Characters: John, Sherlock

POV: Alternating

Prompt: Sherlock can't sleep.

Submitted by: ZukoFlame

"One thousand, one hundred, forty-two. One thousand, one hundred, forty-three. One thousand, one-hundred, forty-four."

This is ridiculous. It's been ridiculous for one thousand, one hundred, thirty-three seconds. Pointless, stupid. Dull. Boring.

Sherlock jumps up from the sofa and begins pacing. It's one of those nights. His body is exhausted, but his mind is racing; he's like a high-speed engine that's run out of track and is now barreling through the countryside - aimless and destructive. He doesn't know how to turn it off and just sleep and so despite the very real demands of his transport and a very real lack of distracting cases, he just keeps going, unable to throw the brakes. A quick Google search turned up the usual suggestions - counting imaginary sheep, drinking warm milk, reading a reference book, watching boring telly. But doing dull, monotonous tasks doesn't bore Sherlock into sleep, it bores him into irritation.

Footsteps on the stairs interrupt his thoughts, and he looks up in time to see John descending in his dressing gown and pyjamas and bare feet. The doctor stops on the third stair up and squints at him, blinking sleep from his eyes. "Thought I heard you," John says, his voice thick and groggy. He holds up his phone to show Sherlock the time displayed on the lock screen. "It's two o'clock in the morning. What are you doing?"

"Nothing," Sherlock says crisply. He resumes his pacing.

"The case is closed," John points out. Captain Obvious.

"Yes," the detective drawls.

"So… what are you doing?"

Sherlock is losing his patience. Not that he had any to begin with. "What does it look like I'm doing, John?"

"Pacing a hole in the carpet."

"Very astute." The detective's gait becomes more agitated, his footsteps more rapid. "Can't sleep," he says at last, taking pity on John's idiocy.

John descends the rest of the stairs and pockets his phone, leaning on the wall where he can observe his flatmate. "Did you try - "

"Yes!"

"No, but did you - "

"Yes, I did that, too!"

"Or - "

"Yes, John, I've tried everything. And I took four Nytol."

John's eyes do that thing that Sherlock hates where they get very wide and blink a lot. "Four?"

Sherlock had predicted this response. Rolling his eyes, he waves him off. "I've built up a tolerance."

"Why don't you just relax then?" his flatmate asks, yawning and stretching as he pushes away from the wall. He wanders toward the kitchen, and Sherlock can hear him filling the kettle. His voice floats out from under the sounds of running water and mugs clinking together. "You know, just lie on the sofa with the telly on or something. It's been, what, two days since you've slept, you're bound to pass out if you just lie still for a bit."

"I did that already," growls Sherlock.

"You have to give it some time."

"I did!"

John's sigh is clearly audible. "How much time?"

"One thousand, one hundred, forty-four seconds!"

There's a moment or two of silence as John does the math, and Sherlock can practically hear the gears turning in his head at a painfully slow grind. "Nineteen minutes. You laid down for nineteen minutes."

Sherlock clenches his teeth and continues pacing without answering John. Case, he thinks, I need a case. It's basically reflexive at this point - boredom requires a case. Tired, his brain reminds him. Too tired to work efficiently, in all probability, though he's loathe to admit it. He is at least partially human, after all. He lets out a growl of frustration and does another lap around the sitting room.

"Okay," John says, emerging at last from the kitchen. He sets two steaming mugs of tea down on the coffee table and steps into Sherlock's path. Sherlock nearly bowls him over, but John holds him in place by the shoulders. "Stop it, would you! Take a deep breath."

The detective groans and starts to wriggle out of his grasp.

"Do it," John orders, his fingers tightening.

Grudgingly, Sherlock drags in a slow breath through his nose, allowing his eyes to fall shut as he does. He opens them again as he releases it. Oddly, he feels calmer. He stares down at John and awaits further instructions.

"Right. We're gonna sit down, and relax, and I promise you will sleep eventually. Even you can't stay awake forever. Here." Bending and reaching past Sherlock, John picks up their mugs and hands one to his flatmate, who accepts it without comment.

John sips his tea and watches Sherlock spread himself out on the sofa, mug cradled between his bony hands. His toes flex and relax against the armrest at the other end, a telling sign: bored already.

Clearing his throat, John settles in his own chair, mug in hand, and digs the remote control out from between the cushions. "This is what normal people do when they can't sleep," he explains, his tone half teasing and half serious.

"Boring," Sherlock says immediately.

"It's supposed to be," John returns. He flicks through channels. Infomercials, cooking shows, reruns. He lands at random on some American programme about five friends living together in New York in the 90s. There. Perfect. Blissfully, there's silence from Sherlock's side of the room. For about ninety seconds, anyway.

"Obvious," the detective moans. "Rachel still loves Ross, Ross still loves Rachel, but for whatever reason, most likely their own insecurities, they can't be together - the unrequited love trope. Since Rachel hasn't joined the others in London for Ross's wedding, it's clear that she's going to realise her feelings for Ross and hurriedly board a plane just in time to arrive in London and ruin the wedding, causing Ross to - "

"Stop deducing fictional characters, Sherlock. They're fictional - you can't know what they are or aren't about to do."

Of course, he has an answer for this, too. "When a programme is reasonably well acted, there is a measure of accuracy in certain facial - "

"This is why you can't sleep!" John exclaims.

"I can't turn it off and on like a tap," the detective snaps back, his irritation plain as he sits up and places his tea on the coffee table. He swings his legs over the side of the sofa and braces his elbows on his knees, leveling a withering look at his flatmate. "I need a case."

Sighing, John shakes his head. "You need sleep." It's true - even in the dim light of the television glow, he can see the dark circles round Sherlock's eyes. "How do you normally get to sleep?" he asks, passing his mug from one hand to the other and scrubbing at his forehead.

Sherlock simply shrugs, shaking his head in exasperation.

"Well, then, I'll just stay up with you." John settles back in his chair and turns his attention to the TV, ignoring the slack-jawed way his flatmate is staring at him. "Look at that, you were right. How did you know Rachel would fly to London at the last minute?"

For some time, the two of them watch Friends reruns and John doesn't complain when Sherlock deduces the plot to death. The detective is grateful - occupying his mind with the show is at least keeping him from dwelling on the fact that he's never going to be able to sleep again in his life. He's not sure why John wants to join him in dying slowly of sleep deprivation, but he senses it has something to do with sentiment and as such would be offensive to John if he were to ask.

Once telly becomes boring, they move on to card games. Sherlock lets John win once or twice, to keep him interested. Then, John makes them both some toast. After that, they watch ten minutes of Twilight, just to see what all the fuss is about, then quickly turn it off and vow never to speak of it again. They play Scrabble for about five minutes, until Sherlock realises that John doesn't stand a chance of even challenging him adequately; he feigns boredom and puts the game away. They consider playing Cluedo, but remember how it went last time, and together they decide against it.

Bored, Sherlock thinks to himself as he and John go over case notes for the blog. The truth, though, is that he's glad John is here. He'd be climbing the walls otherwise. And maybe it is nice to have some company sometimes.

Of course, he can say none of this aloud or risk appearing sentimental.

It's after six when John finally sees a light at the end of the tunnel. Not that he minds spending time with Sherlock just doing normal things for a change, but unlike his flatmate, John is human and he needs to sleep and he is bloody tired. They are both slumped in their chairs, eyes on the television again, watching a documentary about penguins. For once in his life, Sherlock doesn't have much of anything to say to the telly. This is the first sign that things are starting to turn for the better. The second and most telling sign is that every now and then, when John glances over, Sherlock has his eyes closed.

"Many of the penguins won't survive this part," Sherlock says lazily, his head flopped back on his chair. The fingers of his left hand twitch toward the television screen, gesticulating an explanation that never leaves the detective's lips. He gives up and drops his hand.

Indeed, Morgan Freeman narrates: "Many penguins will not survive this part of the journey…"

John doesn't bother being surprised that Sherlock can deduce penguins, as well.

They watch as the group of penguins tragically becomes smaller.

"John," Sherlock says after some minutes.

John looks over to see his flatmate's head lolling to one side. His eyes are closed. "Yes, Sherlock?"

"Thank you," the detective mumbles.

A few seconds later, John hears the soft rumble of a snore, and relief washes over him. He doesn't even bother going upstairs and instead just drifts off where he sits in his own comfortable armchair, the blended sounds of marching penguins and Sherlock's breathing carrying him off to sleep.