John's dreams are vague this night – when he finally sleeps he doesn't recall what has passed through his mind, but he has a fleeting recollection of darkness interspersed with flashes of light, pain, floating and loud, angry noises. He wakes up, as he's becoming used to now, with a silent gasp of breath into his aching lungs and the feel of sweat, cold and sticky on his back.
Slowly his heart rate drops and much as he'd like to shower the clamminess off his skin, perpetual tiredness wins out and his eyes drift closed again.
He wakes again, suddenly, this time from a blissfully dreamless sleep, and lies still trying to figure out what it is that has woken him so suddenly. His answer, predictably, is Sherlock. This time he is standing at the foot of John's bed, arms crossed in front of him, expression blank in the half-light.
John stretches uncomfortably, aware of all the pieces of the puzzle in this room. His still-bruised wrists under the covers, the stiffness of his shoulder, the Sherlock never comes in here; he seems to appreciate that it is John's own space, free from strange experiments and body parts and usually just shouts up the stairs if he needs something.
"What time is it?" rasps John. The medicine is still making him feel dreadful to the extent that he has relied on drinking rehydration sachets to try and keep his sodium and potassium levels in check. What he really would have liked as an addition to that would have been a long sleep, which looked increasingly like a pipe dream.
"I don't know."
The realisation strikes John like a punch to the gut that Sherlock isn't in here for a case, or an emergency. Which leave the alternatives that he might want to chat, or he might have suspected that something strange is going on and he's here to look around for clues.
Anxiety puts a sharp edge in his tone when he straights up and asks Sherlock what he's doing, and Sherlock looks visibly surprised for a split second and curious for a blood-curdling moment afterwards.
"I wanted to talk" he says hesitantly, and John's heart sinks.
"It's the middle of the night" he points out, knowing it won't make a damn bit of difference.
Sherlock smiles, clearly reading the expression on John's face, and sits down on the edge of the bed. The proximity, even of a friend, makes the hairs on the back of John's neck stand up and his mouth suddenly feels dry. He fights the urge to shuffle back on his bed, away from his friend. His friend, he has to remind himself, who isn't going to hurt him.
He thinks he's going to have to press Sherlock into talking, but just as he draws breath Sherlock rolls his shoulders back and fixes John with his piercing stare.
"This is difficult" he mutters, eyes sliding away from John, "So just listen quietly, ok?"
John says nothing; he is sure his face must be slick with sweat by now. Sherlock can probably smell his fear.
"I know something's going on. I know you're not systemically unwell and I know you're not eating or sleeping. And I know how much value you hold in your privacy, and I am honestly trying not to pry, John. I just need to know…"
There is a pause; John wonders whether he is going to continue or whether that was his cue to elaborate,
"…I need to know that I don't need to worry. Because I know that's what…friends do. And this whole friendship, caring…thing," he waves his hands around vaguely, "is still quite new to me."
John's chest aches. It's quite possibly the nicest thing that Sherlock has ever said to him and every fibre of his being wants to burst the dam and tell him what happened, let him exact his revenge, be held and be told it's alright. But that's the problem with living with a self-diagnosed sociopath; he can't do any of those things. He wouldn't know how to react; would find it hard not to apply logic and reasoning, would be ill at ease with John.
There is no way he can tell him.
John is not a good liar. He knows that his face betrays him, that Sherlock could probably pick a dozen mannerisms which give him away; he knows that it is stupid to try and outsmart a sociopath, and especially one so fearsomely intelligent as Holmes.
He knows that Sherlock is, for once, not being objective.
He takes advantage, skin crawling at his own dishonesty.
"Everything's fine."
He hesitates, leaning forward fractionally.
"Thank you for asking though, Sherlock. I appreciate it."
If Sherlock hears the break in his voice he doesn't comment, simply nodding and slipping off John's bed and into the shadows. The door clicks silently behind him and John exhales deeply, sinking into the pillows. Light is starting to creep through the ragged curtains; it's not worth his going back to sleep now.
When John has gone to work, Sherlock gives up pretence of trying to read his book and leans back onto the sofa, massaging his temples with his forefingers, thumbs steepled against his cheekbones.
He knows he has a prodigious mind; that is really no news to anyone. He knows that there is something wrong with John; knows that ten uninterrupted seconds in John's room would give him the answer. And yet…for all that he ignores social graces and politeness, he can't pretend not to understand John's almost obsessive need for personal space and privacy. Impossible to ascertain the root cause without delving further; possibly a childhood issue, likely exacerbated if not caused by his time in the army at permanently close quarters with his colleagues.
Still, that is not the issue. The issue is that nothing is happening and all he can focus on is the mystery of John Watson, and yet he's trying not to think about that. Easier said than done of course, and particularly with an intellect as formidable as his. It isn't like he can just turn it off, after all.
His phone buzzes, startling him from his reflections, and he looks at the message, groaning and kneading his forehead again.
"Sherlock. Require consultation. Sending car. MH"
John has made him into a weak man if he'll resort to letting his brother distract him. His phone buzzes again.
"You'll get terrible wrinkles if you carry on pulling that face. MH"
Of course, he's being watched. He stands up, moves to the window and throws his phone out violently. If it just happens to hit the windscreen of the expensive looking government issue car parked surreptitiously outside…well, that's just misfortune, surely.
Smiling to himself, he swings his scarf around his neck and exits the flat.
A/N: thank you so much to everyone who has read, reviewed and added this story as a favourite :)