Okay, another 5+1 story, an idea of which came into existence thanks to prompts by wonderful Nychta. Thank you, darling, and I'm taking all six of them, by the way :)

Speaking of which... The first prompt is "Insomnia".

And of course, a customary 'thank you' to my amazing beta, Pilikia18.

As Detective Inspector Lestrade once said, Sherlock Holmes is a great man. But Doctor John Watson knows just one more little thing for certain: he has no need to wait for Sherlock to become a good one.

This life and this world shaped Sherlock to be the man he is – sometimes cruel, sometimes condescending, but nevertheless astonishingly brilliant and painfully fragile.

John sees it, hears it, and feels it in Sherlock's gestures and words, and even in the way he breathes.

John Watson isn't as ordinary as it may seem. Those who bother to look closer – Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes, and more importantly, Sherlock himself – know that for certain. And while John is perfectly capable of being stern, stubborn, and strict, he's also the most caring, gentle, and sympathetic person in the world.

But there's one quality in John which only Sherlock is aware of, having experienced it firsthand. Neither of two men is inclined to discuss it so it's doubtful that it will be a conversation topic someday. There's a silent agreement, forged under the cover of the night and therefore kept secret from the rest of the world. But from time to time, when the pressure becomes too much to bear, forcing Sherlock's brain to go into overload and causing insomnia, the dark-haired genius sneaks into his flatmate's bedroom and lets John heal him with those amazing hands.

Sherlock remembers perfectly the first time it happened. The case was an interesting one. He always loved this type of case – seemingly simple, but hiding a whole stack of enticing surprises. But it was as difficult as it was interesting, so it required every ounce of Sherlock's vast experience and brainpower.

The world's only consulting detective worked himself into an absolute frenzy: he categorically refused to stop moving even for a second and hadn't paused to eat or sleep while he was wrestling with the case. Almost everything was clear, except for the last small detail; and no matter how hard he tried, the remaining piece of the puzzle kept slipping away.

That was the first time Sherlock ventured into John's bedroom, hoping for any kind of help, but not knowing at all how to ask for it.

John's sleep was very fitful, and the moment Sherlock stopped by his bedside and fixed those weird pale eyes on him, the ex-army medic rolled over and looked at his strange flatmate, blinking in confusion.

"Sherlock?" John rasped, his throat too dry from sleep to speak properly. "What are you doing here? Has something happened?"

Oh, how desperately Sherlock wished at this moment that John could read his mind! But unfortunately, telepathy wasn't one of John's talents, so Sherlock tried to answer as best as he could.

He cradled his head in his hands, pressing the heels of his palms into his temples. "I can't stand it anymore, John. All those thoughts in my head... They are going round and round, and I can't make them stop. It's intolerable."

John slowly sat up in his bed, his worried eyes taking in his friend's ragged appearance. "You're always thinking, Sherlock; that's who you are. So what makes this situation so different?"

The younger man seemed oblivious to his questions, continuing his anguished litany. "I wish I was able to crush my skull, John. It only requires the right amount of pressure, and then it will stop... What's the point in having a brain if it can't give you one simple answer?"

A deafening uproar of alarm bells went off in John's head, and he was out of bed in an instant, switching the lights on and prying Sherlock's hands away from his head.

The tall man flinched, stumbled back, and glared at the sudden intrusion.

The blond doctor raised his hands in placating gesture, then sat down on his bed. "Sorry, Sherlock, didn't mean to startle you. Calm down and take a seat, please."

John's voice was soft and soothing; Sherlock briefly considered his options and, having decided, took a step towards his flatmate's bed and gracefully folded his lanky body into a sitting position.

His friend looked at him searchingly, then a slight smile curved his lips. "I think I can help you, Sherlock. If you trust me, that is."

"Don't be stupid, John," Sherlock murmured, turning slightly to look John straight in the eyes.

"Good," the smaller man made himself comfortable and rubbed his palms together for a few moments. "Face away and lean back. And don't worry, I've got you."

The dark-haired man closed his eyes and did as he was told. John shifted forward, letting his friend's body meld into his, and carefully placed his fingertips on Sherlock's temples. He waited a little, letting Sherlock get used to their proximity, then started massaging his flatmate's head gently, but thoroughly.

Sherlock tensed at first, unaccustomed to being touched in such a way, but the feather-light touches of John's hands on his skull soon brought a pleasant warmth and numbness. Relaxing further, the dark-haired man took a deep breath and suddenly realised that his thoughts were slowing down, slipping away. His head felt light and empty, and he welcomed the new feeling of absolute calm, concentrating on how John's touch felt: stroking through his hair, pressing lightly against his skin, rubbing small circles over his temples. He could swear he even felt his hair catching in microscopic grooves that formed unique patterns of John's fingerprints...

Oh!

Of course!

Sherlock sprang up from the bed with lightning speed, startling John, and whirled around to smile at him triumphantly.

"Fake fingerprints, John. I've been blind. Thank you," he blurted out, and was gone from the bedroom in a flash.

The ex-army doctor smiled knowingly and started to dress, waiting till the moment Sherlock reappeared in his room, coat and scarf already on.

"Time to go, John, we have a killer to catch," he announced impatiently and threw John his Haversack coat. "Hurry up!"

"Sure thing, Sherlock," John pulled the coat on and buttoned it swiftly. "But I want to tell you something before we leave."

The tall man raised his eyebrow questioningly.

"If it happens again, feel free to barge in immediately, Sherlock," John said quietly. "It will definitely save us a meaningful sum of money."

With that, the ex-army medic breezed past his flatmate, whose eyebrows made a brief leap towards hairline.

Intrigued, the detective caught up with his blogger on the stairs. "I beg your pardon?"

"The hydraulic press, Sherlock," John deadpanned. "Don't tell me you hadn't considered buying one."

The tall man stopped, grinned, and shook his head.

"Who needs one when peer pressure suffices?"