The first time it happened, Holmes was completely at a loss to understand what had happened or how he had come to be there. He had emerged slowly from a deep, exhausted sleep to find himself curled up upon the settee, his head resting upon Watson's thigh, both arms flung loosely around the good doctor's waist; Watson's hand rested gently upon his shoulder. Holmes had blinked up at Watson, a look of baffled confusion upon his face; Watson had simply smiled reassuringly, patted him slightly awkwardly then sent him off to his own bed. They did not speak of it the next morning.
It was a while before it happened again. This time, it happened shortly after the conclusion of a stressful case in which Holmes had nearly drowned in the weir up by Camden Lock. The following morning Holmes woke suddenly from clinging dreams of dark weed twining around his wrists and throat, and slick wood upon which his fingers could find no purchase before the slimy foul waters dragged him down again; he woke with a gasp, staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling, for a moment not realising where he was. It took a few moments to realise he was in Watson's room. In Watson's bed. Cuddled up to a warm, peacefully sleeping Watson. He sat up suddenly, shocked; he silently disentangled himself from the doctor then fled silently from the room to the sanctuary of his own bedchamber where he closed the door and locked it behind himself before running his long fingers through his sleep-disarrayed hair, aghast. After a while he slipped between the cold sheets of his own bed and tried to sleep again.
He did not breathe a word of the nocturnal occurrence to Watson, ever.
He had never been prone to sleep-walking before; of that, he was certain. He could not fathom this strange behaviour, nor why his unconscious self should have sought out Watson in this way. He could only assume that his near-drowning experience had discomposed his normal confidence and led him to seek out the only available source of comfort whilst he was not in conscious control of his body. He trusted that it would not happen again.
And indeed it did not for several months, until Watson went away for a few days at the behest of an old Army chum. Holmes was not unduly bothered by the separation; he had a case at hand which he was intent upon that would require all his concentration and time in any case, and it was unlikely he would even notice Watson's absence. Or so he told himself as Watson departed.
He studiously ignored how empty their rooms seemed even before the waiting hansom drew away with the good doctor. The days would pass quickly; of that he was certain.
And indeed the days passed much as he had supposed they would; the case progressed apace and came to the usual successful conclusion the very morning Watson was due to return. Holmes was in a rare good humour that day as a result; he went out for a good lunch at Simpson's, then attended a delightful violin recital that afternoon by way of celebration. He walked home instead of opting for a cab, his footsteps light and his mood content for once as he leapt up the seventeen steps to the sitting room. Watson had not returned, so he entertained himself with essaying a few of the delightful airs he had heard that afternoon on his Stradivarius. He slowly nodded off in his chair by the fire, cradling his violin to his narrow chest as his head lowered, drifting into a profound slumber. The bow dropped from sleeping fingers to lie unheeded beside his chair as silence filled the room.
He was still deeply asleep when Watson finally returned a couple of hours later. The doctor smiled fondly down at his sleeping friend. Gently picking up the bow, he carefully lifted the violin free from the limp arm that cradled it, and placed bow and violin back in their case. Holmes slept on, insensate. Watson fetched a blanket and draped it over him, tucking it in; Holmes sighed and murmured something in his sleep, stirring restlessly before settling into stillness once more. Watson took his valise through to his room, then returned to sit in his favourite chair and smoke his pipe awhile, watching the sleeping face of the detective.
After a little while, a curious thing happened. Holmes' long, aquiline nose twitched as the pipe smoke reached his sensitive nostrils, and he muttered something incoherent; his fingers twitched then closed spasmodically upon the edge of the blanket. His eyelids fluttered briefly then settled again; he sighed and murmured Watson's name. He appeared to be dreaming; and then he sat up suddenly, his eyes flying wide open. Watson opened his mouth to speak but then paused; his friend's gaze was blank and glassy. He seemed to stare into space for a moment, then slid to his knees upon the rug, the blanket falling aside unheeded. As Watson watched, curious, Holmes swayed for a moment, then fell forward onto his hands and began to crawl towards him. "Holmes?" whispered Watson, leaning forward to lay a hand on his friend's shoulder. Holmes pulled himself up on the arm of Watson's chair, then awkwardly sagged down into a semi-sitting position. With a small sigh, he pillowed his arms upon Watson's knees, and then lowered his head to rest upon them. Slowly his weight grew heavier and he slumped down as he passed back into a deeper sleep.
Watson frowned; he was effectively trapped by the sleeping Holmes, but he knew all too well how rare it was that his friend was able to sleep as peacefully as this and was unwilling to disturb him. Sighing, Watson reached and grabbed the poker from beside the fireplace; with a bit of effort, he was able to use it to hook the blanket and drag it towards him. He carefully draped it around the sleeping Holmes, then sat back and puffed thoughtfully upon his pipe.
About an hour later, Holmes stirred again, whuffling slightly into the blanket before suddenly jerking upright and away from Watson's legs, startled. "Easy, old chap!" Watson soothed, patting a bony shoulder. Holmes blinked, bewildered, catching at the blanket as it slipped down from his shoulders.
"Watson! But what - how...?" His voice tailed off. He frowned, glancing around. "My apologies, old boy; I seem to have dropped off whilst I awaited your return, though I cannot account for how I came to be here; I am certain I was sitting in my own chair."
"Sleep walking, old cock; think nothing of it," replied Watson.
"I don't sleep-walk," replied Holmes, his tone one of distraction. "Or at least, I don't think I do..."
"Are you alright, Holmes?" asked Watson.
"Of course I am, why wouldn't I be?" snapped Holmes as he launched himself to his feet and began to pace the room.
"You seem -" began Watson but got no further as Holmes threw up his hands in vexation.
"I am fine, I tell you!" He turned on his heel and stalked off to his room, the stiffness of his spine and the set of his shoulders speaking eloquently of the discomfort he'd disavowed.
Perplexed, Watson sat back and pondered a while. After a while he rose, walked over to his bookcase, and extracted his old folder of case notes from his days in medical school. Hefting it thoughtfully, he retired to his bedroom.
As he closed the door behind himself, Holmes dropped his face into his hands and slumped against the door, sliding down it until he sat upon the floor. He was at a loss to explain it. He had never been prone to sleep-walking in the past; why should he begin now? And yet it seemed that was indeed what must have happened, for it was plain Watson had, at least on this occasion, witness him do precisely that. He thought back on the previous occasions he recalled, and wondered anew. The first such time - well,perhaps he had merely misremembered where he had fallen asleep. The second, though; how aware had Watson been? Certainly the good doctor had been asleep when Holmes had awakened next to him - but had he been asleep when Holmes had somehow stumbled into his room in the grip of some unconscious, somnambulistic impulse?
And why did he seem to continuously seek Watson out in such fashion? He had never before craved such close physical affection for another, at least not consciously. It was intolerable to think he might be imposing such physical intimacy upon his good friend, regardless of the equanimity with which Watson dealt with it. He, Holmes, was not comfortable with it - with this seeming betrayal of his own body!
What could be done? Knowing what had been happening, he was loath to allow it to continue. He would lock his bedroom door tonight, and each night hereafter. He could not impose himself upon Watson if he could not leave his bedchamber.
And for a while, this seemed to work. There were no further episodes in which he awakened in some other place than he had fallen asleep in, and he did not find himself embracing the person of his dear friend again. Watson regarded him curiously a few mornings, but Holmes refused to be drawn into discussion of the subject, deliberately changing the subject every time Watson tried to bring it up.
And then one morning Homes awoke to find himself snuggled up against Watson again,in Watson's bed. Somehow he had unlocked the door in his sleep. The key in the lock no longer sufficed. Horrified, Holmes had fled back to his own room, unheeding of the look of hurt in Watson's eyes as he was abandoned again.
The next night, he handcuffed one wrist to the bedstead.