considering you're about as dull as they are." Sherlock waves John's glare away. "Oh, don't look at me like that. Almost everyone is. Dull, that is." He leans past John to the medicine cabinet, and withdraws a small microscope. The motion brings him closer to John- he can smell Sherlock's soap and aftershave, a hint of his deodorant, and something that smells suspiciously like John's washing powder. "Hold still now- I don't often get a chance to examine bruises on people who are still alive."
John tips his head back obligingly, and lets Sherlock poke and prod and examine him. He imagines this is what cells feel like, spread out on a slide, and a shiver runs down his back. It's similar to the same attention he pulls from Sherlock in bed, the same focus, as though nothing else exists. Like John's pulling him in, captivating the same man who shouted as he shot at the walls and smiled when he admired the stars. It was almost like a drug, heady, sweet, pure. Addictive.
Eventually, Sherlock mutters something unintelligible under his breath and pulls away, out of John's gravity. It leaves John feeling off balanced for a moment. "Are you planning on going back to sleep tonight?" John asks before pushing off of the sink.
Sherlock pulls a face at the suggestion. "I was in the middle of reading an article about over the counter medicine and corroborating spikes in aggression."
"You were in the middle of sleeping," John protests, and pulls his jumper over the top of his head. He can feel fine blonde hairs sticking to the side of his face, eclectic from wool-induced static.
"Irrelevant. I was reading before I slept. I'm not planning on returning to sleep, so instead I'll return to the article."
John rolls his eyes. He's only wearing a thin t-shirt beneath the jumper, and he sheds that as well, figuring he'll make it down the hall to his bed before the temperature begins to bother his shoulder. There's a hamper in the bathroom closet, installed after they began sleeping together and John had realized that Sherlock would use that as an excuse to pawn his dry-cleaning off. He shucks shoes and jeans, tosses denim and the shirt into the hamper, and folds the sweater up. It's then that he realizes that Sherlock hasn't left, and is eyeing him. There's a faint glint of lust, hidden away under Sherlock's usual expression. John lifts his eyebrows suggestively, and Sherlock turns and leaves the bathroom without another word.
John shrugs and downs a glass of water before heads to his own bedroom.
It isn't long before the door to the bedroom opens, and John sits up, squinting his eyes against the sharp rectangle of light emanating from the hall. Sherlock steps in, quickly closes the door behind him, and approaches the bed. John slides up, back against the headrest, and watches as Sherlock climbs onto the bed, long legs straddling John's thighs, hands braced against the headboard behind him. John leans his head back, mouth centimeters from Sherlock's. "Did your OTC junkies get boring?"
"You knew they would," Sherlock responds, the hint of a strop pulling the timbre of his voice down. He presses his forehead against John's. "You knew you would distract me- you're always so distracting."
John smiles, and brings their mouths together, wraps one hand behind Sherlock's neck and pulls him close. Really, considering the computer that Sherlock called his brain, being called a distraction was one of the best compliments he'd ever received.
Sherlock's refusal to sleep raised most of John's red flags during the first few days that they had lived together. It wasn't until months later that John realized he no longer thought it odd that his flat mate-turned-partner had absolutely no need for sleep. They did all the things in a bed that normal couples did (though in some newer and more creative ways than John remembered having experienced from before the war). They even cuddled together after sex, something which had surprised John. He had never imagined Sherlock Holmes for a cuddler. But there was never any sleep.
It was one of the few hurdles to their relationship. John was adamant that there was something wrong, something off with this lack of sleep. He's attempted to ask Sherlock about it, even tried to usher him to a bed a few times. Each time is met with fierce denial, a long winded speech about hard drives and transports, and then Sherlock vanishes for a few hours, out of spite.
But, if John were Sherlock, and kept mental charts and graphs regarding his flat mate's more mundane behaviors, then it probably wouldn't had taken over a year of living with the man, and several months of sex to learn that Sherlock Holmes actually did sleep. Periodically. Several times a day, in fact.
Of course, it's harder to pick up on facts like this when Morpheus's visits are fleeting, leaving his host with a need to incinerate the kitchen table or determine how many toenails it takes to asphyxiate a twenty-two year old man. Roughly speaking, of course, since one wasn't taking size or breath support into factor, and excluding any other outlying issues…
John, though grateful that his previously wasted toenails were now going to good use, still hopes to never again see them shoved up the nose of a dismembered head with the blunt end of a pen. And he used to think that opening the refrigerator to a blank stare had been bad.
The second time that John catches Sherlock sleeping is roughly two hours before his alarm is due to go off. This time he's in his own bed, crammed against the wall, sheets and blankets tangled about his legs. He can still see the blinding sun and scouring sand of the desert, still hears the gunshots and smells the blood, and it takes a few minutes before he's able to open his eyes. He's hoping to see the crumpled expanse of bed, to see the slightly cluttered bedside table and the almost clear floor of his room. He's not expecting to see Sherlock's face, only a few inches away, eyes closed and mouth slack. So he thinks he can be excused when his hands shoot out and Sherlock is nearly sent tumbling off the edge of the bed.
"Christ, Sherlock…" John sits up, pulls a disoriented Sherlock back into the middle of the bed, then collapses against the sweat-soaked pillows, one hand rubbing the skin on either side of his eyes, the other massaging the back of Sherlock's neck, working at calming himself down. It's been weeks- nearly a month- since the last bad dream. John's not sure if it's because he's running around London and wearing himself out, or if his somewhat regular hours at the surgery are to blame, but either way he's happy. Personally, he suspects Sherlock's presence has helped more than anything else.
Sherlock sprawls against the sheets without a word, eyes sliding nearly shut. They lay in companionable silence for another seven minutes, before Sherlock's phone announces the time to the world from its place on the pillow top. John's still wound up enough to send it across the room. Or at least he attempts it: instead, it bounces down the bed, stopping next to Sherlock's foot.
"Really, John-" Sherlock begins before his eyes have even opened. His nose is buried in the blankets, one arm tucked awkwardly against John's ribs. It's too much, to be mocked with the sounds of death still reverberating inside his head, and John contemplates pushing him off the edge again. Instead, he shoves the blankets off and rolls across Sherlock's back. Tea, he decides as he stomps away from the bed. Tea, and then crap morning telly, and maybe by the time he has to go to the surgery he'll feel almost human.
By the time Sherlock emerges from the bedroom, John's standing at the stove, fingers tapping sporadically as the electric kettle whooshes and ticks and prepares to start boiling. He can see Sherlock pick up his violin and winces, preparing himself for an onslaught of tortured cat-gut. Instead, Sherlock plays- actually plays, for once- and John finds himself lost in lilting Celtic melodies and jaunty folk tunes. By the time he's finished making his tea, the buzz beneath his skin has quieted, and he doesn't even twitch when Sherlock dips suddenly while swaying to the music.
John's totally forgotten about finding Sherlock curled up beside him when he leaves for work. The memory comes, inexplicably, when he's staring down the bronchial-riddled throat of an elderly man, just after noon. Sherlock's slack mouth and closed eyes hovers at the edge of John's vision for the rest of the day. When he gets home, Sherlock pulls him right back out the door to visit the docks in search of a pub that's near a laundry mat and a bakery in search of a murderer. John can't figure out how to bring it up, how to apologize or ask when Sherlock had climbed into his bed without invoking bad memories, and so he remains silent.
The third time is blatantly more obvious than the others, even to someone as 'dull' as John. Usually, right after a case is over, Sherlock moves around the apartment, unable to settle down for more than a few minutes. John will put on a movie or watch telly, and Sherlock will light on the sofa beside him for a few minutes, before predicting the end of the movie, derision practically dripping from him lips. He particularly hates the characters, and John suspects it's because he can't get a real reading from them. They have half of their own, natural characteristics, and half of the actors' own personalities, and Sherlock probably can't get enough of a grasp on which is which to make his usual dramatic deductions.
This time, Sherlock pauses beside the sofa, fingers twitching against the pockets of his threadbare robe. John's curled up against the armrest, feet tucked up under the comforter he's pulled down the stairs from his room. The cold has begun to seep into the flat skulking across the floors and burrowing into John's bones. Tomorrow, he'll ask Mrs. Hudson about the heat. For now, he's content to burrow under a few blankets and loose himself in mundane TV shows. "Something on?" he asks, already reaching for the remote. Often, during these lulls, Sherlock will pull him to his bedroom, or straddle him on the couch. Hypersexual when off a case, asexual when on one, Sherlock's libido is as extreme as the rest of him.
Sherlock shakes his head, then climbs over John's legs, burrowing under the blanket. John stretches out his legs to make room, and Sherlock ends up wedged between John's calves and the back of the sofa, head pillowed against John's hip. He wriggles, reaches under the blanket, and pulls his phone free of the heavy fabric (John's hoping it came from a pocket in the robe).
John buries his hand in Sherlock's curls, twisting the strands around his fingers and dragging his nails lightly against Sherlock's scalp, and gets a quiet sigh. John settles back into the couch, and goes back to his program, warily waiting for the exasperated deductions to begin. When ten minutes have passed with no such remarks, John twists around to glance down at Sherlock's prone form, only to find he's passed out, breath ghosting against John's stomach. John stills, barely daring to breathe, and waits until the abysmal alarm chimes, and Sherlock opens his eyes again.
This time, John has no intention of letting Sherlock wander back to his experiments without an explanation. He mutes the television and twists around, using his weight to trap Sherlock against the sofa. "That," he announces, "was sleeping."
Sherlock sighs, and stretches under John. "Yes, John. Congratulations: all those years in medical school have obviously not gone to waste." The stretch transforms into a squirm as he attempts to extricate himself from under John.
John ignores the sarcasm- Sherlock's usual first line of defense whenever he's tired/uncertain/angry/sad/happy/speaking/awake- and settles his weight a bit more solidly across Sherlock's hips. The roll and stretch of muscle beneath cotton is distracting, in an entirely pleasant way. "Thank you. Now explain."
Sherlock sighs again, and goes still. "Obviously, when I said 'I don't sleep,' I was exaggerating. Everyone sleeps, John- as a doctor, you should know this."
"Quit pulling the doctor excuse. You spouted a whole line about transport and weakness, and then hid in your room for two days." Sherlock had, too. Of course, John had spent about half of each day stuck in the surgery. When he'd come home to finally see Sherlock in the kitchen, attempting to blow up a toaster from the nineteen-fifties, John hadn't asked any questions.
"Hyperbole," Sherlock said, and renewed his earlier attempts to get free. "And if I'd know I'd have to personally relive the Spanish Inquisition on the sofa, I wouldn't have slept in here this time."
"If you're tired enough to sleep, then just do so," John said quietly, firmly. It's a tone he's learned Sherlock listens to, even if he disregards whatever advice John's offered at the moment. "Unless there's a reason you're only sleeping for a few minutes at a time- do you have bad dreams? Worried about Moriarty?"
Sherlock's gaze darkens at the name, and John bites his tongue. They still hadn't caught him, and the resulting silence was almost taunting to Sherlock. John sits up, swinging a leg across Sherlock's stomach as he runs through other options. Could be some run-of-the-mill brand of insomnia, could be something left over from Sherlock's drug years. And then it could be related to John's own sleep problems, the nightmares and images from the war that had wormed their way so deep that even own mind couldn't escape.
Something of his thoughts must show on his face, because the irritation seeps out of Sherlock's expression, and he lifts his hands to John's thighs, rubbing at the tension there. "It's not insomnia, John. It's a choice. I'm polyphasic. Uberman schedule."
John can break the words down enough to understand what they mean, but other than that he's lost. Sherlock sighs again. "I sleep several times a day, for short bursts. My brain goes directly into REM sleep, and I don't have to waste time getting there."
Of course, Sherlock would optimize his sleep patterns. "How long?" John asks wearily, already dreading the answer.
Sherlock perks up instantly, the same bright expression he gets whenever he thinks someone else might understand what he's saying. "Per day? Two hours, spread out in twenty minute increments. Six separate naps."
"Sherlock..." John closes his eyes, and breathes in deeply. Thwacking his lover over the head will not help the situation. Though it might send Sherlock into a real nap.
"It's perfectly safe, John," Sherlock insists, sitting up as much as John's legs will let him. His hands are still tracing the lines of John's thighs, fingertips delving into the muscles, searching, massaging, measuring.
"If it's so safe, then why are you hiding it?"
Sherlock makes a face, and falls back onto the sofa. "You saw your own reaction, John. I'm currently being pinned for sleeping: who knows what you would have done when you realized that I didn't sleep."
"I'm not pinning you for sleeping," John snaps. "I'm pinning you for running off every time I bring it up."
Sherlock's eyebrows raise. "Does this mean you're going to do this whenever I disappear from a crime scene because you're too slow? For working when you're at the surgery? When I don't clean my plate?"
And, despite how inappropriate it all is- Sherlock, behaving like an experimenting college student, his flippant remarks aimed purely for distraction- the idea of force-feeding broccoli on the sofa is just the thing to smother the low amount of tension between them. John begins to giggle. Sherlock's face relaxes into his own, tiny smile.
From then on, Sherlock stops hiding when he goes to sleep. Sometimes he'll tell a cabbie a certain route to their destination, designed for a twenty minute period of uninterrupted sleep. Then he sits, as though staring out his window, head rolling against the pane of glass. Other times he'll simply lay down on the settee, with his head in John's lap. He'll come upstairs for brief moments after John's gone to bed and curl up against John's back. And he'll separate from Lestrade and his cronies at crime scenes to sit in a chair, forehead propped up by his hands, still for once in his life. Donovan will ask, sigh, and eventually fall back on her diagnoses of 'freak.' John will nod serenely, sip on a cup of tea, and wait until Sherlock's phone chimes.