Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
Thanks to Starcross123 for this prompt!
Also, I've got a long list of prompts from people waiting to be written (I'm still accepting suggestions though:)! ), so please forgive me if I haven't gotten to yours yet, and I'm so sorry to those of you who have been waiting for a while now.
Other note: I'll be starting school again on Tuesday, so my updates unfortunately won't be as frequent as I'd like, but I'll try my hardest to get one out at least every three to four days!
This will be a sort of short and light-hearted one because my next couple are going to be longer. Brace yourselves, folks.
It was nearing eleven at night when Sherlock solved his first case since he'd returned from the dead. Well, not from the dead, apparently - rather, from his travels around the world to defeat Moriarty's network. John still felt strange every time that he even glanced at his friend; after all, he'd spent two years thinking he was dead. Yet here he was, solving cases just as he always had.
He picked up his phone as Sherlock was trying to hail a cab and phoned Mary.
"Hey," she said when he answered. "Did you two solve the case?"
"Well, Sherlock did," John said, smiling slightly at being able to say his friend's name without feeling slightly dead inside. "We're finishing up now. Sherlock's trying to hail a cab, then I'll head back home once we've stopped at Baker Street. I'll probably be back a quarter to midnight."
"Oh, don't worry, John. Stay at Baker Street tonight. Don't bother driving that extra way this late, it doesn't matter," Mary offered.
"Are you sure?" John asked, slightly abashed; the past two nights he'd stayed at Baker Street in his old room because he and Sherlock had been out late on the case.
"Yes. Remember, he needs you too, John. I think he's forgotten what it's like to have a friend around the past couple of years."
"Okay. Well, I'll see you tomorrow at work," John said.
"Right. Love you," Mary said, a smile on her lips audible even through the telephone.
John hung up. "Sherlock, do you mind if I spend the night at Baker Street again?" he asked as they climbed into the cab. Somehow, he felt it was compulsory to ask because it was technically Sherlock's flat now since they didn't share anymore.
Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. "You're always welcome, John," he said. John was just thinking about how nice that was of him to say that when Sherlock added, "But don't talk much tonight. I need time in my Mind Palace and your voice is rather irritating."
Oh, well. At least he was back. John kept reminding himself that every time Sherlock made an embarrassing deduction on him or completely missed a social cue.
They got back to Baker Street twenty minutes later. John was absolutely knackered, and so he headed straight for bed, and was glad to see Sherlock was too - typically the detective didn't get enough sleep.
Which, speaking of, John hadn't gotten much sleep either lately. Sherlock had returned two weeks ago, and now for two weeks he hadn't slept more than four hours in one night. He hadn't told anyone, of course. He assured himself that this was the emotional, temporary side effect of Sherlock returning. He couldn't bring himself to sleep for an extended duration, because he was afraid he'd wake up and Sherlock would be dead again - what if his return was all a dream?
Some nights he didn't sleep at all. John would lay awake in bed, unable to, because the nightmares were worse than not sleeping.
John was positive that Sherlock hadn't missed the fact that he had acute insomnia - that man didn't miss anything - but it hadn't been mentioned.
The next week was similar to the one before. Sherlock and John were finishing up with a client in Baker Street, and it was nearing two in the afternoon.
"John, put that deduction down. It'll look good in your blog," Sherlock said blatantly.
John gave a start. "Sorry, I…hadn't been listening."
In truth, it wasn't that he hadn't been listening, it was that he couldn't listen. The past week he'd had a cumulative total of twenty hours of sleep. That was it. The room felt cold and dizzying, and while one half of him wanted to sleep badly, the other half refused to - what if there was the small chance this was a dream, and he'd wake up with Sherlock still dead?
"That was a fairly good one, too," Sherlock said mildly. "That's alright. I'm sure I'll make another within the next ten minutes."
Their client left thirty minutes later. Sherlock resumed his position in the kitchen with his microscope, and John sat down to read.
However, it didn't take much time for him to realise reading wasn't going to work. Everytime he read a sentence, he had to reread it, because he hadn't processed what it said; that is, if he had managed to even read in the first place without his eyelids sliding down and the words dancing across the page.
Sherlock's voice jumped him from his stupor with the book.
"What was that?" John asked blankly, blinking rapidly to force himself to focus and listen.
"I said, are you getting takeaway tonight?"
John had to think the question over several times before gathering an answer. "Er… no. I'm going home. Dinner with Mary."
Sherlock frowned. "Mary's at a conference in Edinburgh."
"Right!" John said automatically, feeling rather stupid. "So I guess we'll be getting takeaway, then. I'll stay the night here, then, if you don't mind."
No answer from Sherlock.
"What do you want?" John asked, heaving himself up from his chair and rubbing the black out of his eyes. His vision finished tunneling and returned as Sherlock said, "Soup. I don't care what kind. Whatever they have."
"Okay," John said, picking up his wallet to go to the sandwich shop, deciding he could get himself a sandwich and Sherlock tomato soup or something of the sort.
Sherlock barely took note when John returned and put the soup in front of them.
"You're welcome," John said finally when he didn't receive any answer. "How's the case going?"
"I don't have a case at the moment. We finished one this afternoon," Sherlock said, finally glancing up from his microscope. "Are you feeling alright?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. I might go to bed early tonight," John said, knowing that it would be another painful night of laying awake, wanting to sleep but being unable to.
Sherlock sighed. "John, I feel obliged to tell you that you're suffering from acute insomnia. It's perfectly clear from the poor memory, lack of-"
"I don't need the deduction," John said sharply, then inhaled. "Sorry, sorry. I mean, yeah, I've had a bit of insomnia, but it's nothing."
"Sleep deprivation can severely affect cognitive functions," Sherlock commented.
"Like you're one to talk," John snorted.
"I never go so far as to let it affect my mental state," Sherlock said indignantly. "Well, unless it's a really important case, then I make an exception. But, John - how long have you gone without a full night of sleep?"
"I haven't slept in two days, and the last time I slept was for three hours," John said, wincing as a headache stabbed at his temples. "I'm fine, though."
"You don't look fine."
"No, really I am. I'll just take some melatonin tonight, or something," John assured him.
Sherlock's eyes lingered on him a moment longer - John could feel his sharp gaze examining him like an x-ray - then he turned back to his microscope.
"Just don't let your lack of sleep impede on any of our cases," he warned.
"No," John promised, slightly pleased at how Sherlock referred to it as both of their cases, even though he scarcely ever solved one before Sherlock. Come to think of it, he didn't think he ever had. Another ten minutes passed in silence.
"Why do you have insomnia?" Sherlock asked abruptly, looking away from his microscope again. "You don't have any medical conditions that I'm aware of. You're not on drugs or some other medicine that would affect your sleeping habits."
John gave his friend a look. "Yeah, it's not exactly a scientific reason."
"It's not?" Sherlock said, looking rather surprised. John had forgotten how naive the detective could be.
"Well, it can be caused by… emotional… reasons as well," John said uneasily. Sherlock's expression changed from disgust at the word "emotional" to confusion to slight fear at having to deal with an emotional situation.
"Oh? And what are those… 'emotional reasons'?" Sherlock said finally.
John let out a short laugh. "Nothing, I'm fine."
Sherlock suddenly stood, smoothing his suit. "John, I was once told… before I, well, fell… to not just say that I'm fine. Don't just say that you're fine, because… I mean, if it's something emotional…" Sherlock was looking more and more nervous by the second the longer he spent trying to fix John's "emotional reasons."
John looked at Sherlock, surprised. "Who told you that?"
"Molly Hooper," Sherlock said, unabashed.
"Ah. Well, believe me when I tell you that I'm fine." John forced a smile. "Look, my best friend is back from the dead. I've got nothing to be stressed about."
"So you're stressed about me being back?" Sherlock confirmed, looking slightly taken aback. "I'm… sorry for that. If there's anything I can-"
John interrupted. "No, look Sherlock. It's not that. It's just…" He struggled to find the words for his sociopathic friend to understand. "It's just that I'm… irrationally afraid this is a dream. If I go to sleep, I'll be brought back to the reality, where you're dead."
"Oh," Sherlock said, understanding dawning across his face. "Oh. Well, then. So, you won't let yourself sleep because…"
"I don't want to wake up to a worse reality," John finished, and was uncomfortably aware of how very irrational he was being. Of course this wasn't a strange dream. Sherlock really was back. He was back, and he wasn't dead.
"Maybe you should just get to bed early tonight," Sherlock suggested. "Go to bed now, and don't worry about it. I'm back, John, for real. I promise you that I'm not dead."
"I know," John said, laughing nervously. He paused. "Okay, then, I guess I'll go… to bed." He lingered a moment longer before heading upstairs. The sun was still shining, so he pulled his shades down and his curtains.
It was when his head hit his pillow that a sudden melody began to echo beautifully through the flat. Sherlock was playing Bach on the violin; one of John's favourite pieces, too - it was a sonata that the detective had been playing in the weeks leading up to the rooftop… event.
Somehow, miraculously, it worked, and John fell asleep with the smooth sound of the violin playing continuously through the flat.
Personally I think that Sherlock believes that actions speak louder than words, so that's how I try to portray him. Hope you enjoyed this chapter, and again, any and all reviews are welcomed! Thank you for reading!