John was smiling as he showered. Dinner had been awkward for a moment when Sherlock walked up to the table, glancing around like the new kid at school hoping to get a seat with the popular kids. John had simply slid the chair next to him out and smiled. George and Jeremy had stared, gaping at them, and Molly had grinned like a maniac while Cara had whispered at her urgently. John had only heard snippets of the conversation, but what he had heard went along the lines of, "Drawing," or, "Violinist," or, "Famous." Molly just nodded at everything as she pushed the food around her plate before finding something that she deemed worthy of eating.
The conversation had taken a while, starting with George demanding to know what was going on. John had shrugged and told him it had been worked out, things were fine. George had been skeptical and Jeremy had shaken his head in disbelief, but by the end of the meal they were all chatting and even joking about things with each other - Sherlock included.
After dinner, Sherlock and John had lingered in the foyer with their dinner group, Sherlock vibrating slightly and trying to edge away back towards their room. John had finally made their excuses and said good night to everyone, hurrying after Sherlock.
"Why did we just spend nearly twenty minutes chatting?" Sherlock had been irritated, but that was nothing new.
"Because we need to show them that we're alright, and we need to make good impressions. We need to not arouse too much suspicion. And we need for people to stop looking at you like you cut my damn heart out and roasted it on a spit."
Sherlock had glared, but it hadn't been directed at John. "Fine."
"You don't have to like it-"
"Then I won't."
John had sighed and dropped the subject.
Once back at their rooms, they had stood awkwardly together for several minutes before Sherlock announced he'd take a shower. John had smiled and nodded, and walked over to the telly, flicking it back on and flipping through channels until he came across Doctor Who. Sherlock had rolled his eyes the moment he heard it and stepped into the bathroom.
When he'd come back out dressed in his pajamas, John had watched as he'd toweled and combed his hair, appreciating the way Sherlock's body moved and contorted. A lazy smile had spread over his face, and he hadn't realized it until Sherlock had cleared his throat. John had looked at his face then to see a rather bemused expression, one eyebrow quirked. John had blushed and ducked his head, one hand coming up to idly scratch at the back of his neck.
After the show had ended, he'd jumped into the shower himself. He was now just finishing up, and he was still smiling after being caught watching Sherlock. He couldn't help it.
When he stepped out of the bathroom in his own flannel pajama pants and t-shirt, he saw Sherlock sitting in the window seat, a notebook and pen in his hands as he stared out the window. John sat on his bed and watched as he'd suddenly dart his attention back to the notebook, scribbling furiously, then pausing again, head bobbing and mouth moving along with whatever was on the page. Then he'd look back out the window, lost in thought.
"Diary?"
Sherlock turned quickly, looking at John. "What?"
John tilted his head towards the notebook. "Diary? Or journal, or..."
Sherlock smiled slightly. "Not as such." He held the notebook out for John, who stood up and came to look at it. He squinted.
"Is that... music?"
Sherlock nodded. "Helps me think."
"Wait." John looked closer. "Is this... are you really composing?"
Sherlock looked back at John, surprised. "Yes, that's what I do. I play, and I compose."
"But this... this looks really... difficult..." John frowned, feeling very silly for what he'd just said. Sherlock grinned.
"Then I suppose it's a good thing I'm me." John had rolled his eyes and walked back to his bed, grabbing Sherlock's file.
"Is it..." He held the file up. "Will it bother you if I read more?"
"Not at all." Sherlock sounded sincere, so John decided he would simply take him at his word. He sat on his bed and opened the file, looking for the pages he'd been working on earlier.
They spend most of the night in companionable silence, Sherlock scribbling musical notations and John looking over police reports and doctor's files. John was fairly certain the only reason that none of these incidents had made the papers was because of Mycroft. He looked generally unassuming and even boring, but he had rattled John, and John did not rattle easily.
When he could no longer make out the words on the paper, he carefully placed everything back in the folder, organizing it so that he could hopefully find everything easily the next time he pulled it out.
"Alright, I'm wrecked." He stretched, yawning. "Good night, Sherlock."
Sherlock murmured something noncommittal and John debated getting up, going over, kissing him goodnight or something, but he refrained, seeing that Sherlock was far too engrossed in his task to be worried about anything else. John shrugged, turned out the light next to his bed, and laid down.
It felt like minutes later when he woke up to the sound of thrashing nearby. He blinked his eyes open and sat up quickly, looking around. Sherlock was in his own bed, breath coming fast and whimpering desperately, almost keening like an animal in pain. Then he was lashing out, legs and arms jerking violently, his whole body shaking.
"Sherlock?" John was out of bed and at Sherlock's side quicker than he could remember. Sherlock was paler than normal, and nearly drenched in sweat. John reached out gently, one hand easing onto his chest. Heart rate's through the roof. John's hand gently reached to Sherlock's forehead, which was clammy to the touch.
"Sherlock!" John tried to whisper as loudly as he could. The shaking was getting worse. "Sherlock!"
"John!" Sherlock's eyes never opened, but he called out. "John, no!"
"Sherlock, I'm fine, wake up!" John tried shaking Sherlock's shoulders a bit, but it did no good. He stood there for a moment, wondering if he should, if it would be a good idea...
Then he made up his mind. He pulled back the blanket and slipped in next to Sherlock, wrapping his arms around him and stroking his damp hair gently, whispering words of encouragement into his ear. John remembered doing this for Harry when she'd come home, drunk and out of her mind. Maybe it would help Sherlock with the withdrawals as well.
Sherlock's arms shot out and wrapped around John possessively, tightly. Sherlock's face buried itself in John's neck, and John could feel him inhaling along John's skin, moaning and whispering.
John lay still for several minutes until he found himself abruptly flipped onto his back side, Sherlock hovering over him on hands and knees, head bowed and breathing ragged and labored. "Please." It was whispered so softly that John wasn't sure he'd heard it at first, until it was repeated. "Please, I need this..."
John waited, watching the top of Sherlock's head as it hovered in the air in front of him. "Sherlock?" His voice was soft, but insistent. "Sherlock, you need to wake up." He reached up and ran his fingers gently through Sherlock's hair.
Or at least, he started to - the moment his fingers had made contact and began moving, Sherlock had cringed, hunching and dropping onto John. The air left John's lungs, and he wasn't sure how to get it back at first - all thoughts had evaporated, all ability to make his body do anything was gone, for that moment. John squeezed his eyes shut and counted in his head, like he'd been taught to by the therapists and doctors and hell, even Sherlock.
When he opened his eyes again, breathing in and out, he heard Sherlock whimpering again, trembling against him and pleading, over and over again. "Please, please, no, please, no, don't, please."
The trembling stopped suddenly, and John stayed as still as he could as Sherlock's head - which had plastered itself to John's left hip - came up and looked up the length of John's body very, very slowly.
"Oh." Sherlock looked surprised, then ashamed, then resigned. "Did I..."
"I'm fine, Sherlock. You didn't... hurt me, or... I'm fine."
Sherlock pushed up then, sitting back on his feet. His hands came to his own thighs, head tilting back as he exhaled. "I'm sorry."
"What? Sorry? For having a nightmare?" John pushed up until he was propped on his elbows. Sherlock made a noise that could be taken to mean yes. "Sherlock, we can't really control... what we dream about."
Sherlock took a deep breath. "Withdrawal, mixed with... earlier..." John nodded, and waited for him to say more. "John, I... I don't know if I can keep fighting this."
John pushed up so that he was sitting properly now, and placed a hand on Sherlock's cheek. "Don't say that. You can and will get through this."
Sherlock looks at John sadly. "And you'll be there? To ensure it?"
John nods at once. "Of course I will."
Sherlock nods, and eases himself down next to John. "Stay with me." It's not a question. John nods again and smiles.
"Of course I will."
