John sighed and rolled over. He was still tired, still felt the grip of sleep dragging down his ankles and the edges of his mind. Perhaps a few more hours. Yes, he would grab a few more hours before moving. He pushed his face into his pillow and curled his back. Only to bump into something solid behind him.
Gasping and wide-awake, he spun, twisting the sheets around him. His breathing hitched and he was about to reach for his gun, hidden safely and within reach in his bedside table, before he recognized the dark mass of curls and deep blue dressing gown.
"Jesus," he hissed. He ran a hand over his face, forcing himself to breathe deeply. He felt his heartbeat slow, his lungs aching with his sudden surge to wakefulness. "Sherlock!"
"Mmmm."
John groaned and untwisted himself from the sheets, Sherlock's weight on top of them making it difficult.
"What the hell are you doing?" He didn't get a reply.
Finally in control of his breath, he sat up and leaned back against the headboard. He could see the slow rise and fall of Sherlock's side, his ribs standing out against his dressing gown. He was curled up in a ball, back to John and knees tucked up nearly to his chin; silk wrapped tightly around him. John could only see part of his face, buried as it was in the crook of an elbow, but he could tell the detective was fast asleep. Fast asleep and in John's bed. He really needed to give that personal space lecture one more time.
"Sherlock," he said. He lightly pushed Sherlock's shoulder. The motion rocked Sherlock's entire body but he didn't seem to wake.
"No, Mycroft," Sherlock mumbled.
"Sherlock!" John tried again, louder.
"I don't want to get rid of him," Sherlock whined. Whined. Oh God. He was dreaming. Not only had John caught the famous 'rest-is-for-the-weak' detective sleeping, he'd caught him dreaming. About Mycroft. Quietly as he could, John reached for his phone, desperately trying to remember where the video button was. Successfully finding it, John waited until the light went green before replying, trying not to laugh too loudly.
"Get rid of who?" he asked, slowly shifting his weight around so he had a better view.
"You know who," Sherlock replied in a voice John could only recognize as that of a bratty ten-year-old. John sniggered into his elbow. He hoped there was enough light from the streetlamps outside to see Sherlock's face.
"Remind me," John said.
"Birdy," Sherlock said, voice petulant.
"Birdy?"
"My bird, Mycroft." Even in sleep his voice held the same 'isn't-it-obvious' tone as wakefulness.
"You know we can't keep a bird in the house, Sherlock," John said. He bit his tongue, stomach aching as he tried to keep his laughter from shaking the bed.
"But he can stay on the ship."
"What ship?"
"My pirate ship."
Oh God. Oh, this couldn't get any better. John slapped a hand over his mouth, trembling with laughter. 'Initially, he wanted to be a pirate.' Apparently so.
"Lestrade is going to die," John laughed, trying to keep his voice quiet but unable to control his shaking body. He bit his lip, scooting backwards so as not to wake Sherlock. The detective rolled over and John froze. He waited, silent, before letting out a breath. Sherlock was still asleep, hair a mess about his face. He looked so…normal. Granted, he looked much more put together than most people did in the dead of night, tucked up as he was, but the harsh severity of his face was softened. John imagined this was due in part to the fact that he couldn't see the searing blue gaze.
Sherlock mumbled something but it was too quiet for John to catch. He waited, keeping his phone on, but Sherlock didn't stir.
"We can't keep Birdy," John prodded, hoping to get another minute or two recorded for the next time he found a severed head in the fridge.
"Don't go."
Not the reply he was hoping for. John paused. Sherlock's tone was completely different now. It was softer, no longer whiny. It was scared.
"Sherlock," he said, unsure what the detective was dreaming about now. He had a feeling it was no longer parrots and pirate ships.
"I want to go with you. Don't leave me here."
John opened his mouth, unsure if he should reply. He watched Sherlock's forehead crease, dark brows pinching together.
"Don't go!" Sherlock said, his voice louder. And sad. So, so sad.
"Sherlock," John said. He looked down to find his hand on the thin shoulder. He didn't know what to do. He wanted to wake him up, to save him from the nightmare he was no doubt having, but he knew Sherlock would hate to be found out like that. Hate for anyone to know that he was just as human as the rest of them. Well, maybe not just as human, but just as susceptible. And certainly just as damaged.
"Mycroft, please."
Jesus.
John didn't know much of the backstory on the Holmes boys. He knew they'd had a privileged childhood. Privileged, but no doubt lacking in affection. It was the only explanation John could think of for the way they were. He knew there were petty rifts between the two, but this was definitely something more. This wasn't current day Sherlock, this was young Sherlock. A Sherlock so young he still desperately needed his big brother. Still wanted him. Was Sherlock dreaming about the day Mycroft left for school?
"I don't want to stay here." The soft voice broke.
Still torn between waking him and letting him sleep, John moved closer, hand still on Sherlock's shoulder.
"I'm sorry," John said, quietly as he could. He didn't know if that would help. He didn't know if that was the right answer or if it would make things worse but he couldn't just leave the nightmare to run its course. As ignorant and rude and complicated to live with as Sherlock was, John couldn't let him suffer from the past when his present was difficult enough.
The lanky body tightened into an impossibly small amount of space, nearly folded into itself. Whimpering slightly, Sherlock shifted closer, burying his nose into John's hip as he slid closer, fingers curling around John's thigh. John froze, hand hovering over thin air now. This was a bit more than he'd expected. But the whimpering stopped. Biting his lip, he slowly lowered his hand back down, petting the dark hair for a second before putting his hand back on the impossibly bony shoulder.
"What the hell am I doing?" he whispered. The room didn't answer.
He blew out a breath. It was silent now, Sherlock breathing quietly and his forehead once again smooth. People would talk. They would so, so talk.
And now he had it all on film.
Shit.
Looking around desperately, he found his phone beneath a fold in the duvet. The green light was still lit up and he quickly stopped the video and locked the screen.
What the hell had happened? He'd woken in the middle of the night to find Sherlock in his bed. But he'd woken to the detective in his room before. The first time he'd nearly punched him in the nose.
"What the fuck are you doing?" he'd demanded when he woke up to find Sherlock, quietly sitting in a chair at the foot of his bed, rapidly typing on the dimmed laptop before him on the fifth night after John had moved in.
"Experiment," Sherlock had replied, looking up only once before going back to his screen.
The second time had been two months into John's living at 221B. He'd found Sherlock sitting at the end of his bed like a goddam puppy, simply watching John sleep, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
"I don't know what you normally do at night," John had snarled. "But this is not an option."
"It's an experiment."
"I don't give a fuck. Get. Out."
And he'd sent Sherlock out of the room looking rather more dejected and angry than he had a right to be.
After the third time (that he'd known about) last month, John had bought new locks for his door. Those, apparently, were not enough to stop Sherlock. Even a sleepwalking Sherlock. Well, shit.
"Mmm."
John looked down, slightly uncomfortable with just how okay he was with Sherlock nuzzling his thigh. He wasn't gay. He would tell every single person who would listen. And those who wouldn't. But this. God only knew why, but he was somehow okay with this.
Something to think about later. He nodded, reassuring himself.
Right. So Sherlock had somehow picked the lock on John's door in his sleep, wandered in having a dream about being a pirate, and ended up completely terrified about being abandoned by his big brother. And somehow being close to John made it better.
No, it wasn't him. The dream had just run its course. John had nothing to do with it.
Right.
Nothing at all.
It was just Sherlock being Sherlock and God only knew what went on in that brain.
Right.
So.
What to do now.
The last thing he wanted was for Sherlock to wake up with them like this. It would be the death of them both. If it was possible to die of embarrassment. Yes, they'd both be mortified if Sherlock woke up now. Though the detective would probably pretend it was nothing, John would know. They would both know and never talk about it and it would follow them around, sitting in the flat with them and stagnating like the severed foot John had found on the worktop last Thursday.
So he would just go back to sleep. Go back to sleep and pray Sherlock would be gone by the time he woke up. Yes. He could pretend nothing had happened. He would simply turn a blind eye to the whole thing. Sherlock wouldn't dare breathe a word. He probably wouldn't even remember. Maybe he would be embarrassed to wake up in John's bed and not say a thing. Yes, that would work.
But in order to go to sleep—or at least convincingly fake it, as John was positive he'd never be able to actually sleep with Sherlock in his bed—he would have to lie down. Sitting up against the headboard as he was, he would have to very carefully extract himself from the sleeping detective. He bit his lip, lifting the hand he hadn't realized was still gently rubbing Sherlock's shoulder. Slowly. He'd have to move very slowly.
Carefully, he began wiggling, trying to grip the mattress with his heels and pull himself down. He'd managed a few inches, Sherlock's face now resting near John's ribs, when the detective took a heavy breath. John froze, panicking. What the hell would he do? Pretend he was asleep half sitting? There was no way. Sherlock had no doubt catalogued every sleeping position he'd found John in and this was not one of them. He'd be able to tell. He was always able to tell. The noise from the street faded away and John's entire being concentrated on Sherlock, just waiting for his eyes to open. But a moment passed and Sherlock did nothing more than unconsciously flex his fingers. Waiting a moment more, John finally sighed, letting out his breath as the rush of noise he'd been holding at bay flooded his ears.
Still asleep. Thank God.
Wiggling his way down the mattress once more, John managed a horizontal position within a few minutes. He blew out a grateful breath and thanked whoever was listening before beginning to slide to the right, away from Sherlock. He didn't mind their proximity, as much as he hated to admit it, there seemed to be little difference to his body between being close at crime scenes and being close in his bed. Yes, he'd definitely deal with that thought later. He didn't want Sherlock, not like that. But he was probably a bit too comfortable with the lack of personal space. Still, he wanted to make Sherlock's morning retreat as easy and plausible as possible.
Sherlock however, didn't seem too keen on the idea. Before John had managed to move two inches, long fingers reached out, grabbing at the hem of his t-shirt. John stopped again, looking between the pale hands and face. The detective was definitely still asleep. And reaching out unconsciously? John could only imagine the look of mortification on Sherlock's face if he ever realized his body betrayed him in sleep. He could go on and on about his not needing friends, but his sleeping form told a different story.
Not sure if he should continue his migration across the mattress or wait for Sherlock to let go, John waited, careful to keep his arms folded across his chest and away from his sides. No need to add any more fuel to the already blazing fire of confusion in his brain. No, he wasn't confused. Irritated. That was it. He was simply irritated. And lonely. There was no other explanation. His body just craved the heat of another and, since Sherlock had chased away the latest of John's girlfriends over a month ago, it had been a while since he'd been so close to one. The fact that this one was male and his flatmate didn't seem to matter all that much.
Sherlock, as if reading him, moved closer. His fingers were still twisted around John's shirt and his cheek was now resting on John's left shoulder. Good God. And, were John not frazzled enough, Sherlock hummed in his sleep, the noise deep and rippling through his chest, close enough for John to feel.
Now what?
What the hell was the normal reaction to one's flatmate invading one's bed and sleeping on one's shoulder. Of course, that would imply that normal people did such things and John knew perfectly well they did not. This was Sherlock. And John would be damned if there had ever been a guidebook written about living with him.
No, that, it seemed, was John's job.
For a second, he hoped Sherlock would roll over again, curl up on his left side and leave John be, but the longer he waited for it, the more comfortable the slight weight on his shoulder came to be. It wasn't as if the detective was splayed out across his chest. He was just close. Much closer than normal, but not obnoxiously so. No, it was just a comforting position to ease the remnants of a nightmare. Yes, that had to be it. It was his brain's reaction to the terror. Physical nearness. It was a basic human reaction. Simple. Scientific even. Shit, now he was explaining things away with logic. He really needed to hang out with Stamford more.
Right, well it didn't seem that Sherlock would be moving anytime soon and, despite himself, John felt drowsiness pull at him once again. He'd only managed a few hours of sleep before Sherlock's presence had woken him in a panic. And he really was comfortable, despite the strange body in his bed. It wasn't really all that different than Sarah's or Janette's….just as warm, just as soft…
Feeling closer to sleep by the second, John roused himself enough to grab his phone, forgotten until now beside him on the bed. He quietly scrolled through, finding the video he'd just recorded. He could leave it there as a reminder of Sherlock's human side. It would be good to watch again when he was doubting the detective's heart or furious at his horrid social skills. But then again, it wasn't as if John would soon forget this night. He'd have to pretend to, but that didn't mean he actually would. And he wouldn't be surprised if Sherlock eventually found it. John's varied and numerous computer passwords didn't even seem difficult enough to amuse Sherlock for a moment. There was no way he could rig his phone to present any kind of challenge. True, it was his only upper hand, and Lestrade would have cried from laughing so hard, but maybe…maybe this would be enough of a reminder. He certainly wouldn't forget the sound of pain that had accompanied Sherlock's voice as he begged Mycroft not to leave him or the sound of his whimpering into John's hip.
The fingers at his shirt hem tightened and Sherlock turned his head slightly, rubbing his nose into John's shoulder before sighing. John looked over, unable to stop the slight warmth in his chest at the sight of Sherlock's softened features and cloud of dark curls. It was just normal, brotherly fondness. That was it. Nothing more. Definitely nothing more.
His finger found the delete button moments before he descended into sleep.