Gigue in A Major
A fresh breath of wind entered the flat at 221b, and John briskly sat up to pretend that he hadn't been snoozing beneath the newspaper.
Sherlock was home, as the sudden sharp breeze from the window testified, and John heard the squelching of wet rubber-soled shoes, the dropping of something metallic and heavy on the wooden floor - perhaps a torch - and the light shiver of pants collecting in a puddle of fabric, this symphony concluded by the wheezing of bedsprings and the rustle of the messy bedclothes.
It was the first time he'd been home in three whole days.
"Sherlock?"
His legs were asleep, but he lugged himself up and set the paper aside, turned the telly off (it'd been on for the company), and trundled over to greet his room-mate and close the door (to prevent an unwanted sighting of a naked Sherlock sprawled across the bed in the gentle light of morning).
"Don't pretend you've been waiting up for me," he heard a mumble as he approached the doorjamb, and he laughed softly in response.
"I admit I dozed off just now, but only because I've been staying wakeful ever since you got that call. Not a word, Sherlock?"
"...You weren't really worried."
"Well, you're right, worried isn't the word. Concerned, yes, Sherlock. Just...send a text once in a while. I know you can take care of yourself, but God, you get yourself into such situations...I can't help but think the worst sometimes."
"I didn't think it was necessary. And I had no service. Abroad."
"Where?"
"Pakistan."
"Dare I ask?"
"Do you?"
John sighed. "Not really. Just...consider yourself told. Erm, told that I was concerned and that I expect you to let me know that you're still alive when you're gone for over twenty-four hours. And gone all the way to Pakistan, Christ..."
"-How long was I gone?"
"...over twenty-four hours, which is what I mean, Sherlock. You don't even think about these things, do you?"
"Why, does it matter?"
"Yes, it does bloody matter, Sherlock."
"Is this conversation going to be much longer? You might as well come in so I don't have to sit like this."
"Sit like what?" John peered into the darkness of the room, illuminated only by the glow of the recently-discarded blackberry on the dresser.
"On my elbow."
"That doesn't clarify much."
Sherlock didn't seem to care. "If you're not done with your lecture, come in and close the door, or if you're done, leave and close the door. Either way, close the door. Every second it's open is a second I'm not producing melatonin."
With reluctant haste, John stepped in and closed the door.
"Put a towel under it," said Sherlock, more muffled; apparently he was no longer sitting 'on (his) elbow' and was instead speaking into the pillow, or comforter, or something.
"Put a towel under it?" asked John, unnecessarily but compliant as he made a movement to grasp the handle and leave in search of a towel, since there was no hope of finding anything in the mess that was Sherlock's bedroom.
"No," hissed Sherlock, "don't you dare open it again."
"All right," John replied, a little perplexed until something floppy and fabricky flew across the room and landed on his shoulder. "Are...is this a Victorian nightshirt?" he asked incredulously, holding it up and trying to discern what on earth it was.
"Eyes take twenty minutes to adjust to night vision, John. And don't be daft; it's a very modern peasant dress."
"What are you doing with a peasant dress, modern or otherwise, Sherlock?"
"...it was for a case. Just do me a favor and stuff it under the door already!"
Deciding that waiting any longer might put some body part or other of his at risk, John complied, nudged the garment into the crack between the bottom of the door and the floor until only a minimal amount of light could get through, and waited for further instruction.
And waited for further instruction.
And waited for further instruction.
Until he realized that he wasn't going to be getting any further instruction, not for a few hours anyway.
"Sherlock?" he asked, quietly, because he really didn't want to wake the great detective. Sleep was uncommon medicine, and God knew Sherlock's 'vessel' or 'appendix' of a body could use it after days of continuous abuse.
Still, John also fancied sleep, and standing in the entryway of Sherlock's room until the detective awoke again wasn't an appealing course of action.
"Sherlock?"
Deciding that his room-mate was enough asleep to open the door enough to escape, John made a motion to grab the handle.
"Do I have to repeat myself?" came Sherlock's voice, firm despite the faintest tinge of grogginess that made it a trifle whingy.
"So what do I do?"
"I don't care. Whatever. Just don't open that door."
It was clear that Sherlock was perilously close to sleep at this point, as his voice was getting progressively less authoritative, and John decided to wait until he could move an inch without being noticed.
Five minutes passed, and his bare feet were getting cold, so he wiggled his toes a little.
"Don't even think about it," Sherlock stated, as perceptive as a cat.
"Is it noise or light that you want to avoid?" asked John, "Because as it happens, I find breathing very exciting."
"Light. But do shut up anyway."
John was beginning to see better now, and he could identify Sherlock's form, long legs emerging from the mess of blankets in which he was otherwise cocooned, and it occurred to him that his friend looked very vulnerable, childlike, and alone. Why else would the man hug himself so tightly, or wear so little to sleep, if not to embrace every tactile sensation from a secondary source, even if said source was no more than a blanket?
"I can hear you thinking," said Sherlock. "If you stop looking at me, you'll stop psychoanalyzing me. You're probably wrong, anyway."
John sighed. "So, what do you suggest?"
"Lie down. Then you'll have nothing but the ceiling to look at. And sadly, aside from the water-stain that is a better map of the London underground than what the authorities publish, it's boring."
John completely missed all the words that followed the first two, however: lie down.
"What? Lie down? On your bed?" John asked with such vehement scorn that he could hear the walls resonating with echoes of subtext: I'mnotgayI'mnotgayI'mnotgayI'mnotgayI'mnotgayI'mnotgayI'mnotgayI'mnotgayI'mnotgayI'mnotgayI'mnotgayI'mnotgay...
"Well, what of it?" asked Sherlock, so damn practical, as always. "You're not gay. I'm asexual. We're both tired. Neither one of us needs lights. So just shut up and go to sleep."
With nothing more than a 'harumph!' of an answer to that, in the face of his own drowsiness and Sherlock's logic, John picked his way through the rubbish that cluttered the floor and hesitantly fell onto the bed, fully clothed as he was. He got a pillow shoved in his face for his trouble.
"Thanksh," John replied, laying on his side and looking at Sherlock quizzically. However, the detective seemed in no mood for further words, as he reluctantly disentangled one blanket from the mass that ensconced him and gave one to his cold friend.
"These are new," John noted, realizing that he only remembered white blankets on Sherlock's bed last time he'd had a significant peek in the room two weeks ago. He tried to discern what color the dark blanket he'd been given was. "Black? Purple?"
"Inexpensive."
Sherlock spoke as if he couldn't even be bothered to move his lips, so it was a very garbled one-word response indeed.
It didn't take John too long to realize what new blankets must mean. "...Sherlock, did you forget to pay the heating bill?"
The response was not forthcoming, so he reiterated, "Did you?"
"...Mhm..." came the sleepy reply, almost sounding like a snore except it was just a tad too defined to pass.
"Oh, come on Sherlock! That was due weeks ago!"
"...was gone."
"Yeah, we both were, you git. Unless you mean Pakistan. But I put the bill on your desk long before your most recent adventure, so no, you can't use Pakistan as an excuse. By the way," he realized there was something he was missing, "why were you in Pakistan, if I may ask? It's not exactly the safest-"
"-No."
The answer was very forthcoming, very forceful, and very clear.
"All right, all right, you don't have to tell me," said John, though he felt like he'd learned something interesting about Pakistan of late that might be relevant. The factoid escaped him, however, so he sighed.
Sherlock shifted, no longer with his back to John, instead facing the ceiling. His hands were pressed together as if in deep meditation, and his eyes were closed, their lids as gentle and wrinkleless as an angel's, John fancied. With the long, seductive lashes of an Egyptian goddess. And the smooth, unfurrowed cheeks of a child.
Indeed, Sherlock was so much of a child in so many ways, but John suspected it was largely because the man had needed to develop other parts of himself far beyond his years. After all, people develop with inconsistencies, like lumps of flour in bread dough. Sherlock was advanced beyond his age in so many respects, but really stunted when it came to some things.
John couldn't help but look upon his friend fondly as he watched the muddle of blankets rise and fall with Sherlock's increasingly-deep breaths. Sherlock's complacency was only disturbed with the occasional swallow of saliva, automatic and unnoticed, that caused his lower jaw to release the tension of being so firmly pressed against the upper jaw and the skin of his throat to expand and contract in a moment of energy.
Was John peering too closely? Perhaps, he acknowledged with a frown, strangely not as tired as he'd been. However, Sherlock seemed close to sleep, genuinely so. As his muscles suddenly, visually, relaxed in his face and steepled fingers, John decided that wasn't catnapping but deep, solid sleep. Sleep that Sherlock decidedly needed.
It wasn't frequently that John felt inclined to touch a mate beyond a hearty masculine arm-thumping or brisk handshake, but some instinct in him did want to scoop up the fragile frame of his friend and rock the detective, blankets and all, in his arms. It seemed that somehow, being close tonight was the best thing he could do at the moment for his friend.
Some moments later, Sherlock was snoring. John took comfort in that, wrapped his blanket around himself in a sad imitation of Sherlock's marshmellowy bubble, and let himself drift.
Prompt from Anonymous on Prompting Part XXVI on Sherlockbbc_fic