It was interesting, John mused, as he lay in bed. The bed, his bed, their bed. Sherlock didn't sleep often. It was amazing to the blogger that he was able to function most of the time. Since the shooting, Sherlock had been "sleeping" with John, which John understood to mean that he would drift off into a healing sleep of the dead, and Sherlock would lie with him and watch over him, maybe drifting off for a brief kip himself, maybe.
When they had initially moved in together, John had been astonished by how long Sherlock could go without actually indulging in sleep. It was a quirk (one of many) that John had learned to live with (and was secretly awed by and concerned about). He had always wondered what it would take, short of a tranquilizer, to force Sherlock to rest. I mean there's only so long that a body can run on nicotine patches, caffeine, and adrenaline before it gives out. John was a doctor, after all. He would know.
Apparently, Sherlock had reached that point. He was sprawled out across the bed, snoring lightly. His curly mop was rested on John's bare chest, his arm thrown over John's stomach, his right leg tangled with John's. The consulting detective's whole body was usually so tense and in constant motion. Even when he was still, he radiated kinetic energy in such a way that you knew that his mind was operating at a supersonic speed (John swore sometimes that you could feel the heat generated by the brain power), and he was only a second away from launching into the next feverish activity.
By contrast, in sleep, Sherlock was completely boneless, draped across the bed and over John like a rag doll. The alabaster skin, which looked like it was made of cold chiseled marble, was quite warm and his face, slightly flushed, looked peaceful in sleep. There was no analysis happening, no deductions; he was oblivious to his surroundings, and John had never seen him so completely relaxed. It was such a contrast to the waking Sherlock, especially of late, whose mind was going in thousands of directions at once and whose preoccupation with John's health had been obvious in its fanaticism. He looked much younger when he was asleep.
John had his own arm wrapped around the consulting detective's back, tracing his fingers across the skin there, feeling the muscles and the vertebrae. He really should eat more; John mentally resolved to smuggle some of Sherlock's "favorite" foods into the house. Perhaps they could set up a reward system of some variety…
Sherlock was taking up most of the bed with his long legs and arms. Trust him to never do anything in a simple or unobtrusive way, even sleep. John didn't really mind. In fact, the blogger smirked slightly; he was not ashamed to admit a sense of pride in the fact that he had driven Sherlock to such extremes of exhaustion. The consulting detective snuffled a bit in his sleep; John stilled and half expected him to wake. The former army-doctor didn't want the peaceful bubble they were presently occupying to pop. It was quiet, tranquil, and they needn't discuss anything about what had happened. They could just be. That would all change when Sherlock opened his eyes. The consulting detective's feverish mind would get to work and he wouldn't let things alone. John wasn't quite ready for that just yet. Luckily, the deeply snoozing detective simply murmured "John" in a voice laced with sleep and rubbed his face against John's chest, shuffling closer to his blogger, and tightening his hold, briefly, around John's waist, before going totally limp again.
Brilliant. Fantastic. Amazing. Remarkable. John was inclined towards utilizing expansive adjectives when it came to describing Sherlock. Granted he frequently balanced them with a healthy dose of more negative epithets like "idiot" "machine" "unfeeling" and "complete dick." After all, he reflected, it wouldn't do to let the bastard get away with an inflated sense of self. But honestly, John was completely genuine in his application of the former terms.
Sherlock was brilliant and amazing, he could be a right git sometimes, not to mention, a completely obtuse idiot about the things that really mattered. Only Sherlock Holmes could tell what you had had for lunch on a Tuesday two weeks ago by the quirk of your left eyebrow, but couldn't realize that you loved him or wanted him until you literally were forced to shake some sense into him.
John had a lot of issues. He freely admitted it (at least to himself, within his own head, if he was feeling particularly inclined to do so). He had an alcoholic sibling with whom he was on shaky terms. He had PTSD, suffered from a psychosomatic war wound. He had invaded a country in the Middle East, for goodness' sake. He took up digs with a complete stranger who celebrated serial murders like they were a national holiday as his only commendation. He was drawn to danger. He had a tendency to shoot anyone that threatened to harm Sherlock or jump in front of anything that was aimed for him. He completely loved the world's only consulting detective (the relative strength or weakness of this quality, and it was an inherent personality trait, was up for debate. John was relatively disposed, in his postprandial state with a slumbering Sherlock twined around him, to elect the former).
It's kind of a miracle, John speculated, as he ran a hand through Sherlock's hair and watched the sleeping detective reflexively smile. He wouldn't have believed two years ago that this would ever be a situation in which he would find himself. John's face briefly lost the grin that seemed pasted there, as he considered the fact that a year ago he certainly wouldn't have even dared to dream that he would be lying here like this. Sherlock had been "dead;" John had been alone and full of regret. He briefly tightened his hold on Sherlock's back and ran his hand through his own hair for a second.
Maybe that was why he had been on such a mission yesterday. Why keep wasting time? The fact that he had almost died a month ago was probably a contributing factor.
Everything had seemed so clear when he had come home from the hospital. Sherlock was so raw, John was so ready. He loves me; I love him, simple as pie, right? John rolled his eyes, Of course not. Why would anything be simple with Sherlock? At least he hadn't gone completely "sociopath" robotic, and John was seriously concerned that that was what would happen. He had realized that Sherlock felt a great deal, so much, in fact, that it was startling. However, John had also deduced that the consulting detective hated emotions, didn't much know what do with them, and consequently endeavored to repress the more "human" aspects of himself. He seemed to have reached a point, with John at least, where that was no longer possible. So, instead, he opted for avoidance: leaving the flat unexpectedly, staring at John with fixed worry, making bizarre lists, leaving John behind when he went to crime scenes. It had taken John a bit of time to realize that the intense worry that Sherlock was feeling was not dissipating. It was, if anything, increasing with time. It was also annoying. Because one of John's issues was the fear that Sherlock would leave again (he could not survive that twice), and Sherlock seemed to think that leaving John (even if only behind) was the one way to alleviate his fear for John's health.
Enough was enough. John had had it with the anxiety and the faulty logic (is this how annoyed Sherlock was with illogical people every day? God, no wonder he's so bloody irritable all the time). John had meant to have it out. Talk some sense into the bleeding moron. Make him confront his damned feelings. John had also just been ready to fight. There was so much tension and unease in 221B Baker Street. The air was thick with it every day. The so close and yet so far nature of things was driving him mad. Completely and utterly mad.
So he had dragged Sherlock home and started off yelling, unwilling to let Sherlock get a word in edgewise. Amazingly, Sherlock had let him carry on, looking completely stricken and lost, and well…John couldn't take it anymore. He hadn't intended things to go so far when he had crashed his mouth against Sherlock's, hard enough to bruise, in order to shut him up (okay, maybe that had been something he'd been intending for at least a month…the circumstances were just not quite what he had imagined what with all the shouting and what not).
John wasn't sure what he had expected. Rejection? Another "no, John, stay away from me" or "no, John, you might hurt yourself" both of which would have caused the blogger to fairly lose his mind with anger in that moment, and from which their relationship would not recover. Instead, after a second of shock and hesitation (John was always pleased when he could surprise the bleeding know it all), Sherlock had latched onto John like he were the only real thing in the world. He seemed, if anything, more fervent than John would have imagined, and the blogger responded in kind. Sherlock had pulled his jumper over his head. John had fairly ripped the damned tight shirt off of Sherlock's torso. Grabbing, kissing, biting, sucking, pushing, pulling, coming together. Hostility, tension, anger, tenderness, compassion. Sweat, hair pulling, skin rubbing, chaffing, exploring. They had come together desperately, finally. And now, hours later, Sherlock lay asleep, and John, still filled with adrenaline, stared at him. Lying in bed with Sherlock, he was struck with wonder at the situation.
He wanted Sherlock. Sherlock wanted him. He loved Sherlock and Sherlock loved him. It was an easy equation. It didn't take a genius to work it out. Now, it was up to Sherlock now to do some simple math.
AN:
Welcome (finally) to Chapter 4! What did you think? Was it at all worth the wait?
I must say that things got derailed by three factors: 1. I was sick and it rather upset my writing schedule. 2. My current priority is Where You Find It, which had dibs on first story to be written. 3. I was in a state of angst over this chapter, what to include, what to leave out, whether I was I was being too introspective, etc.
Anyway, I am sorry for the delay. I hope that you enjoyed. I would LOVE to hear your thoughts. So, please, take the time to leave a review.
Thank you to all of you wonderful people for reading, reviewing, following, and favoriting this story. Means the world to me. I especially appreciate your patience.