When Sherlock returned to Baker Street John was already home, slumped on the couch with a book in his lap and a steaming mug of tea cradled in his hands. He looked up briefly as the door opened, shooting Sherlock a quick smile before returning to his reading. Sherlock paused to shed his coat and scarf before stalking towards the mantelpiece, bracing himself heavily against the thick wood. His thoughts were a constant buzz against the inside of his skull, his brain whirring impossibly fast through a long list of names, faces, facts, figures, data and a thousand different possibilities. His current case was a difficult one and this early on it was simply impossible to know anything for certain. Currently, he had 7 possible theories but had made sure not to voice anything to the police force, knowing the consequences were too dire to allow their inferior minds to jump to conclusions.
He allowed a dull string of words to fall from his lips, laying out the case before him in the hope of shedding more light on its mystery. Soon his words were replaced by muttered curses, and he turned his back to the fireplace in order to pace the width of the room, back and forth, back and forth, eyes darting and hands folded neatly under his chin. John looked up once again from his book, sighing gently at the consulting detective as he prowled the room like a caged animal.
"Sherlock."
He didn't reply nor falter in his steady pace.
"Sherlock." John raised his tone, willing him to listen.
"What?" Sherlock whipped out, finally turning to face the man on the couch.
The doctor frowned slightly at his biting tone, but continued. "Sherlock, you're not going to do anyone any good like this. You know how it is - it's too early to know. Even for you."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed, staring at him silently. John gave him a small smile in return. "I know, Sherlock, I know."
Sherlock's shoulders slumped and he heaved a long breath, raising a hand to his head as the thoughts continued to race. He clamped his eyes shut tight, watching as images danced across his eyelids in the place of the numbing darkness he craved.
"When was the last time you slept?" John's voice was gentle, but Sherlock could hear the concern infused in his tone.
"I don't know." He mumbled, practically feeling the force of the resulting frown.
An unexpected hand on Sherlock's arm caused his eyes to snap open, but he didn't resist as John guided him back to the couch. He pulled the detective down by the hand, smiling affectionately as he shuffled in closer to his side.
"It's too loud." Sherlock mumbled with a wince, his head coming to lie cradled against John's thighs.
The shorter man cupped his hands on either side of Sherlock's face, fingers cool and gentle.
"The price of your genius." A soft sigh. "Most of us suffer from the opposite." The pads of his fingers traced small circles against Sherlock's temples, as though he was trying to smooth the inner torment away.
"Stupidity?"
John chuckled. "Exactly."
Sherlock gave a small hum in response, eyes fluttering closed.
John continued to move his fingers rhythmically against Sherlock's scalp as he picked up his discarded book, fingers carding in the dark curls as he resumed his reading.
A few pages later John felt Sherlock's breathing deepen and even out, adopting the peaceful cadence of sleep. He was draped across the couch like an overgrown house cat, one arm reaching up to rest possessively on John's elbow, face tilted slightly into his body. He never looked as calm, as serene and as completely at ease as he did in these moments, when his thoughts slowed down enough to slip into a dreamless sleep. Leaning down, John pressed his lips briefly against Sherlock's forehead, marveling at the brilliant mind encased just centimeters beneath his lips, both a gift and a curse to the amazing man he loved so dearly. Sherlock's brain might allow him a minute's sleep, maybe an hour if he was lucky, but John was just glad he was able to assist in giving him any rest at all.
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