Ahh, I remember when I was planning this story in my mind and I thought to myself "Lets kinda save the sexual tension until they finally know each other, yeah?" Well apparently these two are going to be getting together quicker than I expected. Beta'd by gbheart :)

Chapter 4 - A Touch of Insomnia

The first thing that really hit John, when he woke up, was that the violin had finally stopped. It took him a moment to really register that it was because he'd fallen asleep. The shadows had changed completely, and Sherlock wasn't slowly pacing the room anymore, treating the violin with utmost care as songs John didn't recognise poured forth. He felt almost a little guilty, having fallen asleep; it made it seem like he wasn't invested at all in Sherlock's playing. Hopefully, Sherlock wouldn't take it as that.

"Four a.m., approximately eleven and a half hours, yes."

He jumped. The shadows had hidden Sherlock from him quite well. He was seated at the other end of the sofa, with the glare from his phone casting a strange complexion on his face, dragging out the angles of his cheekbones and making his face look even thinner.

"Sorry?" He really couldn't comprehend.

"I've answered your inevitable questions: it's 4am, you've been asleep for approximately eleven and half hours – I can't be too sure and I wasn't bothered tracking your sleep cycles – and yes, I've been sitting here for some time."

He clamped his mouth down on a yawn and thought to himself that, yes, those would have been his first three questions. He wondered if he should tell Sherlock to get some rest, but then realised that it wouldn't be taken well. Sherlock seemed to know his own limits, and pressuring him wouldn't help either of them; it was better to build a trustingly open relationship now, when his own altruistic want to help couldn't be mistaken as something else.

It had felt weird, sitting there in the dark, but the extra sleep he had caught up on felt amazingly good. He was not sorry at all – all right, he felt a little guilty – and hoped that Sherlock didn't have too much trouble sleeping. Of course he was there to help, but it would be so much simpler without additional problems. God, that sounds selfish.

Sherlock suddenly turned his phone off and tucked it into his inner jacket pocket, casting them into an even deeper darkness. The curtains were open, but there still wasn't a large amount of light coming through. There was a split second of panic, where he wasn't sure why Sherlock had done that, and then the realisation came that, to Sherlock, this was very, very normal. To him, darkness would be almost comforting, maybe. Taking visuals out of the equation would stop him from observing the things around him, inevitably finding more to think about in his surroundings, and setting him on a new cycle of thought that would take god-knows-how-long to exhaust completely. It reminded John of when he was searching for something online, and he would find a single article that required him to research its secondary and tertiary branches just to gain an understanding.

The lack of light drove his other senses into overdrive. He stopped breathing, for a moment, just so that he could hear Sherlock's own breath. He found that the other man's breathing went on, for a little while longer, and then his stopped too – a perfect imitation of him. John stopped the other little movements he'd been making too, just to see what would happen, but then gasped in shock when two hands grabbed at him.

"John," Sherlock murmured, and it was then that John got the feeling that there was something going on – a moment where Sherlock was discovering something, and it was something about him that was causing it. There was a minute shift in Sherlock's hands; they dropped lower, onto his forearm, and John felt each individual finger move on its own. "You should move in here."

Move in? What?

"You're going to be spending most of your time here anyway, you won't have to spend money on transport, and you'll still be within a fair distance of your university. I'm fairly sure it was another factor Mycroft took into account, considering there is a spare bedroom, so the invitation is open." Sherlock was rambling by the end of it. It was far more coherent than most people's ramblings, but it was still that: a ramble. The idea wasn't actually as mad as John thought, and Sherlock was right on all counts, but there was also the potential for it to turn out fairly bad. They'd known each other for, what John realised, was only three days.

Sherlock seemed to catch onto what he was thinking.

"I would not offer if I thought that we wouldn't be mutually compatible as flatmates."

It was true that they'd had their awkward moments, which must have taken up around eighty-five percent of their conversations, so far, but, in Sherlock's situation, it wasn't unexpected. If their association was to suddenly stop working, it would be a mere matter of moving out. With the pay he was getting now, and the fact that he would be able to start looking for a job as a fully qualified doctor soon enough, he'd be able to afford a place to rent comfortably. He didn't see why Mycroft would raise any major objections, and it didn't seem farfetched at all to think that Mycroft chose someone with this in mind, so it seemed rather okay. Doctor-patient association was always a bit questionable, but the situation wasn't really conventional, in any sense. Medically, there wasn't much that he could do for Sherlock, except offer him support.

He fumbled for Sherlock's hand, taking it into his own to express his acceptance, since he was fairly sure that there wasn't enough light to see his smile. "That sounds okay."

"Good."

He placed the skull off to the side, and then pulled at Sherlock, bringing them both to their feet. He wondered if Sherlock recognised the intimacy of the situation that they were in, at that moment, and if he did, if it made him uncomfortable. With time, Sherlock would probably come to know almost everything about him, the deductions stripping away layers of him, until his life was left bare, yet he knew hardly knew anything of the enigma standing to his left.

"Tell me something about yourself."

Their hands dropped, and he knew that Sherlock was trying to make out his features through the gloom. "Why?"

"Because I'm your doctor, future flatmate, friend and currently have nothing else to do."

He could hear Sherlock walking away; his steps seemed infinitesimally louder, with John's sight being rather useless. There was a rustle, and the curtains were drawn back further. Sherlock's silhouette was stronger now, as he paced to the fireplace. A brief flare of light followed, and then a much larger one. There was now a warm glow on only half the room, but Sherlock didn't seem inclined to fix it.

"No lights then?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Too bright. Do you require food yet?"

He tried to not be offended, really, he did, but it was tricky not to, when he had just been referred to like an animal.

"Sorry?" He hissed.

"Do I have to repeat everything I say?" The man responded in the same acidic tone. "Food. Most people require it periodically. I'd recommend finishing the takeaway, but there's an experiment in the microwave, so it'd have to be cold. Either that or you make something for yourself; it hardly matters."

Clueless. Sherlock was absolutely clueless about what he'd done wrong.

"Most people don't take kindly to being alluded to as an animal, Sherlock."

"I – that was not my intention."

John sighed. How do other people communicate with Sherlock? Do they ignore his brashness or do they get angry? The question had been innocent but its delivery thoughtless, much like the way he had delivered his deduction previously.

He led them into the kitchen and squinted. Firelight and moonlight were all well and good, but he really had no idea what he was looking at, or if he was standing on any important notes. He turned to Sherlock. "Where'd you put the cereal?"

It was clear, from the way that Sherlock moved around the kitchen, that he knew the exact placement of everything. The bowls had a drawer for themselves; spoons and other utensils the drawer below; the cereal was up in a corner; and, thankfully, the milk was in the fridge. He half expected Sherlock to just shove it all at him, but instead, the detective walked over to the fire with the bowl and spoon and carefully inspected them, before returning, and then thrusting them at John. He gave them a dubious look, but Sherlock expressed his distaste with a soft, drawn out breath rather clearly.

He managed to pour both the milk and cereal, both of which he bought yesterday, so there was no chance of being expired, before returning to the armchair.

"So, what's in the microwave?"

Sherlock perked up slightly. "Dust accumulation experiment. The results would have been made redundant, with all of the movement, so I had to place it in a contained area, where no further dust could collect and no air flow would occur."

Actually, he could see the logic in that move. "Why didn't you just use Clingfilm?"

"None on hand, and I didn't particularly feel like fronting the public for something as meaningless as diaphanous plastic."

John nodded, before moving from the chair to the floor. Truthfully, it was a little cold, and he was pleased to feel the warmth on his back. He spooned some more cereal into his mouth, before picking his next question.

"What about the new scars on your back?"

It may have been a trick of the light, but he was fairly sure that Sherlock's cheeks had pinked lightly. "Ah, the BDSM case. It appeared that sneaking around for information wasn't very welcome, and so the punishment was…" he trailed off, and John laughed, a little bit of milk spilling over the side of the bowl.

"Not used to being dominated then?" He joked, full expecting a smart arse answer to be volleyed back at him but only getting a terse "no" in reply.

Oh, well then. At least now he knew that Sherlock wasn't asexual. At least, he hoped he wasn't misreading it. For all he knew, Sherlock might just always like to be in control, seeing as dominating wasn't necessarily something sexual, although he had certainly had meant it to be, at that moment.

"Interesting," Sherlock purred without pause. "You find me sexually attractive, yet haven't gone as far as to set up premature views on what my sexual orientation would be, any likes or dislikes, or what I would look for."

John spluttered and went a little red in the face. "This is one of those things people generally don't talk about, Sherlock. Especially with your future flatmate."

Sherlock shrugged in a way that was much too casual for it to mean that he was letting it go. John hastily got up and finished the rest of his food, in the short space between the fireplace and kitchen. He shoved his bowl into the sink, and, for good measure, splashed some water over it. He jumped, when Sherlock more or less brushed up behind him and muttered deeply in his ear "Your hypothesis was right; I've never been dominated like that – in a way, you could almost call me a virgin." before disappearing into his bedroom, the door closing with a barely-there click.

Fuck. Well, isn't this just absolutely grand? Agreeing to move in with someone you've thought, only briefly, sexually about, and then having them manipulate your views on them and their interest in sex, in a manner that told you nothing explicit, but left far too much to the imagination. Sherlock was obviously testing him for his reaction. The man was bored, and John was entertainment, but this wasn't a game he wished to play. He had absolutely no idea how Sherlock viewed him, be it doctor, platonic, friend, or attractive, and right now, that was one of the biggest factors holding him against the sink, because, frankly, that had been one of the most blatant come-on's that he'd ever been a witness of.

He turned the tap off harshly and grabbed his bag off the sofa with vigour. The skull was watching him with empty eyes that seemed to implore him to do something. He sneered at it, and gave the room a quick once over, attention mostly on the fire.

Sherlock wasn't an idiot, and there was a fire extinguisher in the kitchen. The man might not be present in this room, but he was fairly sure that if, god forbid, a fire should start, then it would catch his notice. He walked out and locked the door carefully behind him, yet again jumping when the other Holmes brother shifted himself from a very casual lean against his umbrella.

"Ah, Doctor Watson, walk with me?"

Mycroft had said that he just wanted to give John a lift home – a friendly and open gesture to show that he was here to make sure that nothing happened to him, in the early hours of the morning.

But, then again, it was bloody 5am, and who came out to drive someone home, when their only connection was a singular person? He knew that there was something that Mycroft wanted to say and he waited for it to happen.

"It appears you've caught my brother's attentions rather efficiently." Mycroft said with a cool smirk, his expression blanking, a moment later. "Considering that you will be moving in with him, I have two warnings for you."

John wrung his hands together. Nice to see that Mycroft already knows about that. "This isn't just you telling me that if I hurt him, you'll hurt me?"

Mycroft gave a careful, controlled laugh, as though what John said was the most amusing thing in the world. "While that is the approach most take, I can see you're intelligent enough that it won't be necessary." Flattery and a threat tied into one? "My brother's personality has been often coined as destructive; he may think of you as a possession, rather than a living and breathing human being at times. It's his nature, and one of his many faults. He separates himself from others, even inside his own mind, and it can require an arduous effort for him to even attempt communication."

Who the fuck is Mycroft to be reading into his brother's life like this? Some things were meant to stay hidden, and, though he could see where Sherlock was going wrong, he wasn't going around telling other people. It felt like he was intruding. Mycroft probably knew Sherlock better than anyone, and what he was saying was undoubtedly true, and another warning against Sherlock.

"My brother," Mycroft said forcefully, reengaging his thoughts, "is also incredibly passionate about the things he holds dear. He does not take things in interest lightly, but is very thorough when he does so. You've already declared your kinship, something he has not had in many years, I assure you. He will want to learn you and will test your responses to various stimuli, something I'm sure he's done already."

The feeling of Sherlock turning his body parallel with his own, moving past him in silence, save for his voice, was fresh in his mind. Mycroft seemed pleased that his deduction was correct.

"Why are you saying this?"

"Basic facts, John – what you do with them is entirely up to you." The car pulled to a stop. "I suggest you spend this evening explaining that you're moving. If you disappear completely one day, then people tend to assume foul play."

He thanked the driver, before stepping out, regarding Mycroft coolly, once he did. "Good day," he said curtly, before shutting the door a little more forcefully than may have been strictly necessary.

He was an idiot, even comparing his intelligence to Anderson's wasn't erasing the feeling of complete and utter stupidity from him. Why did he do that? What possessed him to touch John like that? Oh, he knew John had wanted it – flushed cheeks, elevated breathing, and tense shoulders – but he hadn't gone for it. He hadn't been given a clear signal on whether Sherlock was mutually interested, and so had simply stood there, silently raging on his way out – keen on participation of both parties during a relationship of any sorts, then.

Which was all well and good, except for the fact that he needed John to distract him. Sherlock had known that, when he approached John like that, the man would flee. He hadn't even deigned to stop him after all, but now, the desire to see how John responded under various situations was replaced by the fact that he wasn't feeling well. Sleep was evading him stealthily again, and he hadn't slept since Wednesday morning, when he'd crashed on the couch, before Mycroft began his incessant lecturing. How many days had he been in captivity? Two. Two days and he already regretted touching that needle more than ever before. He'd be in here two weeks minimum, to get over the first stage of withdrawal. After that, only Mycroft's meddling and his own behaviour could tell.

If he texted John, saying that he was feeling ill, what could he do? Insomnia was psychological, his need to think overriding his need to sleep. Right now, he wanted to sleep, hours simply slipping away, rather than dragging in mud and trekking it all over the calm of his mind. It would be blissful to lose a few hours of each day to rest. There was nothing holding him back now, and yet it passed his body and mind's abilities to shut down and recuperate.

He groaned and flung the door open, storming through the flat. If he burnt enough energy, then his body should let go, correct? It seemed logical enough, but then again, he wasn't going to pace until he felt more lethargic. He already felt a little lethargic. Lethargic and frustrated; the two never worked together well.

He pulled out his phone again to text John – no one else really mattered, at the moment.

(5:05am) (Sherlock Holmes) - Bored. -SH

And now he waited, fingers drumming against the meat of his thigh. Surely John didn't take this long to text back? He was a perfectly capable human being; this simple task of pressing plastic buttons really shouldn't surpass him. What did it matter that –

(5:06am) (John Watson) - Clean the place
up. I'm not going to be living in a pigsty and I
won't be around till tomorrow evening.

Panic. He didn't feel it often, but it certainly made itself known now. Tomorrow evening. That would be approximately 31 hours from now. No, John wouldn't arrive until a little later, after his classes. 35 hours possibly? Not good. The violin had lost some of its appeal, most of his experiments were rendered useless, and his books' knowledge already consumed.

(5:08am) (Sherlock Holmes) - May I ask
why? -SH

(5:09am) (John Watson) - Saying bye to
the neighbours. When someone moves out
without a trace and no goodbyes, people get
a little irked.

Oh god forbid the neighbours should have their precious little sensibilities irked. Maybe John would like to sleep over with each of them, say tearful goodbyes and explore deep, heartfelt memories they'd all shared together over tea. He hoped one of them choked on a biscuit.

(5:12am) (John Watson) - Just do some
cleaning.

Cleaning: mindless and simple, and hopefully physically draining enough to help.

At 10am, Mrs Hudson brought some scones up. His frustration translated to open hostility, and she left within minutes.

By 1pm, his bookshelf was full and the floor clean of any paper.

At 3pm, John sent him a text apologising for not being able to make it today.

By 4pm, the room was artfully arranged in a manner that pleased him. The knife stabbed into the mantelpiece and Cranium next to it gave the room a nice touch.

At 4:30pm, he began the mould experiment with the bread he'd stolen from John's shopping, the day before. It was truly a shame that the experiment literally took seconds to set up and days to garner quality results.

By 9pm, his hands had began to tremble.

John really hadn't been all that sorry, as he left his old flat. It had been dingy, and the fridge had always had an air of fetid meat to it. The neighbours hadn't really cared that one of their long-term residents was leaving, although that may have been his fault, for never socialising. One of the other students gave him a smile, as he walked out with a suitcase. All that was in the case was clothes, a couple of items of significant importance, his sheets and his pillow case. The furniture had already been there, and he'd given all the food to the next door neighbour. He trotted down the steps optimistically and was only minutely deterred at the sight of Mycroft's assistant holding a car door open for him.

He wasn't even annoyed at the fact that her eyes never left her phone's screen.

Mike had been a little lost, at how John had seemingly spun most of his life around Sherlock already, but managed to get himself a free coffee as an apology.

He trudged up the stairs to 221B, suitcase hitting each step with an awkward sound. His hands were just at the door to what was now their shared flat, when he heard shattering glass and something heavy toppling over. He rushed inside, not really caring that his suitcase was left inside the doorstep. There was no one in the lounge, but it only took a few steps for Sherlock to come into view.

The floor was devoid of any clutter, except for shattered glass, a toppled stool, and a reddish pooling liquid that he severely hoped was not blood of any kind. Sherlock was pressed up against the sink, and it didn't take much effort to figure out that something was wrong. Sherlock's posture was completely rigid; from head to toe, it was one tense straight line of taut muscle. He could visibly see how his chest was rising and falling with each unsteady, staggering breath.

"Sherlock?" He called gently, but the man didn't respond.

He walked forward slowly, like he might with a wild animal: careful not to spook him, but there was no attention on him. There were flecks of the same red liquid, on the floor, on Sherlock's face, all of them irregular and very vivid against his skin. His eyes were crazed and dark, with puffy smudges beneath them, and his lips were parted in what almost looked like an endless gasp. He avoided the glass and took Sherlock's hand, leading him to the sofa.

He followed meekly, hand completely limp but shaking in a barely contained manner.

It was only when he knelt in front of Sherlock, and clasped his own hands over the trembling ones, that recognition came over Sherlock, his unfocused eyes suddenly finding John's and a look of utter helplessness overtaking him. He smoothed his fingers over Sherlock's wrist and attempted to find a steady pulse, having to restart twice, and only coming to the conclusion that it was elevated in what seemed like shock.

"Sherlock, what was in the glass?" He pulled out his mobile and flicked through the options, until he could adjust the brightness to full. He took his hands from Sherlock's and tried to ignore how, for a moment, they followed him. With one hand, he tilted Sherlock's chin, and, with the other, he flicked the light from his screen directly and indirectly into Sherlock's eye. At least his pupil response was normal.

"Sherlock, I need you to tell me what was in the glass." Sherlock's mouth worked like a fish, and a distressed noise left him. "Is it blood?" Sherlock nodded. "Is it yours?" He shook his head. "I'm going to get some kitchen roll to wipe it off, okay?"

He was met with another sluggish nod, and he observed how Sherlock's gaze dropped to his shaking hands, only to have them shake harder. He avoided the spill on the floor and went straight for the kitchen roll on top of the fridge. He ripped two long strands of it, and ran one of them under the tap, before returning to his previous spot.

With infinite care, he wiped the blood away with the wet cloth, before going over it with the dry. He placed the used kitchen roll on the floor and covered Sherlock's forehead with his palm. He didn't seem too warm.

"John," Sherlock managed to choke out.

He patiently hushed him. "Have you been sleeping?" No. "Can you tell me the last time you had a full night's rest?" No again. "Can you tell me what happened?"

Sherlock tried to find his voice again. "I - I miscalculated. I miscalculated."

His tone was disbelieving, as though the idea that he could have done something wrong was unheard of. John took his hands again. "Come on, you need sleep."

Shaking. His hands wouldn't stop shaking. The tremors had already made it too hard for him to continue working at his microscope. His body remained completely intransigent, and he had to move onto larger equipment to handle. His hand was around the beaker of blood, seeing as he was hardly coherent enough to use the pipette to separate equal amounts of blood onto the slides, but he needed to move it to the fridge, at least.

It's when the beaker fell from his hand, and he staggered backwards, waist hitting the sink edge, that he realised that, somewhere along the line, his thought process has led him astray, because he never dropped things – never lost control over his body in such a spectacular manner. It just didn't happen. His body wasn't meant to betray him like that. There was a line of control that he always managed to keep functioning, and it was disintegrating, and he couldn't help but feel both absolutely horrified and completely terrified. His body had never been that defective, that quickly. His insomnia had utterly violated his sense of decorum, and he could feel the shock spreading all the way down to his fingertips.

The beaker was ruined as well, and the blood was completely wasted. He could see both of them moving further away and briefly wondered if it was a lead up to a collapse.

Then it hit him, and all he could think was, anchor, stability, human, hands, John.

John was kneeling before him, hands clasped over his own. There were fingers dancing over his wrist and words spilling on his deaf ears. It was happening, but it was not registering, the information not being processed meticulously in the way he expected it to be.

The pressure left his hands, and he could hardly describe the feeling that passed through him, at that moment. It was a strong, paralytic fear, and it made him feel so weak, that he instantly despised it. He needed help but did not want it, two sides clashing so loudly in his brain that it hurt.

Light from John's phone filled his vision, and, somewhere deep down, he was commending the doctor for being so stunningly calm in this situation – him relying on his phone to check pupil dilation was both ingenious and laudable. The fingers that held his face left, with more words filling the gap. He had begun to recognise words, by now, seeing how they function to give meaning and purpose. John was an anchor of steady hands and practised composure, his eyes had their own panicked quality to them, darting over his frame and absorbing details.

The Blood: no, it wasn't his; he could hardly remember why he had it. He knew it was for an experiment, however, there was no grasp on what the experiment was. His attempts at vocalising this fell completely short, and John gave him a quick, understanding look, before disappearing. He glared down at his offending hands, but they only moved with more intensity, betraying his body yet again. His body was betraying his mind; his mind was betraying his body. Is this solely the addiction or a combination of withdrawal and insomnia? Could it just be insomnia on its own? It was unlikely; it must be a combination of the two, wreaking havoc upon him.

A damp cloth was pressed against his face, and the dripping water quickly wiped away. His voice cracked, when he fumbled with John's name, but the man didn't press him for more; simple shakes and nods of the head translated well enough.

"Can you tell me what happened?" John asked, and his hate for the situation tripled, and then quadrupled, when he was forced to admit that he miscalculated and his voice sounded astoundingly lost.

Again hands reached for him, the grip firm and comforting, in a way he hadn't felt before. John was exceedingly slow, in the way he pulled him up, reassurance clear in his expression. There was a stagger in his step, however, John didn't move any closer, simply holding his upper arm and guiding him past the spill on the floor. Sherlock was grateful for the fact that John hadn't dramatically draped one of his arms over his shoulder; it would have been even more humiliating.

A jolt ran through his body as John kicked open the door to his room and guided him to his bed.

Frustration won over yet again. Didn't John understand? Sleep was not finding him. If it was as simple as lying down on any comfortable horizontal surface, and closing his eyes, then life would have been infinitely easier.

"Can I undress you?" John asked, as he pushed him into a sitting position.

Oh, dress clothes, of course. It was trivial to him, whether or not his clothes rumpled, as he attempted sleep, but since John was making the effort, he nodded. John's hands were practised and efficient, as they unlaced his shoes and move them to the side. He moved up to the shirt buttons, giving Sherlock a questioning look – an extra quick ask for permission, just in case he was overstepping any silent boundaries. He nodded but ignored the extra tension that seemed to rise from the move. John soldiered past it, and, less than a minute later, he gingerly placed the shirt on the bed.

There was an innocent touch at one of his more brutal knife wounds. "How many times have you been to hospital?" John breathed, and he shivered. "Do you think you could get your trousers off yourself?"

Blushing. John is blushing. He gave a semi-confident yes, but his fingers were clumsy at the buckle.

Internally, he cursed himself again.

If his actions hadn't been so sexualised, the morning before last, then it wouldn't have been an issue. There would have been no awkwardness, on either side. If he'd ignored John's attraction to him, rather than calling it out, then they could have stayed in a comfortable zone of companionship. Now, he couldn't help but picture this sexually.

John was on his knees and swatting his hands away, undoing the buckle on his own. He had a steely look of determination, and – God – his body completely misread it. Mycroft knew that he'd used sex as a distraction before, and thus had provided him with his preferred gender, and someone who both admired his intelligence and had their own. If it pleased him then he could bed John, and then throw him away; a quick fix that would undoubtedly feel pleasurable and satisfying. Maybe he could even enter a sexual relationship with John and quite clearly state that it was only for the sex – no strings attached. John's attraction would be satisfied, and Sherlock's boredom would be erased. If John developed stronger emotions, then he would be discarded.

John was pulling the leather out of its loop.

But what if he and John entered a relationship like those that normal people indulged in? The only difference would be monogamy, which was a welcome thing, seeing as he didn't particularly enjoy sharing, and romanticism. In truth, it would be a more intense version of what they had currently. The idea would be less offensive to him, if it wasn't so blindingly obvious that losing John would actually be disappointing. There was no guarantee that, if John left, he would be gifted with another doctor who would work just as well.

There was a small clinking sound as the belt was pulled aside. He was about to suggest him trying again, when John disregarded all previous caution and, with the speed of a desperate man, undid both his button and fly.

"There!" John exclaimed, and leapt away as though he'd been burnt. "You can just wiggle out now."

John pointedly looked at the wall, as he shimmied out of his trousers. He threw them onto the floor, with the rest of his clothes, and shoved his blanket down weakly, before sliding in. He was thrown a slightly exasperated "Careful!" when John saw him standing on his own. Once he'd settled in beneath the covers, John patted them down around him, tucking him in all the way to his chin and chuckling at the comical sight he posed. He walked across the room and pulled a chair over, before sitting at his bedside.

"Close your eyes," John commanded. He shoved his hands under the pillow and readjusted himself until the position was vaguely comfortable, before complying. "Good. Now, I don't want you to try and anticipate my next move or over-think anything. I'm not going to do anything bad, so just trust me."

This wasn't something he liked: deprivation of one of his key senses. Sure enough, he often walked around in full or semi-darkness, but had been something completely different. If John were to suddenly take out a knife and drive it into him, then it would be his own fault. This was him at the mercy of John – not trust of any kind. He didn't trust John. He didn't trust anyone hired by his brother to provide any sort of supervision or long-term help. It was more than likely that John was being paid to report back to Mycroft.

A long finger drifted down the length of his nose, "nose."

His thoughts scattered. The word had been so soft that he'd hardly heard it, and he ordered his mind's whirring to come down a little. Were these words random?

Apparently so, because the next word was "mandible", followed by a light tap to his jawbone.

He squirmed, and John hushed him. He was being fed basic human anatomy and feather light touches. Everything was done in an undertone that forced him to focus solely on John. His silence was rewarded with another touch, this time with a hint of a blunt nail, most likely index finger, and the word "cheekbone". His senses were opened completely to John and shut to everything else.

Two fingers drifted over his face now, one over each eyelid, "oculus."

One finger pressed against his brow, "os frontale."

It was ever changing: the length of the touch; the wording used, either medical or general; and the time between each touch. The only thing that remained constant was John's tone and how softly he spoke. It took effort to hear what was being said, and it dawned on him that the purpose wasn't to understand, but to feel. John didn't want his mind to focus on anything in particular, but instead for him to lay there in a state of calm bliss. This would be the presence in his mind – no actual thoughts cluttering mind space, but just him and this strange method of sleep-inducing that John had thought up.

Once his breathing became deeper, John's pattern changed to a constant susurrus of words and breath-forming, mindless white noise for him. The words no longer correlated with what was being touched, because it was just his hair being brushed away from his forehead.

This was John willingly touching him: warm, human John Watson touching cold, sociopath Sherlock Holmes, and it was absolutely gorgeous.

AN: Fun fact: I also have insomnia and sure as hell did not have my own personal John Watson to help *silently seethes* As usual, if there's anything wrong then feel free to point it out.

Oh and if you're wondering where I got the inspiration for the blood+panicked!Sherlock scene originally from then message me. FF won't let me leave the link here *silently rages* but I can send it to you :)