Keep me from falling, Fic PG
Sherlock is watching John, John who is pretending to read a book. But whenever his eyes aren’t sneaking glances at Sherlock to assure John that he’s still there, alive, breathing, they are beginning to droop closed, snapping open again bare seconds later. Sherlock doesn’t need any deduction skills to figure out that John needs to sleep, needs to let his mind rest and work through all the questions he’s had and all the answers Sherlock has given, to work through the initial shock that Sherlock’s return has triggered.
But John isn’t going to get sleep any time soon if that means leaving Sherlock behind in the living-room, Sherlock is clearly not very good with understanding emotions, but he knows John like the back of his hand, information gleaned from months of puttering around in each other’s space, stored away safely and combined in a map of everything John inside his head.
It takes him mere seconds to sift through the information, carefully skirting around the dangerous corners he has spent too much thought on lately and can’t afford to think about right now, and knows exactly what he should do in this situation.
“I think you should get some sleep, John.” His words, soft as they are, startle John and it takes a moment for him to respond.
“No, no, I’m fine.” He mumbles, the barely suppressed yawn betraying his words. It’s a lie, of course it is and they both know it, but John can’t very well say that he’s afraid Sherlock will disappear again and his return would turn out to be just a dream.
It should seem ridiculous to Sherlock, clearly he is not a dream, clearly the way his fingers have been itching for a cigarette and the anger that still flares up in him hot and burning when he thinks of Moriarty say so. His mind spits the name out like a curse: more proof of how real he is. And who, in their right mind, would have him included in his dreams anyway? And if that thought hurts he’s not going to dwell on it right now.
“But I do and…” he hesitates, as much as this sentence is designed to be an out for John, it still feels right. ”I’d prefer not to be alone tonight, so…” he deliberately trails off, let’s John’s imagination do the rest. It’s not exactly a lie, granted he doesn’t necessarily need the sleep, but he doesn’t want to leave John any more than John wants to leave him.
++++++++++++++
Just like Sherlock had thought it takes mere minutes for John to fall asleep once his head touches the pillow.
Sherlock had barely settled in next to John, content to just watch him sleep, to take in every new wrinkle, every tiny change in his friend’s face, when John woke with a start and a strangled “No!” on his lips. Sherlock would lie if he said he hadn’t expected that to happen, never-the-less the suddenness startles him.
John’s hand is thrashing about, fumbling for something in the semi-darkness of the room his eyes haven’t yet gotten accustomed to. Sherlock catches his wrist in midair and rubs his fingers soothingly over the inside of the other man’s wrist.
“It’s okay, John, a dream, just a dream.” Instantly he understands that before, he’d be wincing at himself right now if he’d said such a mundane thing. Just a dream? Terrible wording.
He scolds himself while John has gone impossibly still next to him. “I’m real, I’m okay, I’m right here John.” He adds quickly and makes a shy attempt at pulling John close. John lets him while he fumbles around with his wrist, only satisfied after he’s felt the reassuring pounding of his heart beneath his pulse point. With a strangled sob John melts into the taller man’s hug and lets himself be softly lulled back into sleep by reassuring words mumbled into short hair and a heart beating wildly (alive, so very alive) right beneath his left cheek.
His soft words only ebb away once he can feel John’s breathing even out and calm considerably. Sherlock’s been mumbling around a lump in his throat for the past minutes and he’s grateful that the tears he’s been trying to hold back only start to fall after John has gone back to sleep. They’re brought on by guilt at seeing what he’s done to John with his schemes. With the compulsion he felt to face Moriarty instead of just giving in. Slowly the tears of sorrow mix with those brought on by relief. Relief that John still talks to him, hasn’t pushed him away.
Yet.
Unhelpful, utterly unhelpful, this mind of his. Not equipped for emotional outbursts. He’s distantly aware that the old Sherlock, the one from before, would have sneered at this behavior. Pathetic. But if those occasional emotional outbursts meant having John, well, he was going to take them on whenever they came. Gladly at that.
Still, he’s glad he can hide the tears in the darkness.
He can’t tell later which one it was, but either John hadn’t been as deeply asleep as Sherlock had thought him to be or the shaking of his body that stemmed from suppressed sobs had awoken him.
Either way there was no panic in John’s eyes this time, just soothing clarity.
“I’m so… sorry.” Sherlock pressed out in between sobs, the guilt washing over him more forcefully than ever. He rubbed the tears out of his eyes angrily. “I shouldn’t… I put you through all of this… go… go back to sleep.” His sentences were frequently interrupted by shuddering breaths.
“Oh Sherlock.” John’s words were a sigh more than anything else.
And obviously Sherlock would get it all wrong. “I know I’m insufferable. I’ll just let you get some sleep.” He was halfway out of the bed before John could even react.
“Insufferable, yes, sometimes. But, don’t go, please?” John caught Sherlock’s wrist in his hand and dragged him closer. “You’ve been comforting me all day, let me return the favor.”
And for once, like a miracle, Sherlock didn’t fight back, but let John hold him close, let him press a soft kiss to his temple and whisper soothing words of reassurance into dark, unruly curls.