Author's Note: A drabble that developed into something resembling a full fic. This is what I do instead of sleep. Characters to not belong to me, etc. etc.
Hope you enjoy!
The bed was empty with nothing but cold sheets on the other side. It hurt John to wake up without Sherlock next to him. Sherlock couldn't sleep without John by his side. John wouldn't accept that Sherlock was never coming back; Sherlock wouldn't give up fighting to get home.
Without You Next To Me
John rolled over in bed, expecting his arm to flop onto a warm body. Instead he found cold sheets. Forcing his eyes open, if only into a squint, he groaned when he was forced to accept reality; the other half of the bed was empty, had been and would be for a while. This was the hardest part. Waking up alone.
Every morning they were together, John was sure of one thing: Sherlock would be in bed next to him when he woke up. Even if the detective had climbed into bed merely five minutes earlier, he would be there. No matter how much he was working, he would be there. Sometimes he was just sitting on the edge to tell John goodbye before rushing back out. Other times he was lying there, simply staring, but he was there. He memorized John's sleep schedule just so he could be the first thing the doctor saw every morning.
John knew he should be used to it. Sherlock's side hadn't been occupied in over a month. He had tried to get over him, push him out of his mind. He had thought about trying to date again, but could never bring himself to do it. No one compared to Sherlock. He wouldn't stand for someone to take a place that wasn't rightfully theirs.
Turning over onto his stomach, John inhaled deeply. If he tried hard enough he could still smell his boyfriend on the bed. The pillows smelled of his shampoo, the sheets on his side of his body wash, chemicals, sweat, and something indescribable that was purely Sherlock. John kept meaning to change them. In the back of his head he knew keeping sheets that were scented with Sherlock weren't helping at all; just smelling him made all the memories come back. Another part of him screamed that it was all he had left of him. He couldn't let that go.
He hated their bed. He didn't sleep because of the nightmares. When he managed to get any rest, he was reminded of his loneliness when he woke up. John wasn't sure which was worse.
Rousing himself out of bed, John looked around and, just like every other day, thought about relocating to his old room. He wouldn't have so many reminders of Sherlock. Maybe he'd be able to sleep better.
No. He'd always think of Sherlock. He'd always hope that the detective would be in his bed again. The setting wouldn't change that. He would keep hoping for Sherlock's final miracle. Sherlock would come back. He had to.
-x-
Sherlock sat down on the edge of the bed, kicking off his shoes. He hadn't decently slept since he had disappeared. Either he didn't have time or he ended up dreaming of John. Sure he had the occasional nightmare that all his work was for nothing and John had been killed anyway, but they were usually good. And that's why they hurt. John would invade his unconscious mind, get comfortable, and disappear when Sherlock's eyes opened. Sometimes he wondered if the kind doctor was a fabrication because no one could be that perfect, no one could actually make the infamously cold Sherlock Holmes experience 'feelings.'
No, John Watson must be real. John's body next to his, his breathing, the way he stole the blankets – those weren't imagination.
He couldn't sleep without John. He missed having that familiar, comforting warmth next to him. It calmed him down, relaxed his brain. When they were laying next each other Sherlock could quiet everything and focus as their breathing became synonymous. When John was the last thing he saw as his eyelids dropped closed, sleep didn't seem like such a waste of time.
Now he was alone and sleep was a nuisance. But he was fighting to get back to John, to be next to him again. Sherlock glanced at the clock. 1:45 AM Eastern Standard Time. John would've just woken up. Did John miss waking up to him? Had John already replaced him? No, he'd only been gone a month. Would he, though? Would John eventually wake up next to someone else?
Sherlock tried to push the thoughts from his head. He worked hard to recall the rhythm of John's breathing and desperately attempted to calm himself down.
He would fall asleep with John on his side again. One day soon; he swore it.
-x-
John heard something stir in the bedroom. Sitting up and opening his eyes, he was ready to use military training if needed. After his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he noticed a figure by the door that looked strikingly like Sherlock. The shadow froze as if gauging John's reaction. John shrugged and went back to sleep, chalking it up to another cruel dream. Even though the worst of them were gone after a year and a half, the occasional fabricated Sherlock would show up in the night.
He felt the other side of the bed sink down a bit and chuckled to himself. Tonight's dream was exceptionally vivid. When he heard Sherlock whisper, "John, I'm back. I'm so sorry I kept you waiting," he wasn't sure if he wanted to wake up because he knew it wasn't real, or if he wanted to stay asleep and pretend it was. John settled on the second, sure he'd regret it in the morning when Sherlock's side of the bed was empty again.
-x-
Sherlock knew John wasn't coherent, but figured approaching him half asleep would be better than wide awake. He sat on the bed and watched as John fell back to sleep grinning. He tentatively stretched out his hand. John stirred a bit and Sherlock's hand hovered above his head. When he settled again, Sherlock laid his hand in soft blond hair, relishing how it felt like home. Eventually, Sherlock found fatigue washing over him and slid underneath the duvet and slept in the bed he had missed so much next to the man he had missed even more.
-x-
John rolled over in bed, expecting his arm to settle on sheets. Instead he hit a block of warmth. Opening his eyes, he nearly screamed when he saw Sherlock sleeping, snoring slightly. He blinked a couple times, pinched himself, tried to convince himself that he wasn't fully awake. No matter what he did, Sherlock didn't disappear.
"Sherlock?" he said quietly, afraid if he was too loud the man would evaporate. "Sherlock?"
Sherlock shifted, mumbling something that sounded like "five more minutes." John was insistent. He prodded him a few times until the face he had last seen smeared with blood turned to him. Sherlock eyelids fluttered open, icy irises making John's heart clench.
"Good Morning, John."
John felt suddenly light headed. He drifted backwards, but was saved from falling off the side of the bed by Sherlock's hand around his wrist.
He had touched him. That was undeniably Sherlock's hand. He was real.
Once his senses returned, John shoved Sherlock from the bed, satisfied with the thump he made when he hit the floor. Crawling to the other side, John looked over the edge of the bed. "You were gone for a year and a half Sherlock. You made me think you were dead."
Sherlock was silent.
"You don't do that, Sherlock!" John shouted, chucking a pillow at the man on the floor, "Then you just waltz back into 221B, back into our bedroom, and crawl into bed like nothing happened? You're an idiot!"
Sherlock still said nothing while John sat on the edge of the bed, fuming. When tears trickled from his eyes, Sherlock got up to his knees to hug John around the waist, his face resting on the doctor's shuddering chest. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
John returned the hug, hand knotting in dark curls. He bent down to kiss the top of Sherlock's hair. "I hate you." Tilting Sherlock's head up, he managed a soft smile. "But I missed you more."
Seeing John smile made Sherlock's heart swell. He didn't know how John did it. One day emotions are dull, enter Doctor John H. Watson and they suddenly become relevant.
Pushing himself off the floor, Sherlock maneuvered onto the bed. He laced his arms around John's neck and rested his head on his shoulder, straddling John's lap to do so comfortably. "I'm sorry," he repeated.
"Just please don't leave me like that again," John said, stroking Sherlock's back, fingers running down prominent vertebrae. Sherlock pulled back and nodded. John smiled again. "I can't believe you're here."
Sherlock kissed John's forehead and smiled back. "Neither can I."
That night Sherlock curled up next to John. The next morning, John woke up to lanky limbs wrapped around his frame. Together, they finally managed restful sleep for the first time in eighteen months.