Archive of Our Own ^beta

The nights were normal; tea and unwatched television. There were oft some mumblings of John’s blogging skills and Sherlock’s inattentiveness. But all in all, the evenings the two men shared were of normal and comfortable circumstances.

Eventually, when the two would tire, John would rise from his seat (usually in the arm chair) and slump off to his bedroom upstairs; scuffing his loafer styled slippers along the way. Soon enough, a wearisome Sherlock would follow in same form to his own room.  

This is where it all began.

Sherlock was one of those people who took to sleeping quickly and would not take long to doze off, whereas to John, he would often over think about things, resulting in late nights and bad sleeping patterns. 

The concept of sleeping was rather miraculous to John. The thought that one could simply close their eyes and become suddenly non-existent for hours on end was a strange yet euphoric thing to experience. But lately, John had been having nightmares. In fact, John did not actually know if he could call them nightmares; they were memories.

Within the last few months, Sherlock heard noises above his room. They started off as slight hums and scrapes on the wood floor above, then eventually the sound of the headboard slamming into the wall and moans and screams. Sherlock would often lie still in his bed, scared and frightened for his friend of which he thought he could do nothing for.

John would eventually hear his own groans and would wake in a sweat, smelling the salt of his own tears fall beneath his nostrils.

The mornings were normal, too. John, pretending oblivious to his bad dreams, would make jam toast and read the morning paper. Sherlock was too kind to ask if John was okay, or if he recalled his fits during the night. The last thing Sherlock wanted to do was humiliate John, or probe him for answers. 

“So,” Sherlock began.

“Sleep well?”

John shrugged.

“Fine - as usual.”

And that is where Sherlock would leave it.

But the nights were relentless. Sherlock could not bear to hear the screams of his most closest, and only, friend. All Sherlock could hear was sheer pain. Hearing such suffering made Sherlock feel as though it was his own heart was being ripped out of his chest and thrown upon the ground. Anguish, hate, vulnerability and immense and engulfing amounts of pain flooded John’s groans. It was most awful for Sherlock, perched in his bed, amounting to nothing but his own tears on his pillow; feeling helpless at the fact he himself could not help.

But not tonight, he told himself.

Sherlock leant forward and clambered out of his bed. Only in his boxers, he paced for a while in the cold English air.

“Sherlock.”

Confused, Sherlock looked upon the ceiling, searching for the voice that cried his name. The air made Sherlock feel empty.

“Sherlock…”

It was John.

John was grinding his name out of his mouth amidst his mumbles.

John.

He’s hurting.

He’s hurting so much.

Sherlock could not take it anymore.

He hurried upstairs, stumbling a few times along the way. Unsubtly, he flung the door open, hearing the handle most likely dent the wall. It was obvious that John did not rouse from the sound.

Sherlock walked slowly towards the bed before John began an unyielding tossing of his body throughout his sheets.

“Sherlock…Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock…Please Sherlock…No…Sherlock, Sherlock.”

John furiously threw his body back and forth, his face inundated with tears and his voice ridden with agony.

“I can’t do this anymore, Sherlock.” John mumbled.

Nor could Sherlock, as he felt his once thought to be hidden emotions arise and he craned over the bed; one knee on the mattress so John could not turn anymore, the other supporting himself on the ground.

“Hey, hey.” Sherlock whispered, attempting to cradle John’s face whilst it shook beneath him; wiping the tears from John’s eyes with his thumbs.

Finally, John’s tirade ceased, and Sherlock found himself slowly sinking into John’s bed. He made sure that the two’s bodies were close so that John knew there was someone keeping him safe.

John’s eyes opened as Sherlock bound his arms around John’s warm and sweating body.

“What are you-“

Before finishing his sentence, John realised he felt safe; he felt comfort in Sherlock. John had not felt like this for a long time. He felt so innocuous in Sherlock’s grasp.

John curled closer to Sherlock’s worried body; curving his hips into Sherlock’s own.

“Go to sleep, John.” Sherlock said, wrapping his hand under John’s waist and the other slung over John’s shoulder.

John lay motionless for a few moments, running his fingers up and down Sherlock’s forearm as it rested on his shoulder. He only heard breathing; his own and Sherlock’s.

John was home.