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.
"It is." he insisted, not willing to let John lose himself in his own head. He squeezed in close when he felt John trembling, frowning when he saw him hide his face in his hands. He sat up, grabbing for John's hands and staring him in the face.
"No, you didn't. You're here. It's okay." he assured him, relaxing when John finally said his name, feeling that he'd finally realized that none of his dream was real. He settled against him again, petting his hair to bring John back to this moment rather than getting stuck back in memories of war.
"There's nothing to be sorry for." He stilled in his place wrapped around John again, half smiling to himself when John's hand wrapped around his wrist. "Try to sleep." he murmured, curling his body around John's tightly.
It took a few more minutes, but sleep was beginning to pull at John's senses again. And with Sherlock curled so tightly around him, there really was nowhere else for John to go. Rather than feeling suffocated by Sherlock's presence and close proximity, he felt... safer, somehow. Distantly, he remembered reading an article on deep pressure for sensory relief when he was a student, and he thought he finally understood why it might be so effective for some people. It was near impossible to lose it again with Sherlock holding him the way he did. And then, of course, there was the hair-petting, which added another level of comfort and ease to the moment.
"You're a good friend," John murmured sleepily, closing his eyes as he felt himself sinking away into deep sleep, "Don't think I deserve someone so brilliant as you in my life..."
Sherlock felt rather proud of himself in this moment, having higher hopes for this experiment being successful by the second. It felt like he belonged here, tangled up in John, like they should have engaged in this experiment a long time ago. Beyond the results of the experiment, even, this seemed like just where they were meant to end up, helping each other through every waking moment and even into dreams.
His eyes flicked open at John's words, marveling inwardly at the fact that he'd never heard that particular combination of words before. His brow furrowed just slightly at his sentiment, certain that John had it backwards. It was entirely too often that he thought that he was the one who didn't deserve John, always bracing himself for the day that he would say the wrong thing, push him too hard somehow and that John would leave him. He had thought he'd managed it earlier that day, in fact. He let his fingers drop from John's hair to trail down his neck, enjoying these moments quite a lot, especially knowing that he was the one who calmed John enough to sleep again. He closed his eyes, but stayed awake, wanting to enjoy the feeling of being pressed against John just a bit longer while he was conscious and see if John would say anything else.
"Someone as brilliant as you deserves someone better," John continued in that soft murmur, half-asleep already and only distantly aware of what he was saying. He felt so warm, so comfortable, so utterly taken care of, and all by the virtue of Sherlock holding him. Then again, he couldn't remember the last time he'd allowed someone to hold him like this, and actually relaxed into it...
He fell asleep a few moments later, and the rest of the night was a relatively quiet one for John Watson. Once or twice, he stirred restlessly in sleep, but calmed almost immediately after due to the presence of something, something which made him sigh softly in sleep and shift closer to said presence. There was safety there, and acceptance, and something warm John could only identify as love.
Over the course of the night, John had shifted sufficiently and stubbornly so that his back was now resting against Sherlock's chest, the taller man spooning him, his arm and leg still draped over John's smaller form. He woke slowly, reluctantly, blinking a few times as he tried to remember where he was. The room was unfamiliar, yet not. Once it dawned on him where he was, he debated only for a moment on what he should do. He shifted back into the other man, wanting more warmth, more contact, and grabbed Sherlock's hand, pulling it to his chest and keeping it there as he curled up in the other's embrace. God, but he had missed this. It had been years upon years since he'd woken up in someone else's arms, with the desire to actually be there, and stay there. This was good. This was very good.
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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"No, you didn't. You're here. It's okay." he assured him, relaxing when John finally said his name, feeling that he'd finally realized that none of his dream was real. He settled against him again, petting his hair to bring John back to this moment rather than getting stuck back in memories of war.
"There's nothing to be sorry for." He stilled in his place wrapped around John again, half smiling to himself when John's hand wrapped around his wrist. "Try to sleep." he murmured, curling his body around John's tightly.
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"You're a good friend," John murmured sleepily, closing his eyes as he felt himself sinking away into deep sleep, "Don't think I deserve someone so brilliant as you in my life..."
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His eyes flicked open at John's words, marveling inwardly at the fact that he'd never heard that particular combination of words before. His brow furrowed just slightly at his sentiment, certain that John had it backwards. It was entirely too often that he thought that he was the one who didn't deserve John, always bracing himself for the day that he would say the wrong thing, push him too hard somehow and that John would leave him. He had thought he'd managed it earlier that day, in fact. He let his fingers drop from John's hair to trail down his neck, enjoying these moments quite a lot, especially knowing that he was the one who calmed John enough to sleep again. He closed his eyes, but stayed awake, wanting to enjoy the feeling of being pressed against John just a bit longer while he was conscious and see if John would say anything else.
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He fell asleep a few moments later, and the rest of the night was a relatively quiet one for John Watson. Once or twice, he stirred restlessly in sleep, but calmed almost immediately after due to the presence of something, something which made him sigh softly in sleep and shift closer to said presence. There was safety there, and acceptance, and something warm John could only identify as love.
Over the course of the night, John had shifted sufficiently and stubbornly so that his back was now resting against Sherlock's chest, the taller man spooning him, his arm and leg still draped over John's smaller form. He woke slowly, reluctantly, blinking a few times as he tried to remember where he was. The room was unfamiliar, yet not. Once it dawned on him where he was, he debated only for a moment on what he should do. He shifted back into the other man, wanting more warmth, more contact, and grabbed Sherlock's hand, pulling it to his chest and keeping it there as he curled up in the other's embrace. God, but he had missed this. It had been years upon years since he'd woken up in someone else's arms, with the desire to actually be there, and stay there. This was good. This was very good.
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