(AN: This is kind of a different way of writing for me (lots of fluff), so I was a little scared to post it. This is supposed to be set a couple of weeks after my version of 'A Study in Pink'. Anyway, here goes!)
I tread cautiously down the steps into the kitchen. While I know my father almost never sleeps during a case, I know that John, who is a light sleeper, has been working long hours lately and could use some rest. My insomnia, which used to cause me only minimal trouble when trying to go to sleep, has now progressed to the point where it takes me hours to fall asleep every night, and even then it is fitful. I awaken, covered with sweat, from recurring nightmares. I don't know all of what happens, but I have a vague feeling they're all the same. In any case, I haven't been sleeping lately, and I don't exactly want to.
I open the refrigerator to get a glass of juice, but instead I am met with the sight of a jar containing several fingers. Morbidly interested, I glance at the top to see a label with the words 'post-mortem strength' scrawled on it with my dad's familiar messy handwriting.
"Sorry. Could have sworn I put those in the experiment fridge. Old habits, I suppose," a quiet voice says from behind me. I'm a little surprised by this statement from my dad not only because I did not know he was here, but because it was completely unsolicited. When I first came to stay with John and him, I was… unnerved, to say the least, whenever I looked in various places in the kitchen expecting to find food and instead finding some of his more grotesque works-in-progress. After much nagging from me, he finally invested in a cooling unit he keeps in his room so that we don't have body parts and apple juice sharing an assigned place.
"Um, it's okay." I glance behind me and see that he has set up "base" in the living room. Various papers and files litter the floor in what I'm sure he considers an organized manner. "Working on cold cases?" He nods. I pour my juice. We are both silent, but it's not an uncomfortable silence. I think that both of us are content to speak only when we really have something to say. Glancing around the living room, I make a quick decision. It's obvious that I'm not going to sleep anytime soon. Maybe I could learn something from watching my dad go through these cases. It's better than lying in bed counting sheep.
Having thus decided, I grab a blanket and seat myself on the end of the couch Dad is not occupying. I watch him flip through files for several minutes, a look of intense concentration on his face, occasionally muttering to himself. He does nothing to acknowledge my presence for a long time, and I am trying to deduce exactly what sort of case he is solving when he says suddenly,
"Why aren't you in bed?" I jump, having grown accustomed to the silence broken only by the rustles of pages and the occasional murmuring.
"I, uh, can't sleep." Without looking up, he responds,
"I know that I don't rest on a normal schedule, but I was under the vague impression that children need at least seven hours a night."
"I'm not a child," comes the automatic, irritable response. It's not often he compares me to a child, but when he does, I am every bit as resentful as your typical stubborn teenager. He looks up at me and frowns, as if he's suddenly noticed something he doesn't exactly like. "What is it?" I ask a moment later. I'm expecting him to tell me to go away or at least scold me, but instead he leans in closer, brow pinched.
"When's the last time you had a full night's sleep?" I shrug. This isn't really a conversation I want to have right now.
"A couple of nights ago," I say untruthfully. His gaze doesn't waver.
"The truth." I hate that he always knows when I am lying. I sigh.
"Alright, maybe it's been a bit longer." He waits. I twist my hands in my lap uncomfortably. Why do I have the feeling I'm being interrogated like one of his suspects? "Okay, fine. Uh… Remember 'A Study in Pink'?" He gives me a curt nod, indicating his distaste for John's blog. "Well, it was right before we started that." His eyes widen, and I feel a brief surge of pleasure at having momentarily surprised him as he says,
"But that was two weeks ago. Even I've slept since then!" I roll my eyes.
"I never said I hadn't slept, Dad. I said I hadn't slept a full night." As if he already knows the answer, he asks in a resigned tone,
"How much have you been getting since then?" I give him a wry grin.
"Two or three hours, fitfully. There were a couple nights I had five," I say cheekily. He looks at me, and he just seems a bit disappointed.
"You need sleep, Sadie," he says softly. "Even you can't go forever." I shake my head.
"No, but I can last a good bit longer," I say stubbornly. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair.
"Sadie, what's got you upset?" I shake my head, unwilling to tell him. I don't want him to call me a child for being afraid of nightmares, or worse, think I'm weak. "Is it something I've said?" I chuckle. I like to joke that you need an eighth layer of skin to live in this flat because Dad is so blunt, but lately he really has tried to be more conscious of the things he says, at least to me and John.
"No, Dad, it's nothing you've said. I don't even know exactly what it is." He looks at me, considering.
"Is it a nightmare?" My silence is all he needs to confirm his suspicions. He immediately gets up and goes into the kitchen. Not knowing what else to do, I stay perched on the couch. Is he angry with me? Is he done talking and is now moving to work in another room? No, I can see from here he's… making tea? I didn't even know he could make tea. I mean, one would think it was an elemenary skill to learn, but you never know when it comes to my Dad... He comes back after a couple minutes with a cup, which he places in my hands. "Drink." I sniff it suspiciously. I would not put it past him to put something in my drink to make me sleep. I dip a finger in experimentally and taste it. It tastes and smells normal, but…
"Oh, for-! It's just tea, Sadie. See?" He snatches the cup from me and takes a big gulp, not even wincing as he takes a sip of liquid that I know is considerably hot.
"All right, all right," I concede, taking the cup back from him. I take a sip and lean back, preparing myself for the inevitable conversation. I have never once in my life been offered tea outside of meals without someone wanting to talk to me, and my dad is no exception.
"Would you like to talk about the nightmares?" he asks, his tone as light as if we were merely discussing the weather. I shake my head.
"Dad, I thought we had an agreement. We keep the touchy-feely stuff to a minimum." He almost grins. Almost.
"Yes, but when the repression of said 'touchy-feely stuff' has kept you from sleeping properly for the last two weeks, then it becomes necessary." I frown because he's got me beat.
"Okay, fine. I don't know how they start. But they always ends with someone- I don't know what they look like- holding a gun to your head. And somehow, I always know it's Moriarty." He takes a deep breath in, considering.
"You're worried about me." It's a statement, not a question.
"Well, you're not exactly cautious when you deal with murderers and the like."
"Pot calling the kettle black," he mutters.
"Where do you think I get it from?" I ask, only half-mockingly.
"'Do as I say, not as I do'," he quips. I roll my eyes.
"Don't be normal. It doesn't suit you." He smiles.
"No, it doesn't," he agrees. I look at him seriously, suddenly remembering how this conversation started.
"Do you know that every time you walk out of that door on a case and you don't let me come with you, I worry that I won't ever see you again?" All trace of humor is wiped from his face as he says softly,
"No, I didn't." I look down at my lap. I haven't been this open with anyone since my mother died. But then his hand cups my chin, forcing me to look up at him. "I didn't know about your concerns for me. And I'm sorry you've been so worried. But you know I can't stop my work." I jerk away from him, and instantly regret it when I see a flash of what might be hurt in his eyes, if he were anyone else.
"I know you can't stop. I enjoy the work too, remember? All I'm saying is… I wish you would be more careful. You've really scared me lately." He looks at me thoughtfully and nods.
"If you will start sleeping at night, I will try to be more careful. All right?" I narrow my eyes, determining the validity of his offer. After a moment, I nod.
"All right, I'll try," I concede. He nods and smirks.
"Now, off to bed with you. It is long past any sort of decent hour for teenagers to go to sleep." I scrunch my nose. Now that I have been up and been looking at the case files, the idea of sleep doesn't sound as appealing.
"But I'm not tired now, Dad. That's why I came to watch you," I protest. He laughs.
"I highly doubt that. I'm willing to bet when you go up there, you'll be out within fifteen minutes," he predicts.
"Hm, well, guess we'll never know," I say breezily, moving to relax back on the couch.
"Uh-huh," he says firmly. "None of that. It's time for you to sleep." I sigh long-sufferingly.
"But I can't possibly sleep when I know you're down here solving cases without me," I argue, appealing to his love of deduction.
"I'll leave them for you to look over in the morning," he replies unwaveringly.
"Half an hour more," I bargain.
"No."
"Will you take me with you tomorrow?" He looks at me, frowning slightly.
"Are you manipulating me?"
"Yes." I grin. "Is it working?" He rolls his eyes.
"Maybe I should have put a sedative in your tea." I know he's joking, and he knows I know it, but it's enough to spur me off the couch.
"Oh, all right," I huff. I'm not really angry, but I can't just do what he says. He might start to expect it.
"Good night, Sadie," he says exasperatedly. I smile innocently.
"Good night, Dad."
When I go to bed that night, I sleep peacefully with no nightmares.