John
"Tired?" John asks three hours later. This, he knows, is a foolish question, given that Sherlock rarely feels the need to sleep. Sleep is but a pastime: something to do when there is no immediately pressing alternative.
To his surprise, Sherlock replies in the affirmative, explaining, "I've booked us into a hotel. Don't worry, I cross-checked thoroughly, making a selection based on your personal preferences, dietary needs, general likes and dislikes, and sleeping habits."
Sleeping habits. What, has the man been creeping on him late at night? They haven't spent enough time together sleeping in the same room (which they have indeed done on occasion, when cases necessitated an overnight stay in a distant location) for Sherlock to have gleaned extensive vaults of knowledge regarding his nocturnal tendencies. John doesn't know how he feels about this. Regardless, he's getting drowsy, so he agrees to go. It's a little brisk out at this point; a short walk later he is relieved to stand in a warm lobby.
"Reservation under Holmes, Sherlock Holmes. Ah ah ah," he says, holding up a hand as the familiar look of recognition crosses the hotel worker's face, inevitably followed by an outburst of incoherent babbling and "you're Sherlock Holmes" and "I've followed your stories since I was a little kid" and "would you very much mind signing my hat/purse/arm." "I know who I am, thank you very much. Now give me the key."
She gazes at him.
Sherlock exhales in irritation. "You didn't attend an Ivy League school in the States to stare stupidly at a detective whose fame escalated when he faked his own death. You took this desk job, which you privately deem below you, to cope with the fall-out of your breakup. Degrading comments on behalf of your ex-boyfriend have reduced you to a state of chronically low self-esteem, hence the obsession with anyone remotely well-known who, in your mind, stands for all that you could have been. Don't look so shocked; I'm sure you've read all about me in the tabloids. Surprised to see me without that ridiculous death frisbee on my head, probably."
"I –"
Sherlock sighs. "Just give me the key." Then, as if it pains him, "Please."
"Proud of you," John murmurs as they leave the slightly traumatized young lady and head to the lift. "Next time, perhaps tone down the insults. You did say 'please,' which was a nice touch."
"I don't insult, simply observe," Sherlock says absently, pressing the up arrow.
"Right." John turns his head so as to hide the fondness with which he is all too accustomed. Sherlock is an utter dickhead, and he is loath to condone such behavior, but that isn't to say that he doesn't have the utmost, often unjustifiable, respect for the man.
"Here we are," Sherlock announces, sliding the card in the slot and opening the door. He frowns at the piece of plastic, bending it back and forth. "Absurd idea, using a flimsy square as a key. Unbelievably easy to copy, and based on its markings as compared to the others strewn across the desk – poor woman ought to work on organizational skills, too – this is universal." He tosses it aside and flicks on the light.
"You need to relax," John says firmly. "It's not like we have reason to padlock the door. We're not up to any funny business." He chokes, realizing the implications of such a statement. "I just mean – we won't be – we aren't solving –"
Sherlock runs a finger over the sideboard. "I'm perfectly clear. Please stop trying to clarify. It's rather disconcerting." He spins around with a flourish.
John opens and closes his mouth, grasping for words and finally settling on, "Right. Telly?"
Sherlock nods, hanging up his jacket. "John?"
"Hm?"
"Coat."
"Oh. Forgot you have a thing about that. Alright, then." John gets off the edge of the bed. He moves to undo it, but Sherlock's hand is on the zipper, curly head bent intently over it. John doesn't move, feels the man's breath on his cheek, shuts his eyes for a split second.
"Why do you buy these cheap rags?" Sherlock complains. "I fail to see the aesthetic appeal of a double zipper, and it's obvious that it serves no purpose other than being a nuisance." He tugs at it a bit; the zipper has gotten stuck halfway.
"Let me try," John starts, but he knows Sherlock is too stubborn. Even the tiniest inconvenience – leaky sink, clogged drain, dysfunctional toaster oven – becomes a puzzle which he must solve. There is no way in hell that he will let a stuck zipper rest.
"I blame this entirely on you," Sherlock mutters. He's nearly bent double now, being so much taller than John, and John feels a whisper of breath through his shirt as the detective's face comes dangerously near his abdomen. He shivers. This is not a comfortable situation, getting partially undressed with Sherlock's mouth lingering above his waistband.
"Oh, for god's sake, just let me do it!" he finally says, pushing Sherlock a bit too forcefully away. The wounded look that this action elicits makes John's stomach plummet. After struggling for a few moments, the zipper pops free and he hands his jacket to the fastidious detective, who brushes it off carefully and hangs it next to his own.
"What do you want to watch?" Sherlock asks calmly, perching on the edge of the bed and taking off his shoes, meticulously lining them up parallel to the wall. His left black sock has a rip growing on the heel; John feels a rush of guilt. He's always taken care of the man, in a way, making sure he eats what Mrs. Hudson brings up, seeing to it that the little things in life are not overlooked, for Sherlock often becomes so entangled in his mind palace that he forgets about anything else. And so John performs small but essential tasks: patching up his coats, cleaning stains off his ties, restocking shoe polish when he knows the detective is too busy to do so. Once he even purchased new boxers, back before it seemed strange.
Why was it strange now? Good lord.
Obviously, Sherlock never acknowledges – probably doesn't think for a moment – that his friend goes to such troubles. Which ought to dissuade any normal person. Except John is far from normal. In fact, he's pretty sure he's going bonkers.
At any rate, he ought to have replaced Sherlock's socks long ago. Mary just takes up so much time, doing couply things that he does genuinely enjoy, except... except it can get tiresome. She's talkative, bright, eager – the exact opposite of Sherlock's withdrawn, broody, cynical nature. The thing is, John's an innately friendly, kind person. However, there is a hidden darkness in him, that many, when exposed to it, choose not to see. They make casual conversation, have a few laughs, leave.
Not Sherlock. No, he doesn't say a word about it: he merely sits in the silence. Pensive. Respectful. Keeping his distance. And on particularly bad days, when the limp begins to creep back in, he will stand in the doorway for a full minute, thinking John can't notice him (he does). He assesses the situation, standing perfectly still, hands clasped behind his back, and comes up with a solution. A demanding case on some days; others, a movie and takeaway. Playing violin until John is lulled either into sleep or reality is always a viable option, too.
Nobody understands him like Sherlock. This much is clear.
But, he thinks, watching Sherlock's slender fingers punch buttons on the remote, Mary is what he's got. Mary is attainable. Mary is there. And Sherlock... Sherlock will always be just out of reach.
–––––
Sherlock
There is a knock at the door. Sherlock glances at the clock; it's quarter to midnight. John groans. "I guess I'll get it then," he says irritably, wearing only a worn t-shirt and pair of shorts ("pajamas," or so he claims, but Sherlock feels affronted and peeved, watching him march around in such attire).
A hotel attendant hovers hesitantly over the threshold. "Um," he says. His nametag reads "Paul," with a doctor's office-esque smiley face sticker half-covering the last letter. "It seems that we, er – you're Sher –"
"What is it?" asks Sherlock. These people are exhausting.
"Sorry. We're quite honored to have you here, it's just –"
Sherlock stands up, walks to the door. It's not as though this interruption is particularly intrusive; he and John were simply flipping channels and making small talk, but somehow it feels sacred to him. His last moments, his last night, with his best mate. Before he has to give him away. Become a loner in an empty flat. John Watson, gone.
"It seems this particular room was not intended to be occupied this evening."
"What?" John looks at Sherlock, bewildered.
"I'm sorry," the employee apologizes. "There's a broken spring in the bed, we have to take it out so the mattress company can pick it up tomorrow and exchange it for a new one. Totally on us, we forgot to do it earlier, shouldn't have had it in the computer system that this room was available."
"Which bed?" Sherlock asks.
"The one near the door."
"That's Sherlock's," John points out.
"Yes, thank you," Sherlock says primly, and turns to the bloke. "What are our options?"
"We can check and see if there's another vacancy, though I'm afraid we're a bit crowded tonight, there's a massive wedding party blocking up half the floor."
The cot closest to the door, naturally (John's statement really was not necessary), is the one Sherlock had claimed. Some grossly overprotective part of him deems it absolutely critical, in all situations, to be near John, defending John, and damned if he was going to allow the man to sleep (a most vulnerable state) closest to the entrance to their room.
"So...?" Paul is waiting.
"Dunno," John says, shrugging at Sherlock. "One of us could kip on the floor."
"Moving to another location would be inconvenient, given the time of night and activity level of this population," Sherlock agrees. "We'll stay."
"Right. Hold on." The attendant mutters something into his Bluetooth, then gives a wide-toothed grin. "They're headed up right now to haul it out."
"Excellent. Very efficient," notes Sherlock.
Paul flushes pink. "Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment." John stamps on his foot. "Ow."
"Thank you for having us," the doctor says to fill the awkward silence. "Must be fun, working here? Lots of people watching, I expect. Interesting characters."
"Oh, definitely. I meet a good lot of cool –"
"That will do." Sherlock pushes past the boy. "They're here."
"I don't hear –"
John rolls his eyes and says apologetically, "He gets like this. He's got super senses and doesn't hesitate to be cocky about it."
"Cor," breathes the fellow, while Sherlock snaps,
"I heard that."
Sure enough, a pair of burly workmen have the broken mattress out of the room in a matter of minutes, leaving Paul gawking in the doorway and fiddling with the hem of his polo shirt.
"Goodnight," Sherlock says crisply. The young man starts a bit, then says,
"Oh, erm, alright. I can bring an extra set of bedclothes...?"
"Please just leave. You're giving me a headache."
Crestfallen, Paul backs out hurriedly. "Goodnight, Mr. Holmes."
"Sherlock." John gazes at him reproachfully the moment the door swings shut. "Was that really necessary?"
"I can't deal with any more people tonight." Sherlock struts over to the bed, which appears surprisingly small given its actual dimensions. He hesitates for a split second. John is standing on the carpet, bare feet, hair messy from leaning against the pillows too long. John is beautiful, exquisite, in this rumpled state. Displeased with Sherlock, yes. Angry? Sherlock (desperately?) hopes not.
"Well, I might as well get comfy on the rug, then," John says after a curiously tense beat. "Mind if I snag a pillow?"
The realization of the situation hits Sherlock. "No," he says firmly, taking John's wrist and tugging him towards the bed. "This is your night. I'll sleep on the floor."
John's eyes look slightly glazed. Did he have too much to drink? Mild, alcoholic-induced intoxication? Or is it sheer tiredness, nothing more?
Come to that, Sherlock feels intoxicated, but he is pretty sure no drug is playing a part. It's goddamn John Watson's fault. Stupid. He sucks in a breath and lets go, the warmth of his friend's arm still imprinted between thumb and forefinger.
"We could share, you know," John says quietly, hand cocked at a strange angle by his side, as if still feeling the sensation of skin against skin. "It's a big enough bed."
Sherlock coughs. Momentary speechlessness. Loss of inhibition. Deterioration of reasoning abilities. Perhaps he is drunk.
He isn't, though.
"Oh. Um. I suppose – yes, that does make sense," he manages. "We'll fit."
John gives a tight-lipped smile. Not the sort he gives when he's forcing happiness: no, this implies apprehension, anticipation, anxiety of some kind. Then he sighs, runs a hand through his hair, yawns. "I'm knackered," he says, climbing into bed. He carefully leaves room for Sherlock; it is an adequate amount of space, but not as much as he could have given. "Care to join?" he asks, and turns on his side with a little huff of annoyance when he receives no response.
Sherlock stands there, taking in the sight of the wiry doctor, and stops breathing for a solid ten seconds.
He finds very, very few things appealing. Only two, really. One always has been, and always will be, crime scenes. Murders. Deduction. Puzzles, riddles, adrenaline, solutions. Lab coats, microscopes, yellow tape. Straightforward. Simple.
The second one is – and Sherlock hates to admit it, hates even more the image of Mary that flashes in his mind, and hates most that he is utterly, hopelessly helpless – John Hamish Watson.
That little bugger.