BBC Sherlock- Fic: Sleep is a Devil
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Rating: PG
Notes: From this prompt - John walks in to find Sherlock crying.
It started in the morning and bubbled up from there.
Sherlock Holmes was a sensible man- at least, according to himself. He had two expressive modes; blank and bored. He knew when to keep his emotions in check and how to use them for his advantage on cases, and only subtly at first did he allow John Watson to view the cracks of everything he kept hidden. It made everything much easier this way, and kept his “high-functioning sociopath” façade to continue its course.
But it didn’t help that his mind never shut off. Ever. Even in sleep it plagued him with facts and data and dreams of senselessness, of visions clouded in darkness and blood and death. He had been able to get over it for most of his life, let the scenarios play out because he knew they weren’t real. And he was able to ignore them even when every dead body he saw in his mind was reminiscent to every body he had ever seen in his entire life, soulless eyes staring at him, judging him. He told himself over and over, he could get over it. Though he would never admit he was running when he refused sleep, preferring the company of the air and muted chaos of London to the never-ending visions.
After he met John Watson, they turned into real people, living people. Bloody John Watson, and his morality pointing Sherlock in proper directions. He had never let anybody do that before, but there was something about the military man that could sway him. As if he wanted to do the right thing, wanted this man to see him as someone good, even when he denied it with every fiber of his being. It made the visions more harrowing, to have soulless judging eyes of people he tolerated staring at him, blaming him, carrying voices on silence like smoke demanding that he had deduced what would have happened before it did. That it was his fault.
He never cared much for accusations. He let them roll off his back like water, put on his face that told the world he was a rock. Nobody could get to him. Except they did and he didn’t know why, so he slept less.
That morning he had actually allowed himself sleep, the days stretching into long never-ending units of time he could feel in every cell and pore. It didn’t last too long, however, as the smoke engulfed him and the darkness crept in the corners of his being and crime scenes played themselves out- every killing, every body, until they turned into living people again. They surrounded him like zombies and ghouls, prodded him and poked him, leaving him feeling frustratingly vulnerable until they allowed him to see what they were hiding.
Never had his flat mate’s body showed up in his sleep before, and while he could hope not, it was possible that it wouldn’t be the first time. Never did he want to see such a sight, and he jerked awake before it could linger, but the damage was done.
His brain never turned off. His eyes, even in his mind, could see everything. Just a second and he knew how much blood was spilled, where the wound was, and those eyes staring and judging just like all the others.
The day continued on as if shadows didn’t exist. John made tea and got ready for work as if he hadn’t just been dead a few hours before, making quips about Sherlock’s insomnia that was chosen to be ignored. Only it couldn’t be ignored, not really. Despite what Sherlock might think of his hard drive brain, everything said and done was being stored. Every detail was playing out in his mind, bombarding it with facts-
John likes his tea with two sugars and milk and the bird outside was building a nest near the window and the traffic wasn’t too bad if the wind had anything to say about it but the previous owners used to smoke in the house you can see the nicotine stains on the ceiling why do the ceilings always look like Egyptian hieroglyphics when you lose focus the stain on John’s trousers was from that jarred pasta sauce they sell he was at Sarah’s last night but he didn’t shag her the way he smells is proof enough the stack of books on the desk is teetering dangerously they’ll fall later in the day if anyone so much as looks at them wrong there are fourteen ants on the far wall but they’re only scouters and they’ll swarm soon enough they smell the toast crumbs that was from yesterday approximately six-sevenths of the people who see the cut on my arm will think of suicide despite the fact the angle and jaggedness of the tissue shows it was quite an accidental snag why are people so stupid they just never think Anderson is such a bloody ostrich why is he allowed to roam free he was dead a few hours ago and he will never know smashed in skull mutilated leg blood dripping from hair and eyes staring judging judging he was dead he was dead he was dead.
When John left for work it only got louder and more chaotic. He was used to it happening, but it had been a reason for the drugs. There was order, resolve, clouds of dark that gave him answers instead of meaningless taunts. Now it was just swirls and colours and information and noise noise noise noise.
His experiment exploded. Every tick was a distraction and the seams fell apart at everything he touched. The air was too noisy, the silence was rumbling, he needed to think but he was over thinking. When his violins string snapped when he was tuning it, it took a good amount of restraint to not throw it- he did so love the violin, after all. But the bubble of frustration clambered in his chest and rolled in his throat, squeezing every organ and sealing his mouth until the wave of feeling was overwhelming.
As a child he had been told it was normal to show feelings. People laugh when they’re happy, yell when they’re mad or frustrated, cry when they’re sad. He rarely felt the need to do those things, the emotions rising when they got too much. But he knew of them, was able to keep them in little compartments, was able to turn them on and off like the brilliant actor he was.
Except this time it seemed he couldn’t turn it off.
The bubble expanded and consumed every bit of him, crawling underneath his skin and he wanted to claw it out. It needed to escape, to leave him and take the dark clouds with it, to dissipate the images of the people he knew and had seen. His breath hitched without warning, his fingers shaking in front of his face and were those actual tears forming in his eyes? He wiped at them but it did no good, they wouldn’t stop flowing. It got harder and harder to breathe, until he felt completely overwhelmed and placed his hands upon his face, letting out a heavy, barely audible sob.
He didn’t know how long he had sat like that, elbows on knees and large slender hands covering his face. His back was sore from leaning but he didn’t care- all that mattered was getting the bloody awful feeling out of him, to revert back to his regular self. So much was he focusing on this, the tumult of his mind didn’t pick up on the feet on stairs and only when the rattling of the door clicked within the flat did he jump up from his position, desperate to wipe away the evidence from his face before his friend would see.
Then again, John was sort of a special kind of perceptive, wasn’t he?
He knew, of course, and the look on his face expeditiously creased into worry even as Sherlock’s did its best to deadpan. His flat mate and friend had never seen him cry outside of acting, and while they both knew the skill of his deceptions there was something rawer; a vulnerability Sherlock was loathe to be seen.
“Sherlock,” John had voiced softly, and even then it was laced with that empathy he always seemed to have. Right then, Sherlock felt inexplicably angry.
“What?” He spat, his form stiff, shoulders snapped back and face set, “Haven’t you ever just been fed up with it all? To become so overwhelmed with everything that it needed to escape? Contrary to popular belief, John, I am human.” He was withdrawing into himself, holding the bubble steady even as lashed-out anger swiped into the air.
“Yes, of course.” John seemed to consider him for a moment, before stepping towards him, his form side winding around the desk until he was standing over the form of his friend.
“However,” and here he invited himself to sit next to Sherlock, ignoring the distressing gaze in his eyes as he placed a comforting arm around him, “It’s a lot nicer this way.”
Sherlock tensed considerably, immediately wanting to retreat from John’s grip, but he was held firm. While he wanted to flee, another part of him kept him there, until slowly he found himself leaning into the embrace, a lanky limb sprawling around John’s back. He was pulled more into a hug then, and nothing seemed to stop Sherlock from burying his face into the crook of John’s neck and shoulder, his free arm hanging limply at his side.
The bubble burst then, the stream of tears flooding back and he let himself get lost in the feeling. He was letting the bad things go, pushing them out of his body with salty rivers and John was there to ebb them away. He felt strong hands rub circles in his back, circulating the dark clouds as they dissipated from within him. All the thoughts still bombarded, but they were softer now, more subdued. He still knew John had taken the Tube home and it might rain later and Osmosis Jones was a terrible movie and Sarah was going to break up with John sometime in the next week (if you could even consider their relationship as dating), but the biting sharp of the facts were disappearing, becoming misted fog- still there but hardly noticeable.
And as his body shook with the sobs he didn’t want to vocalize, pretending the ones that escaped didn’t happen, he knew it didn’t matter if sleep was a devil that taunted him with memories of all the death he had seen.
Because John was alive.
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Rating: PG
Notes: From this prompt - John walks in to find Sherlock crying.
It started in the morning and bubbled up from there.
Sherlock Holmes was a sensible man- at least, according to himself. He had two expressive modes; blank and bored. He knew when to keep his emotions in check and how to use them for his advantage on cases, and only subtly at first did he allow John Watson to view the cracks of everything he kept hidden. It made everything much easier this way, and kept his “high-functioning sociopath” façade to continue its course.
But it didn’t help that his mind never shut off. Ever. Even in sleep it plagued him with facts and data and dreams of senselessness, of visions clouded in darkness and blood and death. He had been able to get over it for most of his life, let the scenarios play out because he knew they weren’t real. And he was able to ignore them even when every dead body he saw in his mind was reminiscent to every body he had ever seen in his entire life, soulless eyes staring at him, judging him. He told himself over and over, he could get over it. Though he would never admit he was running when he refused sleep, preferring the company of the air and muted chaos of London to the never-ending visions.
After he met John Watson, they turned into real people, living people. Bloody John Watson, and his morality pointing Sherlock in proper directions. He had never let anybody do that before, but there was something about the military man that could sway him. As if he wanted to do the right thing, wanted this man to see him as someone good, even when he denied it with every fiber of his being. It made the visions more harrowing, to have soulless judging eyes of people he tolerated staring at him, blaming him, carrying voices on silence like smoke demanding that he had deduced what would have happened before it did. That it was his fault.
He never cared much for accusations. He let them roll off his back like water, put on his face that told the world he was a rock. Nobody could get to him. Except they did and he didn’t know why, so he slept less.
That morning he had actually allowed himself sleep, the days stretching into long never-ending units of time he could feel in every cell and pore. It didn’t last too long, however, as the smoke engulfed him and the darkness crept in the corners of his being and crime scenes played themselves out- every killing, every body, until they turned into living people again. They surrounded him like zombies and ghouls, prodded him and poked him, leaving him feeling frustratingly vulnerable until they allowed him to see what they were hiding.
Never had his flat mate’s body showed up in his sleep before, and while he could hope not, it was possible that it wouldn’t be the first time. Never did he want to see such a sight, and he jerked awake before it could linger, but the damage was done.
His brain never turned off. His eyes, even in his mind, could see everything. Just a second and he knew how much blood was spilled, where the wound was, and those eyes staring and judging just like all the others.
The day continued on as if shadows didn’t exist. John made tea and got ready for work as if he hadn’t just been dead a few hours before, making quips about Sherlock’s insomnia that was chosen to be ignored. Only it couldn’t be ignored, not really. Despite what Sherlock might think of his hard drive brain, everything said and done was being stored. Every detail was playing out in his mind, bombarding it with facts-
John likes his tea with two sugars and milk and the bird outside was building a nest near the window and the traffic wasn’t too bad if the wind had anything to say about it but the previous owners used to smoke in the house you can see the nicotine stains on the ceiling why do the ceilings always look like Egyptian hieroglyphics when you lose focus the stain on John’s trousers was from that jarred pasta sauce they sell he was at Sarah’s last night but he didn’t shag her the way he smells is proof enough the stack of books on the desk is teetering dangerously they’ll fall later in the day if anyone so much as looks at them wrong there are fourteen ants on the far wall but they’re only scouters and they’ll swarm soon enough they smell the toast crumbs that was from yesterday approximately six-sevenths of the people who see the cut on my arm will think of suicide despite the fact the angle and jaggedness of the tissue shows it was quite an accidental snag why are people so stupid they just never think Anderson is such a bloody ostrich why is he allowed to roam free he was dead a few hours ago and he will never know smashed in skull mutilated leg blood dripping from hair and eyes staring judging judging he was dead he was dead he was dead.
When John left for work it only got louder and more chaotic. He was used to it happening, but it had been a reason for the drugs. There was order, resolve, clouds of dark that gave him answers instead of meaningless taunts. Now it was just swirls and colours and information and noise noise noise noise.
His experiment exploded. Every tick was a distraction and the seams fell apart at everything he touched. The air was too noisy, the silence was rumbling, he needed to think but he was over thinking. When his violins string snapped when he was tuning it, it took a good amount of restraint to not throw it- he did so love the violin, after all. But the bubble of frustration clambered in his chest and rolled in his throat, squeezing every organ and sealing his mouth until the wave of feeling was overwhelming.
As a child he had been told it was normal to show feelings. People laugh when they’re happy, yell when they’re mad or frustrated, cry when they’re sad. He rarely felt the need to do those things, the emotions rising when they got too much. But he knew of them, was able to keep them in little compartments, was able to turn them on and off like the brilliant actor he was.
Except this time it seemed he couldn’t turn it off.
The bubble expanded and consumed every bit of him, crawling underneath his skin and he wanted to claw it out. It needed to escape, to leave him and take the dark clouds with it, to dissipate the images of the people he knew and had seen. His breath hitched without warning, his fingers shaking in front of his face and were those actual tears forming in his eyes? He wiped at them but it did no good, they wouldn’t stop flowing. It got harder and harder to breathe, until he felt completely overwhelmed and placed his hands upon his face, letting out a heavy, barely audible sob.
He didn’t know how long he had sat like that, elbows on knees and large slender hands covering his face. His back was sore from leaning but he didn’t care- all that mattered was getting the bloody awful feeling out of him, to revert back to his regular self. So much was he focusing on this, the tumult of his mind didn’t pick up on the feet on stairs and only when the rattling of the door clicked within the flat did he jump up from his position, desperate to wipe away the evidence from his face before his friend would see.
Then again, John was sort of a special kind of perceptive, wasn’t he?
He knew, of course, and the look on his face expeditiously creased into worry even as Sherlock’s did its best to deadpan. His flat mate and friend had never seen him cry outside of acting, and while they both knew the skill of his deceptions there was something rawer; a vulnerability Sherlock was loathe to be seen.
“Sherlock,” John had voiced softly, and even then it was laced with that empathy he always seemed to have. Right then, Sherlock felt inexplicably angry.
“What?” He spat, his form stiff, shoulders snapped back and face set, “Haven’t you ever just been fed up with it all? To become so overwhelmed with everything that it needed to escape? Contrary to popular belief, John, I am human.” He was withdrawing into himself, holding the bubble steady even as lashed-out anger swiped into the air.
“Yes, of course.” John seemed to consider him for a moment, before stepping towards him, his form side winding around the desk until he was standing over the form of his friend.
“However,” and here he invited himself to sit next to Sherlock, ignoring the distressing gaze in his eyes as he placed a comforting arm around him, “It’s a lot nicer this way.”
Sherlock tensed considerably, immediately wanting to retreat from John’s grip, but he was held firm. While he wanted to flee, another part of him kept him there, until slowly he found himself leaning into the embrace, a lanky limb sprawling around John’s back. He was pulled more into a hug then, and nothing seemed to stop Sherlock from burying his face into the crook of John’s neck and shoulder, his free arm hanging limply at his side.
The bubble burst then, the stream of tears flooding back and he let himself get lost in the feeling. He was letting the bad things go, pushing them out of his body with salty rivers and John was there to ebb them away. He felt strong hands rub circles in his back, circulating the dark clouds as they dissipated from within him. All the thoughts still bombarded, but they were softer now, more subdued. He still knew John had taken the Tube home and it might rain later and Osmosis Jones was a terrible movie and Sarah was going to break up with John sometime in the next week (if you could even consider their relationship as dating), but the biting sharp of the facts were disappearing, becoming misted fog- still there but hardly noticeable.
And as his body shook with the sobs he didn’t want to vocalize, pretending the ones that escaped didn’t happen, he knew it didn’t matter if sleep was a devil that taunted him with memories of all the death he had seen.
Because John was alive.