Sherlock caught all the subtleties that most people would miss, recognizing the way John lingered in the shower and in doorways like he wanted to say something. He'd said enough already, Sherlock thought bitterly, cursing himself for being so foolish in thinking that they could hold on to the beatific atmosphere of that morning forever.
He thoroughly ignored John even as he prepared to leave, refusing to be the first one to break the silence growing ever larger between them. He paused in his efforts at cataloging his cases, listening as John descended the stairs. He crawled over to the window, peeking from behind the curtain and watching him leave, counting himself an idiot once again for wishing he had stayed despite their row. He watched the place where John disappeared around the corner for longer than he cared to admit, finally dragging himself up from the windowsill to continue his work.
He finished that particular box after another few hours, glancing hurriedly around the flat for something else that could pull his interest. His eyes invariably fell to the sofa, where all this started. He moved over to the couch, running his fingers briefly over the pillow they'd both lied on, frowning at it as though it was somehow to blame for this. He huffed an irritated sigh at himself, stalking upstairs to have a shower and try to wash all these disconcerting emotions off of him.
He returned to the sitting room shortly after, picking up a book and purposefully moving to his chair rather than the sofa, not wishing to get any more accursed feelings on him. The book kept his interest for a while, at least until he heard the telltale sounds of John's return home, his fingers tightening on the book as though to brace for impact if he was still in a mood.
He doesn't react when John announces his presence, not feeling the need to respond to something so obvious. His narrowed eyes flicked up for barely a moment when John asked that question, distinctly surprised that he was even still going along with it.
"Doesn't matter." he answered, turning his attention back to the book. "We don't have to do it at all if you'd rather not. I find my interest in the subject waning." he added, trying to keep aloof as much as he wanted to go through with the experiment. John couldn't know just how invested he was in it, that would invite nothing but disaster.
John continued to busy himself with putting away the groceries, distantly grateful for the mindless task while he tried to figure out what to say. What could he say? He'd certainly had no problem speaking his mind that morning. Which was exactly the problem. Sometimes, John needed not to think so much. There was enough of that going on in this household. Head and heart, wasn't that what Greg had said down at the station once? Sherlock was the brains of their relationship, and a relationship it was. They spent nearly every waking hour with each other, knew the other better than anyone. They looked after each other, both in their own, distinctive ways, but even so. John had taken more than two steps back that morning, and his reaction had been thoroughly unfair towards his flatmate. He would have to set this right somehow.
"Look, Sherlock," he began, emerging from the kitchen, lingering, yet again, in the doorway. He briefly eyed the other, took in his fixedly staring at the book, the way he was holding it, the set of his shoulders. He looked... hurt, almost. John's feelings of guilt tripled. "About this morning... I overreacted. I did, I... shouldn't have said the things I did. It's an interesting experiment, and I'd like to help you with it, if I can. God knows your sleeping patterns are abysmal, I've told you on various occasions myself."
Stepping into the living room, he said down in his own arm chair, opposite Sherlock's, and leaned forward, trying to get the other man's attention. "And bollocks, your interest isn't waning. You're cross with me. As you should be, I behaved like a prick, and I shouldn't have. I'm sorry. You can sleep in my bed tonight, or I'll sleep in yours, and we can try it out for as long as you need to derive something useful from it. Alright?"
Sherlock acted for all the world like his book was the most engrossing thing in existence, only if to make it seem like he wasn't waiting for John to approach him again. he didn't react when John entered, steeling himself for another lecture about how improper and unconventional his social habits were. He knew that already, thank you very much.
He kept silent and still as John spoke, the tensity in his shoulders ebbing just slightly at the apology. He finally glanced over his book when John sat in front of him, his accusation startlingly accurate. He often forgot that John knew him better than anyone ever had, probably because he was so used to being cast off by everyone else in his life.
"Yes, alright." he replied softly, setting his book in his lap and tapping his fingers on it idly. "Where would you rather start? This is about your comfort as well as mine, as you seemed to sleep better last night as well." he mused, pausing contemplatively for a long moment. "If we find it to be consistently mutually beneficial, we can discuss what to do with the data when we get to that point." he added, trying to keep from getting his hopes up that maybe this could become a permanent arrangement for them.
John sighed softly in relief when Sherlock lowered the book and looked at him. He had felt lost all day, and not until their eyes locked did he feel at ease again. It felt, strangely, like coming home.
"We can start in your bed," he suggested, sitting back in the chair and regarding the other man with a thoughtfulness of his own. "It'll be interesting to see if that, too, affects my... restlessness, as you called it this morning, before I usually fall asleep. Or if the couch incident was just that; an incident."
He did not believe it was; falling asleep with Sherlock in his arms had been the most peaceful sequence of moments John had had since his return from the war. But then, both their beds provided more space than the couch did. John did not think they would be lying so close to one another this night. Or...?
"What kind of parameters do you have in mind? I know you have at least a dozen." He smiled a little. "Do you prefer a certain side of the bed? Either is fine with me."
Sherlock too felt considerably better when he finally looked into John's eyes again, finally unwinding a bit since he'd first tensed up again this morning. It had been nice, feeling loose and warm when he first woke up, only wishing they hadn't had their tiff and could have held on to that feeling just a bit longer. Hopefully tonight he could feel it again.
He nodded his assent to starting in his bed, pressing his fingers together under his chin and regarding John in thoughtful interest. "I don't believe it was a fluke. You've had trouble sleeping every night except last night, that's no coincidence." he stated, tapping his fingertips together in contemplation of John's question.
"Of course," he answered "I sleep on the left. I think we should recreate the first night as much as possible. The proximity aided our sleep patterns most definitely. Warmth and a steady heartbeat are both things that encourage easy and restful sleep." he mused, oddly finding himself looking forward to pressing up against John and falling asleep to his heartbeat again. "Is there anything you want to address before we start?"
John felt a little exposed by the fact that Sherlock seemed to know exactly what his nights had been like for every night since he moved into 221B Baker Street, but shrugged it off almost instantly; it was simply what Sherlock did. And it was true; last night was the most peaceful, proper night of rest he'd had in... months. Maybe even years, if he had to be completely honest with himself.
He blinked slowly when Sherlock did not so much raise the question of proximity, but went ahead and decided they would sleep close to one another again. He thought of saying something, but decided against it. The last thing he wanted was a repeat of that morning. No, he would go along with this as much as he could. This seemed to matter a great deal to Sherlock, for some reason, and for that, it would mean a great deal to John, as well.
"Nothing I can think of, no." He got up from his chair, keeping his eyes on Sherlock for another moment. "I guess I'll... go and get ready, then. See you in there?"
Sherlock nodded approvingly when John spoke, setting aside his book before moving to stand. "Yes, let's go then." he said, grabbing a notebook off the coffee table and moving to stride into his room. Tossing the notebook on his bed, he got undressed, changing into pajamas before heading to the loo to clean his teeth.
He settled in on his side of the bed after that, climbing under the covers and sitting up against the headboard, resting his notes on his knees as he scribbled away his findings and parameters for this study while he waited for John.
It took John a little while to get ready. For one, he felt like he took forever trying to decide what to wear. Which seemed ridiculous. In the end, he went with his standard pajama pants and t-shirt. The fabric of both items was soft and worn from years of use - John wasn't exactly that concerned with fashion. If it was comfortable, he would probably wear it. It was a lot more important to him that he was comfortable and could move in his clothing, than looking like someone he wasnt.
Once he was done changing, brushing his teeth and washing his face, he made his way over to Sherlock's bedroom, padding into the room on bare feet. He stood by 'his side' of the bed for a moment, not so much hesitating as simply taking in the situation. Sherlock seemed busy scribbling down his notes. There was no tension in the air, nothing strange or unusual... The sheer normalcy of the situation got to John more than anything. This didn't feel like an experiment; this felt like the end of the day, the end of every day, and he and Sherlock had just retired for the evening. Nothing strange about that.
Exhaling slowly, John pulled the covers back and slipped under them. Resting his hands on top of the covers, he linked them together and stared fixedly at the ceiling.
Sherlock continued with his notes for a few moments, only glancing up when John was next to him and asking where to go from here. He finished up what he was writing, setting his notes aside and clicking off the lamp. He edged over to where John was, tilting his head at him before picking up one of John's hands, laying down himself and pillowing his head on John's chest. He pressed in close just as they were this morning, draping an arm and leg over John and settling in for the night.
"Now, sleep. Obviously." he murmured, letting his eyes fall shut as John's heartbeat succeeded in lulling him into a state of contentment enough to attempt to sleep.
John tensed up every so slightly when Sherlock settled in so close, the other's arm and leg draped over him. In direct contrast to the night before, it was dark, and John felt like all his senses were running in overdrive. He could hear Sherlock's breathing, feel the other's heartbeat, the way his chest expanded with every breath, smelled the faint scent of Sherlock's shampoo mixed in with what could only be described as Sherlock. It was a heady scent, making John lightheaded.
He wondered if Sherlock could smell the cologne he had dabbed onto his own neck once he finished brushing his teeth. He had only spoken of it in his sleep, so perhaps it meant nothing... Even so, John had been unable to resist putting some of it on.
"Right. Obviously." He cleared his throat again before he shifted, wrapping both his arms around the other man. "Goodnight, Sherlock." His voice was soft, gentle, perhaps even a little... forlorn. Even being this close to the other man, his arms around him, John somehow still felt like there was a gap between them. Then he remembered how he had run his fingers through Sherlock's hair, petting him for long minutes, the act simple and sweet and intimate. Breathing out, John moved to do just that, his other hand resting on Sherlock's arm.
Sherlock nosed his way into the crook of John's neck, smirking to himself when he noticed that John was wearing the cologne he liked so much. He wondered if he knew how partial he was to it, but he didn't have it in him to ask, enjoying the scent of it far too much to question it. He hummed contentedly when John's arms came about him, feeling sleep tugging at him the further he was wrapped up in John's warm and strangely appealing presence next to him.
"Good night, John." he muttered against the skin of his neck, sighing gently when John's fingers found his hair. He nuzzled John's neck tiredly, his fingers gripping gently at John's shirt as though to keep him in place. His features smoothed out and a half-smile tugged at his lips, still squirming a little against him as though trying to get even closer even though it wasn't physically possible, leaning into the hands in his hair happily.
John had to admit it... this was nice. Very nice. It was warm and comfortable and strangely safe. Of course, his mind had to go and remind him that he never felt this comfortable sleeping next to any of his girlfriends, which was why he didn't. Even with Sarah he insisted on sleeping on the couch, which was not some sort of misguided, gentlemanly thing. While John was polite, and kind-hearted most of the time, he was far from being a gentleman. No, the only reason he did not want to sleep next to anyone, was because it scared him. The closeness of lying next to someone in bed was quite simply too much for him to handle. The one time he'd tried it left him awake for hours, his heart beating loudly, and when he did sleep, it was more restless than usual (which was saying something), filled with nightmares. No. It was better if he slept on his own. It was safer that way. He'd heard plenty of horror stories of other PTSD'ed soldiers returning home to their spouses and hurting them in their sleep as nightmare and reality morphed into each other.
Yet lying next to Sherlock was different, somehow. And the other man wasn't even lying next to him, he was practically crawling on top of him, pressed against his side, long limbs draped over his body, keeping him in place... And it felt good. It felt right. It felt safe. He would never hurt Sherlock, not even unconsciously. Of this he was convinced.
"Stop moving about so much," John murmured sleepily, tightening his arms around the other man.
Sherlock never would have guessed he would take to sleeping next to someone so well, but now it was like he didn't know how he got by all those years without this. John's presence was so warm and solid and appealing, filling him with a sense of security he never thought he could feel. He wasn't sure how he would ever be able to go back to sleeping alone, even if he managed to mimic the effect of having John in his bed somehow. It wouldn't be the same, certain that Sherlock was only so agreeable about actually sleeping because he had this to look forward to. He'd probably fall back into old habits, only sleeping when succumbing to exhaustion and even then only staying asleep for a short time. With John, though, he felt like he could get used to the average routine of sleeping quite easily, actually.
He made a soft sound of assent when John asked him to stop moving, though he almost wanted to continue just to feel the way John's arms would tighten around him like that. "Just settling in." he murmured, stilling as directed apart from his hand that idly stroked his side over his shirt. He could definitely get used to this. He only hoped he could somehow convince John to drag out this experiment indefinitely.
John Watson was having a nightmare. Once Sherlock had settled in and stilled, it only took moments for John to fall into deep sleep, welcoming the dark. Reliving his Army days, their base was under fire, the team he was assigned to in panic and chaos as a colleague cried out his name.
Blood. So much blood and torn off flesh and raw bone.
He was trying his damnest to revive a fellow soldier, young, far too young, blood all over his hands but as much as he tried the soldier just lay there in the sand, his eyes wide open. Bill, John thinks his name was. Bill McKenzie. He had a fiancée waiting for him back in East Sussex.
John grabbed the dead soldier's rifle and let out a guttural cry as he fired around himself without mercy.
Once his bullets ran out, his mind became clear and he saw the damage done. The person he truly is. The danger he is. Friend and foe both, lying on the ground. And while this never truly happened, he had thought, felt himself close to snapping and doing something unspeakable, and seeing it now, in his dream, it seemed far too real.
He woke up screaming and shivering, sweat dripping down his bare back, distressed and panic-stricken. It took him far too long to realize he was not alone in the bed, and even longer to remember it was Sherlock who was with him.
"Sorry," he rasped automatically. "I'm fine, I'm fine, just a bad dream, I'll just go-- have a glass of water," as he made to get out of the bed, not wanting to be confronted with had just occurred.
Sherlock jolted awake when John did, his fingers fisting in his shirt as he looked him over to find out what was wrong. He searched his face and found the answer, it was a nightmare, of course. He had hoped their experiment would help in that regard as well, though maybe it was just too early to tell.
He shook his head and tugged John back down with him, not accepting John's plan to get up. "It's alright." he whispered into his ear, his fingers moving to stroke through John's hair in the calming gesture that worked so well on himself. "Just go back to sleep. It's fine." he murmured, pressing in close again as he continued petting John's hair. This was why they were doing this, after all, so that they could work through their respective sleep issues and try to move past them. He wouldn't ask about his dream, knowing that John wouldn't want to talk about it, and he was no good at that sort of thing anyway. What he could do was press in against him and try to soothe him back to sleep with gentle fingers carding through his hair.
John was still trembling a little with the aftershocks of fear and self-hatred the nightmare had instilled in him, his heart racing so badly it hurt. He felt icy cold and far too warm at the same time. It was not alright. It was not fine. He hid his face in his hands, drawing in deep, shivering breaths. "I killed everyone," he whispered, voice hoarse, not sure why he said it out loud, not really wanting to talk about what he'd woken up from.
Sherlock's voice was soft in his ear, the sound of it and the feel of his warm breath against his neck strangely soothing. He flinched when he first felt his fingers petting his hair, not expecting the touch, and certainly not from this man.
"Sherlock..."
He could hear the frown in his own voice, could hear the confusion and uncertainty and careful trust there. He still felt horribly shaken, but for once, he was not alone in the dark. He wouldn't have to deal with this on his own. He just had to... keep breathing, and remind himself that he was alive, in London, with purpose in his life, and an extraordinarily eccentric friend who actually trusted him. And John trusted him back, implicitly. He could feel his heart rate beginning to slow as he worked his way through these thoughts and realizations.
"I'm sorry I woke you," he murmured quietly, realizing the entire point of this experiment was to improve Sherlock's sleeping pattern... and his own. He gently wrapped his fingers around the other's wrist in apology, and kept them there.
He thoroughly ignored John even as he prepared to leave, refusing to be the first one to break the silence growing ever larger between them. He paused in his efforts at cataloging his cases, listening as John descended the stairs. He crawled over to the window, peeking from behind the curtain and watching him leave, counting himself an idiot once again for wishing he had stayed despite their row. He watched the place where John disappeared around the corner for longer than he cared to admit, finally dragging himself up from the windowsill to continue his work.
He finished that particular box after another few hours, glancing hurriedly around the flat for something else that could pull his interest. His eyes invariably fell to the sofa, where all this started. He moved over to the couch, running his fingers briefly over the pillow they'd both lied on, frowning at it as though it was somehow to blame for this. He huffed an irritated sigh at himself, stalking upstairs to have a shower and try to wash all these disconcerting emotions off of him.
He returned to the sitting room shortly after, picking up a book and purposefully moving to his chair rather than the sofa, not wishing to get any more accursed feelings on him. The book kept his interest for a while, at least until he heard the telltale sounds of John's return home, his fingers tightening on the book as though to brace for impact if he was still in a mood.
He doesn't react when John announces his presence, not feeling the need to respond to something so obvious. His narrowed eyes flicked up for barely a moment when John asked that question, distinctly surprised that he was even still going along with it.
"Doesn't matter." he answered, turning his attention back to the book. "We don't have to do it at all if you'd rather not. I find my interest in the subject waning." he added, trying to keep aloof as much as he wanted to go through with the experiment. John couldn't know just how invested he was in it, that would invite nothing but disaster.
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"Look, Sherlock," he began, emerging from the kitchen, lingering, yet again, in the doorway. He briefly eyed the other, took in his fixedly staring at the book, the way he was holding it, the set of his shoulders. He looked... hurt, almost. John's feelings of guilt tripled. "About this morning... I overreacted. I did, I... shouldn't have said the things I did. It's an interesting experiment, and I'd like to help you with it, if I can. God knows your sleeping patterns are abysmal, I've told you on various occasions myself."
Stepping into the living room, he said down in his own arm chair, opposite Sherlock's, and leaned forward, trying to get the other man's attention. "And bollocks, your interest isn't waning. You're cross with me. As you should be, I behaved like a prick, and I shouldn't have. I'm sorry. You can sleep in my bed tonight, or I'll sleep in yours, and we can try it out for as long as you need to derive something useful from it. Alright?"
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He kept silent and still as John spoke, the tensity in his shoulders ebbing just slightly at the apology. He finally glanced over his book when John sat in front of him, his accusation startlingly accurate. He often forgot that John knew him better than anyone ever had, probably because he was so used to being cast off by everyone else in his life.
"Yes, alright." he replied softly, setting his book in his lap and tapping his fingers on it idly. "Where would you rather start? This is about your comfort as well as mine, as you seemed to sleep better last night as well." he mused, pausing contemplatively for a long moment. "If we find it to be consistently mutually beneficial, we can discuss what to do with the data when we get to that point." he added, trying to keep from getting his hopes up that maybe this could become a permanent arrangement for them.
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"We can start in your bed," he suggested, sitting back in the chair and regarding the other man with a thoughtfulness of his own. "It'll be interesting to see if that, too, affects my... restlessness, as you called it this morning, before I usually fall asleep. Or if the couch incident was just that; an incident."
He did not believe it was; falling asleep with Sherlock in his arms had been the most peaceful sequence of moments John had had since his return from the war. But then, both their beds provided more space than the couch did. John did not think they would be lying so close to one another this night. Or...?
"What kind of parameters do you have in mind? I know you have at least a dozen." He smiled a little. "Do you prefer a certain side of the bed? Either is fine with me."
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He nodded his assent to starting in his bed, pressing his fingers together under his chin and regarding John in thoughtful interest. "I don't believe it was a fluke. You've had trouble sleeping every night except last night, that's no coincidence." he stated, tapping his fingertips together in contemplation of John's question.
"Of course," he answered "I sleep on the left. I think we should recreate the first night as much as possible. The proximity aided our sleep patterns most definitely. Warmth and a steady heartbeat are both things that encourage easy and restful sleep." he mused, oddly finding himself looking forward to pressing up against John and falling asleep to his heartbeat again. "Is there anything you want to address before we start?"
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He blinked slowly when Sherlock did not so much raise the question of proximity, but went ahead and decided they would sleep close to one another again. He thought of saying something, but decided against it. The last thing he wanted was a repeat of that morning. No, he would go along with this as much as he could. This seemed to matter a great deal to Sherlock, for some reason, and for that, it would mean a great deal to John, as well.
"Nothing I can think of, no." He got up from his chair, keeping his eyes on Sherlock for another moment. "I guess I'll... go and get ready, then. See you in there?"
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He settled in on his side of the bed after that, climbing under the covers and sitting up against the headboard, resting his notes on his knees as he scribbled away his findings and parameters for this study while he waited for John.
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Once he was done changing, brushing his teeth and washing his face, he made his way over to Sherlock's bedroom, padding into the room on bare feet. He stood by 'his side' of the bed for a moment, not so much hesitating as simply taking in the situation. Sherlock seemed busy scribbling down his notes. There was no tension in the air, nothing strange or unusual... The sheer normalcy of the situation got to John more than anything. This didn't feel like an experiment; this felt like the end of the day, the end of every day, and he and Sherlock had just retired for the evening. Nothing strange about that.
Exhaling slowly, John pulled the covers back and slipped under them. Resting his hands on top of the covers, he linked them together and stared fixedly at the ceiling.
"Alright," he said, slowly. "... Now what?"
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"Now, sleep. Obviously." he murmured, letting his eyes fall shut as John's heartbeat succeeded in lulling him into a state of contentment enough to attempt to sleep.
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He wondered if Sherlock could smell the cologne he had dabbed onto his own neck once he finished brushing his teeth. He had only spoken of it in his sleep, so perhaps it meant nothing... Even so, John had been unable to resist putting some of it on.
"Right. Obviously." He cleared his throat again before he shifted, wrapping both his arms around the other man. "Goodnight, Sherlock." His voice was soft, gentle, perhaps even a little... forlorn. Even being this close to the other man, his arms around him, John somehow still felt like there was a gap between them. Then he remembered how he had run his fingers through Sherlock's hair, petting him for long minutes, the act simple and sweet and intimate. Breathing out, John moved to do just that, his other hand resting on Sherlock's arm.
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"Good night, John." he muttered against the skin of his neck, sighing gently when John's fingers found his hair. He nuzzled John's neck tiredly, his fingers gripping gently at John's shirt as though to keep him in place. His features smoothed out and a half-smile tugged at his lips, still squirming a little against him as though trying to get even closer even though it wasn't physically possible, leaning into the hands in his hair happily.
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Yet lying next to Sherlock was different, somehow. And the other man wasn't even lying next to him, he was practically crawling on top of him, pressed against his side, long limbs draped over his body, keeping him in place... And it felt good. It felt right. It felt safe. He would never hurt Sherlock, not even unconsciously. Of this he was convinced.
"Stop moving about so much," John murmured sleepily, tightening his arms around the other man.
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He made a soft sound of assent when John asked him to stop moving, though he almost wanted to continue just to feel the way John's arms would tighten around him like that. "Just settling in." he murmured, stilling as directed apart from his hand that idly stroked his side over his shirt. He could definitely get used to this. He only hoped he could somehow convince John to drag out this experiment indefinitely.
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Blood. So much blood and torn off flesh and raw bone.
He was trying his damnest to revive a fellow soldier, young, far too young, blood all over his hands but as much as he tried the soldier just lay there in the sand, his eyes wide open. Bill, John thinks his name was. Bill McKenzie. He had a fiancée waiting for him back in East Sussex.
John grabbed the dead soldier's rifle and let out a guttural cry as he fired around himself without mercy.
Once his bullets ran out, his mind became clear and he saw the damage done. The person he truly is. The danger he is. Friend and foe both, lying on the ground. And while this never truly happened, he had thought, felt himself close to snapping and doing something unspeakable, and seeing it now, in his dream, it seemed far too real.
He woke up screaming and shivering, sweat dripping down his bare back, distressed and panic-stricken. It took him far too long to realize he was not alone in the bed, and even longer to remember it was Sherlock who was with him.
"Sorry," he rasped automatically. "I'm fine, I'm fine, just a bad dream, I'll just go-- have a glass of water," as he made to get out of the bed, not wanting to be confronted with had just occurred.
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He shook his head and tugged John back down with him, not accepting John's plan to get up. "It's alright." he whispered into his ear, his fingers moving to stroke through John's hair in the calming gesture that worked so well on himself. "Just go back to sleep. It's fine." he murmured, pressing in close again as he continued petting John's hair. This was why they were doing this, after all, so that they could work through their respective sleep issues and try to move past them. He wouldn't ask about his dream, knowing that John wouldn't want to talk about it, and he was no good at that sort of thing anyway. What he could do was press in against him and try to soothe him back to sleep with gentle fingers carding through his hair.
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John was still trembling a little with the aftershocks of fear and self-hatred the nightmare had instilled in him, his heart racing so badly it hurt. He felt icy cold and far too warm at the same time. It was not alright. It was not fine. He hid his face in his hands, drawing in deep, shivering breaths. "I killed everyone," he whispered, voice hoarse, not sure why he said it out loud, not really wanting to talk about what he'd woken up from.
Sherlock's voice was soft in his ear, the sound of it and the feel of his warm breath against his neck strangely soothing. He flinched when he first felt his fingers petting his hair, not expecting the touch, and certainly not from this man.
"Sherlock..."
He could hear the frown in his own voice, could hear the confusion and uncertainty and careful trust there. He still felt horribly shaken, but for once, he was not alone in the dark. He wouldn't have to deal with this on his own. He just had to... keep breathing, and remind himself that he was alive, in London, with purpose in his life, and an extraordinarily eccentric friend who actually trusted him. And John trusted him back, implicitly. He could feel his heart rate beginning to slow as he worked his way through these thoughts and realizations.
"I'm sorry I woke you," he murmured quietly, realizing the entire point of this experiment was to improve Sherlock's sleeping pattern... and his own. He gently wrapped his fingers around the other's wrist in apology, and kept them there.
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