Warnings: Language, psychological effects, semi-awkward situations that aren't meant to be slash but could be considered.
By the fifth morning, John was as exhausted as Sherlock looked.
He methodically stripped Sherlock's sheets while Sherlock sat on the bedroom floor, his knees to his chest and his gaze distant.
"Sherlock, go wash up. Please?"
"I don't wanna go back to bed," Sherlock mumbled.
"You have to sleep, Sherlock, so go wash up. You're not getting back in bed with those pyjamas on."
John finally wrenched the fitted sheet away from the mattress. Much more of this and he was going to have to buy a mattress protector so Sherlock didn't ruin the mattress. And that would be yet another hit to Sherlock's state, but what was John supposed to do? Let Sherlock sleep on a piss-laden mattress? No.
"Every time I sleep, this happens," Sherlock said, in the same lacklustre tone.
"Well, at least you get a few hours."
"I don't want to."
"Just go get washed up, Sherlock."
"No."
John threw the blankets down. "Fine!" Sherlock flinched, but it didn't seem to register with John. "Do what you want, Sherlock. Why do I even try to help you? If you so fucking set on doing it all yourself, then do it!"
Sherlock was staring up at him with wide eyes, his form trembling. His deep brown curls were shaking and his eyes were filled with something that looked like borderline panic.
John felt all of his anger dissipate. It was replaced with the worst sensation that he'd ever experienced, even including his experiences in Afghanistan.
"Sherlock. Sherlock, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean, I meant... I'm sorry." He held up his hands, carefully stepping over next to Sherlock. Sherlock leaned away as John sat down next to him slowly. "I'm sorry. This isn't your fault. I shouldn't be yelling." He sighed heavily, rubbing his eyes. "I want to help you. I really do, just let me know how. Please. Please."
Sherlock sighed shakily. "I'll get washed up," he mumbled, struggling to his feet.
John immediately stood with him, helping him to his feet, but Sherlock jerked away from his touch. John felt tears spring to his eyes.
He was such a terrible person. Terrible, terrible.
John took Sherlock's sheets again and carried them to the laundry. He put them in the wash, returned to Sherlock's room, and re-made the bed. Sherlock hadn't limped from the bathroom at this point and John paused at the door.
"Sherlock?" he asked, but didn't receive a response. He could the cabinet door squeak; Sherlock must be getting his toothpaste. "Sherlock, I'm running out to Tesco. Your bed's made. Go back to sleep. I'll be back in a bit, alright? Mrs. Hudson will be up to check on you."
He wasn't really going to Tesco. He didn't even change out of his pyjamas, just shoved his shoes on and grabbed his coat. He asked Mrs. Hudson to check on Sherlock in a bit and hailed a cab, his own words echoing in his ears.
Why do I even try to help you? ... doing it all yourself, then do it!... Do what you want...
How- Why-
John didn't really know where he was going. He didn't have close friends like Sherlock. Sherlock was the one person he could be comfortable, truly comfortable around, and he couldn't confide in Sherlock right now.
He ended up at his sister's. Maybe it was only because he knew that she would have alcohol.
"John? What's wrong?" she questioned, frowning. Good. She wasn't blasted out of her mind. Good.
"Harry," he rasped.
"John? John, what did he do?"
"He's hurting, Harry. He's hurting and I can't help him." Unbidden tears spilled over his eyelashes. "I can't help..."
That was how he ended up curled up on his sister's sofa, his face buried against her shoulder, sobbing until he vomited. The one nice thing about that was that he marginally better afterwards, and Harry did give him a rather large glass of scotch, and he sat, sipping at it, as his hands shook and his stomach churned and the tears dried on his face.
He didn't stay to chat. He left without so much as a thank you- which he knew he would regret later- and hailed a cab back to Baker Street.
He walked into the flat and found Sherlock on the sofa, although Sherlock didn't look up. John shucked off his coat and shoes and sank onto the couch next to him.
Sherlock didn't flinch and John was infinitely relieved.
"You smell like scotch..." Sherlock muttered, still not looking away from the far wall.
"What?"
"You didn't go to Tesco," Sherlock said.
"Oh."
John didn't know what to say, but Sherlock took care of the silence.
"I'm sorry, John."
John looked at him in surprise. "What? For what?"
"I'm being... difficult," Sherlock murmured, still not looking up.
John sat up slightly. "No. No, Sherlock, you are allowed to be difficult. You are allowed to hate the world right now. Curse and cry and scream. But don't apologise."
Sherlock seemed to deflate slightly. His shoulders slumped and he seemed to curl in on himself, looking small and vulnerable again.
"Can I... Can I sleep, here, on the sofa?" Sherlock mumbled, looking at him slightly. "With you... somewhere nearby? Sitting there or... something?" he said quietly, not meeting John's gaze again. "It's just... the nightmares..."
Sherlock had finally admitted to the nightmares. Finally.
John smiled faintly. "Yes. Yes, whatever you want, Sherlock, just ask. Let me get a pillow," he said, getting to his feet. He took the Union Jack pillow from his chair and sat down again. "Do you want to sleep, well, at that end or...?" he trailed off awkwardly.
Sure, he could sit across the room in his chair or he could sit on the floor, neither of which would be particularly comforting (or comfortable). Physical contact rendered fear less troublesome, and...
Sherlock mumbled something, but it was deliberately slurred. John figured that Sherlock's mind had immediately gone to the same conclusion as John's. It wasn't like he didn't understand why Sherlock was seeking the comfort- he did- and maybe that was why he didn't hesitate. He imagined that he would do pretty much anything at this point to bring a bit of relief to his best friend.
"Come on, then," John said, thumping the pillow into his lap. "I hope you don't mind my reading," he said, picking up a dog-earred book from the book, "while you sleep."
Sherlock shook his head, hesitating only a moment before curling up, resting his head on the pillow. He was tense. John didn't push him to relax, although he did place his hand on Sherlock's shoulder after a moment.
"Go to sleep, Sherlock," he murmured.
"Wake me up if I so much as twitch, John... Please."
John tried to maintain an expression that said no, my heart is not breaking. "I will. Don't worry about the nightmares. I'll keep them away."
"Hope so..." Sherlock mumbled, closing his eyes.
Sherlock was so exhausted that it didn't take long for him to fall asleep. John noted the dramatic change immediately.
The detective's tension left his shoulders. He stretched out slightly. His fingers curled around John's jumper absently, and his face actually looked peaceful.
John hoped that the nightmares didn't come back. He really hoped so.
By the time that Sherlock woke up- woke up on his own accord, and not because of nightmares and/or further accidents- it was well into the afternoon. John's legs were numb, his stomach was growling, and he had to go the bathroom, but he didn't care about any of that. They were all overshadowed by watching Sherlock's eyelids flutter open and having those beautiful eyes peer up at him sleepily.
"You didn't move..." Sherlock mumbled.
"No," John said, smiling. "But I sort of need to, sometime soon, anyway. I'm glad to see that you didn't have nightmares," he continued.
Sherlock's lips twitched towards the slightest ghost of a smile. "Yes... Thank you for that," he murmured.
"I didn't do anything," John said.
"More than you can know," Sherlock replied.
John shifted uncomfortably. "I'm... glad," he muttered. "Do you need anything?"
"No. Just... just staying here for a moment," Sherlock murmured. "If you don't mind..."
"I don't mind at all."
John didn't know how, but he started combing his fingers through Sherlock's hair at one point. Sherlock had closed his eyes and fallen into a relaxed state again. It was nice, finally, to be able to sit here with Sherlock like, well, not normal times, certainly, but without having Sherlock flinch at a loud noise or staring off into space or seeming to be off in a different world. It was progress. It had to be progress, didn't it?
"John?"
John looked down at Sherlock again. "Hm?"
Sherlock's eyes were staring straight ahead, towards the ceiling as he spoke:
"I remember everything."
Oh yes. He does. And it is not at all, not at all, good. Forgive the slight OOC-ness, but, in my opinion, Sherlock is allowed to be OOC after all of this mess has happened.
For the reviewer who asked why I update late at night: I do most of my writing at night. I'm a night owl. =p
I do not own Sherlock, as per the usual. Thank you!
