SHERLOCK HOLMES

I used to sleep on the couch. It was too claustrophobic for me to sleep in my bedroom, and honestly I didn't think much would change if I was having sex with him. But at some point in the last month, John started to mutter about how it was ridiculous to have two rooms if we were just going to end up in bed together anyway, and I informed Mrs. Hudson that she could rent out his room. It wasn't as though I used it on a regular basis anyway.

The first night he slept there, with his jumpers in a pile in the corner, and his medical books balanced precariously on my dresser, I waited, just outside the door to my room. I remembered how, months ago, I would wait until John fell into deep REM, then sneak into his room, watching him sleep. I remembered that the third step and the fifth had a squeak that it was imperative to avoid.

Then I peeked around the corner of the door, and watched John settle into my bed.

He knew I was watching, and pointedly ignored it as he read a chapter of a novel, got up one last time to go to the restroom (pointedly staring straight ahead as he walked past me, as if he thought that if he made eye contact with me he'd startle me), and then curled up in bed, with his face defensively to the door as he fell asleep like a good soldier. For once he made pointed eye contact with me. "Want to come to bed too, Sherlock?"

Momentarily I recalled the safe warmth of his back that I woke up to when I fell asleep after we had sex. It seemed an oddly luxurious sensation to indulge in when I had experiments to work on and a composition to fiddle with. I shook my head. "I have work to do," I claimed, and walked out to the sitting room where I worked on an experiment until 3 in the morning, and then curled up on the couch out of habit, though I was surprised that I could no longer find the warm spot that usually helped me relax and fall asleep for a couple hours so I would be able to function the next day. I finally dozed in ten minute chunks, stretched out and oddly stressed at the niggling thought that something was missing until at 7 in the morning something warm pushed against my back. I felt a rough hand smoothing my shirt against my arm and drifting gently around my midsection.

"John?" I was tired, so tired, my voice had no edge to it, the word was soft and formless.

"What on earth goes on in your brain," he murmured, and it was not a question he intended on me answering. "You look so gentle and soft right now." My eyes narrowed slightly in irritation, but I sighed softly as he pushed my hair back and planted a kiss on my forehead. "Let's get you into a proper bed, Sherlock."

His attention had relaxed muscles I usually didn't pay much attention to, and I found myself staggering to my feet, following him into my room.

OoOoOoOoOoOo

The next night, at midnight, he quietly came up behind me and removed the pipette from my hand as I was standing over a rack of test-tubes. "Bed," he said firmly, "For at least four hours every night. You can't chase criminals around if you don't sleep." He handed me my pajamas, and despite some incredibly verbose objections on my part, stood over me (how does a man 6 inches shorter than me manage to stand OVER me) with his arms crossed as I changed and got into bed, fuming, lying on the side of the bed farthest from the door with my arms crossed.

My objections became particularly garrulous as I began to get bored (I'm just lying here John, I have other things to do, stop watching me like a bloody hawk, you'd think I was planning a prison break the way you're looking at me, dull people like you don't understand what it's like to not be able to shut your brain off, there really isn't an point to this). Finally, he gave a grunt of irritation from where he was half sitting in bed listening to my diatribe, and leaned over, pressing my shoulders to the bed.

"Shut up, Sherlock. This isn't just about your inability to sleep. I don't sleep well anymore unless I know you're next to me and not running off on some damn fool suicide mission. So be quiet, read a book if you have to, but at least let one of us sleep tonight."

There's always something I don't pick up on. Of course, a captain doesn't sleep well unless he knows his regiment is safe. John had to sleep because I was obsessed with John and John was necessary, and John was more human than I and more in need of sleep, so I didn't move.

I often browse the internet with my phone or read a book now while he sleeps. It's foolish to try and sneak past him, if he doesn't wake up he seems to notice something is missing and invariably sinks into one of his nightmares.

And of course, tonight, after our extensive discussion of Moriarty, it is not surprising at all when he walks into the room with his gun and a cartridge, loads it, gives me a significant look to be sure I am paying attention to its location, and places it on the bedside table.

Tonight I am sure to press my body up against him as he falls asleep, though I will admit to being distracted, searching the internet for some whisper or hint of Moriarty's whereabouts.

I don't find anything until 3am.