Sherlock, being Sherlock, still slept at odd hours.
A nap here, a nap there, that's how he used to live. It was good: it worked and though John may have complained it honestly was always fine.
However, upon late it seemed he was closing his eyes for more naps than usual and when he opened his eyes the day had somehow slipped onto the next. It was becoming a frustrating habit.
But never had it been as obvious a problem as it was now.
Sherlock Holmes was in the middle of a case, and he never slept while on a case.
Never.
But as the clock struck eleven, and the case was slowly unraveling in his mind, and if he just studied the victim a bit more then it would all be clear, and the couch was suddenly and achingly comfortable, and his thoughts were getting foggy, and God; it would all just make sense if he closed his eyes for a few minutes, and his head was slipping sideways . . . .
John woke up with a jolt. Heart pounding and drenched in sweat; he got out of bed being careful not to disturb Mary and set off for 221b. After all these years, John Watson still suffered from night terrors. Less so, mind you, but they were there all the same. But it was no longer a stiflingly hot war zone that ailed John, it was a hospital rooftop with his best friend teetering a top it.
Knowing that Sherlock was still up, John decided to check in on him to sooth his panic more than anything else.
"Sherlock." He called, uneasy at the silence of his old flat. Glancing 'round the living space he was shocked to find the consulting detective lying on the couch covered in files and papers, eyes shut, breathing the deep and content pace of someone in a peaceful slumber. John gazed fondly upon his friend, smiling as Sherlock tightened his grip on the murder victim's file looking very much like a child cuddling his stuffed animal.
"John?" Sherlock muttered groggily, eyes blinking blurrily up at him for a moment before snapping open. He sat up rigidly, causing papers to fly everywhere.
"Right here. Any luck on the . . . ." He trailed off, as Sherlock scrambled up looking about in a panic.
"What time is it?" He asked urgently.
"About two o'clock. Why? What's wrong?"
Sherlock was livid. "I don't sleep while on cases, John. Never."
John stared blankly. "And you're upset because you took a healthy nap like a regular human being."
Beginning to pace feverishly, Sherlock began to explain in a constricted tone, "I was so tired John, I still am. I needed sleep, and I had no control over it. This is . . . this is . . . ."
"Normal." John interjected, getting mad now. "It is normal. Stop acting like you're some kind of god, Sherlock. Because you're not, you are a human being. A remarkable one, mind you, but a human none the less. If you push yourself too hard you'll end up-" He stopped himself.
"What?" Sherlock said coldly, stopping to stare icily at John. "Dead?"
John nodded, numbly. "Yes."
Sherlock let out a harsh laugh. "Well, that was the initial plan."
"What?" John snapped.
"You!" Sherlock pointed a finger at John in accusation. "You, Doctor John Watson! I had it all figured out so it would never have to come to this. And then I met you! You've ruined everything!" He cried in disgust.
"What the hell are you on about?" John said bewildered, more concerned than angry now.
Sherlock took a deep breath and collapsed in his chair, exhaling noisily in frustration. As John sat down, Sherlock began talking, taking care not to look at his friend. "In my line of work there is a considerably large amount of danger –" John snorted in agreement "– and I never intended on living to an old age."
"Sherlock–"
"All that mattered to me was the work and if I couldn't work then life wasn't worth living. I didn't worry though, oh no, of course not. Because I knew one day I wouldn't be quick enough, or I wouldn't be looking, and then I'd be dead. Dead young and fit, that was how it was supposed to go." He was talking fast; no breath in between words.
John was stunned.
"And then you." He snarled maliciously. "You, telling me to 'eat this Sherlock' 'sleep now Sherlock' 'be careful Sherlock' 'I'll help you Sherlock'." he mimicked John harshly. "And now, now I'm still here! I didn't want to live this long!" He took a shaky breath, staring fiercely at his shoes.
John felt the dull edge of horror seep in. He had always known . . . speculated that Sherlock had a bit less self preservation motivation than the average person. But to hear him say it aloud felt like plunging into frigid water.
Finally he found his voice. "When would you have wanted to die?"
"Sorry?"
John waited for Sherlock to look him in the eyes and then continued. "If you had to choose a time to die, when would it have been? If you had been shot ten years ago during the case with Robert Queen, then you would have missed out on ten more years' worth of cases. If you'd died during a case five years ago you wouldn't have completed the one a few weeks ago about Anna Thompsons' murder. Or how about when I first met you? Right before the case with the pink lady, would you have rather died young than met me? Do you understand what I'm saying, Sherlock?"
He sighed and closed his eyes. "Yes." Because it was true, he wouldn't have given away the past years for anything in the world.
"I'm not going to apologize for caring about you." John said.
"I'm not going to thank you, either."
"I'm not asking you to."
There was a long stretch of silence before John finally said, "So, about this case . . . ."
Sherlock's rapid fire deductions soon squashed the silence and somehow along the course of the night both men ended up dozing off while staring intently at photographs of the crime scene.
Mary found them in the golden light of morning. John on the very end of the couch with his head tilted back, legs outstretched on the floor, a hand in Sherlock's hair who was treating John's lap as a pillow and whose legs were crowding the rest of the couch.
Mary stared on bemused (taking a quick picture with her phone, of course) before putting on the kettle for tea and putting bread in the newly bought toaster (Sherlock had destroyed three within the past two months and Mary was currently waging war with him attempting to keep this one alive.) She tried to be quite, but soon Sherlock stirred and made a small (and unbearably adorable) noise of protest.
He gazed blearily at Mary, a faint smile ghosting his lips before suddenly realizing where he was. He stumbled to his feet trying to detangle himself from John, who snapped awake and flushed red at the sight of his ex flat mate struggling to get off of him. Mary chuckled as the two men managed finally to get up and spring apart to separate sides of the room. John's face was beat red and Sherlock was startlingly pink, a jarring difference compared to his usual ivory complexion.
"You know," Mary said through a stifled laugh. "Another woman would be suspicious if her husband spent more time sleeping with his best friend than his own wife. I hope you know how lucky you are John Watson."
John smiled sheepishly. "Very lucky." She kissed his cheek lightly before returning to the kitchen. Sherlock made a gagging noise.
"Very mature." John said as Mary smiled benevolently at Sherlock.
Sherlock opened his mouth to retort but then caught sight of a particularly fascinating picture on the coffee table and pulled it close to his face to examine.
"Oh." He said suddenly. "Oh! It was the neighbor, John! Of course!"
John moaned. "Too early, Sherlock." Before collapsing back onto the couch.
Quickly seeing that this particular Watson wasn't going to listen to him, Sherlock quickly waltzed into the kitchen and began talking to Mary, explaining his deductions quickly and zealously. Mary worked her way around the kitchen, nodding and adding a comment here or there when necessary.
John watched the two of them in the early golden glow of 221b. He thought about his life if Sherlock had attained his goal of dying young before even meeting John and cringed. He thought about the people he wouldn't have met and the adventures he wouldn't have had.
He smiled. Yes, he thought to himself, I'm very lucky indeed.