No Flocks of Sheep and Sherlock Can't Sleep
Insomnia, what is it
you're so certain that we ought to do?
And why's it so important
that we do it now, a quarter to
five in the morning when the world's asleep?
What is the reward that you're so sure we'll reap?
Sherlock stared at the ceiling, trying to ignore the pounding in his head. This headache had been building, growing worse ever second that he laid in bed.
He knew that he ought to sleep. He hadn't gotten a full night's sleep for over a week. It wasn't like he hadn't slept at all- he had- but he hadn't gotten a full eight hours, during the night, for awhile now.
His head was pounding as several different signals that his body was sending his mind got mixed up, twisted. It defeated the point of the signals entirely. Actually, there was only one signal that his body was trying to send to his brain: exhausted. His legs felt weak and shook when he stood; his arms trembled when he popped himself up or tried to hold a book. His ribs were aching and his eyelids felt heavy, his eyes puffy.
He felt thoroughly miserable and he really just wanted some sleep.
Sherlock drew his arm over his eyes, exhaling shakily.
It was a windy night in Central London. The wind was howling, rattling both his bedroom windows and the kitchen one. Sherlock was sure that the cold air was pushing its way through the exterior door to 221, although Sherlock was too far away to hear.
The furnace had kicked on not long ago. The vent was squeaking and shifting.
Sherlock pressed his pillow over his face.
The flat smelled of Chinese take-away. It was properly disgusting. John had brought home food, expecting Sherlock to eat. Sherlock hadn't; he hadn't been hungry and he still wasn't and the lingering smell of John's sweet and sour chicken made Sherlock feel sick to his stomach.
Sherlock removed his pillow. He felt like he was suffocating.
He took a deep breath, returning his gaze to the ceiling.
He had just solved a rather tedious case for New Scotland Yard. Involving a dead babysitter and a dog that wouldn't stop barking...
Sherlock shook his head, trying to chase away the memory of the dog barking. Ridiculous little terrier dog, with its yappy bark and high-pitched whine...
The only other eventful thing that had happened as of late was a taxi cab crashing into a street lamp, and it hadn't even taken Sherlock's help for the coroner to find that the cabbie had had a heart attack.
Sherlock groaned.
Why didn't his thoughts stop raging long enough for him to sleep?
Sherlock sat up, pressing his fingers against his forehead.
He hesitated for a moment before unconsciously making a decision; he couldn't sleep, but there may be hope for it yet.
Sherlock was willing to try.
Sherlock swung his legs out of bed, unsteadily getting to his feet.
He was so exhausted. He usually fainted if he started feeling like this. He actually wished that he could, to be honest.
He crept quietly to the stairs.
He cleared the staircase- purposefully stepping over the steps that squeaked- and stopped in front of the door. He hesitated for a second before he gently knocked on John's bedroom door.
"John...?"
There was no answer and he sighed quietly, pushing open the door.
"John."
John was curled up underneath the blankets of his own bed, looking perfectly peaceful, comfortable, and warm. Mostly, he looked asleep and Sherlock was surprisingly jealous.
"John," he repeated, loudly.
Slight movement. "What..."
"Wake up."
"What? What's wrong...?" John murmured, fumbling for, Sherlock imagined, the lamp.
Soft light flooded the room a moment later, after John had found the switch.
"What's wrong, Sherlock?" John repeated, sitting up slightly.
Sherlock sighed quietly, slumping against the door frame. "I can't sleep."
John was quiet for a moment. "You... You woke me up... to tell me that you can't sleep."
"No, John, I can't sleep," Sherlock repeated. "I want to sleep, but I can't sleep, my mind doesn't stop working; I'm exhausted and- and, well, I'm tired but I just can't sleep. It's not fair! My transport needs rest but my mind refuses-"
"Okay," John interrupted, "okay, just... relax. You can't fall asleep when you're worked up like this. You need to take a deep breath."
Sherlock sighed heavily, drawing in a deep breath as John stretched painstakingly, kicked the blankets away.
"When's the last time you slept properly?" John asked, crossing the room and joining Sherlock.
"... A bit over a week," Sherlock murmured.
"Oh," John said, sounding exasperated. "You've been sleeping, though? Please tell me you have."
"Yes, I have. Now and then."
John placed his hand against Sherlock's forehead. "This is not healthy."
"I'm not sick, John. I'm just tired," Sherlock retorted, leaning away.
"Have you tried counting sheep?"
"Dull."
"Sherlock..."
"It doesn't work for me," Sherlock said quickly, annoyed.
"Chamomile?"
Sherlock shook his head.
"Warm milk?"
"Disgusting."
"Peanut butter banana sandwich?"
"No," Sherlock groaned, pressing his hands against his eyes. "It's not that I'm not tired... I am," he muttered, rubbing his face. "It's just my mind... It doesn't stop. It's always thinking of something; it's always working..."
Oh, he was so tired...
"Well, stop thinking, then."
Sherlock removed his hands, glaring in John's direction. "Do you hear the stupid that's pouring from your mouth?"
"Well, that's the reason you can't sleep," John muttered, hooking his fingers around his dressing gown and shrugging it on. "Just think about one thing, then."
"Oh, John. Your mind-"
"Barely used, I know. Come on, back to bed."
Sherlock sighed and followed John down the stairs.
"Look, I'll make you a cup of tea-" Sherlock started to interrupt, but John spoke over him. "-and you're going to go back to bed and find something to focus on. One thing."
"It won't work..." Sherlock muttered. "Why don't you understand that my mind doesn't work that simply?"
"Well, we're going to try it. Go back to bed."
Sherlock scrubbed his hands across his face again, traipsing back to his bedroom.
It wasn't long before John walked in, carrying two mugs of tea.
"Alright. Here."
"Thanks..." Sherlock muttered, taking a warm mug from John. He curled his fingers around it and pulled the blankets closer. "What now?"
"You're going to drink your tea and go to sleep."
Sherlock sighed.
"I'm serious. Drink your tea," John said, sipping at his own.
Sherlock studied him in the faint glow of the lamp. His flatmate looked tired, stretched thin over the expanse of a long case and in desperate need of some sleep. Sherlock reckoned that he should have just let the doctor sleep... and he wondered why he hadn't realized that John would be tired, too. Not anywhere near how tired Sherlock was, but he had to be tired.
He just... he was tired and he thought that maybe John was going to have a better idea than tea and stop thinking.
It was near the end of his cup of tea that he felt his eyelids drooping again. His hands were shaking and he felt liable to pass out, for not the first time.
"Lay down," John murmured, gently taking the mug from Sherlock's hands.
"I won't sleep..." Sherlock mumbled, although he edged himself into being curled on his side. "I've been like this all night..."
"Be quiet and close your eyes."
Sherlock sighed, but obliged. He wasn't going to be able to fall asleep; he knew that he wouldn't be able to and it drove him crazy. When he finally wanted sleep, he couldn't coax his mind into it and he hated it; it gave him a headache and made him antsy-
"Sherlock."
Sherlock blinked his eyes open tiredly. John was frowning.
"Relax," John stressed.
Sherlock groaned quietly, ducking his face under the blanket. It was so warm and comfortable and... oh, he just wanted to get some sleep...
John didn't say anything else. Sherlock knew he was there, though; his presence calmed his frayed nerves and the quiet rhythm of John's breathing gave Sherlock something to focus on that didn't involve much thought process. He unconsciously began to match John's gentle breaths, keeping his eyes closed even though he knew his flatmate was watching him.
With John nearby, Sherlock fell asleep quickly.
John sighed quietly as Sherlock's breathing evened out, as gentle snoring filled the silence. It wasn't even snoring- just the quiet inhale and exhale of Sherlock's breathing- but it was oddly comforting.
John silently stood and walked out of the room.
Sherlock might not pay mind to his transport, but fortunately, every so often, Sherlock's mind paid attention to John, and he could reel in the unstoppable force that was none other than Sherlock Holmes.
Now, as it happens,
maybe you were right.
We ought to get some sleep...
Good night...
I wrote most of this story awhile ago, didn't like it, looked back at it now, edited it a bit, and now like it, so...
The lyrics at the beginning and the end of the story are part of John Finnemore's Insomnia skit, from John Finnemore's Souvenir Programme, I believe. Complete credit to Mr. Finnemore as I do not own anything to do with his genius. I also do not own Sherlock.
Thank you!