Left Unsaid
Written for this prompt.
Sherlock returned late and John was sleeping on the sofa, his head tossed back and crooked at a stiffening angle. John didn't like to sleep sitting up, but found he often did. Sherlock had been gone three days.
John scrubbed an arm across his eyes. He tried to move his head but his neck was being uncooperative on account of the abuse it had taken. Sherlock shed his coat and sat beside him, sinking into the sofa like a boneless, empty thing. He breathed evenly through his mouth.
"You alright?" John asked. Sherlock began to lean. He leaned until his shoulder hit John's, then he turned and planted his face in John's lap. John wasn't sure what to do. He pulled his arm free and then settled it over the back of the sofa. The flat was dark and kind of orange from the lights on Baker street.
"Are you hurt?"
"Mng," said Sherlock, who scrubbed his face against John's leg and slowly curled onto his side. There was a tickling tension beneath John's skin where Sherlock's head pressed into his thighs. It shot straight up and spread from the base of his testicles. It was rather inappropriate and awkward.
"Where've you been?" John whispered. Sherlock exhaled tightly, shakily, and John decided to leave off for now. When Sherlock disappeared for days for a case he usually didn't eat or sleep, but curbed each desire with chemical assistance, which got the job done but left him frail and unsteady at the close. Once when John had pressed him for details at such a time, Sherlock had thrown an exquisite tantrum, upsetting the living room table and all its chairs before sinking into the corner with his knees drawn to his chin. He couldn't be moved and had slept there forty hours. John touched a tentative hand to Sherlock's shoulder and felt the thin but consistent tremor coursing through it.
John tried to rest his head again, but his neck was having none of it. He would have liked to go to bed. He would have liked to know where Sherlock had been. He would have liked to have been with him. There were a lot of things John Watson would have liked, but he always settled with what he got, sometimes far too easily, he thought. He shifted slightly downward to give his head a better angle and Sherlock grabbed his knee. It was likely he wouldn't remember this in the morning, although it was impossible to tell what Sherlock remembered, what he didn't, and what he simply lied about or didn't mention. John hadn't slept a great deal in the last three days either.
Sherlock was whispering something and John gently touched his hair. "What's that?"
"The green apple on the twirling," Sherlock said. He convulsed and twisted in John's lap. "Don't let them see you." He curled inward again, his thumb digging painfully into the joint of John's knee. John winced and grit his teeth. Sherlock gasped weakly and suddenly relaxed. "The rabbit has it," he said. John stroked his hair. *It was nighttime, so the intimacy of the gesture didn't count.
The next morning, John gingerly extricated himself and went to work. When he returned Sherlock hadn't moved, but one arm had drooped off the sofa and his knuckles grazed the floor. The next day Sherlock had drooped off the sofa so his whole body was on the floor. He was a weird person, John surmised.
He hadn't disappeared, but Sherlock hadn't slept this week. The game was afoot, he'd said. John suspected he was doing drugs but couldn't confirm this because he wouldn't take them when John was looking. John wasn't able to stop Sherlock taking drugs when he set his mind to it, but he was able to start a row. This was sufficiently distracting from the all-important case, so Sherlock avoided it, which meant he did his drugs in private.
"Do you want these people to die?" was his general defense. "Then I need to be awake."
To Sherlock, death was just a deadline, but it mattered to John and Sherlock knew it. What Sherlock didn't know or just ignored was that it also mattered to John when Sherlock's teeth were chattering as he stared out the cab, or when he looked at his scrambled eggs as though he'd never seen such a thing. It mattered to John when Sherlock slept on the floor in his clothes with three days unconscious beard blackening his face. He didn't like it. He had said this to Sherlock, so he couldn't protest when Sherlock crawled over him, into his bed and under the covers, and nearly shook the whole mattress with shivering.
"Did you get it?" John asked.
"Of course."
He slept for three days, in his clothes, in John's bed, with stubble slowly blackening his face, and John felt marginally better.
Sherlock didn't take drugs, and this still happened: they stood amonst the vegetables and Sherlock got off the phone with Lestrade.
"Satisfied?" he said to John.
"Yes."
Sherlock was gaunt and had circles beneath his eyes, but the case was solved and he was clean. He nodded off in the cab ride home, and awoke with a start and cracked his head against the window. He drew up tensely into the corner and pressed his hand to where he would eventually bruise.
"Where are we going?"
"Home."
Sherlock's breath shortened and he doubled momentarily over his knees. He straightened up and ordered the cab to stop, then flung himself from the vehicle as though it had intended to digest him whole. John flung some money at the driver and then hurried to catch up.
"Sherlock, wait," he said. "What happened?"
"I want to walk."
Sherlock stopped. He strode a few lengths in the opposite direction, then paced briskly back towards John. He was looking over John's head, eratically, at nothing. He was talking to himself but John couldn't make out the words.
"Sherlock, what is it?" John demanded. Sherlock stopped and looked at him for a drawn out moment. His brow creased into a highly uncharacteristic fret.
"I'm very tired," he said, his voice skipping out at the end. The cold wind pierced through the hazy warmth John had been enjoying in the cab.
"Right, well, we were on our way home," John said.
"No!" Sherlock pivoted away, paced back. "No. No."
John closed his eyes. He hated when this happened. He loved Sherlock's job, but sometimes he hated it.
"You're tired," he said, as though speaking to a child. "Sherlock, you're tired, and we need to go home." Sherlock wasn't listening. He was pacing so tightly it was nearly a spin, his nostrils flared as he sucked in quick breaths. He was muttering again, about the buildings, the windows. Deductions. He was making fucking deductions. John grabbed his arm and heaved him back towards the curb, signalling a cab. One pulled up neatly beside them.
"No," Sherlock said.
"Yes," said John, and manhandled him into the back. "Baker street," he told the cabbie. Sherlock was crunched low into the seat and John kept him pinned there with an arm over his shoulders.
"Where are we going?" Sherlock asked.
"Home."
Sherlock twisted under John's arm and then leaned across his chest, towards the door. He took slow, heaving breaths. After awhile, John rubbed gentle circles on his back. "Alright," he said. "Alright."
At 221B, Sherlock continued straight up to John's room where he passed out diagonally across the bed, still wrapped in his coat, with his feet hanging over the edge.
There wasn't a case. Sherlock crept into John's room around six AM, with the dim light of dawn some time away. He was still fully dressed, and he slithered into the far side of the bed and then hogged all the blankets. John got up and got ready for work.
There wasn't a case. Sherlock crept in around three AM, though it was impossible to tell exactly because John didn't notice until he woke up with freezing feet, huddled towards the center of the bed where Sherlock had collected the blankets in pile around himself. John was cold. He was too tired. He squirmed until he lay flush alongside his flatmate, then pressed his icy feet between Sherlock's ankles. Sherlock awoke with a jolt, then muzzily wrapped an arm around John, sought his lips and kissed him twice, a gentle pull. He tucked John's head under his chin and went back to sleep.
John was now awake. His nose was pressed to Sherlock's collarbone, and he was no longer cold at all. In fact, he was rather the opposite of cold. He replayed the incident in his head, and each time brought the same tingling to his lips, the same flush of warmth to his groin, the groin that was now nestled firmly against Sherlock's. Sherlock Holmes. His flatmate, that would be. This was supposedly very awkward. John went back to sleep.
Sometimes in Afghanistan John would sit with his back to the wall, his collar stiff with old sweat, his sleeves and jacket stiff with old blood, and he would stare bewildered into the middle distance, so tired that reality no longer made sense.
They had just returned from Scotland Yard. Sherlock was in the living room, sallow-faced and making erratic leaps of logic about the contents of the flat.
"John," he said suddenly. He said it firmly but there was a hint of desperation in his voice. John finished washing his hands, and dried them on a towel. Let's just make it upstairs, he told himself. It seemed impossible.
"John!" Sherlock was standing stiffly in the center of the room. "John, all these books - "
John took him by the elbow and directed him towards the stairs. Sherlock wrenched his arm away and John grabbed it again. He couldn't do this right now. They made it as far as the hall when Sherlock jerked away again, backing against the wall, hissing, "The bread, you idiot." John felt like he was made of cotton. Wet cotton. He was heavy and porous and couldn't move. He turned towards Sherlock and took a shuffling step. He dropped his head to Sherlock's shoulder. He was heavier by the second. Right here. This was a good place to sleep. Blessedly, Sherlock shut up. He wrapped his arms around John and smelled behind his ear. They sank to the floor.
When John awoke, his hip was numb from sitting, his mouth felt tacky, and they both smelled terrible. Sherlock had a day, a day and a half's worth of beard grown in. John had become adept at judging. Sherlock's head was tilted against the wall, and John had been sleeping against him. When he tried to pull away, Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. His arms tightened around John, pulling him in, and he kissed John once, but slowly. His lips tugged gently at John's, and though this wasn't supposed to happen, John's mouth opened, he turned his head and pressed up needily into the kiss. Sherlock broke it off and said, "Ow." He took a deep breath and blinked blearily at the hall, at John. He shifted, wincing. "Ow."
John levered himself against the wall and stood. He was going to sleep in his bed, properly. He started up the steps. Sherlock followed with a lurching movement, using his hands to crawl upstairs.
"It's too far," he said. "John. Wait." He was halfway up the steps and looked as though he would stay there. John looked back at him.
"What are you doing?" he said, more tersely than he'd intended. Sherlock heaved himself up and grabbed onto the banister. He staggered up to the landing, passed John, then continued up to John's room. Irritably, John followed. Sherlock was standing just inside the door, toeing off his shoes and unbuttoning his blazer. John stood aside and watched him. Sherlock collapsed onto the bed and crawled under the covers. John didn't know what to say.
After awhile, Sherlock turned over onto his back, his knees still canted away from John. "You're angry," he observed. John was silent. Sherlock brought his knees to follow the rest of him, and rolled till he could look at John, the blanket obscuring part of his face. John was till standing by the door.
“Why are you in my bed?" John snapped. Sherlock was very still.
"Do you want me to leave?"
"Not what I said. I said why."
Sherlock didn't answer. He looked at John, his grey eyes half hidden behind strands of dark hair.
"Do you even remember what you just did?"
Again, Sherlock was quiet.
"You kissed me, Sherlock. Do you remember that?" There was a tight feeling in John's chest, but he couldn't tell if it were anger or dread.
"Yes," Sherlock said. The tightness released marginally.
"So why are you in my bed right now?"
"Does it bother you?"
"No, you answer my question first. What are you doing?"
Sherlock didn't answer. John held his gaze firmly, but then the fight drained out of him. He scrubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, then went to sit on the edge of the bed. After awhile, Sherlock said, "I'll go," but he didn't move.
"I don't want you to go," John sighed. Sherlock always got his answers and John never got his. There was no use in fighting it. He heard the shifting of blankets behind him, and then Sherlock was leaning very closely over his shoulder. He touched a finger to John's chin, turning his head, and hesitated with just a breath between their lips. He brushed the tip of his nose along John's. He needed to brush his teeth. They both did. Sherlock kissed him softly.
John closed his eyes. Sherlock pushed him down onto the bed and threw the blankets over John's legs. He leaned over him and nuzzled John's lips with his own until John tilted his chin and opened his mouth just slightly. Sherlock pressed in, his breath hot and uneven. He kissed John firmly once, twice, then kissed his ear and the side of his head. He squirmed until John turned onto his side, then Sherlock pulled up close behind him, one arm wrapped around his waist. Through the exhausted haze that enveloped his mind, John stared across the room and wondered, would they be okay?
Sherlock returned late and John was sleeping on the sofa, his head tossed back and crooked at a stiffening angle. John didn't like to sleep sitting up, but found he often did. Sherlock had been gone three days.
John scrubbed an arm across his eyes. He tried to move his head but his neck was being uncooperative on account of the abuse it had taken. Sherlock shed his coat and sat beside him, sinking into the sofa like a boneless, empty thing. He breathed evenly through his mouth.
"You alright?" John asked. Sherlock began to lean. He leaned until his shoulder hit John's, then he turned and planted his face in John's lap. John wasn't sure what to do. He pulled his arm free and then settled it over the back of the sofa. The flat was dark and kind of orange from the lights on Baker street.
"Are you hurt?"
"Mng," said Sherlock, who scrubbed his face against John's leg and slowly curled onto his side. There was a tickling tension beneath John's skin where Sherlock's head pressed into his thighs. It shot straight up and spread from the base of his testicles. It was rather inappropriate and awkward.
"Where've you been?" John whispered. Sherlock exhaled tightly, shakily, and John decided to leave off for now. When Sherlock disappeared for days for a case he usually didn't eat or sleep, but curbed each desire with chemical assistance, which got the job done but left him frail and unsteady at the close. Once when John had pressed him for details at such a time, Sherlock had thrown an exquisite tantrum, upsetting the living room table and all its chairs before sinking into the corner with his knees drawn to his chin. He couldn't be moved and had slept there forty hours. John touched a tentative hand to Sherlock's shoulder and felt the thin but consistent tremor coursing through it.
John tried to rest his head again, but his neck was having none of it. He would have liked to go to bed. He would have liked to know where Sherlock had been. He would have liked to have been with him. There were a lot of things John Watson would have liked, but he always settled with what he got, sometimes far too easily, he thought. He shifted slightly downward to give his head a better angle and Sherlock grabbed his knee. It was likely he wouldn't remember this in the morning, although it was impossible to tell what Sherlock remembered, what he didn't, and what he simply lied about or didn't mention. John hadn't slept a great deal in the last three days either.
Sherlock was whispering something and John gently touched his hair. "What's that?"
"The green apple on the twirling," Sherlock said. He convulsed and twisted in John's lap. "Don't let them see you." He curled inward again, his thumb digging painfully into the joint of John's knee. John winced and grit his teeth. Sherlock gasped weakly and suddenly relaxed. "The rabbit has it," he said. John stroked his hair. *It was nighttime, so the intimacy of the gesture didn't count.
The next morning, John gingerly extricated himself and went to work. When he returned Sherlock hadn't moved, but one arm had drooped off the sofa and his knuckles grazed the floor. The next day Sherlock had drooped off the sofa so his whole body was on the floor. He was a weird person, John surmised.
He hadn't disappeared, but Sherlock hadn't slept this week. The game was afoot, he'd said. John suspected he was doing drugs but couldn't confirm this because he wouldn't take them when John was looking. John wasn't able to stop Sherlock taking drugs when he set his mind to it, but he was able to start a row. This was sufficiently distracting from the all-important case, so Sherlock avoided it, which meant he did his drugs in private.
"Do you want these people to die?" was his general defense. "Then I need to be awake."
To Sherlock, death was just a deadline, but it mattered to John and Sherlock knew it. What Sherlock didn't know or just ignored was that it also mattered to John when Sherlock's teeth were chattering as he stared out the cab, or when he looked at his scrambled eggs as though he'd never seen such a thing. It mattered to John when Sherlock slept on the floor in his clothes with three days unconscious beard blackening his face. He didn't like it. He had said this to Sherlock, so he couldn't protest when Sherlock crawled over him, into his bed and under the covers, and nearly shook the whole mattress with shivering.
"Did you get it?" John asked.
"Of course."
He slept for three days, in his clothes, in John's bed, with stubble slowly blackening his face, and John felt marginally better.
Sherlock didn't take drugs, and this still happened: they stood amonst the vegetables and Sherlock got off the phone with Lestrade.
"Satisfied?" he said to John.
"Yes."
Sherlock was gaunt and had circles beneath his eyes, but the case was solved and he was clean. He nodded off in the cab ride home, and awoke with a start and cracked his head against the window. He drew up tensely into the corner and pressed his hand to where he would eventually bruise.
"Where are we going?"
"Home."
Sherlock's breath shortened and he doubled momentarily over his knees. He straightened up and ordered the cab to stop, then flung himself from the vehicle as though it had intended to digest him whole. John flung some money at the driver and then hurried to catch up.
"Sherlock, wait," he said. "What happened?"
"I want to walk."
Sherlock stopped. He strode a few lengths in the opposite direction, then paced briskly back towards John. He was looking over John's head, eratically, at nothing. He was talking to himself but John couldn't make out the words.
"Sherlock, what is it?" John demanded. Sherlock stopped and looked at him for a drawn out moment. His brow creased into a highly uncharacteristic fret.
"I'm very tired," he said, his voice skipping out at the end. The cold wind pierced through the hazy warmth John had been enjoying in the cab.
"Right, well, we were on our way home," John said.
"No!" Sherlock pivoted away, paced back. "No. No."
John closed his eyes. He hated when this happened. He loved Sherlock's job, but sometimes he hated it.
"You're tired," he said, as though speaking to a child. "Sherlock, you're tired, and we need to go home." Sherlock wasn't listening. He was pacing so tightly it was nearly a spin, his nostrils flared as he sucked in quick breaths. He was muttering again, about the buildings, the windows. Deductions. He was making fucking deductions. John grabbed his arm and heaved him back towards the curb, signalling a cab. One pulled up neatly beside them.
"No," Sherlock said.
"Yes," said John, and manhandled him into the back. "Baker street," he told the cabbie. Sherlock was crunched low into the seat and John kept him pinned there with an arm over his shoulders.
"Where are we going?" Sherlock asked.
"Home."
Sherlock twisted under John's arm and then leaned across his chest, towards the door. He took slow, heaving breaths. After awhile, John rubbed gentle circles on his back. "Alright," he said. "Alright."
At 221B, Sherlock continued straight up to John's room where he passed out diagonally across the bed, still wrapped in his coat, with his feet hanging over the edge.
There wasn't a case. Sherlock crept into John's room around six AM, with the dim light of dawn some time away. He was still fully dressed, and he slithered into the far side of the bed and then hogged all the blankets. John got up and got ready for work.
There wasn't a case. Sherlock crept in around three AM, though it was impossible to tell exactly because John didn't notice until he woke up with freezing feet, huddled towards the center of the bed where Sherlock had collected the blankets in pile around himself. John was cold. He was too tired. He squirmed until he lay flush alongside his flatmate, then pressed his icy feet between Sherlock's ankles. Sherlock awoke with a jolt, then muzzily wrapped an arm around John, sought his lips and kissed him twice, a gentle pull. He tucked John's head under his chin and went back to sleep.
John was now awake. His nose was pressed to Sherlock's collarbone, and he was no longer cold at all. In fact, he was rather the opposite of cold. He replayed the incident in his head, and each time brought the same tingling to his lips, the same flush of warmth to his groin, the groin that was now nestled firmly against Sherlock's. Sherlock Holmes. His flatmate, that would be. This was supposedly very awkward. John went back to sleep.
Sometimes in Afghanistan John would sit with his back to the wall, his collar stiff with old sweat, his sleeves and jacket stiff with old blood, and he would stare bewildered into the middle distance, so tired that reality no longer made sense.
They had just returned from Scotland Yard. Sherlock was in the living room, sallow-faced and making erratic leaps of logic about the contents of the flat.
"John," he said suddenly. He said it firmly but there was a hint of desperation in his voice. John finished washing his hands, and dried them on a towel. Let's just make it upstairs, he told himself. It seemed impossible.
"John!" Sherlock was standing stiffly in the center of the room. "John, all these books - "
John took him by the elbow and directed him towards the stairs. Sherlock wrenched his arm away and John grabbed it again. He couldn't do this right now. They made it as far as the hall when Sherlock jerked away again, backing against the wall, hissing, "The bread, you idiot." John felt like he was made of cotton. Wet cotton. He was heavy and porous and couldn't move. He turned towards Sherlock and took a shuffling step. He dropped his head to Sherlock's shoulder. He was heavier by the second. Right here. This was a good place to sleep. Blessedly, Sherlock shut up. He wrapped his arms around John and smelled behind his ear. They sank to the floor.
When John awoke, his hip was numb from sitting, his mouth felt tacky, and they both smelled terrible. Sherlock had a day, a day and a half's worth of beard grown in. John had become adept at judging. Sherlock's head was tilted against the wall, and John had been sleeping against him. When he tried to pull away, Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. His arms tightened around John, pulling him in, and he kissed John once, but slowly. His lips tugged gently at John's, and though this wasn't supposed to happen, John's mouth opened, he turned his head and pressed up needily into the kiss. Sherlock broke it off and said, "Ow." He took a deep breath and blinked blearily at the hall, at John. He shifted, wincing. "Ow."
John levered himself against the wall and stood. He was going to sleep in his bed, properly. He started up the steps. Sherlock followed with a lurching movement, using his hands to crawl upstairs.
"It's too far," he said. "John. Wait." He was halfway up the steps and looked as though he would stay there. John looked back at him.
"What are you doing?" he said, more tersely than he'd intended. Sherlock heaved himself up and grabbed onto the banister. He staggered up to the landing, passed John, then continued up to John's room. Irritably, John followed. Sherlock was standing just inside the door, toeing off his shoes and unbuttoning his blazer. John stood aside and watched him. Sherlock collapsed onto the bed and crawled under the covers. John didn't know what to say.
After awhile, Sherlock turned over onto his back, his knees still canted away from John. "You're angry," he observed. John was silent. Sherlock brought his knees to follow the rest of him, and rolled till he could look at John, the blanket obscuring part of his face. John was till standing by the door.
“Why are you in my bed?" John snapped. Sherlock was very still.
"Do you want me to leave?"
"Not what I said. I said why."
Sherlock didn't answer. He looked at John, his grey eyes half hidden behind strands of dark hair.
"Do you even remember what you just did?"
Again, Sherlock was quiet.
"You kissed me, Sherlock. Do you remember that?" There was a tight feeling in John's chest, but he couldn't tell if it were anger or dread.
"Yes," Sherlock said. The tightness released marginally.
"So why are you in my bed right now?"
"Does it bother you?"
"No, you answer my question first. What are you doing?"
Sherlock didn't answer. John held his gaze firmly, but then the fight drained out of him. He scrubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, then went to sit on the edge of the bed. After awhile, Sherlock said, "I'll go," but he didn't move.
"I don't want you to go," John sighed. Sherlock always got his answers and John never got his. There was no use in fighting it. He heard the shifting of blankets behind him, and then Sherlock was leaning very closely over his shoulder. He touched a finger to John's chin, turning his head, and hesitated with just a breath between their lips. He brushed the tip of his nose along John's. He needed to brush his teeth. They both did. Sherlock kissed him softly.
John closed his eyes. Sherlock pushed him down onto the bed and threw the blankets over John's legs. He leaned over him and nuzzled John's lips with his own until John tilted his chin and opened his mouth just slightly. Sherlock pressed in, his breath hot and uneven. He kissed John firmly once, twice, then kissed his ear and the side of his head. He squirmed until John turned onto his side, then Sherlock pulled up close behind him, one arm wrapped around his waist. Through the exhausted haze that enveloped his mind, John stared across the room and wondered, would they be okay?