A/N: A lot of us, amid lockdown uncertainty, have been experiencing difficulties sleeping right in these out-of-whack times. In England measures have been eased a lot, but scientists are concerned we may not be able to avoid a second wave of the virus. In many parts of the world countries are just now getting to grips with the uphill part of the battle, so here's some of what I learned so far – stay strong (strength does not always have to look heroic, just Hold On), keep in touch with those who may look strong but are alone or vulnerable (even when you don't know what to say, know that feeling forgotten is worse than receiving a weird call about Marvel superheroes, trust me), and make sure you keep in tune with the things you love and that make you feel in a happy place (it's where we find our strengths). -csf


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'John?' I call out yet again, this time his name carries an undertone of uncertainty I fail to disguise. I push aside his laptop from my lap and stretch my legs off the leather armchair. It's not like John to ignore me like this. He's usually... obedient. He often has the nerve to passive-aggressively undermine his response by huffing and dragging his feet – "Sherlock, I was sleeping, upstairs in my bed, what the hell do you need to activate the fire alarm for?" – but John always shows up nonetheless.

I can still elicit curiosity and wonder in the doctor, and I shudder to think of the day he no longer cares. Because that's what people do, they stop caring, stop paying attention, relationships and families break down. It's been a while I've known John Watson, the most brave and constant man I have ever met. Something tells me we're defying the odds.

'John...' I whisper his name, a panicky inflexion permeating my breathlessness, catching me by surprise. I was wandering in my Mind Palace, I lost track of time. Returned to Baker Street a few minutes ago. Where is John?

I grumpily hope he's not gone and got himself kidnapped yet again, by either Mycroft or Moriarty.

No, not Jim Moriarty, Jim is regrettably dead. Shame, he was entertaining as a master criminal. The world is undoubtedly duller now.

And Mycroft usually returns John after a quick meeting, too busy meddling with the world rulers.

In the kitchen, the kettle is at room temperature, the sliced bread has gone both stale and mouldy, the butter in the fridge is suitably cold, and greasy (I observe with dismay, reaching for the tea towel). No signs of the good doctor in the small crowded space. Domestic appliances and essential labware undisturbed, I notice, bewildered. My test tubes are still scattered on the draining board, now completely dry.

A slight whimper escapes my throat and I push it down. Don't be a fool, you did not imagine it.

John has returned home.

I close my eyes and press the lids with the palms of my hands. Sometimes I still think he's gone. Left Baker Street. The sensory memory of Loneliness is crushing when it takes you unaware. It sags the breath out of my chest, claws tightly at the vital organs with the vicious grip of despair. Missing John is like missing a part of myself.

You can do this.

Call yourself a detective?

John is back. You can feel his presence lingering in 221B. Like a blood hound on a trail, you can scent the evidence everywhere around you.

There's a paperback novel abandoned on the window sill. It's been there for three weeks. It really is rubbish, even John thinks so. I remorselessly throw it in the bin. Should John ask me about the book, I'll just tell him I never saw it, why would I tamper with this books?

John's brown shoes rest in the landing, very scuffed, and worn out at the soles, but still his favourite pair. He scuffed them scaling the copper domed roof of a known London landmark. To catch me as I almost fell off St. Paul's Cathedral. John gave me unapologetic hell for the state of his shoes for days after that. It was hardly about the shoes. He hyperventilated every time he saw me after the dome, nursing that stupid gunshot graze that made me lose balance in the first place.

The doctor's shoulder bag is hanging on the railing as the wood gently curves to hug the spiral of the stairs. The smell of hospital grade disinfectant and John's own musty sweat lingers on the strap. Can't be 12 hours old.

On the ascending steps a dark huddled heap of rain-proofed cotton and polyester blend in a nondescript shade of faded black jacket.

John is usually tidier than this, it's a permanent trait that Her Majesty's Army instils in its hopefuls. Tired then, really tired. Weary to the point of disconnect. John Watson at his endurance limit.

It's usually me, proudly carrying John to the brink of his resistance. Not this time.

Last night, judging by the dried spots of fresh mud on the rim of the sole of his shoes. Work, then. Another difficult shift at the hospital.

No late snack or takeaway leftover. John just slipped past me and headed upstairs while I studied the Camden's Heads Collector's case, with my eyes closed, meandering in my Palace. I wonder if John said something, tried to talk to me, but I didn't listen, too absorbed by a difficult case. I processed the mystery in my sleep, arriving to a satisfactory conclusion. I already texted Lestrade the solution, as I regained full faculties this morning. I hope I woke Lestrade too. Normal people sleep too much, and it's a waste of potential.

That was a while ago. Lestrade's got all the details now to go apprehend the morbid head collector and John doesn't know it yet. It's demoralising when John doesn't pay attention like this.

Where is John? Still sleeping it off?

I may have to give him a piece of my mind.

Slowly I climb those first steps, not without some trepidation. This is John's territory. It's been a long time I've been up here, on a quick run to get the doctor to wake up and follow me on a new case.

Even on the nights John is filled with terror and relentless nightmares, I usually let the violin bridge the distance, or make enough noise with my thermite experiments to rouse him in his early stages of inner fights.

It's been years since I came up quietly, with a sense of mission, to John's territory.

I have a quirked smile, as I first lay eyes on the landing.

John still sleeps with the door open. The man who has been to war and relives being attacked by violent enemy ambushes sleeps trustingly with his door open every night. Craving a connection with 221B, London, and me. He knows he sleeps better when I'm around.

In a reflection of his paradoxical nature, he keeps his bedroom door closed during the day. Insisting I shouldn't sprawl my territory into his room, shouldn't snoop around his things and his habits.

'John?' I call, but it's only a perfunctory whisper. I'm at the edge of his bedroom, trying to find a familiar shape in the darkened room.

He turns slightly in the bed, groaning deeply between sleep numbed lips. Eyes closed and brow eased, wrinkles smoothed, moist lips relaxed and slightly parted, still deep in slumber. A thin sheen of sweat over his bare chest, tangled in white bed sheets, as a strip of morning light angles favourably from the window upon his skin, making it look tanned, golden. Long planes of lean muscle gently moving to the rhythm of his deep breathing, smooth plains and angles except for the big scar on his shoulder, a tangled explosion of badly healed tissue and puckered skin, a maelstrom of death and life inextricably linked together forever.

'John.' More urgent now. I can see the movement of his eyes under the lids turn rapid, frantic. His chest rising and lowering at a quickening pace, heading for hyperventilation. Waking up? No, too fast, too messy. A crease embeds itself in his sweat covered brow, his dark blonde strands plastering against the forehead. A nightmare, exploding with the quick pace of a hatching desert storm. Fascinating really, an immediate object of study.

I've never actually observed a nightmare descend upon the stoic soldier. I'm rooted to the spot, vaguely wondering how long I've been here – seven minutes, I never stopped counting – and how John would react if he knew I was cataloguing his nightmares.

It's a whole new mental index for me.

A bit not good.

'John?' I lay down a hand on his good shoulder, standing by his bedside.

There's a good reason not to do this.

If only I remembered that.

All hell breaks loose.

A strong sudden grip comes from of the sleeping man, yanks me down, over him, straight to the warm mattress as he uncoils like a spring, jumps on me, straddling me against his sweat scented sheets, a hand resting snugly on my throat, another tightly wound into a fist raised to attack, and a wild look in his rapidly blinking eyes.

No wonder his girlfriends never lasted long, if they ever were subjected to this reaction to a wake up call.

Recognition fills those dark blue eyes, giving them their familiar shape back, stripping that layer of panicked self-defence, those murderous instincts still simmering under the surface.

He's John again.

'Sherlock?' His pasty voice is confused, as he lowers that fist with which he was about to hit me, and further stumbles backwards slightly, looking suddenly deflated like a rag doll. 'Is there a case?'

Struggling with invisible memories, storing them back in the deep dungeons of his damaged psyche, but pretending normality. For his sake as much as mine. A sloped downward angle to his shoulders tells me of a delayed reaction of shame, confusion, with the slightest hint of indignation – but he knows better than to think he's got the moral high ground now.

I shake my head silently, giving him a bit more time to adjust to the present moment. No case. John is still comfortably sat on me, pinning me to his bed, blinking like a sleepy owl. I make no effort to disentangle, don't want to further add to his recovery time.

'What's up then?' he squints.

'I called you some 15 times. You didn't hear.'

Sixteen times, but John prefers round numbers.

The doctor seems to regain some notion of himself, past a threshold of normal functioning. As soon as he starts fisting and releasing his hands, as if in a desperate attempt to regain feeling in his extremities, he looks about, blushes slightly and starts dismounting his flatmate. Gently, stone faced, definitely embarrassed.

'Yeah, not a good idea to wake me like that', he answers his own guilt driven thoughts with as much dignity as he can muster, embarrassment trickling from every pore now.

He looks particularly vulnerable as he seems to realise he's shirtless. A thin cotton layer generally one more layer he puts between himself and the world. John always tries to hide the devastation of his scar from me, no matter the trust between us.

I can feel him recede into himself, that shame a big ugly emotion filling his bedroom with more shadows than the window blinds create.

I stumble upon my words to explain myself:

'You didn't answer. The flat was too silent. I didn't like it.'

I'm sorry, John. Didn't want to make you uncomfortable. You're my best friend.

His sandy flecked blue eyes lock into mine. There he reads the emotions that I cannot string together coherently. John reaches out a surprisingly steady hand and gently touches my ankle, the closest to him, which soft endearment. He pats it reassuringly.

'I suppose it's all right, I nearly did the same thing to you yesterday', he confesses easily. 'As I came home from work, you were drooling on your armchair, Sherlock. You work too much.'

John, clever John. Giving us a smooth way out.

'I don't recall that', I assure him with the exaggerated deflection he expected from easy camaraderie. John gets up – leaving me sprawled in his bed – and clads himself in a dressing gown. Blue, like his eyes, I notice as the morning light intensifies in the room.

'It's true, Sherlock. I couldn't wake you up, get you to bed. You sleep like you're dead to the world, that's how sleep deprived you are.'

I blink. No, can't be.

'What is it?' He stops, sensing my stop.

This has never happened before. To John? Sure, he's trusting of mankind and trained to sleep through the blaring blasts of war and enemy fire, or a general practitioner's waiting room full of patients. But not me. I'm a picky sleeper. Only in the right setting, with the right conditions, can I shut down each mental process required to allow sleep to take over. And if those conditions are interrupted, I should startle awake at once.

That is how I have trained myself.

John is the only person I can sleep with in the room.

Wait, I never actually created that amendment to my sleep protocol.

This is highly intriguing, and potentially damaging.

I want to know more.

'You solved my case, John', I say, propping myself up.

'What case?' In his slight confusion he's more and more the John I know so well. Familiar, belonging in 221B, filling it with his presence.

'Your presence was essential. I only solved the last case as I slept. Without you, John, I would have failed to solve the Camden's Heads Collector's case.'

He chuckles, not taking my epiphany half as serious as he should.

'Right, and you stop my nightmares, Sherlock. We're even.'

I get off that bed and stand straight in front of the amazing John Watson. I will not let him dwell in being ordinary as his god given gift to the world. How could he ever have got this so wrong?

'We should sleep together, John.'

He gives me an indecipherable blank look.

Got all his awake faculties back, then.

'No pun intended', I add, impatiently. 'We both rest more efficiently in each other's presence. Think about it! Mrs H already assumes we sleep together! Must I hear endless objections before you cave in as always? Just drop it, John, what difference does it possibly make what people think anyway?'

He groans, rubbing his face, just that flat note he uses when he thinks I'm failing at social conditioning etiquette.

Which is often.

'We can fit two beds in this room if that's your problem, John', I immediately solve that one. Who cares? We're not selling admission tickets. No one would know, John.

Is he seriously expecting me to assault his honour during the night? I'd be lucky to come out of that one alive, judging by the way he woke from his nightmare just now.

'In my room?' he's indignant now. The old eye roll will come next. 'Wait, why not your room?' He further squints, victoriously.

I shrug, nonchalant. 'Fine, you'll sleep in my room tonight then. It's a deal. I shall be ready for you. Come down when you like. No admittance after midnight, though.'

I storm out of his room, leaving him blinking like a confused child.

.

'It was just a nightmare, Sherlock. I understand it can be disturbing to watch me dwell under a nightmare, but it was just that. It's nothing special. You wouldn't really know, but I get them often enough.'

I raise my eyes from the laptop and analyse swiftly the tense short soldier making brave throwaway remarks, seeking an easy way out to the formidable answer I've come up with to both our problems. His problem, if he should ask.

It's what I do. I solve problems. I'm internationally known for it. Why should he care that this problem is different from the clients' ones? The lack of detached heads makes for a change of scenery from that last one. Like all mental exercises, there is a solution to be found. Experimentation of a hypothesis under variation of scientifically laid parameters, all easily reproduced, is what it takes to solve this problem as well. We should have done this ages ago! The solution is so simple that it evades the most common intellect.

So why should John always make things harder? Attribute emotional value to a simple trial and error experiment? He makes things more complicate, John always does. By being too emotional he becomes blind to the source of the problem itself, and therefore to the answer that can fix that problem. Reasoning can fix the problem. He should learn to trust his reasoning. He's not a complete idiot. And if he can't, then he should trust my reasoning. I'm a genius.

John groans and shuffles his feet, but there is acceptance already edged in his movements as he prepares a microwaved meal for us both. Runny mushrooms and some other supermarket specialities are on the menu tonight. Still tired, then. Otherwise he'd cook us nutritious food.

There is also something else present in John, something that does not belong in there, likely born out of societal shame conditioning. And that small something, lying dormant underneath the layers of his politely rounded civilised personality, bothers me more than rejection itself. It makes me insist that we do give this solution a fair trial run. I need to prove this to John, something that comes wordless only.

And I take solace in the fact that John has not outright rejected this solution yet.

.

Sherlock and I spent an awkward day, bumping into each other at Scotland Yard, starting to speak at the same time to fill inhospitable silences, or generally looking lost, not knowing exactly what to do with our hands. Sherlock's violin bow needing more rosin to silken away that grating undertone to the melodies and my typing by pecking the keyboard constantly falling out of rhythm, words escaping me.

From time to time, we got it right. Both our gazes seeking each other's across the room, and the silence that spread between us was nothing but comfortable and full of unspoken connection.

As night falls, we both seem determine to try this out. Hunting a murderer wouldn't feel more natural to the both of us.

It's only logical, in the end. As we both need our rest, and we trust each other's company, that we should join forces this way.

Teeth brushed, my best pyjama on, I shyly knock at Sherlock's door, only to find with devastating surprise the second bed fitted in the bedroom.

'Where had you stashed that?' I point, utterly amused.

He shrugs, just because it's much more fun to make a big secret of it.

'So we're really going to sleep in the same room?' I ask, recapping my life out loud in the hope of making it more believable. 'Like, I'm on a sleepover, and you are actually going to go to bed at a reasonable hour?'

The detective ponders my questions carefully. 'Yes, John.'

I shrug to myself and start releasing my wristwatch chain. He settles on his mattress, pulling the duvet up to his chin, and rolls my way to click off the bedside lamp.

A quiet atmosphere settles in the room.

'Good night, John. I shall initiate my sleeping protocols now.'

'Your what—? Oh, never mind. Good night, Sherlock.'

He pays me no more attention.

A grating snore fills the bedroom's darkness.

Right. Sherlock snores.

It would have been nice if he had mentioned that.

Good thing snoring does not bother me much at all.

.

I'm woken up by frantic commotion in 221B. Someone steps right over my bed, and me in it, to reach the bedroom door, opening it wide and letting too much morning light in.

'What is it now, inspector?' Sherlock huffs, in a sleep groggy voice.

'We cornered the Camden's Heads Collector, Sherlock, in a warehouse by the river. If you come now, you can still make it there just as we nail him.'

It's DI Lestrade.

I get up, tripping on my steps, all left foots and clumsy moves, to go stand at the door and watch Sherlock's well earned moment of recognition and triumph.

'Go, Sherlock. I'll have breakfast ready when you come back', I incentive as soon as he seeks me behind him.

He flashes me a happy grin that the inspector cannot see, and grabs his day clothes to change into, snapping the bedroom door shut after him.

I'm left there smiling benignly in the corridor.

Lestrade shifts his weight from one foot to the other, clears his throat, looks me in the eye and huffs:

'Look, mate, I believe you when you say you two aren't an item, but you really don't make it any easy on us, do you?'

I open my mouth, close it, then try to relay:

'Sherlock's got sleeping protocols and he— hmm— Oh, shut up, will you?'

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