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kinssideblog · 4 months ago

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Check us out!!! @bellwether33 wrote an incredible fic, thanks to them for working with me on this prompt together! I enjoyed it a lot.

It oozes love.

Sleep is not my friend

By @bellwether33 and @kinssideblog

John didn’t get a lot of sleep, at least not since he’d moved into 221B Baker Street. If it wasn’t the violin at odd hours, it was late nights editing the podcast, and if he managed to find quiet time before 2 am, his brain ensured he never slept more than a few hours a night.

This week had been a particularly rough run of late nights, early mornings, and restless hours in between. If his brain had been more alert, he could’ve easily calculated how many total hours he’d gotten in the last five days, but his best guess was somewhere between 8 and 12.

On this particular night, he found himself finally in a comfortable position, in a silent flat, at 12:30 pm sharp, which was rather early for him these days. His mind was calm, his fan was blowing cold air into the room, a light rain pelted the window in a comforting rhythm, and his flatmate had quieted down for the night.

That is, until he began to sense a presence casting its shadow over his body.

A chill ran through him, and he shot up, twisting his shoulder rather painfully on the way. He fumbled with shaky hands for the bedside lamp, which finally clicked and flooded the room with light.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock,” He huffed, “What are you doing here?”

“I do not wish to alarm you, Watson,” He said, still standing over the bed, “But both our lives may be in danger on this very night.” John sighed, trying to imagine what nonsense Sherlock was playing at to amuse his exhausted, hyperactive mind. Of course, a sleeping Sherlock was too good to be true.

So John Watson prepared himself for another sleepless night.

~~~

Mariana’s presence in the living room of 221 B made the situation significantly more alarming. Her sleep schedule was considerably more consistent than either of the upstairs residents, and it was quite rare to catch a glimpse of her after 11 pm, especially on a work night. When John entered the room, she stopped pacing and folded her arms tightly across her chest.

“What mess have you got us into now?” John demanded, keeping his eyes fixed on Sherlock, who was attempting to barricade their door with the round-edged kitchen table. His knuckles were white against the hardwood.

“It’s heavier than expected,” Sherlock informed him, voice straining, and with no clear intent to answer the question.

“Let me help,” John sighed, grabbing the other side of the table and helping Sherlock move it with a screeching sound against the floor. All three flinched at the sound, and Sherlock cursed under his breath. John did not yet have a headache, but he wondered if he should take an ibuprofen in anticipation.

“Okay,” Mariana said, looking at her phone, “I’ve notified the police, but they’ve classified this as a non-emergency.”

“Ha!” Sherlock laughed humorlessly, “Should’ve known better than to hope for any help from them.”

“Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on?” John demanded, looking between Sherlock and Mariana.

“It’s slightly complicated,” Sherlock began.

“He’s pissed off an assasain of some kind,” Mariana sighed, running a hang through her tangled curls. She, too, looked as if she’d be summoned straight from her slumber.

“Bring me your gun, Watson,” Sherlock instructed, pointing to his room as if John didn’t know the exact location in the bottom of his sock drawer that held the only weapon in 221 Baker Street (as far as John was aware).

“What the hell did you do to piss off an assasin so bad we have to barricade the flat?” John demanded.

“Gun, Watson,” Sherlock said, seriously, “Now,”

“Christ, will you ever stop doing this?” John asked.

“Doing what?” Sherlock asked, his face blank.

“Dragging me outta bed in the middle of the bloody night, and refusing to explain a damn thing!” John cried, throwing up his arms in pure exasperation.

“John,” Mariana whispered, “Listen to Sherlock.”

Feeling a bit betrayed by Mariana’s blatant dismissal, John huffed, hands automatically tightening into fists at his sides. Without another word, he left the room to grab the weapon. He let the bedroom door slam behind him as he got down on the floor to open the drawer.

He pulled out the gun, running a finger along its blackened edges. It’d saved his arse on more than a couple cases, not to mention Sherlock’s. As he stood again, he heard Sherlock outside, ordering Mariana to draw all of the curtains. John huffed in frustration.

“Alright, Sherlock,” He said, leaving the room with the gun in his hand, “Either you tell me why you’re so afraid of whoever the hell this is, or I'll go out there and deal with it myself.”

Mariana covered her mouth as if trying to suppress laughter. Ah, of course. Once again, he was the overly impulsive fool, without a shred of common sense. His face flushed furiously with embarrassment, shame, and the annoyance of interrupted sleep.

He watched as Mariana and Sherlock exchanged a knowing glance. A glance he wasn’t privy to. A glance showed that he was missing a key bit of information.

Were they messing with him? Trying to play him? Dragging him out of bed for some sort of drill? His heart pounded with a restless fury.

So he doubled down.

“I’m serious, I’ll go out there, in the rain, I don’t care, just watch me,”

“Watson,” Sherlock said, “Trust me, this isn’t the sort of thing you’re used to handling.”

“And???” John demanded, “If it was something I was used to handling, you’d be telling me not to go out there for fear of triggering my PTSD, I’m sick of it!”

“Watson, what are you doing?” Sherlock asked, panic jumping across his face as he watched John push the table out of his way.

“I’m going to find this…assasin…whaever the fuck, and deal with them myself!” John said, cursing as he stubbed his toe on the edge of the table. It sure was a lot heavier without Sherlock’s help.

John slid on his shoes, which were lying in a muddled heap by the door, and threw it open, slamming it behind him. He wasn’t wearing a coat despite the rain, and debated going back to get it for a moment. Of course, if he did, Mariana and Sherlock would burst out laughing, and he wasn’t sure he could take that right now.

So he made his way down the stairs in pajama pants and a sweatshirt, gun not-so-well hidden in his left hand.

~~~

The street was wet, and made plattering sounds against his feet while he ran, determined to either find the assassin, or proof there was none.

How long was he meant to search before he could declare there was no threat? Should he search all the adjacent streets? Surely any competent assassin would know where they lived and just be waiting for someone to leave the flat. The thought made him grip his gun more tightly and look around to make sure no one was approaching.

He wasn’t sure if the fact that neither Sherlock nor Mariana had attempted to follow was proof of a real assassin or proof that it was all a massive joke.

Suddenly, with a jump, he caught sight of a form in the shadows of a side street, holding up his gun with both arms. He was about to approach the figure, when too late he heard soft footsteps quickly approaching behind him.

A cloth was suddenly wrapped tightly around his mouth and nose, and he recognised the crisp alcohol smell he’d only smelled before in university labs, almost like a cleaning solution. It would’ve been a somewhat pleasant smell were it not completely encompassing. He held his breath as he struggled against the hold, trying to pull the gun around the figure behind. He kicked backwards frantically for a few moments.

It was slow, and as he struggled with the gun, a dizziness came on. He blinked quickly, trying to clear his head, knowing already that in the next few minutes, he’d be unconscious from the chloroform.

The figure in front of him approached, in a thick sweatshirt and jeans, all dark colored. A mask disguised their face, and John couldn’t make out any specific details. He tried to fire the gun, but the trigger wasn’t working.

The last thought he had before passing out into blackness was to wonder when the last time he’d loaded the gun had been…

~~~

The swirling images and smells reminded John of the childhood adventures with his schoolmates, his head lying against cold concrete after a nasty fall…or was it wood? Mulch? A scraped knee…a scooter edge to the ankle…a kick to the face after standing too close to the swings…but it was all in his head, in the pounding sides and front and back and the entire skull.

He tried to open his eyes and move his body, but upon realizing they were still closed, his limbs felt paralyzed, almost like the waking nightmares when he’d become stuck for a moment in his motionless form, sweating through the sheet in sheer terror.

His eyelids were so heavy, and he was on the ground for certain now, with the smell of mulch in the air. He was wet…but the ground under him was dry. Hands, there were hands too.

“Shhh, shhh, John,” A soft, deep voice whispered as a hand ran along his jaw, “You’re safe, you’re safe, there we go,”

His eyes finally fluttered open, widening as if gasping for light as his lungs would gasp for air when trapped underwater. He was still quite wet, wasn’t he?

“‘Ere…” He slurred, feeling like his tongue was heavier and drier than a tongue was meant to be.

“John,” The voice said, running a hand over his forehead, sweeping hot, thick curls away from his eyes. Was it rain or sweat smeared across his face? Perhaps both.

“‘Ere are…we…” He slurred again, trying to raise his head, and found two hands suddenly supporting his shoulder as he was lifted into the lap of the voice.

Of course, it wasn’t any old voice, it was Sherlock. His friend. His best friend. He blinked slowly, looking around the room of sorts.

It was tight, with a wooden floor and steps leading down in one direction to a series of monkey bars, and in the other direction, a hanging bridge leading to the top of a slide. He was in a children’s playground, in a tiny box-house near the top. Where they’d always played when he was young

“Can I be the dad?” He asked, aware of how strained his voice was.

“What?” Another voice asked from behind. A woman...Mariana…friend…

“And you’ll be the mum…” He said, “Sherlock will be the dog…”

“Uhhh…” Mariana said, and he leaned his head back to see her face, hand over her mouth in laughter.

“Woof,” Sherlock said, voice flat and expression stoic.

“John, are you sure you’re alright?” Mariana asked.

“Fuuuuuck,” He groaned, the ache spreading through his skull again.

“We don’t use those kinda words on the playground,” Sherlock said, with a shocked air to his tone.

“I’m fine,” John groaned as the night's events came rushing back into his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut, “Just humiliated,”

“Well, as long as you’re alright,” Mariana smiled, “I’m never letting you live that down.”

“He already said he was humiliated,” Sherlock sighed, “Why exactly are you ‘humiliated’, Watson?”

“Because I walked into the hands of a known assassin purely to try and piss you off,” He answered, putting a hand over his face, “And then attempted to play house the moment I woke up. Why exactly are we on a playground?”

“It was the closest safe location, no one would suspect this as a hiding spot,” Sherlock answered.

“My first time smoking weed was at a park late at night with my mates so we wouldn’t get caught,” John said, “One of my first beers too, come to think of it.”

“Well, that’s not what we’re doing, now is it?” Sherlock said, “Now, are you feeling up to walking?”

“Sherlock! He’s just woken up, of course not!” Mariana countered, “John, it’s okay, it’s okay,”

He was breathing quite heavily now, wasn’t he? Trying to push again the dizzying haze in his head as he pushed himself to a seated position, still leaning heavily against Sherlock. He blinked quickly, trying to see their faces more clearly in the darkness.

“John, er,” Sherlock began, looking to Mariana for a moment. She nodded, encouragingly, but John didn’t miss the way Sherlock’s finger drummed against the wooden surface, “I…we both owe you an apology…for the way we responded to your concerns earlier…and dismissed your input…”

“But you put yourself in danger for our sake,” Mariana whispered, “That was really fucking stupid, John,”

“I know,” He groaned.

“Uh,” Sherlock began, “Is everything alright, John?”

“Well, my head is pounding like a bitc-”

“Yes, but I mean…emotionally,” Sherlock corrected himself, offering a familiar hand to his flatmate. John took the hand as he had many times before. When their conversations became emotionally charged, the contact was a much-needed reassurance of understanding and support.

“Well, I haven’t exactly slept well all week,” John answered, “And that tends to make my anxiety particularly bad.”

“I see,” Sherlock breathed.

“John, I’m sorry,” Mariana said, “Is there anything we can do?”

“Not really,” He sighed, “It’s just how my mind works from time to time, just have to wait until I’m exhausted enough, my anxiety will let me stay asleep.”

“Well, seeing as none of our nerves would have a particularly nice time on Baker Street with an assassin on the loose,” Sherlock said, “I’m sure a night in a hotel room would be well within our budget.”

“You hate hearing me snore,” John pointed out.

“I like it better than hearing you completely silent,” Sherlock answered softly, “It’s a reminder that my best friend is alive.”

If John had been less observant, he might’ve missed the way Sherlock’s eyes shone in the dark space, only small rays of light reaching his face.

“Right, um, yes,” John said, “Sounds good then.”

“Agreed,” Mariana said, “I’ll see which places allow check-ins this late.”

Before John could respond in the affirmative, Sherlock had suddenly pulled him into a tight hug, his face buried in John’s shoulder. As John hugged back, he could feel a slight tremble in Sherlock’s entire body. With a pang of guilt, he understood how much he’d scared the detective. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Sherlock whispered so quietly that only John could hear.

“Aww, you do love each other!” Mariana said, looking up from her phone.

“And why exactly have you deduced this?” Sherlock asked, slowly pulling away, but keeping the fingers of one hand intertwined with John’s.

“Oh come on, it doesn’t take a detective,” Mariana laughed, “It oozes love,”

“Christ, don’t ever say that again,” John cringed as Mariana chuckled softly.

“There’s a hotel a few blocks down that accepts check-ins,” She said, “are you able to walk, John?”

“Yeah,” He said, making a bit of a show of dragging himself to his feet. Sherlock couldn't even stand to his full height without his head touching the roof of the little room. “Lead the way,”

Sherlock kept a tight hold of his hand as they began moving from their place on the playground. John softly took his fingers and made a brushing motion to open Sherlock’s palm. With his index finger, he slowly traced letters into his hand.

I-F-O-R-G-I-V-E-U

Sherlock took his hand and squeezed it tightly three times.

I. Love. You.