This is one of the days Sherlock warned him about the day they met. One of those days where Sherlock won't talk.
It happens like this sometimes after a case. When Sherlock's mind has been going so fast, forcing out massive amounts of data and stitching together loose ends, he has a difficult time coming back to a daily routine. It's not that he won't talk; he simply can't. Sometimes, when the case is particularly gruesome, the silence will last for days.
John has learned to wait.
As his flatmate paces back and forth between their comfortable easy chairs, John doesn't raise his eyes from the laptop balanced on his thighs. He doesn't ask what's wrong. He already knows the answer. Besides, he knows he won't get a response.
John remains patient, waiting for Sherlock's inevitable crash back to earth.
It happens early that evening, and it's sooner than John expected, given the murderer had been arrested in the pre-dawn hours. Suddenly, Sherlock is too exhausted to pace any longer and he throws himself to the rug at John's feet. He leans against John's knee without saying a word.
John smiles. "Could I get you anything? A cup of tea, perhaps?"
Sherlock shakes his head ruefully.
"There's that new violin music you bought the other day, do you want to give that a try?"
Another head shake.
John strokes his fingertips through the man's unruly curls. "Is there something else you might want?"
The detective shakes his head a third time, but he presses harder against John's leg.
"Are you absolutely certain?" John is gently teasing now. "Because it looks like you might possibly be needing something. A cuddle, perhaps?"
Sherlock lays his forehead on John's knee and sighs as if the weight of the world rests on his narrow shoulders. John knows his time for writing has passed; he must help Sherlock now. There's no one else who can do it.
He closes his laptop and tucks it into the magazine rack beside his chair, then holds out his arms. "Come on, then."
Slowly, awkwardly, Sherlock climbs into his lap, one limb at a time. He is still upset and he still doesn't have words, so when he is settled- those long legs of his hanging over the arm of the chair- he takes John's hand and places it firmly on his cheek. Of course, John understands and Sherlock sighs again as John's fingertips gently trace the fine lines near those luminescent aquamarine-colored eyes. When John soothes away the wrinkles on the detective's forehead, and runs his fingertip down
Sherlock's nose, the taller man's eyes flutter closed. They remain closed as John repeats the motion, nearly petting his flatmate's upturned nose as he watches the worry drain from his lover's face.
"You did well today," John murmurs.
His best friend emits a fretful little "erm" and buries his face in John's shoulder. He still can't speak but he's at least able to make sounds now. This is progress. After some rest, he'll be back to nearly talking off John's ear.
John bends to kiss the crown of his lover's head. "Really, really well," he whispers. "I'm so proud of you. Have I told you that lately?"
Sherlock shudders as more of the tension drains from his muscles. He's too exhausted to raise his arms to hug John in return, so he lies there, completely limp and safe in the knowledge that John understands.
"You're amazing," John continues. "You're brilliant. You've saved the world once again. You're a superhero, you know. My very own, private superhero."
Sherlock hangs on his every word, humming low in his throat. As he listens to John's murmurs of praise, finally Sherlock can come down from the whirlwind in which he's been trapped. The genius detective has found his safety net and he's falling into it, secure in the belief he will not fall. He nuzzles his nose against John's collarbone.
"Tired, John," he mumbles.
John knows that if he suggests they move to a bedroom, Sherlock will force himself awake and then fight sleep with his last remaining drop of adrenaline. And it still might take hours for Sherlock to actually let go enough to sleep. So John just tightens his hold, dropping more whisper-like kisses on top of Sherlock's mussed curls. "It's okay, Sherlock," he assures. "You can rest now."
He knows it will be a long evening as he waits for Sherlock to finally slip away. He knows that Sherlock will lie here, limp as a rag doll, fighting sleep as his mind tries desperately to wind down. He knows that by the time they finally retire to an actual bed- if they do, in fact, make it that far-John's arms will be asleep and his legs stiff from sitting so long with a grown man curled onto his lap.
And yet he cherishes these times after the silence.
::: This fic is lovingly dedicated to Nikki and is inspired by a lovely comic found here: post/89264818030/30-day-otp-challenge-1-holding-hands-i-wanted :::::