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The fire burned low, filling the room with a flickering yellow-red glow. It was comforting, cozy, and sleepy; a perfect scene of idyllic peace. However, the lone figure in the room was untouched by it all.
He sat in his usual chair, though not comfortable and relaxed as usual. Tonight he sat stiffly, hunched over a mug of cooling tea, staring sightlessly into the middle distance. Hands trembling, he clenched them tighter around the mug in an effort to make it stop. It was useless, he knew; the tremors couldn’t be forced away and would be with him for a while yet. He would wait it out, just as he did every other time. The fire popped and crackled cheerily, but all he heard were echoes of gunshots and the cries of dying men.
He suspected they wouldn’t ever leave him, not really. After ten years passed, maybe twenty, they might fad a bit. But he was certain that he’d carry those cries to his grave, the names of the men he hadn’t saved burned onto his brain.
The deep baritone sounding his name jolted him from his morbid reverie. Tea sloshed over the side of his mug as his body jerked back to present consciousness, and he frowned at the spreading dark spot on the leg of his plaid pajama pants.
“John,” the voice repeated, this time more insistent and perhaps tinged with concern.
John looked up to find his flatmate half-dressed, dark curls fuzzy and mussed from sleep. Any other time it would have been a highly amusing picture. Now, it was simply a fact about Sherlock’s appearance.
“I said, are you all right?” Sherlock asked, this time sounding more impatient.
“Oh. Yeah, ‘m fine,” John mumbled. It wasn’t as if this was anything new to him. He had a routine: lie in bed until the panic settled, go downstairs and make tea, sit downstairs for a few hours until he felt enough like himself again, then go back to bed. Usually Sherlock never interrupted this ritual. If he was aware John was awake, he either stayed in his room or stayed out of John’s way. Either way, there was never any interaction between them. It was the only instance in which Sherlock respected John’s privacy. Which wasn’t to say Sherlock didn’t ask about the nightmares, because he did. Frequently and with persistence, but always at random and always in the light of day.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, studying John with a scrutiny reserved for corpses that had been murdered in unusual ways. It made John uncomfortable and he shivered.
“No you’re not,” Sherlock said with utmost certainty. “Your gaze is unfocused, your face appears more drawn, you’re favoring your wounded shoulder, your limp is back, and you can’t keep your left hand from trembling.” The deductions were rapid fire, but there was no trace of the usual smugness that generally accompanied them.
Sighing, John dragged his gaze up to meet Sherlock’s. “Yes, yes, well done, spot on as usual,” he said, voice tinged with sarcasm. “So. Why tonight?”
With a carefully blank face, Sherlock asked, “What do you mean?”
John sat up a bit straighter, setting his now-cold tea on the table. “You’ve always let me be after...afterward. Maybe you don’t know, or are respecting my privacy, or don’t care.” John was intrigued to see that Sherlock’s brown wrinkled a bit at that last part. “Whatever it is, you always leave me alone. So what’s different about tonight?” he repeated, searching Sherlock’s face for any clues. There were, of course, none to be found.
Sherlock was quiet for a while. Sinking gracefully into his chair, he steepled his fingers together and pressed them to his lips. The only sounds to be heard were those coming from the dying fire and the creaks and groans of the old building settling due to the cold night. When Sherlock finally spoke, his voice was warm, soft, and hesitant. “This was the first time you screamed.” Upon noticing John’s guilty expression, he added, “No no, you didn’t wake me. I was reading. You generally just shout or make incomprehensible noises. The increase in stressed noise led me to believe this nightmare was worse than the others. Was it not?” he queried, raising an expectant eyebrow.
John averted his gaze, staring into the glowing depths of the fire. He really didn’t want to talk about his nightmares, especially this one. They made him feel weak and childish, and he hated for Sherlock to see him like this. On their first meeting, the detective had declared that flatmates should know the worst about each other. Well, this was John at what he considered his worst. He contemplated just brushing it off, telling Sherlock he was fine and heading back to his room. However, it was very rare that Sherlock wanted to have a conversation of a persona nature, and John didn’t want to discourage it. “Yeah, it was worse,” he agreed reluctantly. “It was...different.”
At this Sherlock leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees and steepled fingers now directly out in front of him following the lines of his thighs so that he could speak. John cringed slightly when he realized he had properly gained Sherlock’s full attention. It meant an interrogation was imminent. John had to admit to himself that he was also pleased, though. Having Sherlock’s full attention always made him feel like he was something special.
“Interesting,” Sherlock mused. “How so?” He looked at John expectantly, as if not answering was simply out of the question. His gaze was piercing and John momentarily wondered if Sherlock possessed some sort of mysterious power that made people tell him things, because despite John’s formidable stubbornness and unwillingness to discuss something so private he felt ready to share every last detail with Sherlock.
Or maybe that was just friendship.
John sighed and leaned back in his chair. “All right, I’ll talk about it on two conditions: you are not allowed to interrupt, and you are not allowed to dismiss it by telling me that it’s unrealistic and improbable. That’s kind of the definition of nightmares, and it’s not as though I have control over my subconscious anyway,” he shrugged. “That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”
Sherlock laughed shortly. “Don’t be so dramatic, John. I am perfectly capable of listening without commentary.” When John shot him a look, he reluctantly added, “without much commentary.”
John nodded and stared into the fire, his face suddenly looking more haggard than it had a moment ago. “It started out in the middle of a fight - they almost always do. I was already covered in blood. Not mine, though. I was making my way towards one of my men. He was down, but still alive because he was screaming. His voice sounded...familiar. And when I got there...” John took a deep, shuddering breath, “it was - well. It was you.” John sat silently for a moment, staring blankly into the dying fire and working up the courage to continue.
“It’s never been you before. Always my mates from the army. You’d been shot in the abdomen, and blood was just pouring out. More blood than is physically possible. Everything smelled like it, and all I could hear were gunshots and you screaming. I tried my best to help, but there was nothing I could do. So I just watched you die, and then I woke up,” John concluded.
Glancing at Sherlock, John was surprised that he was still silent. The detective’s face was an unreadable mask, his fingers steepled at his lips as he stared off at some point behind John’s head. This was worrisome to John, as Sherlock was rarely without some sort of immediate comment.
“Sherlock?” John asked quietly.
Sherlock inhaled sharply, as if he’d forgotten to breathe while he was thinking. As John watched Sherlock’s face for a clue to his reaction to John’s nightmare, Sherlock appeared to reach some sort of decision.
“I will come sleep with you,” he announced, sitting up straight and setting his hands palm-down on his thighs in a decisive manner.
John stared at him incredulously. “Very funny, Sherlock. I suppose it was hoping too much to think you might actually take this seriously.” Scowling, John moved to get up out of his chair.
“John, stop,” Sherlock commanded, and perhaps it was the army instinct in him to obey a commanding voice, but whatever it was, John halted. “I was being serious. I know you think I know little of the emotional and relational spheres-”
“No I don’t,” John interjected.
Sherlock gave him a withering look. “-but,” he continued pointedly, “I am well-read on the subject of nightmares and have relevant experience as well.”
John didn’t know if this meant that Sherlock had many nightmares himself, or if he had experience in helping others with theirs. Settling back into his chair, John prepared himself to hear Sherlock’s explanation.
Sherlock smiled in satisfaction, knowing he had John’s full attention. “After experiencing nightmares, people are frightened and vulnerable. The way to alleviate this issue is to make them feel safe - which is why young children often have comfort blankets and why people in shock are issued those horrid orange blankets.” He turned his gaze directly on John, who felt uncomfortable under the intense scrutiny. “You have blankets on your bed, which clearly are no help to you. Your chair, the fire, and the tea are obviously useless since you remain awake for hours, which leaves us with two options: prescription sleep aids or human contact. You’re a doctor and if you wanted to be on sleep medication, you would have gone that route already. So, human contact is our only remaining option.” Sherlock sat back in his chair, looking quite pleased with himself in a certain more personal way he did when he’d deduced something about John. “As I said, I will come sleep with you.”
John stared at Sherlock, disbelief still etched on his face. “Sherlock,” he protested, “That’s-” He’d been about to say ‘that’s what couples do,’ but Sherlock recently offhandedly mentioned that John protested them being called a couple quite often and ‘what might that say about his actual interests?’ “That’s not exactly an activity flatmates do together.”
“Nonsense. As I understand it, friends often share beds.”
“Yeah, only if they’ve got to, like on holiday or something,” John retorted, the tips of his ears growing uncomfortably warm.
“I fail to see what’s so embarrassing about it. It’s practical. You’ll sleep better. I probably would too,” he added nonchalantly. “It would be mutually beneficial. Now stop fussing about and let’s go to bed,” he said with a certain finality that John had learned meant Sherlock was not going to back down.
John sighed and rubbed his face, feeling too weary and worn-down to argue. “All right. Fine. But you will tell no one. And you’re staying on your side of the bed.”
Sherlock frowned. “But John, the experiment won’t work if we aren’t in contact-”
John cut him off with a glare. “I am not an experiment,” he said, a note of warning in his voice.
“Fine,” Sherlock huffed, standing in one smooth motion. “Though I can’t guarantee results now,” he added, sounding for all the world like a petulant child.
“What a shame,” John said sarcastically as he got slowly to his feet. “And this is just for tonight,” he added, giving Sherlock his sternest soldier glare.
“I really don’t see why you’re so bothered, John,” Sherlock said as he began to effortlessly climb the stairs to John’s room. “I’ve clearly stated the parameters of the experi- the situation,” Sherlock hastily corrected before John could fuss over not being an experiment. “We share a bed, we don’t even touch, though it will be far less effective that way,” he added, muttering under his breath. “There’s nothing romantic about it. We’ve certainly been in more compromising situations on cases.”
John sighed as he climbed the stairs with far less energy than Sherlock. “I’ve already agreed, Sherlock. You can lay off it now.” He followed Sherlock into his own room, which was odd considering it was John’s room.
Sherlock waited patiently near John’s bed, and John felt a weird sense of gratitude that Sherlock at least had the presence of mind to let John get in his own bed first. Avoiding Sherlock’s gaze, John wearily clambered into bed and shifted to the far side to allow Sherlock plenty of room, then rolled on his side so his back was to the detective. He felt the mattress dip as Sherlock settled in next to him. John focused on evening his breathing instead of on the man next to him as the darkness settled around them. The sounds of traffic on the street below seemed distant as John’s awareness narrowed down to his room. There was the soft tick of his watch on the dresser, low creaks as the flat settled, Sherlock’s steady breathing, and the rush of his own heartbeat in his ears.
He wanted to believe it was due to the nightmares, but he knew it wasn’t and slowly guilt and shame stemming from his forcefully suppressed feelings for Sherlock began to make him feel overheated and restless. John was glad for the darkness that hid his reddening face. The truth was, he was scared and upset and would like nothing more than to fall asleep in Sherlock’s arms - and that thought was perhaps the most frightening of all.
John had learned the hard way that he fell in love easily, and when he did so it wasn’t little by little but completely and all at once, which made it all that much more devastating when the breakup came. He didn’t like to admit it, but he knew he’d become slightly jaded by those experiences. John guarded his heart now and tended to keep people at arm’s length. Being in the army hadn’t helped matters either - he hadn’t allowed himself to get close to anyone since there was a fairly high chance they’d die the next day. It was a lonely existence, but John liked to think it was easier than feeling the pain of losing someone he cared about.
John was well aware he continued to have feelings for Sherlock despite the fact he knew it was a terrible idea. Probably one of his worst, in fact. Desire and longing were a constant; buried, perhaps, but simmering under the surface and bound to boil over one day or another. It was too late to do anything about it, though. He’d made an irrevocable decision about that when he had shot that cabbie for Sherlock, who was a near stranger at the time. If only he had known what he was getting into. Although, if he could go back and do it all again, John was certain he wouldn’t change a thing. So what did that mean for him? Continue to go around hopelessly attracted to his flatmate and best friend but pretending he wasn’t? To keep going on dates he didn’t really want in order to try to fool himself into thinking he had a normal life?
He was startled out of his reverie by the feel of Sherlock’s long, slender fingers sliding over his waist and onto his chest, and a surprisingly strong arm pulled him close enough to Sherlock that John could feel the heat radiating off of him. John stiffened and growled, “What do you think you’re doing? I thought we’d agreed on ‘no touching’.”
“Yes, well, I’ve decided it’s necessary,” Sherlock replied as imperiously as one could while spooning one’s flatmate. “It’s just for tonight,” he persisted in a softer tone. “And if we’re going to do the experi- this, we might as well do it properly,” he added, pulling John closer as if to finalize the argument.
John knew he should refuse and slide back over to his side of the bed before he got any deeper in this mess of convoluted emotions and blurred lines of friendship. Oh, he knew this was completely terrible idea, but he could already feel his body relaxing into Sherlock’s and his eyelids growing heavy as his breathing evened out. “Mkay,” he mumbled in assent. Sherlock smiled triumphantly though John couldn’t see him, which was probably for the best. I could get far too used to this, was John’s last thought before he drifted off to sleep. Just before slipping out of consciousness, he thought he felt lips brush the top of his head.
He awoke about an hour before dawn to find Sherlock’s lanky limbs draped all over him. The man didn’t sleep much, but it was clear he was dead to the world as John rolled over to alleviate the stiffness in his shoulder. He was surprised at how natural it felt to rest his head under Sherlock’s chin and slide his arm around the man’s waist, but didn’t have much time to think on it before he was sound asleep once again.
Bright golden light streamed through John’s window when he awoke, telling him it was closer to noon than not. He stretched languidly, feeling well-rested and content. Sherlock was gone and it might have all been a dream but for Sherlock’s lingering scent and the indent of his head on the pillow.
John was prepared for awkward conversation and carefully regulated moments, but both men slipped back into their daily routine as if nothing unusual had happened. John made them tea and toast as he was certain Sherlock had not eaten of his own volition. Lestrade called them in on a case that Sherlock solved by suppertime, and they ate celebratory Thai takeaway as Sherlock read and John watched telly. As the evening wore on, John shut off the telly and stretched as he stood up. “Well, I’m for bed,” he announced, and headed toward the stairs. Pausing, he turned back slightly towards Sherlock and asked, “You coming?” There was the tiniest pause in which John’s stomach twisted in several sickening knots, but the corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitched upwards in a small smile. Setting down his book, he stood and followed John up the stairs to bed.