A/N I imagine this as being sometime post-TGG, pre-ASIB. Also, I headcanon Whovian!John so hard. It's appeared in almost all of my Sherlock fics, come to think of it.
Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.
IV. Dark
Even if he wanted to, Sherlock wouldn't have been able to sleep with the storm outside. He doesn't want to, of course; he almost never does, but he's still able to appreciate the abstract concept of such a situation. And to be irritated by how much the noise would impose on a rest wish.
Noise is a good word, much more intrusive and disruptive than the more fluid sound. It accurately reflects the ceaseless pounding of rain against the tall windows of 221b's living room, which are only recently repaired from the "gas leak" that destroyed them a few weeks back.
He lays on his back, on top of his bed's covers, letting the cacophony wash over him and straining his eyes in a fruitless battle against the solid wall of darkness that the room seems to consist of. He can detect a few faint contours—the end of the bed, top of the wardrobe—but he knows they're constructed as much from his own memories as they are from the invisible traces of light that filter in from the living room.
John's still out there, though it must be past two by now. He'll be tired at work again tomorrow, and probably unreasonably crabby in the evening.
Sherlock swings his long legs out of the bed, standing up smoothly. That's the last thing he needs. Best to get his flatmate to sleep at a somewhat decent hour.
He steps out cautiously, his pale eyes immediately adjusting to the light that radiates from the laptop balanced on John's lap. John himself is very clearly asleep, his head hanging at what has to be a dead uncomfortable angle and his jumper-clad chest rising and falling steadily. Sherlock watches him silently for a minute or so, immersed in the peace of the moment, with the rain attacking the outside of the flat and the shadows from various pieces of furniture stretching across the floor, long and dark. The scene of John slumped in his armchair is a still, warm, and sleepy one, and Sherlock, leaning against the doorframe, finds himself blinking back sudden tiredness. He gives his head a small shake that sends his dark curls askew and proceeds to cross the room in a couple of long strides.
The computer screen is lit a pale blue, a DVD menu screen featuring a silvery swirl of colors, at the center of which is a small blue box. Doctor Who, the blocky letters along the top read, SEASON SIX PT. 2. With a small sigh, Sherlock lifts the laptop and sets it on the desk before snapping the lid shut.
The room is bathed in sudden darkness, the only light source being gone. This is a relief, somehow. He'll feel more detached from his next intended action if he can't see himself doing it.
Gritting his teeth, he returns to the armchair and slides a thin hand down behind John's back, grasping the corner of the Union Jack pillow squashed there and dislodging it with a sharp jerk. The doctor mutters something in his sleep and shifts slightly, but Sherlock doesn't pause. Moving without thinking, he cups the back of John's head in his free hand and tilts it forward, just long enough to slide the pillow in behind it. John's breathing doesn't so much as quicken; he's still very much asleep.
"There," Sherlock growls into the dark, "your neck won't hurt so much that way."
Then he quickly leaves the room, not bothering to turn on a light.