Prompt 44: Drop
If irritability was to take a human form, it would have been Sherlock. To say he was on edge was an understatement and a half, and the rising degree of frustration he was grappling with meant a break down was almost certainly on the horizon. John for his part had learned quite quickly that the only way to survive these spells was to batten down the hatches and ignore and avoid, leaving food and drink around for him so he didn't die. That way Sherlock could have the peace and quiet he needed to think his way out of whatever problem it was he was having and John wouldn't have to pretend the constant stream of venomous insults were OK with him.
This time, for whatever reason, was different. Top record for duration of the highly strung periods had been four days, and then a case had taken over their lives and put it to bed. They were seven days in to this one and in John's eyes there was no reprieve in sight, if anything Sherlock was getting worse, constantly clenching his jaw, pacing, yelling and throwing himself on the couch all while glaring at John as if he'd done something terrible like hidden a body without Sherlock's help. It had gotten to the point where he felt uncomfortable leaving it to peter out on its own. To be fair he never in a million years would have guessed at what Sherlock would ask of him.
"Sherlock, listen, I don't know what exactly is going on with you but if there's anything I can do, anything you need from me, just say the word alright?" John said tentatively to his back as he lay curled up in the couch. It was as if he could see the moment Sherlock's ears pricked up, his interest piqued.
"Anything? You're willing to give me free reign to ask anything I desire of you? Are you sure that's wise?" Sherlock asked archly, face still stuffed in cushions. He wasn't wrong, but John was fairly certain that Sherlock wouldn't ask him for something that he wouldn't be willing or able to give.
"Anything you want. I trust your judgment, I know you'll only ask for something you know I can give. So, think about it, I'll be in the kitchen when you're ready." John smoothed a hand gently over his back before he went, hoping the gesture conveyed the fact that he was a bit worried about his best mate and would like to help, if he could.
Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut tightly as John's hand lingered briefly on his shoulder and then disappeared, along with the man himself, into the kitchen as promised. John's obtuse nature had meant two weeks of no sleep for Sherlock, and while he was all for staying up and doing useful things, like perfecting his Mandarin accent or cultivating his poison garden, but that wasn't what was happening. Oh no. Instead his treacherous mind would swirl around the idea that if John were present he would be able to sleep. Unproven conjecture on his own part and that was infuriating in and of itself. His first rule was never to theorise without all the facts. At best he had two facts: John was a frequent and practiced sleeper. The knowledge that he continued to breathe in a regular and calm manner was... comforting. John's potential influence on his own () issues was another matter entirely.
He had offered anything, and right now all Sherlock could think of was sleep. This golden opportunity would be wasted on something so mundane that he would almost be ashamed, if the thought of it wasn't so enticing. John's head on his pillow, his regular breathing pattern soothing Sherlock to sleep, a tentative hand in his curls maybe, the other wrapped around him, warm and possessive. It was a pleasing thought. Still, Asking for it would be uncomfortable. The likelihood of his pale complexion working against him was high, and blushing over this would make it worse. Still, it was late enough to request sleep, the sun had gone down and Sherlock was tired. With that in mind he dragged himself off the couch, tied his dressing gown more tightly around himself and made his way to the kitchen.
John had almost given up on the idea as a lost cause when he heard Sherlock move. It had been hours since he'd offered and there were only so many cups of tea a person could drink. The longer it had taken, the more anxious John became. What if it was something absolutely mad? He'd given his word and there was no way he'd back out now, but Sherlock could be eccentric at the best of times, so in this mood who knew what sort of crazy stuff he could come up with. In all honesty though, John was fairly sure he would do anything to get Sherlock out of the mood he was in. Which was good to have clear in his head as Sherlock slipped into the room and stood, awkwardly tugging at the belt of his dressing gown, about ten feet away from John.
"So you made up your mind then?" John asked kindly as the silence threatened to stretch. Sherlock nodded sharply and opened his mouth as if to speak but shut it again just as quick with a cough.
"I...that is to say... it might be beneficial... of course it also might not... transport absolutely betraying me... this" Sherlock struggled to articulate himself, a high flush on his cheeks "was an incredibly poor idea. I apologize." John frowned as he spun around and made to leave, jumping out of his chair and taking hold of his wrist, guiding him back into the kitchen and manoeuvering him into a sort of slouch against the table.
"You don't generally spend hours on a poor idea Sherlock, and I did say anything and I meant it. There's no need to be embarrassed, no matter what, all you have to do is ask."
John's problem was that he was too kind for his own good. Sherlock, listening to his soft reassurances, was even more conflicted about his request. There was a chance that this encounter could destroy their friendship, but God was he exhausted. There was no backing out now.
"Sleep. With me I mean. In the literal sense. I've been unable to achieve it myself and you seem to... of course you don't have to, I can think of something else" Sherlock all but watched the penny drop as John realised what he was being asked, and by whom. The blush that had undoubtedly spread down his neck wasn't helping him either.
John was a bit surprised. OK, ridiculously shocked. The fact that Sherlock wanted to sleep with him, literally or otherwise, was not something he'd expected. The man was a demon because he was sleep deprived? And now he wanted John to witness and facilitate him during one of the most vulnerable activities he could imagine, he trusted John to do that for him? The answer was damned obvious.
"Whatever you need Sherlock. Do you want to go now? You look wrecked to be honest." And now that he was looking for it, it was true. The dark circles, wild eyes, gaunt face, deathly pallour, he was a dead man walking at this stage. Sherlock's audible sigh of relief was encouraging, and the fact that he stood up and headed for his room was as good a response as any, so John followed.
Now that they were in his room, Sherlock didn't know how this would play out. Was he supposed to say something or ask about which side of the bed John would prefer? He resolved to be silent, tearing off the dressing gown and ratty shirt and throwing them in a corner before sliding into the bed, leaving the duvet corner open for John to join him. John made the decision to forgo pyjamas and stick to boxers and his undershirt, stripping down carefully before taking the invitation and getting into bed. It was awkward, with miles of space between them and John unsure of where the boundaries lay, they spent ten minutes laying in complete silence before Sherlock gave a frustrated grunt.
"I get the feeling this isn't exactly what you had in mind, come here, I have an idea, you just tell me if you're uncomfortable ok?" John prompted gently and Sherlock rolled closer, facing him with a look of wary caution in his eyes. As gracefully as he could manage John scooted just a bit higher on the pillows, until his chin was level with Sherlock's head, and then he closed the gap between them fully, nestling one arm under his head and the other around Sherlock's torso and insinuating his leg between Sherlock's, they were connected from head to toe on his part.
"Oh." Sherlock said quietly into the soft fabric of John's tshirt, enraptured by the steady thrum of his heartbeat and the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.
"Oh you don't like it or Oh you do?" John asked carefully, running his hand in small strokes over his back. Sherlock never replied, just nestled closer and sighed happily in his sleep.
They stayed like that till morning.