New chapter, hope you guys like this one!
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She couldn't sleep, it was impossible with all the noise he was making downstairs. She gawks at the wall, eyes glazing over, and blinks rashfully. She tosses and turns, an attempt to somehow find a way to block the noise out, but the clanking is too loud. But that does nothing in her expectations of help. He's loud, she gets that, but can't he be a little less loud at night? Sitting up with an irritated groan she swept her feet down.
Bare legs breaking from the warmth of her blankets and daring the frigid air that surrounded her, she almost shivers but moves either way, standing the sudden breeze of the A/C. She makes a grab for her sweater, the tightly knitted source of warmth reaching her knees. Ms. Hudson had made it for her, though she had underestimated June's height and made it a bit too long. She didn't mind, it was comfortable, that couldn't be said for the grandmother who had attempted and failed at making her a scarf.
Leaving her room she makes her way down stairs, little light pigmented throughout the small flat, shadows seemingly darker than before during the daylight. She stops in the living room, peering over at the consumed detective, his body moving from one spot to the next in the matter of seconds.
Playing with unnatural chemicals and bacteria she was certain wasn't safe for the flat. He doesn't even notice her, too busy in his own little world to care. She would have been agitated with this sort of ignorance but it was Sherlock Holmes.
He wasn't exactly socially outstanding when it came to another living persons presence. She leans up against the corridor, crossing her arms against her chest with the tilt of her head, watching as he moved around, admiring really. She didn't understand; how someone could go so long without sleep and still react just as quickly as another person to life's daily trials.
As much as she hates sleep, she needs it if the world wants a cooperating, working, thinking June Watson. But with Sherlock it was a whole other story. He could go nights on end without shutting an eye. And she wonders how hard it must be to just lie still with that much activity playing pin ball in his head.
She almost feels bad, pities him, but at the same time can't bring herself to do it. He doesn't like pity, she knows that much, and his genius wasn't something to feel sorry for. He got to save lives with it…of course, like everything good in this world, it came with a price.
Never being able to slow down. Everything around him must have been so dull, she couldn't possibly imagine and she realizes she can't possibly help, so she gets ready to leave. But his voice puts her on pause and roots her feet to the ground, listening.
"June, could you get my mobile?" she glances over, glaring at the mobile sitting right next to him, as before, to preoccupied to not give it any attention. She gives him a scowl, but moves over to him anyways.
Taking his mobile she leans against the counter, his hand out, ready for the cold like metal to reach his palm any moment now. She ignores him like he had been her and fiddles with the cell. Nothing of real importance, just an anonymous text asking for chocolate. Must have been the nice couple down the street…
She glances up at Sherlock than back down at the text, reading it over again and again and frowns. Why were they texting Sherlock so late for chocola—Oh
Well that just wasn't right.
Really, who asks their neighbors for chocolate this late at night for their…activities? Unless one of them was actually doing something productive with the creamy sustenance, then she was sorry. But that was highly unlikely.
And why were they texting him? Sherlock of all people? It's not like he's the friendless of people, can be quiet irritating really, and they chose him over her to ask for a favor? Had she come off rude? If she remembered correctly he had said one of them was overweight and the other much to dirty for their own good.
Not to mention, he insulted their dog. Who insults a dog? Sherlock Holmes does. And they still go to him for chocolaty sex, why in the worl—
Why in the world was she getting so worked up over this? It must've been the lack of sleep. She sighs, shoving the phone in her jacket pocket, his hand wavering until he realizes she's not handing it over. He gawks at her, leaving his scope for once, agitation crossed over his features within seconds.
"June." He warns, waving his hand around with dramatic pause and she almost wants to slap it, but at the same time laugh at his over perceptual reaction. It isn't until she holds back her laughs and actually looks him over she sees the dark circles under his eyes, the steady frown in his lips and the exhaustion his shoulders that she realizes every man needs sleep.
Not matter how smart, brilliant or inhuman they might be. She leans over, dangerously close, and Sherlock almost tugs back. Surprised at the close proximity she has brought to him. "Sherlock." She dares, her voice just as dangerous as his. But her expression betrays her tone, a small pout lied across her lips and filtering concern sat on her cheeks, clear as day.
She pulls back, just a little, but instead of scolding him, she tugs him off the chair. Brows curved down and she pulls him away, he's angry now, he was in the middle of an experiment and she had just ruined it. She leads him to the couch "Lay down." She orders, the tone mustered from her days in the military, and he just crosses his arms, like a child and refuses to move. She glares. At this he decides to leave his position, sits down with a frown and crosses his arms once more.
She leaves his sight, for only a moment, and comes back into the living room with a large blanket and he understands what her intentions are. "I'm not tired." He protests, and she groans.
"Yes you are, you want to know how I know?"
"The shaking hardly matters, June." She hadn't noticed the shaking, but she wouldn't dare mention that, that only enforced her entitlement into getting him to rest.
"A bit..." She counters sadly, unfolding the blanket in her arms, a drastic amount of excess air whipping out and hitting him in the face. She peaks over at him from the now flat blanket and He realizes that's her excuse in everything she brings to bay. (Just a bit, yeah? Bit bad.) His thoughts run, mimicking her voice.
He sighs, watching as she lies the blanket atop of him with a swoop. She sits down next to him of course, a small but sad smile on her lips and she takes him by the shoulders, lying his head on her lap. He's stiff at this, she'd just kept surprising him through the night, and maybe he should just expect a few more.
Her fingers begin to brush through his hair, as absurd as it sounds but he lets it happen. He doesn't want her to stop, if he were to be honest, it's comforting in a moralistic way. It's sudden, how quick he just excepts the position but finds solace in the fact that she cared enough to do this at all.
He sinks his head into her legs and he can smell the vanilla and strawberry drifting from her smooth naked flesh. Taking a big, deep breath he finds that it's absolutely intoxicating, it infuriates him. The outcome being his heart trembling with each breath, and he feels warm on the inside, like a marshmallow center in those chocolates. He doesn't understand the feeling, he must have deleted it a long time ago, but he doesn't want it to stop.
He wants her to keep doing it, and it's the most unexpected outcome for him. He doesn't like being touched, the feeling uncomfortable in most contact made with others, but hers was different. His soldier, his doctor, his blogger, her hands were sensitive and…and perfect.
He hums when the blunt of her nails softly graze his scalp, he doves his nose between the small crease between her legs and he's in a comfort he hasn't felt since he was a child. He's suffocating in her aroma and he finds he wants to keep it that way. Let himself drown in what was June Watson, the doctor that gave him all the praise in the world. He fed off of it, like it was a drug, she was a drug. Just as addictive and charming.
Her fingers strew across him, one hand in his curly locks while the other rubs his shoulder, in an attempt to be comforting. And it's working, he wouldn't tell her that, but it was. He decides to finally close his eyes, remembering the whole meaning of this interaction was to have him sleep, and he didn't want to disappoint June.
The last he ever wanted was to disappoint, and thinking on it, it seemed as if he did it a lot. Not in the least was it on purpose, but that crease she gets between her brow, the one that travels down her nose is what he'd receive on a regular basis. In fact, he had spoken to Mike about it, and he just laughed it off. Saying she was just frustrated with something if she were ever to pull that expression from the ground again.
So he guessed, in a way he only frustrated her, and that wasn't any better. He didn't want to frustrate her, but he couldn't help it…and if it really bothered her, she'd tell him, right? She wouldn't let him bumble in the dark like an idiot, playing a game of chess on what makes her angry and what doesn't. She wasn't like that; June was kind, considerate and caring. She'd never do that to someone she cares for, but it still rings in the back of his head, he wants to ask but the question is caught in his throat and his mouth stays clamped.
Her fingers stretch from the base of his head to the side, playing with the small ringlets near his ear and he feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, a brush of cold exulting the heat that crossed his frame. She doesn't keep them there long, her fingers, though he wishes she had, but instead pulls them back and begins her ministrations all over again.
He leans into her, taking a deep breath, examining the black in his lids. He finds himself drifting, slowly leaving reality and entering a world of pitch black serenity. He's snoring before he can catch himself, safely tucked between June and the couch, a calm entering him, one he hadn't felt for so long he thought he had all but lost the capability to have it.
June smiles to herself as his soft snores enter the distinctly silent room, her fingers still playing through his hair. She leans her head back, watching the ceiling with little to no interest. A warmth spreading across her chest at an alarming rate, flying through her bloodstream like a drug. She'd helped him, for once, with something that wasn't a case.
It was an amazing accomplishment and she prided herself in it. She'd gotten the great Sherlock Holmes to take a break, one that he deserved and needed greatly. She shuts her eyes, the silk still playing between her fingers and the heat from his body expiating.
Before long she was out like a lamp, both sleeping in dire need.