Hello. This chapter doesn't have much hurt, but it has slight angst, so I'm warning you. Possible triggers. It also has lots of fluffy comfort.
A trillion thanks to Sandra67 who has been most helpful in providing prompts and ideas. Thank you very much Sandra. You go girl!
Thank you also to a Guest who reviewed this. And to all other readers, reviewers, faves, and followers. I couldn't have done it without all of you.
Btw, check out my short sequel to the 3rd chapter, concussion, of this story. It is called "Heavy heads, light hearts".
So, read and review, me hearties.
Ta,
Laila.
It was 2 am in the morning and all was quiet as London remained dead to the world.
All except 221 B Baker Street, as Sherlock Holmes paced a hole in the floor, occasionally ruffling his hair. His fingers itched for his violin and his mind for a case. But his bloodshot eyes told a different story altogether.
It had been sixty hours since Sherlock had gotten a proper night's sleep.
For once he really did want to get some sleep. But his mind ... oh, his mind! How it raged. Ever running, thoughts chasing their own tails, decisions, opinions, deductions, comments all screaming inside his head. Loose threads nagging, solved cases needing to be analysed again, unsolved ones dancing in front of his mind's eyes. It was tearing itself apart.
"You know, most people just take a sleeping pill", came John's voice from behind his tea. John had been woken by Sherlock's thunderings and he had been trying to get Sherlock to bed for the past two hours.
God, sometimes he felt just like a parent with a highly intelligent kid!
"I've developed a tolerance", Sherlock said, not slowing in his pacing.
"Of course you have", John muttered. He ran a hand through his hair, then stopped as his movement mirrored Sherlock's. Damn, Sherlock was rubbing off on him.
He wandered off to the kitchen to fetch another cup of tea for himself and one for Sherlock.
Sherlock flopped onto the couch. He looked towards the kitchen and mused at the sounds of John making tea. He wondered why John was here with him when he could rather be sleeping the night. 'Sentiment' echoed John's voice in his head. He shook his head and laid down on the couch.
"Here you go", John's hand appeared in his eyesight holding a cup of tea.
John lifted his legs from the couch and sat down before propping them on his own lap. They passed a few minutes in a comfortable silence, sipping their warm drinks.
"John".
"Hmm?"
"Can we play Cluedo?"
"Nope".
"Shall we go to the Yard? Or better yet Lestrade's house?"
"Nope".
"Oh, for God's sake, John. Come on!"
Sherlock made to get up, but since his legs were still on John's lap, he let out an ungraceful yelp as they were pinched hard.
"Sherlock Holmes, we are not going to go traipsing around to Greg's house at two in the bloody morning just to see if he has got a case for you", John said, a finger pointed at the detective's scowling face.
With a scoff, Sherlock fell back against the couch.
A few seconds passed before...
"Well, what about ..."
"Nope".
"But I'm bored. I can't sleep. Why aren't you sleeping by the way?"
"Because, Sherlock, someone decided that it's a good idea to trample around the flat at two O' clock. So, yeah, I find it a little hard to sleep", John glared at Sherlock who stared back at him with a passive expression.
"Would you go back to sleep if I promised you that I wouldn't make any noise?", Sherlock looked at John with a doubtful almost fearful look in his eyes.
John looked at Sherlock, confused as to where this was getting at. Slowly realization dawned. Sherlock actually wanted him to stay. And he still didn't understand why John was sitting here with a self proclaimed sociopath, while other people would probably have told him to get out of the flat. Really, the man never did anything the straight way. Still, according to him sentiment was a chemical defect. So John responded in a way that Sherlock would understand without entering into sentimental territories.
"Nah. I won't be able to sleep again anyway. Might as well stay here."
A sparkle entered Sherlock's eyes, both relieved and thankful at the same time and John swallowed a smile of his own.
"So, have you always had insomnia? Is that why you don't sleep for days at a time?", John asked, settling down more comfortably.
"I guess so. My brain always demands work. It being superior to normal humans and not having to fulfill the transport's needs", Sherlock explained, his eyes on the ceiling.
John rolled his eyes at the light way in which Sherlock disregarded his body, but asked him,"Have you tried denying your brain the work?"
There was a silence as Sherlock pondered the strange wisdom in John's words. No, he had not tried to force his brain into submission, only his body. The brain always got what it demanded. For a moment Sherlock felt a slight pang of annoyance towards his brain. Silly! He shook his head and replied with a quiet 'no' to John.
Before John could prod further, he quickly interjected, "Haven't you ever had trouble sleeping?", with a curious tilt of his head.
"I used to. But then I started in the army and my "transport", unlike yours, tired after a day's work and I had no trouble falling asleep."
"You used to? What did you do when you couldn't sleep?"
"My mom, she ... well, she used to sing to me. And sometimes Harry too. And my father too, when he wasn't too busy. They didn't ... they sang whatever came to their mind. It didn't have a separate tune or anything. It just felt good that they spent time with me. I remained awake till the end of each song. Each song had it's own memories and they were different than the other. I fell asleep easily after that." John's voice carried with it a hint of melancholy and sadness, but also joy. His eyes were as soft as his tone and glistened suspiciously.
"So, what did you do when you couldn't sleep?", John asked, turning to Sherlock who was watching him with ... longing? As soon as John noticed the look, it disappeared.
"Sleeping pills", he answered, examining his fingernails.
"So that's why you developed a tole ... wait a minute, how long have you had trouble sleeping?"
"Since I was ... six."
"You've ... bloody hell, Sherlock. You know they should be avoided at best."
"What should I have done then, John!", Sherlock exploded.
"Didn't you ... You could have asked your mom or dad, or even your brother. Right?"
"They were always busy."
It was said so mechanically and quietly that John couldn't help but feel something tug at his heartstrings. He had a vision of a wide eyed, curly haired Sherlock padding to his parents for a bed time story only to see them rushing with phone calls and answering mails. They loved him, that was for sure, but they didn't show it. Maybe that was why Sherlock tried to avoid any kind of relationship.
"Close your eyes."
"What? It doesn't ..."
"Just do it, Sherlock."
Sherlock looked at John suspiciously before closing his eyes and leaning back against the armrest.
Remember the first day we met?
You asked me for my phone and guessed everything 'bout me.
You took me for a run round London's alleys
And cured me of my limp.
You brought me to live here
And saved my life too.
Then you went after a cabbie
And nearly took a toxic pill.
You would be dead, by now
If I hadn't shot him.
You should know, though,
That you really are an idiot.
Then we went on cases
You were brilliant in each
And we caught a murderer
Before you can say Scotland Yard.
Now I'm leading my life with you
Here in 221 B with Mrs. H
Who is not our housekeeper,
And it's the best life I've ever had.
So thanks for being my best friend.
It didn't have a particular tune. It had been clearly written on the flow. It was the best song he had heard.
Sherlock opened his eyes, his vision blurry. A smile played on his lips and on John's. Their eyes mirrored each other's emotions. Gratitude, love, friendship, happiness ...
It was the first time anyone had sang for him. And he had enjoyed it, loved it, treasured it to be stored in the John room of his mind palace.
He opened his mouth to say ... thank you? That was brilliant?
John smiled knowingly.
"Sleep, Sherlock."
And Sherlock did. Because he finally could.
Yeah, I wrote the song. Sorry if it's crap.
Hope you enjoyed. Please read and review.
Ta,
Laila.
