Restless Night

[klada]

After the initial reunion between Sherlock and his doctor and the emotions that followed, Sherlock had grown weary. He had been holding an insane amount of energy to complete his goal, and now that it was over his limbs felt extremely heavy. Weighted down with lead, as if he was anchored underwater and he was drowning. But Sherlock was okay with that, okay with that because was back where he belonged. Somehow, Sherlock ended up leaning against John's shoulder, ebony curly hair fanning out against the plaid shirt John was wearing.

He made it to bed, stumbling, half asleep, numbly pulling on his night clothes, and throwing himself into the bed. It was comfortable, the peaceful home he had missed compared to the horrible springs pressing into his back in the motels. For once he was tranquil, everything forgotten now that Sebastian Moran was dead he could go back to the way things used to be.

But Sherlock Holmes still had the nightmare. It was always the same nightmare. The nightmare had started the same night he had been separated from John, the night he had faked his death. Sherlock had had it hundreds of times since then, another motivation for him not to sleep.

He was not expecting to have it again. Sherlock was in the flat he had yearned to be in, he was safe. John was safe.

Perhaps it was the lack of proper hydration, nutrition, and the amount of stress that was on his body that brought it back again. The body does things that even Sherlock Holmes in all his glory cannot explain, and that was why he always reacted harshly to the body's trembling from fear, or tears from anguish. Sherlock is a mental person and the physical is completely out of his realm.

It was the roof top of St. Barts again, Sherlock and Moriarty. Except it never ended the same. Moriarty always blew the back of his head off in a flurry, Sherlock always jumped.

But a shot always blasted out of the barrel of the snipers gun, straight through the head of John's head.

Sherlock always cried out in his sleep when he would see his best friend hit the ground.

Sherlock ran, feet against pavement, to get to the body, to save him. Sherlock always ended up cradling John, so that his arm was supporting his friend's head, holding him like a bird with a broken wing. And no matter how hard he tried to tell himself it was a dream, it still terrified him.

Sherlock would always text Mycroft the morning after and ask him to check on Watson.

But he'd never had one in 221b. This was not a dingy motel where the yelling was ignored, where the sweaty sheets could be changed out without question. John was here, probably still reeling from the original loss of Sherlock. Even then, John was going to ask questions that Sherlock did not want to answer.

Sherlock was content to pretend that the situation hadn't bothered him, but John was stubborn and would break him apart until he could figure out the answers.

Not that he was aware of that.

It only took an hour for the sheets to become soaked with sweat, for Sherlock to cry out of an already hoarse throat, for the nightmare to start, for John to die to die in front of him again.

In his own way, Sherlock had been suffering the same pain that John had been suffering for the past year, every time he tried to sleep.

The bed sheets were tossed all over the bed by the movements of his body, and John was already awoken by the sound of his best friend yelling his name.

[Eva]

The day had been more stressful and energy consuming than John would have ever thought possible and that was saying something. This fact was even more true seeing as he'd known beforehand how hard just getting through it was going to be considering the meaning of the date. Having awoken that morning with the knowledge that today was the one year anniversary of Sherlock's death and that it might possibly be the hardest day he'd ever had to survive, he'd still never thought that his body could feel so drained both physically and emotionally. After all, the infamous consulting detective had been both his best and only true friend and he'd never been able to understand why he'd chosen to jump off the rooftop of St. Bart's and commit suicide in the first place. As far as he'd known, Sherlock had possessed everything that he could ever desire so the reasoning behind his early demise was beyond his mental reach.

Now, however, he knew that Sherlock had never really died. Obviously the sight of someone standing in the doorway to their flat(that 'someone' being the very man he'd believed to be dead for the past year) had come as quite the shock to John but he had to admit that he'd handled the situation about as well as could be expected for someone in their shoes. Despite the fact that he'd ranted and yelled and cried until he couldn't breathe properly, he would be lying if he said that he wasn't happy to see his best friend inhabiting the flat they'd shared for over a year once again. Honestly, the place had felt far to big and empty with Sherlock's ego and personality to fill the empty spaces. That being said, he wasn't about to deny that he also felt a rather odd mixture of joy and confusion at knowing that Sherlock was in fact alive. Being a doctor, he knew that a jump from that high up should have killed Sherlock instantly and yet it hadn't.

If he was completely honest with himself, John wanted to know how he'd managed to survive it but that wasn't the foremost question in his mind. More important than anything else, he wanted to understand why Sherlock made the choice to jump at all. One look at his best friend's face forced him to choke down his questions(for the time being) though, as Sherlock looked worse than he felt which probably scared him more than he should have. Terrified of pushing him too far, John had backed off as quickly as he could without seeming suddenly uninterested as he knew for a fact that Sherlock would be able to pick up on that change instantly. Instead, he'd allowed his own exhaustion from the mental overload to tire him out and they'd finally ended up leaning against one another on the couch in their flat. Most might say they were cuddling but it wasn't meant to be sexually intimate. The two were simply basking in the reality that they were together again and reveling one another's company; nothing more.

Finally John had realized that both of them were mere minutes away from passing out and so had ushered Sherlock off to bed before hurrying upstairs just long enough to grab a pair of pajamas from his room. Still worried that this was nothing more than a dream, he refused to sleep an entire floor away from his best friend and so had decided beforehand that the couch would make for an appropriate bed until he was sure that Sherlock wouldn't suddenly disappear into thin air again. The mere thought of losing him a second brought tears to the doctor's eyes as he knew in his heart that he couldn't handle it again. Hell, I barely handled it the first time, he noted silently as he threw a blanket over the couch to make sure that he wouldn't get cold in the night before crawling underneath it. There's no way, if I lose him again, that I'll manage to survive. Sherlock is everything to me. It was with that thought repeating in his head that his eyes closed and John was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

###

The sound that awoke John was one so strangled that he could barely recognize that the word that had been mixed into the cries happened to be his own name. That being said, the sharp pain that cut right through his heart was still instantaneous as the owner of the remorseful voice crying out was one that he would have recognized anywhere. His heart shattered into a million pieces at that moment as he couldn't fathom what would have caused such an anguished cry to slip past Sherlock's lips. That being said, there was no way in hell that he was simply going to lie there and do nothing. It were as though his feet had hit the ground running when John threw back the covers and leaped off the couch before taking off towards Sherlock's bedroom. Oh god, please let him be okay! Throwing open the door without a moment's hesitation, John rushed over to the side of his best friend's bed only to realize what was going on. Sherlock Holmes was having a nightmare.

Grabbing him by the shoulders, John shook him as though both their lives depended on it in an attempt to rouse him from whatever horrifying picture his subconscious had decided to paint for him. "Sherlock," he said quietly at first before his voice began rising in a combination of fear and sympathy for whatever was playing inside his best friend's head. "Sherlock, wake up! It's John! You're in 221b and you're safe. You're safe and I'm safe." It was at this moment that a single tear trickled down his cheek as a thought occurred to him that hadn't before. Even though he'd felt as though he'd died watching Sherlock jump off the rooftop at St. Bart's last year, he'd only known that pain. Sherlock had to have known how he'd feel so he had been experiencing not one person's pain, but two. That thought made his heart break even further as he realized just how unfair he'd been earlier. Raising his hand to brush the sweat drenched hair off of Sherlock's forehead, he hoped that he wasn't crossing some sort of line as three little words slipped from his lips. "I'm so sorry."

ATTIRE: Click!
WORD COUNT: 1,082 words
NOTES: I love and hate us at the same time...*dies*
LYRICS: Without You - My Darkest Days
CREDIT: SAM !? of Confronting the Faceless. Don't remove the credit or I will find you.

[klada]

Sherlock needed John. There was a time when it would have been highly improbable for him to admit that to John but earlier he had. His health had spiraled without the doctor. He hardly had slept, or eaten in the days where he was apart from John. He merely did not remember to, as he was too wrapped up in the case that his mind was enthralled with. But it seemed like that choice had done more damage than repairing than he hoped for. He did not blame John, but he was upset for the damage he had caused once more. Heroics were not his forte. He had tried and failed. Sherlock did not fail.

But in his own mind, Moriarty had still won, and his dream reflected that hurt conscious. He had left to let John live. His return had only seemed to damage the only person he cared about more than he had intended.
Sherlock had a rather strong will and constitution. Usually. That was lost whenever he watched John die,
which, was far more than he ever wanted to admit.

Sherlock returned to reality at the sound of John's voice. But more than John's voice, and the words he spoke, was the gentle touch across his forehead, brushing away his thick hair. Even then, Sherlock sat up, practically choking as he tried to get the air to return to his lungs. He could still hear the sound of the gun shot ringing in his ears, accompanied with the laugh of James Moriarty.

Because Moriarty had still won.

And even though John was here to assure him that he was safe, Sherlock still didn't feel safe. He had let his defenses completely down in front of John, and it hurt. Vulnerability was terrifying to the Holmes man. Here was John comforting him, the man that Sherlock had never wanted to break down in front of. And yet he had. His body was betraying him once again.

And John was crying again. He hated that. Sherlock was not too fond of emotions in general and he had made John cry twice within his return. He had never seen John so hurt before and that did not help his racing pulse at all.

"You shouldn't be sorry, John, that's completely irrational. You didn't do anything."

Sherlock brushed his thumb across John's face tenderly, wiping away the salty tear with his digit. He would keep trying to fix it, no matter how out of character for Sherlock, because he had to be sure that John was actually there. That Moran had not shot John in the head, like in the dreams.
He practically leaned against John though. Sherlock's body was done, spent, out of commission for the time being. Sherlock was still exhausted,(the hour of sleep he had gotten almost made the problem worse) but his mind was still active and he needed to make sure that John was with him. He pressed his forehead against John's shoulder, inhaling the scent of the freshly laundered shirt, and his fingers wrapped in the cuff of the shirt, clinging to John like a lost, scared child.

"Don't leave," Sherlock mumbled brokenly.

"Please," He finally added, voice cracking from the general lack of nutrition.

Sherlock did want to be left alone with his thoughts, with his demons. They would rip him to shreds in a matter of seconds if he was left alone. He also needed to make sure that John was going to be safe, and he could only do that if John was in the same room as him.

[Eva]

Ever since the first time they'd encountered one another on that day at St. Bart's, a bond had been formed between Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson that it appeared even death was unable to break. The strength and speed with which it was developed was so out of character for both of them, however, that it probably wouldn't even be a lie to say that it was 'one of a kind'. That being said, their relationship could also definitely be labeled as one of the most dysfunctional with ease as well. Despite the number of people who would label it as such though, the more mysterious issue at hand was how well it worked for them. Sherlock had saved John from a life of utter and complete boredom spent wishing that he could find some sort of action and, in return, John had always made sure that the consulting detective kept himself fed and well rested enough to avoid getting sick from exhaustion or malnutrition.

In all reality it was something of a fair trade but being so in tune with one another's needs didn't come without some kind of price. Of course, not all prices are paid with monetary notes either; as was the case for John and Sherlock. Seeing his best friend in even the smallest amount of pain was John's biggest weakness in much the same way that having him in danger was Sherlock's. It was for this reason that he'd come running without a second thought the moment that he'd heard the strangled cries emerging from his best friend and flatmate's bedroom. It didn't matter that he was half asleep or exhausted both physically and emotionally. All that John cared about was making sure that Sherlock was alright and safe; a need that had grown infinitely stronger with the knowledge that he'd spent the last year believing his best friend to be dead when Sherlock had actually been very much alive.

Acting more on instinct than anything else, John had shaken Sherlock with every ounce of strength that still remained in his limbs in an attempt to wake him from the nightmare that had him trapped in terror inside his own head. When that didn't work immediately, he had opted for a gentler touch. Though it worried him that he had no idea if there was some boundary he was crossing with the sensual gesture and soft-spoken apology, those fears were quelled instantly the moment that Sherlock shot into an upright position as he spluttered in an attempt to force air into his lungs once again. The sight of his best friend so haunted and obviously pained by whatever he'd been dreaming of made John physically sick as his own body was racked with sympathy pains. What made seeing his best friend in such a horrible situation all the worse was that Sherlock's situation was one he knew only too well from personal experience.

There had been hundreds of nights when he'd first returned from Afghanistan that John's own body had been tormented by recurring images of the war that his mind only allowed to emerge when his subconscious was the one in charge. Despite the fact that he had no idea what had been going on inside Sherlock's head, he could tell that it wasn't good and figured that trying to get him to talk about it not even a minute after he'd awakened wasn't exactly the best idea. Instead, he absentmindedly rubbed his hand in small circles on Sherlock's backside in an attempt to help calm him as John waited for him to regulate his breathing once again. That being said, he shouldn't have been all that surprised when he was reprimanded for his attempted apology - and yet he was. Rolling his eyes to show the slight annoyance that filled him for a moment, he was shocked again when it disappeared almost as quickly as it had come; replaced with another emotion he wasn't sure he could describe.

Still, nothing could have prepared him for what happened next. It was because of this very reason that he stiffened instinctively as Sherlock's hand reached towards his face. Unsure of what he was planning to do, John only found himself able to relax(and visibly did so) when he felt the soft pad of his best friend's thumb as it lightly grazed his cheek to wipe off the tear that had been sliding slowly down his face. Eyes closing unintentionally, the breath he then released was one he hadn't realized he was holding and so it escaped him parted lips in something between a gasp of surprise and a sigh of pleasure. His heart was racing so fast then that he felt as though it might burst out of his chest at any moment and his eyes fluttered open when he felt Sherlock lean into his body; shocked out of his mind at both the sudden intimacy and the way that their bodies seemed to fit together perfectly. He was so exhausted right then though that he wouldn't have had the strength to push him away even if he'd wanted to(which he didn't).

His body seemingly acted of its own accord, however, the moment that he felt Sherlock's hand close tightly around the collar of his shirt as though he were hanging on for dear life. A need surfaced then like one he'd never known before as John raised his arms to wrap them around Sherlock's skinny, emaciated frame as though that embrace possessed the ability to shelter his best friend from every harm the world had to offer. Hearing Sherlock's pleas took him to a higher place than ever though as he suddenly realized what was happening. Somewhere, during all the chaos and emotional drama that always seemed to surround them, his feelings had become more than that of a friend. Despite the fact that the idea scared him shitless, his body was acting with a mixture of pure instinct and impulse as he moved one hand under Sherlock's chin before raising it high enough so that their gazes met. "I'm not going anywhere," he said softly before(without a second thought as to what might happen as a result of his actions) leaning down just enough so that his lips met Sherlock's own in a sweet kiss.

ATTIRE: Click!
WORD COUNT: 1,057 words
NOTES: So yeah....this is where he went with it >.>
LYRICS: Without You - My Darkest Days
CREDIT: SAM !? of Confronting the Faceless. Don't remove the credit or I will find you.

[klada]

He did not feel safe until he felt John's fingers, rubbing that soothing circle on his back. Sherlock's shoulders dropped at the gentle touch. His ribs were still heaving as he tried to restore his breath and pulse to a normal rate. Sherlock's guard slipped down like a levy during a hurricane. He did not have the energy to keep his walls up and John's touch had been the final straw. He was crumbling, uncomfortably. The vulnerability made him nervous, to think that John Watson could ruin him in a heartbeat. It scared him. But he was finally relaxed, even though anyone could have seen the gears turning at the speed of light inside of his head. The room smelled dusty, John had not been in here often, or at all, even.

It was just a dream, but it still felt far too close to reality. He could still see it, even though John's practiced hands were on his back, he could still see the blood. Sherlock glanced down at his hands and tightened his knuckles, trying to focus on something else. He could feel the picture fading slowly now replaced by the constant stream of information that his mind had to practice. He was still overwhelmed, even though he knew it was over.

He could never let John get in danger ever again. Because no matter what he did, he still seemed to hurt John while trying to save him. Sherlock was terrified of his recurring dream coming true. And fear, if anything, was not normal for Sherlock Holmes.

He was also rather confused at the moment, but the gentle touch. By how much he liked it. By how it immediately brought down his pulse and regulated his breathing. By how safe it felt, for lack of a better word.

Sherlock was not one who normally felt fear, or confusion, or the weakness accompanied with his nightmares. It only felt weak because it was in front of John, who had seen Sherlock at his best. Until now. Sherlock almost wanted to pretend that the entire thing had never happened.

He did not want to John to know that something inside of him had broken. He had felt it snap when he had jumped off the hospital, it was some sort of invisible bone or tendon that he couldn't find, and therefore, could not heal. Something in an invisible layer of his heart. Something that Morarity had burned away with the flick of an invisible lighter. A burn wound that John probably could never fix.

He hid himself in John's chest, listening to the sound of his breath exit his lungs, and Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to delete the useless information from his mind. But the scent of John's deodorant snuck in there, and he let out a sigh of his own at the feeling of John's arms wrapped around him tightening his grip on John's shirt, nails practically digging into his friend's skin.

Sherlock did not fight John when his hand slid underneath his chin and redirected his gaze, to gaze into the wonderful eyes of John Watson. Doctor, John Watson.

He had opened his mouth to answer John when they're lips touched. Sherlock eyes widened. And then confusion settled in when he realized that he liked it. It had cleared his mind, wiped every thought from his head like the cocaine did, like the violin did. The sound that left his mouth at the touch was almost like a purr and a groan mixed together.

"John..." Sherlock breathed.

Sherlock said the first thing that he had thought of when they're lips had disconnected, and with his tired, sluggish mind, it was perhaps not the best reaction to a kiss that anyone could have wanted.

"You taste good."

Sherlock moved over to the other side of the bed, peeling back the covers to make room for John. It was a long moment as Sherlock waited,(only five point six seconds) before he got too impatient and decided to give John more of a verbal hint.

"Get in bed already, you idiot," Sherlock teased, with a hint of a grin on his face.

[Eva]

Had the situation between John and Sherlock been the slightest bit different from what it was, had Moriarty not forced Sherlock's hand in feigning his own suicide to save his best friend's life; the doctor had no doubts whatsoever that neither of them would be in the positions that they were in. Actually, he believed wholeheartedly that they would be exactly as they'd been a year ago before that day at St. Bart's. Sherlock would still be begging for a new case the moment that he'd solved the prior one and he would have been ensuring that the world's only consulting detective ate enough food and got enough rest so that he might remain coherent. It was obvious even then how dysfunctional their relationship was but the fact that they needed each other so badly had far outweighed any possible consequences. Of course, that's before they had been aware of Moriarty's plan; before the world they had somehow managed to build together had come crashing down around them.

Something had changed that day though, for John at least if not for Sherlock. He'd been forced into the idea that he would have to spend the rest of his life without his best friend and that one piece of knowledge had changed him in some unnameable way. Now that Sherlock had returned from the dead(figuratively speaking to John's shock), the pieces of the puzzle that had been their lives were quickly falling into place once more. This time was different, however, in that there was now another part of John that had seemingly been created in Sherlock's absence. That, or it had been there al along and he'd simply been unable to admit it. He wasn't sure which was the truth but, as his fingers traced circles on Sherlock's back while the detective attempted to regulate his breathing again and lower his pulse, he realized that he honestly didn't care. All that mattered was that he had his best friend back, right?

It shouldn't be possible, John told himself, still shocked that Sherlock was back in the flat after he'd believed him to be dead for the past year, and yet somehow it is. God, how can I be mad at him when his faking his death meant that he's able to be here now? I know he didn't let me know he was alive(which he definitely should have) but there's a sense of peace in having him here now and honestly, I couldn't be happier. Pulled from his thoughts by a new pressure on his chest, John felt his eyes widen ever so slightly in response to the sight his gaze happened to land upon. Sherlock Holmes, the world's greatest consulting detective and his best friend in the entire world, had his head buried in his chest. Surprisingly though, it didn't feel the slightest bit weird or wrong. If anything, it tore at his heart to see Sherlock in such a way as he knew how much his genius flatmate loved to always be strong and in control. Such things weren't always possible though, as it appeared they were both being taught at the moment.

Caught up in the moment like never before, John did something that he never would have even considered trying before he met Sherlock. His hand moving slowly and yet confidently underneath the detective's chin, he raised the face of his best friend easily until their gazes met and the words he spoke then were easily the most heartfelt and truest statement he'd made in his entire life. The moment that their lips met, however, brought something to life in John that he'd never dreamed he was capable of feeling. Lost in the sweetness that was Sherlock his eyes fluttered closed as he reveled in the feeling of warmth and joy that overwhelmed him. Though it confused him that he felt this way while kissing another man. the fact that it was indeed Sherlock seemed to explain everything and he let all of his concerns fall away the second that he felt his best friend's lips began to respond to his own. Hearing Sherlock's voice say his name made him feel like he was falling and he couldn't seem to help but respond in like.

When they finally separated, his own lungs heaving for air from the passion that he'd just experienced in that short moment, John's eyes widened for a split second at Sherlock's comment before a grin appeared followed by a choked laugh as it was all he could manage in his state of oxygen deprivation. "Oh, Sherlock," he murmured with a shake of his head at his flatmate's oh so perfect timing, "you are truly a piece of work. You know that, right?" Though his words could have been taken as condescending had they been heard by someone who wasn't aware of his and Sherlock's relationship with one another, there was a hint of humor in John's voice that he had no doubt the world's only consulting detective would notice. Momentarily confused that he'd crossed some line when Sherlock moved away, the mental exhaustion he felt caused John's mind to need a longer span of time in order to process the information he was seeing. Apparently, however, that time was too long for Sherlock as his rich baritone broke the silence between them. Rolling his eyes in mock annoyance as he climbed into the bed and weaseled his way under the covers, he couldn't help but huff as his lips formed a small pout and he muttered, "I'm not an idiot."

ATTIRE: Click!
WORD COUNT: 932 words
NOTES: Gosh....I love these two xD
LYRICS: Without You - My Darkest Days
CREDIT: SAM !? of Confronting the Faceless. Don't remove the credit or I will find you.

[klada]

Sherlock had grown up under the impression that he was not human. He remembered the doctor's appointments vividly, the secrets meetings between his teachers and his parents. And after his parents had died when he was young, teenage Mycroft had taken over that responsibility. He was well aware that average human beings where normal. They did not take drugs to think, they took them for pleasure, they could not look at someone and know their life story in a matter of eight seconds. Sherlock was different. A freak, as he was constantly informed by Anderson and Sally Donovan. It was almost as if he had stopped trying to be normal, because he felt like a lost cause. The one time he had tried to be a hero he had ruined it, and now he could not seem to stop hurting John.

Perhaps he should have never come back to John, never have continued to hurt him. He was addicted to John, just like the cocaine and the violin, and the adrenaline. It was more than love, it was an unhealthy need. He needed John in this bed so that he could feel as if they were both safe, he needed to be back in this flat. To the familiar sounds and smells, and the sight John was enough to pacify any fear and trepidation that he had.

He had never once imagined being touched by John, but now that he had felt John Watson's hands he would never be able to get enough. It was an insatiable desire to be touching him. Even when the kiss separated Sherlock kept a tight hold on John until he slipped away across the bed and waited for him to join him in the sheets that neither of them seemed concerned enough about to change.

Sherlock was supposed to be apathetic. But since he had met John, he had gradually lost the power to be indifferent to scenarios. Now was the final moment when all of his guard had slipped. Sherlock would make a futile attempt to rebuild his metaphorical wall when he was rejuvenated, but the chances of ever feeling completely in control in front of John Watson were slim. Twenty percent, to be exact. Sherlock had never broken before, not for anyone, not for the bullies in school. Oddly enough, it had to be Watson who had a touch capable of making the mighty Sherlock Holmes crumble. No one else.

Sherlock was currently remembering the many occasions in which John Watson had insisted that he was not interested in men. But John had kissed him. Sherlock was not entirely sure if he should have felt confused or flattered, but for once he bit his tongue, too tired to try and articulate what he was thinking about.

He liked the way his name sounded falling off Watson's lips. There was a resolve inside of Sherlock now to try and get John to say his name one more time, just to hear the sound. There was some part of him that liked the control, to finger the strings of a puppet John Watson.

Sherlock's lip twitched up in sort of a boyish smirk.

"I know," He replied.
He was a piece of work.

He was always going to be a little different than everyone else. But maybe, that was okay. Because lord knew that John Watson was just as damaged as him.

As soon as John climbed into the bed Sherlock scooted closer to him, seeking that touch that he had grown a desire for. It was warm, it was happy, it was peaceful. Sherlock rested his curly head on top of John's chest,(which would serve as a suitable pillow) and his gangly legs were pressed against John's stockier ones. He was content, for once in his life.

"Are too," Sherlock muttered.

One of his hands gently slid down to brush across John's wrist and two of his fingers stopped to feel his pulse. To constantly assure himself that John was still alive.

"I suppose we didn't need the second bedroom after all," He added, along with one last comment,"That was my first kiss."

Sherlock never bothered to hide what he was thinking from anyone, and this was not an exception. At all. The words were mumbled in a stream of conciousness before Sherlock finally fell asleep.

[Eva]

The relationship between himself and Sherlock was definitely a unique one, John knew that. Some might say that the consulting detective kept him around as nothing more than something to study and an even greater number of people probably believed that they were secret lovers attempting to keep their sexual preferences hidden from the rest of the world. The truth, however, was far more complex that he highly doubted anyone could even begin to fathom just how it worked. It wasn't that they necessarily wanted to be around one another(as there were times when he personally wanted nothing more than to distance himself from the asshole that his flatmate could be), but rather that they literally needed each other to survive. For some unfathomable reason, it had been that way from the first day they'd met in the laboratory at St. Bart's. Obviously, neither of them could ever had imagined what would have blossomed from that harmless meeting and the arrangement to share a flat but their relationship had skyrocketed nonetheless and there was no going back now.

The strangest part of it all though, which he only came to realize in the moment after their lips separated, was that John wasn't even sure he wanted things to be different between himself and Sherlock. Granted, he hated the way he'd felt for the past year with every ounce of strength he possessed in his body but did that pain and heartache really outweigh all of the good times that they'd experienced together? He couldn't be sure and he doubted right then that he'd ever really obtain an answer to that question. I doubt even Sherlock could answer that one, he noted silently, the thought of a question leaving his best friend baffled tugging up the corners of his lips in a half-smile that hinted at his amusement. He may be a genius in all senses of the word but even the infamous Detective Holmes is naive in matters of the heart. Still, it would be interesting to see what answer he tries to provide. Perhaps I'll ask him about it, one day. At that moment, however, he wanted nothing more than to sleep. He remembered just how exhausting a 'normal' day with Sherlock could be and the emotional roller coaster he'd ridden today was far more taxing than those combined.

So tired was he, in fact, that his brain seemed to be turning to little more than a lump of mush inside his cranium with each passing second that he wasn't sleeping. It was for this very reason that he could barely process the thoughts going through his head just then, let alone force it to cooperate long enough for him to think up a witty comeback when Sherlock simply chose to agree with him. Of course, the boyish smile that made him look years younger than he usually did certainly didn't help any. In actuality, it only seemed to make it harder for John's brain to process the stream of information flowing through it; if such a thing were even possible at this point. Not bothering with an argument that he knew he wouldn't win(a fact made even more true by the fact that his heart wasn't in it), he didn't hesitate before climbing into the large bed and getting himself quickly settled in before pulling the covers over both of them. This time John was the one surprised, however, when Sherlock instantly shifted over until he was nestled into his side. It was intimate and yet not at all awkward as he would have imagined; though whether that was a genuine emotion or the fact that he was simply exhausted he wasn't sure.

It was with an absent-minded gesture that John reached up and allowed his hands to comb through Sherlock's ebony locks once before settling on his shoulder. Already his lids were becoming heavy with the need to sleep and the idea of rest was far too good a notion to resist; for now anyways. While he knew that they would need to talk at some point, he was the doctor and sleep was what he was ordering. Catching Sherlock's reply to his statement of not being an idiot, John found that he didn't have the strength to argue and even if he had - he didn't want to. The edges of his lips were tugged upward as a smile slipped onto his lips, however, and he mustered up what little strength he had left in an attempt to get his best friend to be quiet for once in his life. "Shut up Sherlock," he muttered halfheartedly. "If you want to debate my intelligence, we'll do it after we've slept." The soft brush of fingers against the inside of his wrist made him stiffen slightly as an unwanted memory of him doing the exact thing moments after Sherlock had jumped leaped to the surface of his brain but he relaxed just as quickly at the thought that his best friend was back and they were both safe. Already succumbing to sleep, he just barely caught the words Sherlock murmured. Still, they registered(if only just) and he fell asleep with a single thought in his head. I was Sherlock Holmes' first kiss.

###

It was back, the nightmare that his subconscious had plagued him with every night for the last year. Now that Sherlock was back, John had actually been eager to sleep for the first time in an entire year as he'd truly believed that his best friend's sudden return from the dead would put an end to the torment that he relived night after night. Apparently the horrors that played on the inside of his eyelids while he slept weren't so easily brushed away; a fact he was only now realizing as he was back in the cab once again. It was the same one as always and he could literally taste the acidic bile that rose up into and burned his throat as fear coiled in his belly. Up ahead was St. Bart's and he urged the cabbie to go faster as if he couldn't get to the hospital soon enough. Before the car had even come to a complete stop, he had the door open and was out in the street and his heart seemed to stop as his phone played out the ringtone he'd assigned to Sherlock some months earlier. Though he already knew what the conversation he was about to hear would include, he pulled out the device as he always did and flipped it open to answer it. What followed struck him to the core as he listened once again to Sherlock's 'confession' - the last conversation he would ever have with the man who was his best and only true friend.

John's heart jumped up into his throat much the same way as it had the first time this had occurred(the time when it had been real exactly one year before) when he heard Sherlock say goodbye and, no matter what he said to try and dissuade him from going through with it, there was no stopping him from jumping. Every time his attempts to reason with the famous detective varied and this time was no different. He pleaded about how he needed him to survive and how life wasn't worth living without him around. Still, the end was inevitable and as he watched the man he cared for more than anything else leap from the rooftop, he let out a strangled cry that epitomized all the pain he felt as tears poured from his eyes. "SHERLOCK!!!" he screamed aloud with every ounce of his being, his body thrashing as his subconscious kept him locked in the confines of the nightmare. He raced towards the falling body as fast as he could, determined above all else to catch him before he hit the ground. Too late though, he was always just a moment too late, and the distinct sound of bones snapping and a dull THUD echoed in his ears as the now lifeless from that had once been his best friend hit the pavement. The sound brought a strangled sound to his lips both in reality and in his dream as he reached for Sherlock's wrist, attempting to find a pulse though he knew there wouldn't be one. There couldn't be one. He was a doctor after all and this was one fall even the great Sherlock Holmes couldn't survive.

ATTIRE: Click!
WORD COUNT:  1,417 words
NOTES:  Hopefully this will satisfy your muse for now...*sobs*
LYRICS: Without You - My Darkest Days
CREDIT: SAM !? of Confronting the Faceless. Don't remove the credit or I will find you.

[klada]

He couldn't think anymore. It was as if someone had run his thoughts through a blender, turning them into a stupendous pile of mush. It was why he was reacting harshly to the workings of his subconscious, even though he knew the images presented to him were not possible. He didn't want John to leave the room, to risk the night terror becoming a reality, even though he was well aware that Sebastian Moran and the rest of Moriarty's web was dead. He didn't even hesitate when he rested himself in John's chest, it was comfortable. Safe, even. John smelled of his deodorant, and the soap he had used in the shower since last year. He was a man of routines, after all. Military men didn't change and that applied to Doctor John Watson as well. Sherlock had been afraid that he had ruined the man, but it seemed that some things did not change at all. Like the smell of soap, deodorant, and the taste of new toothpaste on his lips.

They would have to thank Mike Stamford later.

When Sherlock was a child, he had built a wall. A metaphorical wall, but a wall all the same. It was a fortress, built sturdily, meant to keep out anything and everything whether living or not. It had been meant to keep out the bullies and the general pain of life that his mind viewed more sharply and analytically than others. Over the two years of knowing John that fortress had begun to crumble, and now, as he curled up against John Watsons side, it was all gone. His defense mechanism was gone, every last brick of the towering wall he had built. Gone. Malnutrition, sleep deprivation, and finally being reunited with his best friend were all contributing factors. Sherlock Holmes had let enough emotions through in the past year,(since his fall from the top of the hospital) till now for his entire lifetime. He was through with being weak, through with tears and he was perfectly comfortable with curling up against John's side and pretending that none of it had ever happened. None of it. Although that was rather easy for Sherlock, John would take a lot more effort to forget the factors of their reunion, and why they had cuddled into bed with each other in the first place. Sherlock at the moment was only aware that it was warm here, nestled in John's shoulder, warmer than it ever had been in any hotel room at this point.

Without Mike Stamford introducing the two, Sherlock's carefully and cleverly built wall would have never fallen. In a way, he would have never become a human being without a co-worker introducing him to a retired army doctor from Afghanistan who needed a flat share for monetary reasons. Sherlock did not need help paying the bills, but he had been intrigued by John. Amazing how one little impulse had changed both of their lives for forever.

Sherlock shifted his weight across the bed, one of his long legs brushing against John's as he tried to make himself a little more comfortable. He was taller than John after all, and his lanky body needed a little more space than John's and Sherlock was always going to be demanding and less than sympathetic of other people's needs, including John's at the moment. One of his arms wrapped around John's, not intentionally intimate, but so that he could fit all of his flesh on the bed.

"Moron," Sherlock mumbled in reply.

John had once said that Sherlock would out live God trying to have the last word, and Watson was right about that, at least.

"Ignoramus. Idiot."

Only Sherlock could make those words endearing.


Sherlock woke up to the feeling of John moving away from him, and then proceeding to move too close to him. Annoyed, Sherlock kicked John back, not thinking about what was going on inside of John's mind until he realized that John had not stopped moving, and he blinked his eyes open just at the right moment to hear the heart breaking sound that left John's lips.

It had taken years for Sherlock to finally let go of his wall, and it only took a second, one stray thought for that wall to rebuild itself up again, stronger than ever. This was his fault. And the guilt was too much for Sherlock Holmes to handle and he broke out into his defense mechanism again. But that didn't mean he was a heartless bastard, it just meant that he was not letting the continuing pain of the fall through his thick head of curls.

"John," He started, moving to hold one of John's hands so that he didn't end up hurting himself or the man he was sleeping next to.

"Hey John, it's all right. It's okay now."

Of course, he had spoken similar words to John in the middle of the hounds of Baskerville case, but that had not ended well. Sherlock would have actually preferred John yelling at him over this, even if the army doctor had no clue as to what his flat mate had been through recently.

"John, wake up."

There was nothing else he could do really, or nothing else he could possibly fathom of doing to wake up the man writhing underneath him. He tightened his jaw and moved his hand from John's hand to the man's shoulder, concerned. It was all he could do to repeat the same mantra over and over, until John woke up and everything was okay.

Sherlock glanced over at the alarm clock on the side of the bed for a split second before looking back at John.. They hadn't slept for a full eight hours, but three hours of that would have to do for Sherlock, including the hour he had slept by himself. He could on that little of a tank, after all. Besides, the two men would have better sanity without sleeping than they would with the monsters that hunted their subconscious.