Disclaimer: I don't own a thing
Sherlock was startled awake by what felt like a minor earthquake. The resulting, loud yelp was mortifying - he should know better, just...
"Christ, sorry love," John blurted out, somewhere way too far behind him.
Was he staying in character? Surely he was. He hadn't thought that the good doctor would be so capable at dissembling.
"I woke up ravenous, and like the idiot I am, all I was thinking about was finding food somewhere," John explained. Only partially false. He woke up ravenous for more than one thing, and his main objective was to fucking remove himself before his partner woke up to a cock rubbing itself shamelessly against a backside entirely too lovely for anyone's good. At least Sherlock's anxious awakening had shamed it into subsiding. He should have known not to do anything rash when he was so entwined with the man. Slow and gentle, Watson. What's wrong with you? (Everything. Pretty much everything.)
The detective's head buried deeper into the pillow. Why would a measly thing like food get in the way, when... "I was having a wonderful dream," he mumbled. True, the details were hazy – as one would expect waking up panicked – but he needed only a tad of effort to recapture the wonderful feeling he'd been bathing in. He was pretty sure that was – love, only not the hungry, melancholic, envious version of it he was used to. Speaking of hungry...
Sherlock's stomach gurgled loudly enough to be heard through the covers, and he blushed. This was all John's fault! A single missed meal wouldn't have registered before, but his partner's insistence on getting some food into him every few hours, even if it was only a few biscuits or a packet of crisps, had obviously ruined his transport. Now it expected to be catered to all the bloody time! John's giggle was adorable, though. Oh damn.
"It seems as if I'm not the only one who's hungry. Do you want to come along, or should I get something and bring it back to you, your majesty?"
Decisions, decisions...dressing and leaving and undoubtedly giving up the chance for more cuddling should he be able to persuade John that a Roman-style lunch laying down was a brillant idea. Or – allowing John to go out and literally leave him behind. Nope, not happening. He'd been without John long enough. "Coming," he said, stretching and getting out of bed. Once again not caring who might get an eyeful. That talking things out idea seemed like a nightmare, but the results weren't so bad.
They dressed side by side, which would have been a problem for John if guilt hadn't quite effectively murdered his libido minutes ago. They ended up asking the receptionist to suggest a nice Italian place, because – as John admitted breezily, "I kinda miss being home". Angelo's had been their go-to cheer up food after many a difficult day, mostly because it always came with an extra of kindness and caring. Of course this owner wasn't indebted to the sleuth, so there would be no reason to expect the same – but the doctor hoped that, unless the service was absolutely dismal, the taste could trick them into feeling better all the same. After facing such demons, and with no 'whatever Mrs. Hudson accidentally made too much of expressly to feed them up' option, this was the best idea he had.
The woman at the reception – a different one from the one who welcomed them – smiled, winked and suggested a place, pointing out, "I don't know Italian, but a friend told me it had Kiss in the name."
John smiled back at her – for once, knowing that their lovers ploy was working was great news – and asked, "Shall we, then?" to his partner.
The detective nodded. His blogger's intentions were obvious, and he was grateful for them. Even if he doubted that a nap and ravioli could really do much for being forced to unearth the past – and now having to lock it back, damnit, even if he didn't have to relive every detail his brain still hated having needed to prod it.
John's plan worked even better than he expected, because – besides the yummy food – they found another owner who liked to fuss at how cute a couple they made. Neither of them protested, of course; and the blogger felt slightly guilty about all the grumbling he'd countered their favourite restaurant owner's enthusiasm with. But the truth needed to be upheld - and back home, they weren't together. And wasn't that a pity.
At least they didn't need to try too hard to pretend to be a couple. Sherlock stole bites from his plate with as much nonchalance and even more frequency than any girlfriend he ever had. And John didn't have to control himself and could stare at him with as much ardency as he liked.
When the waiter asked if they wanted dessert, the detective replied that they'd share one, with a conspiratorial look to the man that would have worried John for a second if they were really together…only to scold himself when the man came back. The doctor doubted that it could be termed 'one helping' anywhere in Europe. He had no doubt the bill would be in line with Sherlock's request, though. After knowing Angelo and his family for a while, he wouldn't be surprised if it was a frustrated cook's way to ensure they both had enough to properly enjoy the fruit of his art.
After their early dinner, they wordlessly agreed on a long, wandering stroll, both unwilling to face the room where something so draining had happened. Sherlock toyed privately with the idea of leaving that hotel and finding another room, allowing them to have a fresh start. They certainly had the funds for it. But in case their murderer kept tabs on doctor Reese's patients, such flightiness could have unnerved him (statistically, it was a him). Maybe even made him decide that they wouldn't stick around long enough to become worthy prey. Going to all this trouble only for the killer they were baiting to get bored of them would be something more than simply a failure – it would be humiliating.
They let chance guide them, pausing sometimes for any interesting sight, or even just to deduce other passersby. Still, at one point John grumbled, "It's 3 am, and our next session with Reese is in the morning. Do you mind if we go back to our room? You might be able to avoid sleeping on cases for as long as you please, but I'd rather not look like death warmed over, and naps don't really help with that. If only because it might raise more questions."
God, he was sick of questions. Why did the man have to be so nosy? And when would they be considered healed? This wasn't even about his PTSD, it was about the fact that they bickered as a couple. More or less. The therapist was milking them for money, wasn't he? John hoped that the solution to this case proved boring. Maybe that would make Sherlock decide to actually charge their client.
If the grimace accompanying the sleuth's, "Sure," was any indication, his argument was powerful. Despite being tired (well, John at least – he really had never fully adapted to a random sleep cycle), they power walked back to the hotel.
John didn't ask questions, he was in and out of the bathroom and inside the bed in a flash. Sherlock, though, stopped just inside the door and seemed to be staring. Nobody had broken in, had they? John thought he wouldn't have missed the signs of that, but the other's stillness was mildly concerning. "Everything okay? What's the problem?" he asked.
"Nothing. I…I just…doesn't matter." The detective shrugged.
"It matters to me. You should know that by now." His blogger put a hand on his arm.
"It's my brain. Sometimes it can be a curse. I was suddenly hit by the fact that I've told you everything about…back then, and things I want to seal deep down seem to be clinging to the sheets. I mean, they don't, obviously, and I know it's illogical, I apologise, I'll just…" Sherlock's words came quicker and quicker, until John's hand squeezed.
"How can I help?"
"I'll have to do some… mind palace remodelling, before I can actually fall asleep. Otherwise, well. You know. So really, not much for you to do," the sleuth replied.
"But? I know when there's a but coming," John prodded gently.
"We're not at Baker Street, and a strange place – well, remodelling works better when I feel safe, so – you only need to be there, really. Which you would anyway, because you have no other place to be, so…" Once again, Sherlock's words trickled to an end.
"Let's try reversing things," the other said. "You've been hugging me lately. Let me hug you this time. We might have to take up even more of the bed than we usually would, but, I was thinking – if we can manage to have your head on my chest without ruining your spine, maybe my heart will keep you calm." Yes, he was grasping at ideas he'd stolen from paediatrics articles, but who said it wouldn't work?
"Of course! If anything was wrong, I'd pick it up from your heartbeat. Brilliant, John!"
Well, it wasn't what he'd meant, but he wasn't going to complain. It required some extra adjustment, yes. But Sherlock in his arms, seeking him for comfort and not for 'homework' or pretence, made him feel absurdly proud.