Over the years, John got used to Sherlock's oddities and mood swings. He learned which ones to accommodate and which to ignore. It was a matter of picking your battles, really.
So when John noticed that Sherlock started sleeping on his bed, he decided to ignore it. Maybe the detective thought that John didn't realize it, but the doctor had developed some deduction skills of his own. And also: John woke up one night and saw the detective lying next to him, on his back, eyes closed but John could tell he wasn't sleeping. Sherlock was fully dressed and lying on top of the covers, not under them. John fell asleep again and in the morning his friend was gone.
He didn't speak about it and neither did Sherlock, but John noticed it happened at least three other times in the weeks after. John became careful not to let his friend know that he was aware of his nightly visits.
However, the fact that Sherlock lay on top of the covers prevented John from being able to pull the covers with him when he turned. This was very frustrating for John who usually moved a lot in bed.
One morning John was in a bad mood after not letting himself turn all night to accommodate Sherlock lying next to him. The doctor came into the kitchen, yawning, and saw the detective sitting at the table, preoccupied with one of his experiments. He looked well rested.
John was annoyed. He had enough of the façade to make thing easier for Sherlock.
So he said: 'Next time, will you lay under the bloody covers?'
Sherlock didn't look up, but John could see he froze temporarily. Immediately, John regretted his strong language.
'Look, I don't care where you sleep but I want to be able to toss and turn, if you don't mind.'
Sherlock focused on his experiment again.
'Sure.' He answered, so softly that John almost didn't hear him.
So, from that day, Sherlock would climb under the covers whenever he wanted to sleep in John's bed. They never spoke about it again and John went back to ignoring the matter all together, but sometimes he couldn't help but wonder why the detective joined him in bed. What did he get out of it? They never spoke or touched each other while they were in bed. Sherlock never came in before John fell asleep and he never stayed till the doctor woke up in the morning. John often wondered if his friend even slept at all those nights. So why did he do it? Maybe it was the closest thing to intimacy the detective was capable of? In any case, John decided not to push the matter.
Until one night... One night after a particularly brutal and shocking case. Sherlock, John and the Yarders had been hunting a serial killer for two weeks. And not just any serial killer; one that targeted children. Girls. The three little bodies John had examined after the killings were burned into his memory. It had affected even Sherlock. No one could tell, but John knew. Sherlock had joined him in bed every night they were able to sleep.
That night they finally found the location where the killer was holding his fourth victim. They had calculated she was still alive when they went there. Sherlock had been able to determine his method: he kept them alive for 24 hours before stabbing them to death. Lestrade had ordered everyone to stay together and search the building floor by floor, but Sherlock was determined that the killer was hiding at the top floor and they were running out of time. He ignored Lestrade's orders and went straight up to the top floor. By himself.
By the time John realized what he had done, and he and Lestrade arrived at the top floor, the killer and girl were dead. John tried to safe the child, but she had died in the seconds before his arrival. The killers' knife was still stuck in her chest.
Sherlock gave his statement at the Scotland Yard office. He was his cold, emotionless self, giving his statement of the events in a mechanic manner: when he came into the room where the killer held the girl, he stabbed her in front of him. Sherlock immediately shot him and tried to rescue the girl, but she bled to death in less than 3 seconds.
The whole case had left John in a state of shock. All the way home in the taxi Sherlock didn't speak. John tried to get him to talk, but his answers were short and rude, if he answered John at all.
At home, the doctor made him tea, but Sherlock didn't touch the cup. He lay on the couch, thinking, no doubt.
'I'm going to bed.' John said while getting up.
No response.
'Let me know if you need anything.'
Silence.
'Good night.'
If the detective had heard him he didn't show it at all.
Later that night, when John awoke from an uneasy sleep, he felt Sherlock getting in bed with him.
He couldn't ignore it anymore. Sherlock must want to talk, considering what he had been through that evening. He turned towards his friend.
'Hi….' He whispered to the dark.
Sherlock didn't respond.
'Listen Sherlock, if you want to talk…'
'I don't!' His voice was sharp.
John hesitated before speaking again. 'It's perfectly normal to be in shock after…'
'I am not in shock, John. Leave it alone.'
'You can tell me…'
'I don't want to tell you anything, John. Just go to sleep.'
'But you saw a child being killed; you can't not feel anything!' John exclaimed.
'Sorry to disappoint you with my lack of display of emotions.' Sherlock hissed at him.
'You don't disappoint me! Just tell me what you need…'
'For heaven's sake John!' Sherlock snapped at him. 'Would you stop talking!'
John was insulted. 'Then why the hell do you come to my bed?!' He spit the words at the detective before turning on his other side, his back towards Sherlock.
John felt very angry and uneasy. He tried to sleep again, but he couldn't.
After a few minutes John felt Sherlock move. A second later John felt a cold hand slip around his waist and Sherlock's body leaning against his back.
John froze. Sherlock was spooning him!
John held his breath. What to do? This was uncomfortable. Should he say something? But Sherlock had made it clear he didn't want to talk. And John had said 'tell me what you need'…. Maybe this was what his friend needed. John exhaled and tried to relax his body in Sherlock's arms. He wrapped his hand around Sherlock's and squeezed it very lightly, hoping the move would say it all.
And it did. Sherlock hugged him a little tighter and rested his head on John's shoulder.
John heard Sherlock inhale and whisper, very softly, his voice breaking: 'I'm s-sorry.'
John had to fight the urge to turn around and embrace his friend. Instead he squeezed his hand again and whispered: 'Shut up, Sherlock.'
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