Three
John Watson had trouble sleeping that night. He was plagued by a series of dreams - some good, some not so good and some that would make his therapist demand a pay rise. His head swum with images of his army friends smiling at him, only for them to turn slightly and be missing limbs, and of Sherlock's smile – not his I've-just-had-an-epiphany smile, the shy, sweet smile that only came out when he played violin. He awoke at around three in the morning to hear a melody float through the house, so he got up and moved towards the nose.
"Can't sleep either?" Sherlock paused playing the violin to throw the question over his shoulder before John had got fully through the living room door. "It's not your over-active mind keeping you up – how could it be? It's barely active in the first place – so what is it?"
"You can say what you like about my limp being psychosomatic, but the dreams are awful" John shuffled into the kitchen and put the kettle on, pulling his dressing gown closed and re-doing the knot. He sat in his chair and gazed at Sherlock's back. "What's your story then, or are you too brilliant for sleep?" John propped his head in his hand, yawning deeply over the last part of his sentence.
Sherlock chuckled and replied with "something like that. I very rarely get a good night's sleep, I get a craving and need to re-apply." As he lifted the hand with the bow in, John could clearly see the three nicotine patches on his arm. John gazed at the back of his flatmate's head as the violin continue to sing out the melody that had woken him. He wondered how someone so selfish, so self-absorbed could be so brilliant all at the same time. He didn't ponder on this for long, though, as the kettle 'ding' told him it was time to pour the tea.
"You know how I take my tea by now, I presume?" Sherlock's voice floated through the flat, almost like it was being carried by the melody from the violin, as it was as soft and gentle as the piece he was playing – Bach's "Air on a G String". John turned as if to make a sarcastic remark, but as he did so, he saw Sherlock smiling at him – the smile he only got when playing violin. It caught him off guard and all he could do was nod sheepishly. He made the tea and carried it towards the window, where Sherlock had laid his violin to one side. John sat next to him at the window without saying a word, and they looked out into the blackness of another London night.
The quiet remained constant, neither person feeling the need to break the comfortable silence that passed between them both with idle chit-chat. John's breathing was deep and even, whilst Sherlock's was shallow. He clearly had something on his mind, John wondered whether or not to press him about it, but thought better of it. If the genius wanted to bare his soul, it was up to him. So John picked up his mug and drank from it instead.
The silence was interrupted by a bleeping noise emitted by Sherlock's laptop, which was – for a change – in the living room of the flat. Sherlock rose from his chair and took slow, languid strides towards it, seemingly in no hurry to read another clingy email from "theimprobableone". Sure enough, it was a quip from Sherlock's internet stalker about how John was "not good enough to be Sherlock's" and how he and Sherlock should be side by side instead.
"Does everybody think I'm your bloody date?" John growled as Sherlock read out the latest message, which was met with a chuckle and a wry smile from Sherlock. "It's not funny" he added, a grin spreading across his own face despite the words that just left his lips.
"Shall we put James Bond on? That should be vapid enough for us to fall asleep to" Sherlock suggested, already settling onto the lounger. "Put one of the Connery ones on, he's the best Bond" he said as he pulled his robe around him.
John smiled, shook his head and retrieved "Goldfinger" from his DVD collection. He set his mug down by his chair, put the DVD in the player and settled down with his flatmate.