docwithablog

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[ It had been weirdly unproblematic and, really, just plain weird going to sleep alongside Sherlock. He'd borrowed a pair of pyjama bottoms from the other man, before climbing to bed, at least a good five inches too long in the trouser legs and as such, pooling around his feet, but it wasn't like it was going to matter once he was actually lying down. It wasn't like it mattered, compared to all the rest.

Strangely enough, he'd fallen asleep relatively quickly. More quickly than was his usual routine, a couple of hours of wakefulness ending on the note of some whiskey to help his very present, very pressing tiredness along. It had been indescribably nice to close his eyes and -- well, fall into the sound of Sherlock's breathing. Rest on the realization of togetherness.

Could get used to this, had been his last conscious thought.

When he wakes up, it's with a loud gasp, his entire body shooting upright, arms carrying his weight against the mattress, fingers clenching into painful fists. He blinks against the shadows of the room, the image of Sherlock -- on the pavement, head smashed in, blood, eyes staring, broken bones, internal bleeding, dead, dead, dead, a stark drama playing out again at the back of his mind. Sherlock would've liked the theatre of it, wouldn't he? John's breathing is harsh, heavy inhalations, exhalations that are tearing from his lungs. A sweat has broken out across his forehead, along his temples, the salt of it feeling stiff where it drips down his cheeks -- oh, wait, that's not -- that's --

Shit. Another shaky breath, then he runs his palm down over his face. ]

[ He's slept a total of thirty minutes so far. He woke up two hours ago, thought about getting up then looked to his right and saw John lying there, fast asleep. He'd stayed. Drifted off periodically, body hyper-alert still, waiting for the sounds outside the door, the footsteps approaching through the dark. There's nobody here, obviously. He's frontally aware. But the rest of his brain is in a different mode and from what little he knows of life-threatening events and their effects, it'll be a while before everything quiets down again.

So, here he is. Sits. He's checking his feeds on the phone when John's breathing suddenly changes, becomes more erratic. Distressed? He glances sideways, following the lines of his face as his features twist, his body restless. Nightmare, then. He used to dream about the war, Sherlock knows, though they've never outright discussed it (certain things, you don't have to verbalize). Not too hard to imagine what he's dreaming about now, is it?

The man suddenly bolts upright into a seated position with a gasp, muscles trembling and sweat shining on his brow and down the bridge of his nose. And what's - oh. Oh. Tears, John's... oh. Sherlock grimaces. Looks at him for a moment as he tries to compose himself, fingers twitching lightly. His voice is a quiet rumble in the dark: ]

John?

[ The sound of Sherlock's voice saying his name makes him swallow hard, licking his lips, the taste of tears salt and fatty on his tongue. Yes, good, that's -- Sherlock's here, Sherlock's alive, that'll take some getting used to, won't it? His mind still plays the war over from time to time, when it isn't satisfied with just cracked skulls and splintered bones and unseeing -- eyes, yes, good. He clears his throat, shakes his head a bit. Keeps his palm pressed over his eyes, so he won't have to actually face the other man like this. For God's sake, talk about humiliating... ]

Yeah? No, it's -- fine, Sherlock, it's -- [ It is what it is, supposedly. He can't rightly change it, fix it. It happened and they'll have to deal with that, both on the short and the long term, right?

Slowly, taking a long, deep breath, he lets his hand drop, rests it back on top of the mattress, focusing on just -- getting his breathing under control, his head, his muscles, tight and painful underneath his skin. His left shoulder feels like it's been caught in a vice while his thigh muscles are trembling. If he'd been attempting to walk now, it would be with a slight limp, because that's how it goes when he gets himself worked up like this and isn't that just -- fucking beautiful? Christ.

His voice sounds awfully thick as he adds: ] Did I wake you?

Edited 2019-09-21 12:03 (UTC)

[ For a man who's usually such a paragon of steadiness, John sounds completely out of it. Sherlock looks him over, brow furrowed in concentration, as he reads his body signs with habitual ease. Yes, distress, definitely. Terror. He closes his eyes, hard, and tries to remind himself that he's paid already, surely. Surely, if the two past weeks don't count, the time before - the loneliness, the seemingly never-ending state of being little but a ghost --

He breaks off his thoughts. Looks back at John and shrugs at his question. ]

Doesn't matter.

[ He settles back against his pillow, back screaming in response. He ignores it, looking John over for a moment longer, the tense lines of his back and upper body, his rapid breathing and trembling muscles. He's in pain from it, no doubt. On several different levels, emotionally and physically. Before he can truly think about it, he's reaching out, long fingers tracking through the darkness before curving very lightly around the back of John's neck, right beneath his hairline. As if in a daze, he starts massaging the over-heated skin gently, fingertips digging in, releasing, repeat. He realises he hasn't touched John since coming back. Did they touch before then? Did they ever, except incidentally?

The thought makes his hand still, frozen in action. Oh. Oh, God. ]

[ Doesn't matter.

A quick glance sideways. Sherlock, check. Sherlock's phone, check -- which means, he was already awake, John just managed to disturb him in whatever he was doing, work probably. It's always work with the other man, isn't it? Work or death, literally. He shakes his head, fixes his gaze on the shadows trekking across the ceiling instead. Breathes in, breathes out, chest heaving, hurting. His shoulders keep tensing, like he's making ready to run or fight or both at once when he can't for the fucking life of him move beyond the boundaries of his own quivering body. John's fingers curl into fists and he feels like banging them (uselessly) against the mattress, but he refrains, partly because he's too self-aware, partly because he's too damn tired. For God's sa--

Out of the blue, there's the pressure of Sherlock's fingers against the back of his neck, just below his hairline, spreading out on either side of his spine, fingertips digging in just enough, massaging the stretch of skin gently. Pressure, release, repeat. Pressure, release -- and it's good, so good, John's shoulders slumping slightly at the sheer feel of touch, the sense of proximity. Nearness. Shit, this is the most intimate he's been with anyone for -- months, most likely, many, many months.

Sherlock's hand stills, then, John breathing out shakily. No, please -- don't -- With his left hand, he reaches up behind his head, pressing his entire palm flatly against the back of the other man's hand, fingers running along the slim lines of his fingers, pressing in, encouragingly. ]

Don't stop. [ It feels nice, he wants to add, but very deliberately doesn't. Instead John closes his eyes and lets his hand fall away from Sherlock's. ] Bloody violin fingers.

[ John's hand feels warm and safe, his grip imploring and unmistakable. Continue, it says, even before the man manages the words themselves. Bloody violin fingers, he says, and Sherlock smiles very slightly in the darkness, allowing a hint of bitterness because he knows John won't see it. Three of his fingers were, naturally, broken quite unprofessionally, the breaks agitated afterwards thus disturbing the healing process. With surgery, perhaps he could have most of the flexibility back eventually - but then, he'd have to bother with that.

Giving John neck rubs, however, is in no way beyond him and so, he does as he's told (asked), fingertips digging in, releasing, at a slow, even pace. He relishes the feel of John's hand against his, albeit briefly, and tries to keep the memory of it locked in his archive. Warm fingertips, slightly damp, not as square as his, not as slim but sturdy, no calluses. He keeps it up, watching John's posture relax gradually, his eyes shut once more and his breathing growing calmer.

You've already done it for me, he doesn't say, because what a load of rubbish that would be - except, John was with him, during the past six months in particular, and sometimes it was... easy to imagine. He doesn't follow this particular trail of thought, knowing full well where it leads in any case. Not now. He looks away from John only slowly, his hand never pausing, gaze gliding through the room, lingering at the exit points automatically while he tries to tell himself that he's making up for it. He's making up for it, one tiny act at a time. ]

Edited 2019-09-21 18:14 (UTC)

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psl.

the third.

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