A/N: Updates are going to come faster now! I'm trying to get this all posted up before I leave for grad school at the end of July, so look for a chapter a week until then (there are only three left in this part!). I'm hoping to get the first chapter up in the first or second week of August, since I'm pretty sure you guys will kill me otherwise. Details, though. Enjoy! Oh, and for those who don't know, reviews are wonderful and I cherish every single one of them. :)
Slowly he got his legs working and walked up to their room. He pressed his ear to the door, listening for any sign of movement. Sherlock hadn't left, that was for sure - or if he had, it was through an exit John didn't know about. He hated to admit that it was more likely that there was at least one from their room that he was unaware of. "Sherlock?" John asked quietly, opening the door slowly enough to allow Sherlock time to react, if he needed it.
The room was silent, and John frowned. He walked inside, his heart thumping in his chest until he caught sight of the tall, lithe figure leaning over a microscope at the table. There was no sign of Sherlock's earlier experiment. John was grateful he had at least cleaned up the fingers, even if Sherlock had probably just stuffed them in the trash.
He felt a bit sorry for the bloke that took out their rubbish, with what Sherlock shoved in there. Fingers, lungs - even the toes Sherlock somehow acquired last week found their way into the rubbish bin at some point. John chuckled to himself, catching Sherlock's attention. He looked up to see the grey blue eyes narrowed at him, smiling cheerfully in return.
"What did my brother have to say this time?" Sherlock muttered darkly, his focus back on the knobs of the microscope and whatever he had applied to the slide that he was scrutinizing.
"Oh, the usual," John answered evasively. He was sorting through the kitchen, wishing he could have a beer. Damn the no-alcohol rule. It certainly would help smooth things over. Instead he pulled out their electric kettle, checking it over before filling it with water and flicking the switch on. He rummaged through the cupboards, searching for his favorite brand of tea.
"There is no usual with my brother," Sherlock said, scowling at the microscope. "What else did he tell you? Some sordid tale about me?" John shrugged evasively as the kettle sounded its readiness. He poured the water into his mug, the teabag swirling around as the water lifted it from the bottom. Finally Sherlock slammed his hands down on the table.
John jumped, his adrenaline thrumming through his veins, setting all of his senses on alert. It was like the days right after he was invalided home again, when any loud noise sent him hurtling under his bed. "Dammit John, tell me!" Sherlock shouted. John was thankful he had sat the kettle back down on the counter before Sherlock lost his temper. He doubted the nurse would be pleased to treat burns in the middle of the night, provided she was even awake.
"Sherlock, I was handling boiling water!" John half-shouted back, attempting to slow his racing pulse. It was even harder to pull his temper back under control, to resist the impulses built from long days under the desert sun.
"I don't - I don't care about the boiling water. Tell. Me. What. Mycroft. Said," Sherlock forced out through gritted teeth, his hands clenched around the edge of the table. John forced himself to take a sip of the tea before even thinking about responding, hoping the familiar warmth would calm him some. Sherlock was standing now, his knuckles white.
"I think you're denting the table," John pointed out mildly. While his heart was still beating far too fast for his comfort level, he was calmer now, his rapid pulse the only indication of his earlier upset. His eyes were calm on Sherlock's, the contrast vivid as Sherlock glared fiercely at him. John hid it, but Sherlock's reaction had frightened him. He hadn't expected that level of vehemence from the man who was normally calm and collected, the one who had told John that he was a prostitute without a hint of shame
"Screw the table." Sherlock scowled down at it like it was personally insulting him. "Mycroft." His laser-focus bore into John's face as if trying to burn the secrets out of him.
"Nothing," John said calmly, shrugging again as he took another sip of the tea. "He said nothing important, Sherlock." Sherlock let go of the table and walked over to the sofa, throwing himself dramatically upon it. John had to stop himself from rolling his eyes at the obvious petulance in the gesture.
"He confirmed what I told you, and - and something else." Sherlock's voice held a note of frustration. John raised an eyebrow, interested but wary at the same time. "What else did he tell you? Did he offer you more money? Women? Men? What?"
John snorted. "Why would he offer me women? Or men, for that matter," he added with a mutter.
"John, you're dancing about the question," Sherlock was dripping with disdain, his 'why is everyone else so stupid' tone that John had long learned to not take offense at. Mostly, anyways. "It must be really important, then." Sherlock's voice took on the quality when he was deducing someone, his eyes raking intently over John's face, studying every movement the military doctor made. John sighed, settling against the kitchen counter for the long haul. "You're relaxed, so it can't - it can't be anything negative, or if it is, you've accepted it and aren't bothered by it." Sherlock frowned, the expression creating a crease in his brow. He looked – vulnerable, almost. As if he was genuinely fearful of what John had learned. Was he afraid it was going to be the last straw, be what sent John running?
"He asked me to take care of you." John made a show out of taking another sip of his tea. Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes.
"I highly doubt that," he muttered. John shrugged, taking a bigger gulp of his tea. He set another cup steeping, knowing he would need a second cuppa before the conversation was over. Picking up his mug, he watched as Sherlock's face flickered, multiple expressions passing over his features in a multitude of emotions. Sherlock seemed satisfied by whatever he saw in John's face, for he seemed to calm at least a little. That was progress.
It was unnerving, John thought. Sherlock was still sulking on the sofa, although John could feel the strange eyes focus on him when Sherlock must have thought he wasn't looking. It was like John was a particularly interesting puzzle that needed far more study before Sherlock would be able to fully deduce his secrets. Pulling out Sherlock's tea bag and tossing it into the rubbish bin, John walked over to the sofa, placing Sherlock's mug down onto the coffee table next to him. He took a seat in the armchair not far from the sofa, sipping his own mug, relishing the hot liquid flowing down his throat.
"I was invalided home from Afghanistan about six months ago," John said slowly. His eyes were focused in front of him, on the wall. He didn't look at Sherlock. He couldn't look at Sherlock. He closed his eyes, opening them with a small sigh. "Angelie was one of the first women I met once I was out of the hospital. A friend introduced her to me, set us up. I was pretty down, when I got out." He paused, a thread of pain entering his voice. "She was perfect."
John couldn't help running a shaky hand through his hair. He felt Sherlock had a right to know. Sherlock was right, like he always was. How could John ask so much of Sherlock without giving at least a little bit in return? Fighting the thoughts about why, he forced himself to continue. "She was - wonderful. For the first - for the first couple of months, anyway." The memories flashed through his mind, his eyes going slightly hazy as he got lost in the past.
"Things were wonderful. I've always been a nice bloke, or so I'm told. I was eager to - to lose myself in her, to forget the war, to forget all the lives I'd taken." He shuddered slightly, adjusting his grip on the warm mug in his hands. Taking another mouthful, he continued. "Something changed, not long after we'd been together two months. She invited me to move in. I'd been living with a friend - not much money in being invalided home, that's for sure." John's mouth twisted in a slightly self-deprecating sneer. "She told me it'd be more economical. I believed her." He exhaled slowly, a shuddering breath that was at odds with his steady voice.
Sherlock was silent, his gaze intent on John. John shivered a bit under the intensity, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He took a deep breath and another sip of the tea, shifting his position slightly to be more comfortable. "The first time, she slapped me. Yelled at me a bit, told me it was my fault." He sighed. "It was so easy to believe that it was something I'd done. Never been real confident, not in relationships. Good natured, faithful, yes, but not confident." Scratching the side of his nose absently, he gathered himself. "It escalated from there. I was looking at other women, or fucking them, or whatever she told me that day. I was always in the wrong, it was always my fault. Sometimes it'd be just a slap, sometimes, the really bad days, she would beat me, for a lack of better terminology." John shuddered slightly in his chair.
"I never reacted," he mused, sipping the tea between words. "Never hit her back. It - it wasn't right, hitting a woman." He shook his head. "No matter how many times she hit me - or kicked me, or…" John trailed off, not wanting to finish the sentence. Some things were best kept to himself. "Anyway. I didn't." The pain leaked into his voice, and he hated it for making him sound so weak. So unworthy. He knew it wasn't true - the month or more of therapy had taught him something, had restored his more conscious, worthwhile mind to the surface - yet still, the memory hurt.
"One night I had a drink with a group of army buddies. One of them happened to be a woman." His body tensed at the thought of that night, of the single beer he'd had, how it hadn't been nearly enough to compensate for the lack of memory he had dealt with the next morning. He sneered at the wall, defensive. "She nearly killed me that night." There wasn't anything more to say. Sherlock could read what had happened in the bruises John wore like battle scars when he arrived to Asylum. That's what they were, in a way. The words had been painful, his heart still thudding in his chest from the effort it had taken to tell Sherlock what he had. If he insisted on prying into Sherlock's background, it was only fair for him to know John's. He started fidgeting as the silence dragged on for long, uncomfortable minutes.
"That's ridiculous," Sherlock said flatly. John bristled in his chair. "How could you believe such ridiculous notions?"
"Bit not good, Sherlock," John muttered scathingly. Sherlock rolled his eyes, sitting up on the sofa, his piercing gaze boring into John's face.
"I don't understand."
"I doubt you'll ever understand," John said with a shrug, ignoring Sherlock's narrowed expression. "You don't seem so good with emotions." He paused, thinking. "What do you mean, they're ridiculous notions?"
"Thinking you could ever be a bad - boyfriend, if you will - is ridiculous. You possess all the qualities of a desirable mate and therefore appeal to most women - and men, if you feel so inclined." Sherlock gestured up and down with his hand, indicating not only John's body, but continuing on to point a finger at his head. "You have a physique that women find desirable and you seem to exhibit several desired personality traits. It's ridiculous to think that you were undesirable or unworthy." Sherlock paused to think. "Much less that you deserved to be beaten," he muttered. "If you really wanted that, there are several clubs that you could go to instead of getting with that woman."
John stared at Sherlock for a full minute, his mouth hanging open. Sherlock was looking at him, mildly puzzled as to why John wasn't saying anything. John was trying to wrap his head around what Sherlock had said. He couldn't fit it in his mind, couldn't fit it around what Sherlock had said, what he meant. It did not compute. "John?" Sherlock asked tentatively. "Was that…not good?" He frowned as if the silence hanging about in the air was physically hurting him.
"That was…good." John blinked at the wall, still trying to focus. "No, you did well. Just - just give me a bit to catch up with it."
Sherlock frowned at him. It wasn't a negative expression, the downturn of his lips more puzzled than truly unhappy, an indicator of a lack of understanding. Deciding it wasn't relevant, he laid back down on the sofa, steepling his fingers under his chin. John pondered what he had said. Apparently Sherlock had deemed him worthy. What puzzled John the most was Sherlock's motivation for saying what he had. Was he envious? John doubted Sherlock really could envy anyone for anything, except maybe easier access to human body parts. He did not seem to be slave to the normal human emotions of guilt, shame, or embarrassment. It was an odd contradiction in a man who could have much to be embarrassed about. There was much that Sherlock didn't share, however, and even John did not know what lurked beyond what he showed to the world.
"Thanks, Sherlock," John said quietly. Sherlock looked at him and John matched his gaze, soft and open. Sherlock's expression was borderline vulnerable, yet so intensely guarded that John could not see what simmered under his eyes. It was raw, and real, and broken, and it disappeared nearly as quickly as John had noticed it. "I'm sorry," he added. Sherlock said nothing.
Apparently dismissing it as meaningless sentiment, Sherlock gathered his pyjamas and walked into the bathroom. John listened as he heard the shower turn on before he changed quickly into his own pyjamas. One could never bargain with exactly how long Sherlock would stay in the shower. Could be until the water went cool, could be thirty seconds until he got distracted by something or a new idea came to him. He grimaced at the thought of sleep, a twinge of worry in his chest. Would he ever be able to sleep without worrying about Sherlock? Without seeing that vial, the hospital bed, those anxious hours when he had no idea if Sherlock would ever come back to him again - back to life, he clarified quickly. Not to him.
He crawled into bed, aware that it wasn't likely that he would fall asleep any time soon. His mind was whirling rapidly, going over everything that had happened. He sighed. Was this what Sherlock was like all the time? No wonder the man would not rest. John replayed everything - Sherlock's drastic suicide attempt, the knowledge he had gained, Sherlock's reaction to John's story, his dismissal of the idea of him needing any help. He wanted to help Sherlock - he truly did. How to go about doing so was another issue.
Sherlock would likely reject any straight offer of assistance. He seemed contemptuous over the possibility of anything done to his transport harming his mind. Was he right? Had he removed himself so thoroughly from the burdens of his body that anything that happened to him had no bearing on his future? John doubted that it was the case, but he was also realistic in that there was little he could do to change Sherlock's mind on the matter.
The next two months passed quickly. Sherlock would still disappear during the day - John had made no progress on that front - but he was quieter and less rude to the other people in their building when he would come across them (which was thankfully rare). His experiments had migrated to John's half of the apartment - in designated areas, mapped out after particularly enthusiastic arguments in which John shouted and Sherlock merely stared at him until he had ran out of steam and stormed out the door.
It was oddly like arguing with himself, or with a wall. A wall probably had more emotional maturity, he mused. John had drifted through therapy and group one particularly boring day. After his experience with therapy in the military hospitals, he was familiar enough with the protocols to fake the good results that his therapist was looking for. He had already started to hint about John leaving Asylum, returning to the real world. He had politely - and emphatically - refused. Sherlock needed him. John was starting to think that - just a little bit - Sherlock wanted him there. Even if he didn't know it yet.
Yawning, John trudged up the stairs to their room, covering his mouth with a hand as he dutifully opened the door. He blanched as the smell wafted out. What the hell had his batty flatmate done this time? "Sherlock!" he yelled, walking in and leaving the door open behind him. There were beakers full of nasty goo on the table and John glared at them, affronted. He walked past to open the three windows he could get to, trying to let some of the stench out.
Sherlock popped his head out of the bathroom, his pale face blank and unassuming. It was his usual mask, one that rarely slipped when anyone was around. Sometimes - just sometimes - when Sherlock was asleep, John saw what was carefully hidden underneath it, got a glimpse of what haunted the strange man who shared his room. John was aware that Sherlock slept guarded most times, unless he was truly, truly exhausted. He refused to think about why that was.
The times he slept and was truly vulnerable were rare. Sometimes John would sit and watch Sherlock's eyes move around underneath his eyelids, the twitch of his fingers as he dreamt, the noises he would make as he tossed and turned. His hair would go all curly and crazy and his face would slacken just slightly, allowing the childlike innocence to appear beneath all the gawky angles and cheekbones and sharp edges that normally characterized the frenetically energetic man.
The edges would return when Sherlock woke up. Sometimes he would watch John from across the room while he made tea. Most of the time he would ignore him. John figured that he either didn't notice the way John would watch him, or, more likely, he simply didn't care. Sherlock didn't seem to really think too much about what everyone else did, or why.
The thought amused John, for Sherlock had quite the collection of crime novels, several of which focused primarily on criminal behavior. Although John hadn't had a chance to investigate the majority of the books on Sherlock's bookcase, he'd nosed through the specially bound ones a few weeks ago, glimpsing enough to figure out their contents. They were older murder mysteries. It had surprised him, although he hadn't bothered asking Sherlock about it.
"What's on the table?" John asked patiently. Sherlock regarded him coolly.
"It's an experiment," he answered curtly. "Far above your level of intelligence." His voice was cool and dismissive, and John counted to ten in his head before he allowed himself to speak, his gaze drifting from the vials to the man perched in the doorway to the bathroom.
"Can you please remove it from the table?" Sherlock snorted dismissively, and John crossed his arms.
"It's at a particularly critical stage, John. I can't disturb it." Sherlock shuffled out of the bathroom. It was then that John noticed Sherlock was only half-dressed. He seemed to not have bothered to put a shirt on and his dressing gown was not tied, hanging open as he sauntered around the kitchen to reveal flat panes of smooth abdomen. John's stomach clenched, just a bit, before he forced Sherlock's body out of his thoughts. Forever. He hoped.
"It smells," John protested firmly. Part of him wondered why he had even brought it up, having predicted Sherlock's reaction. It was not the first time John had objected to one of Sherlock's experiments, although this was the most noxious one John had witnessed. Experiments always took priority with Sherlock, even when any normal apartment would have evicted him ages ago. Pausing, John narrowed his eyes. Sherlock narrowed his in return, suspicious. "Do you ever plan to leave Asylum?" John asked suddenly, shifting so that he was comfortable leaning against the wall at the entrance to their room.
Sherlock's gaze was clearly assessing, his hands pausing against one of the beakers on the table as he settled down into the chair nearest him. The beaker seemed to be smoking, John noticed, alarmed. He wondered if there were fire extinguishers in the flat. It was then that John had to chuckle to himself, realizing that the thought didn't alarm him. His definition of normal had shifted so far after living with Sherlock that it was nearly unrecognizable. "No." Curt and dismissive of the idea. Sherlock considered it pedestrian, beneath him.
"The real world too scary for you?" He had figured Sherlock wouldn't ever leave. Not that he'd made enough progress, regardless. There was something tense to Sherlock's demeanour, something that sent off warning bells in John's head. He paused, looking Sherlock up and down more clinically.
"I haven't been using," Sherlock muttered. Even from the side he must have noticed the change in John's assessment.
"What gave me away?" John asked, curious. Sherlock's eyes were focused on a beaker held in front of him, although they flickered to John every few seconds. He lowered the glass container, tilting its content into a labeled test tube.
"You sighed just a bit, and you were looking at me. Something made you wistful, yet it was about me. Then you narrowed your eyes and started looking at me, lingering especially on my arms and my face. Looking for signs of drug usage would be the most probable answer." Sherlock shrugged as if that wasn't particularly impressive.
"Amazing," John breathed quietly. Even if it wasn't astonishing to Sherlock, it never ceased to impress John when he deduced things so quickly from such little to go on.
"Rudimentary," Sherlock retorted, although John could have sworn that he was at least the tiniest bit pleased at John's compliment. There was a hint of colour on his cheekbones that hadn't been there prior, and John smiled.
It was quiet in their flat for a few long moments, John wondering how to break the silence. "Would you take a test if I asked you to?" he asked quietly, looking at Sherlock, his eyes as serious as his tone. He didn't think he was using, but he wanted to see if Sherlock would be willing to prove his sobriety.
Sherlock sighed. "Yes." He paused. "Would you be able to test it?" he inquired doubtfully. John smiled.
"I have my sources," he said with a grin. John straightened further against the wall, watching Sherlock intently for any hint of deception. He had gotten to know Sherlock better, over the time they had known each other. He would never profess to be an expert in the man, but he'd seen such a wide variety in Sherlock's moods that he was starting to be able to read him far better than anyone else. Except maybe Mycroft, he amended. But that was the advantage to being a Holmes.
"Thank you," John said quietly, walking over to Sherlock's bookshelves to pick something to read. Sherlock was obviously absorbed in his experiments, and John was going to take advantage of the peace and quiet while it lasted. He settled on his bed, the book perched in his hands. It probably wouldn't last very long, he reflected wistfully. Sherlock was bound to make something explode or catch on fire, and then the room would drown in a sea of arguments and yelling and fire and it just wasn't very peaceful.
John glanced up from his book to see Sherlock staring at him with narrowed, icy eyes. Meeting them with a quizzical expression, John attempted to figure out what exactly Sherlock was looking for. Sherlock looked away nearly as soon as John's eyes met his and John turned back to his book with a shrug. If it was important, Sherlock would tell him himself. Or not. Not was the more likely answer. Sherlock rarely talked to anyone, even John, although he did tend to go off on rants about his experiments more often than not. Or he was raving about how vapid humanity was. John was never sure whether to be complimented or insulted when Sherlock told him he was just a hair above the rest of the world.
Although from Sherlock, it was possible the two were inseparable. The man had the social skills of an extremely deaf newt. No offense to the newt. The book he had pulled from Sherlock's shelves was interesting, at least. He sighed as he flipped to the fifth page. On the top of the page, written in Sherlock's elegant scrawl, was the murderer's identity.
"I'm surprised it took you to page five," he called out to the other side of the room. Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes.
"I'm surprised I even made it to page five," he retorted. "Boring, John. They could at least try to not be obvious."
John rolled his own eyes and went back to reading. Even knowing who the murderer was, it was still an enjoyable read. What surprised him was Sherlock's continued silence. Most of the times Sherlock caught him reading mystery novels, he would deduce where John was and provide a running commentary until John gave up and put the book away. Often when John glanced away from the printed page he would notice Sherlock staring at him. He was pleased to discover that it no longer bothered him. At first he hadn't been able to read when Sherlock's clear eyes were focused on him - the scrutiny was that intense. Now he didn't even flinch. Sometimes he didn't even notice.
He did notice when Sherlock stood up and started pacing about the couch, muttering dramatically to himself as he gestured wildly. "Careful," John murmured, flipping the page as he continued to read. If Sherlock wasn't careful, he'd walk into something. The janitorial staff had added some shelves that hung near Sherlock's head (although they were stationed above John's eye level), and John had already seen several near misses. A solid thunk confirmed John's worst suspicions and he sighed and sat the book down, dog-earing the page he had been reading.
Sherlock had walked into one of the shelves - probably when he was turning to yell at John for what he said - and knocked himself out. The couch, John decided. Sherlock could rest on the couch. Glad he hadn't lost all his muscle tone from his time in the army, he was able to heave Sherlock's long and rather heavy body up until the taller man was arranged haphazardly on the cushions.
Tucking the dressing gown more firmly about the illusively lithe body, John looked Sherlock's head over quickly. He'd do a neuro check when Sherlock woke up. For now, Sherlock was fine resting on the couch. It was late anyways. Grabbing the clothes from his dresser, John walked into the bathroom and changed rapidly into his pyjamas. He could shower in the morning. For now he wasn't very comfortable leaving a vulnerable Sherlock by himself.
Walking out of the bathroom, John headed over to Sherlock. Fingers deftly felt for a pulse on the inside of Sherlock's wrist, eyes focused on the clock on the wall to gauge a number. It was high, but not unusually so. His blood pressure seemed okay, but John knew the palpation technique he used was a very rough guess. Respirations were normal. If he had to guess, John thought that the surprise and the impact knocked Sherlock out, although his status was not helped by a low blood sugar. The man really needed to eat more..
Gingerly John moved a curl out of Sherlock's face. The intimacy of the contact surprised him and he withdrew with a thoughtful frown, shelving any thoughts relating to Sherlock's hair back to the same corner inhabited by other strange things pertaining to his flatmate. Sherlock moaned softly, a hand automatically going to his head as he shifted. "You're likely to have a bad headache," John murmured, keeping his voice soft. Head injuries often came with headaches and if the thud had been any indication, he would have a nasty one. "Let me get you some paracetamol."
By the time John came back from the kitchen with two small white tablets and a glass halfway full of water, Sherlock's eyes were opened and focused on him. "Open up," John said quietly, waiting for Sherlock to open his hand. Sherlock leaned up and used his tongue and mouth to swipe the pills from John's flat palm before he snatched the glass of water, drinking its contents quickly. John blinked a few times before he wiped his palm off on his pyjama pants.
The cup was back in John's hands before he had moved away, empty. Sherlock's head was back on the arm of the sofa and he was staring up at the ceiling. John stepped back, studying Sherlock. He was guarded, John decided, although there was something alarmingly fragile lurking under the surface. It was oddly reminiscent of glass about to shatter.
"Why do you care?" Sherlock asked abruptly, startling John out of his thoughts. To gather some time and to figure out how to respond to Sherlock's question, John walked to the small kitchen they shared, washing the glass carefully in the sink.
"What do you mean?" John dried the cup with the cleanest towel he could find, seeking clarification. Sherlock could be asking about a number of things. Turning to face Sherlock, he crossed his arms over his chest. He had a feeling he wasn't going to like this conversation.
"Is it because you're a doctor?" Sherlock mused aloud. John wondered if he had forgotten that he was in the room. "Possibly, although you've mostly done emergency work, you seem to prefer GP patients." Sherlock frowned at the ceiling. "Sentiment? Possibly." He made a frustrated noise and John had to fight to hide a smile. Remembering that he had intended to do a neuro exam, John walked over and crouched next to Sherlock.
"Touch your nose and touch my finger." John held a finger not far from his face, watching intently.
"You can't possibly intend to make me perform like a trained monkey," Sherlock spat out, glaring furiously at the ceiling. His head must be smarting, John thought with an inward chuckle.
"Your nose, Sherlock. My finger. I'll make you sit up if I have to." His voice was patient, his finger steady. With a grumpy noise Sherlock complied. John continued the exam, testing his muscle strength and responsiveness in his arms and legs, although he was nice and skipped the coordination test when everything else was reassuringly normal. He had doubted that Sherlock had actually injured himself through the fall. It was more for John's peace of mind than anything. "Do you remember what happened?" John asked, his voice soft.
Sherlock scowled, looking like he wanted to flip onto his side. "The paracetamol should kick in in about twenty, thirty minutes," he told Sherlock. The scowl deepened and John chuckled despite himself. "I'll take that as a yes, you remember," he told Sherlock's sulking form.
"You didn't answer my question." Sherlock turned his head this time, piercing John with his unrelenting gaze. John stood, not surprised that Sherlock had gone back to his earlier train of thought. The man was determined at the worst of times.
"You didn't answer mine," John responded. He walked back to his bed, settling against the headboard so he was comfortable, the book he had been reading back in his hands. He could see Sherlock on the sofa comfortably from here. Sherlock made a face and John steadily ignored him. Sherlock wasn't the only one who had increased levels of patience. As an army sniper, most of John's work had been waiting. Lots of waiting. His medical training was only used for half of his job.
Sherlock made a frustrated noise. "Why do you care?"
"What do you mean?" John retorted patiently, opening the book to where he had left off
"My head hurts," Sherlock muttered, long fingers massaging his temples.
"I'd imagine it does," John answered. "The paracetamol should kick in relatively soon. You should get at least some relief."
Sherlock flipped on his side this time without nearly the normal amount of flair. John hid a smile at the lack of drama. "I saw that," Sherlock muttered.
"No you didn't," John responded absentmindedly, his eyes back on his book. He glanced over. Sherlock's fingers were toying with the fabric of the sofa, their movements as moody as their owner. A faint smile danced across John's lips as he watched Sherlock. The genius was still muttering to himself, although John only caught snippets of the nonsensical words and never a full sentence.
Sherlock seemed to take an eternity, turning over multiple questions in his head before settling on one. "Why did you not ask for a new roommate?" John lifted an eyebrow at the question, settling the book on his crossed ankles as he thought it over.
"I don't need one," he answered finally. Closing the book on his lap, he studied Sherlock intently, looking for tells in his facial expressions.
"Why not?" Sherlock prompted immediately. "You've put up with quite a bit without leaving."
"You're seeking reassurance, aren't you?" John was slotting the pieces together faster than he had thought possible. Sherlock harrumphed and stayed where he was, his back towards John.
"No," Sherlock muttered petulantly. John was delighted to see a red flush decorate the back of Sherlock's neck and ears. So the man could show emotion! Something shifted and John looked up from where he was perched on the bed, his eyes narrowing. Sherlock was making a whispery gasping sound as he breathed, and his respiratory rate had sped up significantly. Putting the book aside, John slid off of his bed and stepped closer. Sherlock's body was shaking, pupils dilated, eyes wide, staring at nothing. His breathing accelerated, coming faster and in short, little gasps - hyperventilating
"Sherlock," John murmured, trying to gain the man's attention. He repeated his name again, louder. "You're having a panic attack." Sherlock was gasping for air now, his fingers clenching about the fabric of the sofa as he fought to draw in air. "Not good," John tried to pry Sherlock's fingers from the sofa. Steadily he levered Sherlock up until he was sitting up. He slipped behind Sherlock, desperate to try and bring him down from the height of his fear. John was running through his medical knowledge in his head. Most of the techniques he knew of were only useful in medical settings, and he lacked any of the drugs that were commonly used to combat the anxiety symptoms.
Sherlock's knuckles were white from the force of his grasp and John's heart clenched. He was so lost, and so broken. Making a split-second decision to comfort he slid onto the couch and leaned Sherlock against his chest, wrapping his arms about the man's torso. Immediately Sherlock turned on his side with his back against the rear of the couch. This seemed to be his preferred position, based on the way he normally splayed out on the couch,but in this case Sherlock dragged John down with him until John was sprawled onto his back with Sherlock half draped over him. It was awkward. Definitely not one of John's most brilliant ideas.
For one, he was stuck on a couch. With another man - with Sherlock. Sherlock, who was slowly coming down from a panic attack, whose fingers were now twined tightly at the hip of John's pyjama pants, his free hand plucking absently at the fabric of John's shirt. John was glad he could see Sherlock's face from where he was sitting and could gauge his reaction to the situation. He looked so breakable. Sherlock was still staring into the distance, looking at things that weren't really there. However, his breathing had slowed down and he was no longer shaking like an active addict.
John looked down and realized that one of his hands was stroking Sherlock's sweat-soaked curls while he murmured reassurance. His mind attempted to point out that he was currently cuddled up to another man - Sherlock, of all men - and he ruthlessly forced it down. He was well aware that if he thought about it too long he could likely bolt out of the room, and he didn't want to leave Sherlock in this state. John felt the tension seep from Sherlock's body and he grew heavier against John as he slipped into a deeper sleep.
Eventually Sherlock's breathing evened out and John guessed he was asleep. Hoping he'd be able to sneak back to his bed, John slowly and steadily attempted to pry Sherlock's fingers out of his clothing. It didn't work as well as John would have liked. Every time John tried to remove himself from Sherlock's grasp, he clung on tighter. It felt like he was being hugged by an extremely clingy iron bar. "Guess I'm sleeping on the sofa."
Trying steadily to ignore the strangeness of having another man plastered on top of him, John shifted uncomfortably until he had settled into a more comfortable position. It wasn't the same as sleeping in his bed. For one, his bed was Sherlock free and John had never appreciated that more. The man was like an octopus. Every time John tried to pull away, Sherlock clung more. Every time John touched him, Sherlock leaned into it unconsciously. John tried hard to not think about what that indicated about Sherlock's history. The man seemed positively touch-starved.
Curled up against his roommate, John finally drifted off into a restless sleep. He'd worry about the consequences later.