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The humid, warm atmosphere of an early spring heat wave curled around John’s limbs like an embrace. He lay in bed in the dead of night, groggily pushing the wispy edges of a dream back into his subconscious as he wondered what woke him. His dad-radar detected no noise or motion from the crib, and he didn’t hear any lonely violin melodies drifting up the stairs. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face and swinging his legs over the edge of his bed. Returning to sleep in the middle of the night was never a quick process for him. It involved a ritual of padding around the flat, drinking some water, using the loo. He quietly crept down the stairs, hoping Sherlock was getting some much-needed sleep. He and Rosie had started spending weekends here and returning to their quiet flat in the suburbs during the week. The shadows beneath the detective’s eyes grew deeper throughout the week and it seemed as if they abated slightly in the long hours of catch-up sleep on the weekend. Sometimes Sherlock would doze on the couch while they were there, drifting off seemingly unintentionally, or even commit to an afternoon nap and fall quickly asleep. He was deliberately sleeping while they were in the flat. It was so very out of character and it worried John. He knew something must be disrupting his friend’s sleep at night, but hadn’t wanted to pry. He was considering extending their weekend stays to include Thursday nights. He could pretend it was just for Sherlock’s benefit, but it was as much for his own benefit. He felt more comfortable and content at Baker Street than he ever had in the apartment with Mary. He enjoyed the company and the constancy of their friendship. It made the days easier and the nights…well, they could still be long.
He slowly rounded the corner into the sitting room and paused. Sherlock was curled into a long-limbed, tightly wound ball in the center of the couch. He was breathing rapidly, shaking slightly and was possibly…crying? John’s heart clenched and he swallowed. He quelled his immediate urge to rush to the couch and touch his best friend, to comfort him and ask him to talk about it. This could be his chance to be there for Sherlock in a way that allows him to open up and finally tell him what has been plaguing him. The doctor didn’t want to startle him in this vulnerable moment and prompt a skittish “I’m fine” followed by a swift bedroom evasion. He softly made his way to the sofa and eased onto the cushions beside the man he cared about most on the planet. He sighed, leaning his head back and closing his eyes, his arm stretched out casually into the space between them.
“Can’t sleep, either, then?” Unsurprisingly, Sherlock didn’t answer, didn’t look up, head still tucked into his arms which were wrapped around his knees, impossibly flexible for a grown man.
“Yeah. This kind of weather reminds me of the desert,“ he said quietly, not waiting for a response. “The nights were so long out there. The darkness was vast and deep. At 4 am, the silence was like a thick blanket smothering all sounds of life. I used to leave my tent, stand out behind the camp, and look at the stars.” His voice seeped into the silence of the flat and he felt his friend’s tension slowly easing. “There were so many stars, Sherlock. I wish you could’ve seen it. Londoners have no idea how many you can see when you’re far from the lights and noise of the city. I found it soothing to feel so small and so insignificant in a massive universe. My mood seemed less heavy, my worries less burdensome.” Sherlock had turned his head and he gazed at his doctor’s profile, loosening his knot of tension and relaxing into the cushions. “We are here for so little time. Just a brief flicker in a sky of bright flames.” John finally turned his head when he felt a clammy hand cover his own. “You alright?” he asked, barely audible. Sherlock’s swallow echoed in the dark.
“Kind of,” he whispered. John slowly turned his hand over in his friend’s grasp, clasping their palms together.
“You can tell me. Or not. We can just sit here.” John returned his gaze to the ceiling and closed his eyes—hoping the deflected intensity would draw Sherlock out of his protective shell.
“I—“ the detective started, pausing to clear his throat, and starting again, roughly. “I’ve had dreams since I came back.” John waited. The silence was pregnant, but he refrained from prompting the detective. “When I was gone, I….I experienced many things. I was….tortured. Beaten. Starved.” The doctor unintentionally grasped his hand more tightly and turned to meet Sherlock’s gaze. “The worst was…” he turned his gaze to the window, sighing deeply.
“What was the worst?” John asked quietly, his voice tinged with fear for what his best friend would say next.
“They put me in isolation for three weeks. I think it was three—maybe four. No light, no sound. Only food that came through a slot. They waited until I slept to take my pot and replace it with an empty one. No interaction with anyone. Just darkness. Day after night after day. Endless darkness.” Sherlock’s voice held a deep despair that was breaking John. “I tried to remain sane. I marked off what I thought were days on the wall. I sang every Bach and every Mozart I know. I composed new pieces, I recited the periodic table, I played chess with Mycroft in my mind palace, I reviewed every case I’ve ever solved, I tried every way I could think of to remind myself I was human.” His voice shook and cheeks were wet. John, who had turned to him on the couch, reached up and cleared the tears with the backs of his fingers. “I talked to you. I dreamed of you. Eventually, I hallucinated you. You here, at home, making tea, telling me about your blog, sitting in your chair, running with me, next to me in a cab, across from me at Angelo’s, holding me, wrapped around me on that hard mattress on the floor—“ the sobs tore themselves from him, ripping into the night, and John took him in his arms, held him close, wrapped him tightly now, in a futile attempt to turn back time and be there for Sherlock in his most desperate hour. He ran his hands over the detective soothingly, possessively, pressing kisses into his hair, whispering over and over,
“Okay, okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.” His own grief was too much to contain and tears leaked from John’s eyes. He felt long fingers clutch him desperately and the detective shook. John leaned back against the arm of the couch, drawing Sherlock against his chest and pushing their legs onto the end of the couch. The tears persisted for ages—John could not have guessed at how long they remained on the couch clasping one another as he caressed his friend’s curls and whispered to him. Eventually, Sherlock settled, exhausted, and dozed intermittently in John’s arms. The doctor’s own eyelids drooped and he reached over the back of the couch, pulling a throw over both of them as he drifted.
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Faint early light filtered through the gauzy sitting room curtains. John sighed, pulling the warmth against his chest closer. A deep sound against his chest startled him out of his sleepy state and he became aware of his best friend pressed against him. A smile pushed its way onto his face as he deeply inhaled the very familiar scent of lavender and musk shampoo and cigarettes. The ache and stiffness in his neck, however, elicited a moan.
“Hey,” he said ever-so-softly, his voice gravelly with sleep. “Let’s go to a real bed and see if we can get another couple hours before Rosie is up.” His detective struggled to open his gorgeous eyes in a look of sleepy surprise and John smiled. Sherlock pushed himself up and gradually untangled his limbs from John’s, leaving the doctor feeling chilled and vacant. The detective sat at the edge of the couch, yawning widely and rubbing his hands over his shadowed face.
“I don’t know,” his voice an octave lower with remnants of slumber. John peered at him curiously in the dim light, aching to reach out and touch him again, to warm his own skin.
“What don’t you know, Sherlock?” Sherlock sighed deeply and looked toward the door of his bedroom, face written with apprehension. Realization dawned on the doctor and with it came a wave of sadness. Sherlock now associated his bed with nightmares, with fear and negative experiences. John knew the feeling well and it was horrible. It was awful when the one place where you were supposed to feel secure enough to relax became aversive—when the thought of entering your own bedroom and laying in your bed made your palms slick and your stomach churn with dread. Sometimes sunset alone triggered anticipatory anxiety. He knew exactly what Sherlock was experiencing.
“Hey,” John said, working to catch his friend’s gaze. “I’ll be with you. Let’s go lay down together. Maybe it’ll help.” The detective’s relief was apparent and he turned away as his eyes filled. John stood, grasping the man’s hand and pulling him up. They stumble-walked into Sherlock’s room and collapsed on the bed. John situated himself on his side, facing his friend who stared anxiously at the ceiling and agitatedly pulled at his own hair with one hand.
“This is ridiculous. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m so—“ Sherlock began.
“Stop it,” John interrupted. “I’ve been through this, Sherlock. I still deal with it at times. It’s not easy, so don’t be hard on yourself about it.” The detective abandoned his assault on his scalp and closed his eyes, willing his breath to come slowly and evenly. John did the same, waiting. He would never be able to sleep knowing that his friend lay awake, miserable. After an eternal nine minutes, the detective abruptly turned to his side, his back to John.
“Not working,” he said tersely. And then, barely audible, “I’m uncomfortable in my own skin. This is why I use.” John swallowed his own grief, reached a hand up to touch his friend’s back, but hesitated, and quietly asked,
“What would help?” The detective had sensed the halted movement of John’s arm.
“That, maybe?” he answered with a question, glancing over his shoulder at John’s arm suspended behind his back. John began to trace long lines up and down the man’s back with his fingertips, varying the direction at times, making long slow circles over and over and over. Gradually, he felt Sherlock’s tension ease and muscle by muscle his body relaxed. Eventually he slowed, as his arm tired.
“Better?” Sherlock nodded into his pillow. “Good. Just keep telling me what helps. I know that touch isn’t always—“ Sherlock abruptly reached back and wrapped his doctor’s arm around him, pulling his body close and pressing John’s hand against his chest. The detective felt his friend give a small laugh into the dimly lit room.
“And sometimes it does help. Good.” John settled himself against the best and wisest man he had ever known, an arm anchored around his chest, and felt both their hearts slow.
Happy babbles filtered through the baby monitor, drawing John to wakefulness. He yawned into a smile, feeling his arm still clutched to his flatmate’s chest as inky black curls tickled his nose. He leaned away to glance at the time, the numbers on the clock faded in the full morning sunlight. By some miracle, Rosie had allowed them extra sleep this morning.
“Hey, our girl is awake, I need to go get her,” he murmured into the back of his flatmate’s neck. The warm, alabaster skin had a magnetic pull and he gently (subtly?) placed one kiss on C7. Sherlock tightened his grasp on his arm, pulling him closer. Christ, he loved this man.
“Mmmkay, I’m going to sleep more,” the detective slurred into his pillow.
“Good idea. I’ll make us some breakfast.” John found himself reluctant to leave their warm cocoon and pressed a final stolen kiss into the man’s hair, catching a hint of a smile on Sherlock’s face as he slid out from beneath the covers.
The tantalizing aromas of a fry-up and coffee drew the detective from his slumber and into the kitchen. Rosie was happily shoving eggs around on her plate in her high chair while her father was just plating their breakfasts. He turned from the stove, with the plates in hand and stopped short with a warm smile for the sleep-mussed detective leaning against the doorway.
A tingling wave moved from Sherlock’s center out to his fingers and toes and he was momentarily overwhelmed with….sentiment? for this man. How did he deserve such a friend as John Watson? He pulled out his usual chair at the table, tucking into his food with an unusual hunger and winked at Rosie. The meal passed in amiable silence aside from some toddler conversation. Immediately after finishing her meal, Rosie pointed to her coloring books, stacked in a bin nearby, announcing,
“Color!” John set her on the floor with her extra-large crayons while he cleared the table with Sherlock’s help.
“Oh, you’re helping today,” he said to the detective in a teasing tone, “to what do I owe this pleasure?”
“John,” Sherlock began seriously, stopping and catching the man’s gaze, “It’s the least I can do. Thank you. For….for last night. I’m sorry--“
“Hey,” John interrupted him, hanging the dish towel on over the oven handle and turning his full attention to his flatmate. “Sorry for what, Sherlock? Being human? Needing someone? This is what people do. It’s what friends do. This is what you and I do for each other—sometimes…less often than we should. Or could. And I hope I don’t have to apologize for needing someone, too, “ John paused, tentative and looking away for a moment. “Because I’ve needed you since the day we met.” Sherlock’s gaze shot up to meet his doctor’s, shocked. He audibly swallowed.
“You have?” he rasped through a tight throat. John held his gaze for seemingly an eternity.
“Yes,” he whispered, “And I always will.” This man was deconstructing and reconstructing him.
“John,” Sherlock choked, his breath coming quickly as he fought tears and the deep aching need to hold his best friend. “Stay,” he pleaded. “Stay here, with Rosie. Don’t go back to your flat.” He quickly swiped his hand over his eyes and when he looked up, John’s eyes were ablaze with love and joy.
“We’d love to, Sherlock. For as long as you’ll have us.” Sherlock swallowed and answered quickly, without thinking.
“Always. I want you here always.” John stilled, hope blooming in his chest, radiating, pulsing and then he fell forward into his flatmate’s arms, wrapping his own around the thin man’s waist and clinging tightly to him. He felt the detective take a deep breath, and relax into their embrace, tension falling away, his face pressed against the top of John’s head. When he murmured into John’s ear, his voice was a deep rumble,
“You kissed me earlier. Twice.” It was more definite than a question, but less confident than a statement. John smiled into his chest.
“Mmm hmm. It felt right. Was that ok?” John asked, a hint of doubt tainting his tone. However, when he pulled away and looked up into Sherlock’s smoldering gaze, all doubt was erased from his mind. Sherlock leaned down, mere millimeters from John’s lips,
“Does this feel right?” His voice was barely audible, his breath puffed gently against John’s lips.
“Oh, God, yes.” John pressed their lips together as Sherlock softly moaned into his mouth. The detective’s hands slid up to cradle John’s face and he pressed the length of his body against his doctor’s. Their lips moved gently, opening, softening, easing, permitting, inviting, growing, building. Heat engulfed them as their breath quickened and their kiss took on a new meaning and destination. Sherlock discovered an actual need for oxygen and pulled ever-so-slightly away, hands still wrapped around John’s skull and his waist. His eyes remained closed, foreheads pressed together as he caught his breath.
“OK?” He asked.
“Sherlock,” John sounded as wrecked as he felt. “If you can’t tell that was more than OK, then your detecting skills have markedly worsened.” Sherlock grinned, touching their lips together again, and then kissing the tip of John’s nose, and his forehead.
“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he confessed in a whisper into John’s hair. The doctor’s arms tightened around him.
“You have no idea,” he responded. Rosie chose that moment to throw a crayon into the kitchen with a frustrated cry. They both pulled apart, still clinging to eachothers’ hands, laughing.
“Are you sure you’re ready to live with a toddler, full time?” John joked. The detective’s eyes danced and he nodded,
“Yes, quite.” John lifted himself up to his toes to touch his lips to Sherlock’s ready smile.
“This is to be continued later, then?” He asked, hopefully.
“Yes,” the detective couldn’t contain his grin, as he returned the kiss. “Quite.”