The more he thought about his words, the more he began to second guess himself. Perhaps Jim wanted Sherlock out of action and off the cases for a reason. Knowing that John would not allow him to work in this state, it was all too tempting. Well, John could imagine it was, if he knew Jim at all ... which he probably didn't. He let his head droop, chin almost resting against his chest as he let out a long, exasperated sigh.
He blinked a few times and sat up a tad straighter when Sherlock gave him that reply. It sounded very much like a teenager wanting to just make their father shut up and go away, particularly the careless shrug. That didn't seem to do well for the Doctor's foul mood.
That calculating look Sherlock was giving him was something he hadn't seen in a while. Sherlock knew how much John hated it when he could tell what he was thinking. Now, it only seemed like a troublesome trick to answer questions to which he already knows the answer.
He had nothing more to say. And that attitude Sherlock was giving him was sending up all sorts of Fight or Flight responses. For now, John was probably better off not there. He needed a stiff drink, otherwise his tense, bowstring taut body might just snap in half. How could Jim do this? He knew of John's complete dislike for recreational self-medication and poked at it until it was a festering wound in John's side. Of course, he had to drag Sherlock along for the ride. John's hands rose up to his face and covered it completely, leaning forward with elbows braced on his knees, John's nails scraped his scalp and he just hid.
He killed a man. He shot him in the head. Because he was protecting Sherlock. It was only the fourth time John had ever had to fire a gun in his life. He'd seen gunshot victims countless times, their faces blown away and unrecognizable as a human. But this time, John was the one to cause that harm. He felt the blood that was not there running down his arms from his hands, turning his body cold and numb.
Sherlock watched John's obvious exasperation with no change in his own demeanor. He really wasn't sure what he'd said to warrant that reaction, and he couldn't help but wonder if it would push him into saying something. He could tell that he was getting to him, not that John was making that hard to deduce with how obvious he was being about it. Was he going to leave? He wouldn't stop him if he tried, but the thought of being left alone with that vial was enough to put him ill at ease. He didn't want to admit to himself that the temptation would be too much for him without John around to keep an eye on him. He was stubborn, and he wouldn't yield his stoicism even in the face of a relapse into addiction. He already felt the beginnings of the yearning, almost hoping that John would get fed up and take off to leave him to it.
"I said I'm fine if you have somewhere you need to be." he said casually, trying to read the emotion prevalent in his actions even though he couldn't see his face. He was upset, maybe from Sherlock's cavalier attitude, or maybe from the dawning realization that he'd killed someone, again, for Sherlock. He took a thoughtful sip of his tea, waiting for the moment when John would decide to either go on a tirade or storm out. He didn't want him to go, but he could never say that. John had done enough for him already.
John dragged his hands away from his face and eyed the opposite wall, really not wanting to focus on anything at the moment. Then, Sherlock had to open his gob again. John huffed loudly and stood up, a few steps away from the couch he froze. He was about to storm out of there and suddenly spun around on his heel and nervously ran a hand through his hair again.
"Sherlock, do you have more?" There, he said it. When he didn't think his intentions came out clearly, John repeated himself, "Did Moriarty give you any more heroin? Or any other drug? Are you hiding something from me?" That last bit wasn't necessary, but it slipped out past his mind filter.
Sherlock takes a long sip of tea, flicking his eyes over to John when he heard him stand with an exasperated sigh. He waits for the inevitable proclamation 'I need some air!' before John storms down the stairs, though it doesn't come. He tilts his head to meet John's gaze, not quite expecting that line of questioning, nor the pang of guilt he felt at his last sentence. This had certainly come out of nowhere, as Sherlock couldn't recall giving John any reason to suspect him. He hadn't lied to him yet, technically, but the mere fact that John already seemed to accept it as an inevitability that Sherlock would lie to him was off-putting. Not entirely inaccurate, but still. Most people would get the compulsion to be offended at the very idea that they would lie. But then, Sherlock wasn't most people. He took it in another direction, using the rationalization that John already thought he was hiding something, so he would think he was lying no matter what he said. The distrust was already there, out in the open, and it had done it's damage.
He stiffened and held John's gaze, giving him a firm "No." in response. He stared unblinkingly at John, wondering if he would take him at his word or dispute him and search his things. He knew that John wouldn't appreciate being part of Sherlock's psychological experiment, but this was extremely important to him. Either John didn't trust him at all, or he did completely and unquestioningly. He couldn't quite decide which would be worse, because either Sherlock would never completely have his trust, or he had just effectively broken it with his answer. It would equally devastate him either way, and he really wasn't sure what he was hoping for. He had to know, though. He just had to.
That wasn't the answer, nor the look John was expecting. No? The man furrowed his brow deeply and set his hands hard on his hips. Perhaps it was the way he said that last bit, he'd sent Sherlock on the defensive. That wasn't the right trail he wanted to go down. He had more, he was certain of it now from that reaction. The unblinking stare, the experiment was on. Yes, Sherlock had a certain air about him, even drugged he could see it.
He hadn't lived with this man, admired every aspect of him from afar to miss these little bits, to not learn a thing about him. When he had something to hide, his mannerisms changed just enough for John to notice. He didn't like this change, this mistrust that was floating in the air between them. But he wasn't about to be his mother, either. If he had it, now that John spoke of it, he would bring it to him if he wished to do so. It had to be on Sherlock's end to do it, because John was not going to pry that much.
He truly didn't want to become the mother hen, another Mycroft to him. Sherlock would toss him on his arse if he did that. And that was the last thing John would want right now. Sherlock needed him, but this was their first time dealing face to face with an old addiction together. John would help, but Sherlock had to be willing.
Sherlock's lip twitched slightly in displeasure. John didn't trust him. Well, he had lied to him, but it seemed like John wouldn't have believed him regardless. Or maybe John was able to recognize the subtle changes in Sherlock that happened whenever he lied. It was too little for the average idiot to notice, but John spent too much time and energy trying to figure Sherlock out to not realize when he was lying.
"You don't believe me." he stated simply, without sparing John a glance. Instead, he stared contemplatively into his tea. Maybe the mistrust wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Indeed, maybe it was exactly what was required. Sherlock had given him reason to be suspicious, certainly, and maybe with someone around he couldn't lie to, he would get through this newfound addiction in tact. There needed to be a certain amount of suspicion with anything an addict said, and Sherlock especially. He knew that when the cravings got bad enough, he would do pretty much anything to get another fix. John wouldn't let any lie slip past him, even lies used as a test. This could work, he decided.
He set down his tea and walked purposefully to the coathook, glancing quickly at John on the way. He reached into his pocket and retrieved the vial, closing his fist around it before closing the distance between John and himself, leaving barely a foot separating them. He gave John a long stare before slowly holding up the fist with the vial inside to proffer it to him with one condition.
"You can't leave." he said without inflection. This wasn't him begging him to stay, this was a statement of fact. Either he needed the drugs or he needed John 24/7 until his system was clear to prevent him from getting any chance to relapse into drug-seeking behavior. He knew that that had been the only way he got through this the first time was having Mycroft, someone who cared about him enough to make absolute certain that he couldn't get another dose, including keeping up a certain degree of skepticism at what he would say. People lied, drug addicts doubly so, and Sherlock when addicted exponentially more. He would have time to gain back John's trust after this ordeal was through, and his coming clean about the vial in his hand was the first step.
Oh Lord, I never planned to leave ... John thought with a small twist in his chest. The proximity didn't bother him in the least, for some reason or another. It didn't matter, because Sherlock was there, right there, right in front of him, breathing on him. He wasn't laying curled up in a sweaty ball on the floor of the water closet. John blinked that image from his past away, his eyes glossed over for a moment before they were brought to his fist. When he focused on the familiar syringe fitted top of the bottle, John's chest caved in a touch.
He quickly snatched the vial from him and nearly crushed it in his palm right there. He wanted to throw it, step on it, destroy every last bit of the thing. That one little tiny thing, just a small bottle of injectable clear liquid. John held it down against his side and looked Sherlock in the eyes. There was anger, but now he had something tangeable to be angry with.
All at once, John spun away from Sherlock and heaved the tiny little thing at the bullet hole riddled wall. The object exploded in tiny shards of glass and a small splatter of heroin across the cheek of the unfortunate smiley face he'd hit. He hadn't thrown an object like that in a while and managed to twinge his shoulder in the process. He made no outward motion of pain, but John was done. His anger subsided and he could take a big breath now.
Moriarty had planted that in Sherlock's coat when he'd fallen unconscious. He knew Sherlock well enough that he'd have to chose between the two. The bloke was really pushing all of the right buttons for John. He shifted his shoulders a bit and realized he was standing completely stock still, frozen in place as he watched the heroin drip down the wall.
Sherlock gave John a leveled gaze, unperturbed as he allowed the vial to be taken from him. There was a moment where he wanted to take it back, wrest the vial from him and lock himself in his room to take the next dose. He really didn't want to admit it to himself, but the looming threat of withdrawal had him terrified. He didn't make the move, and indeed didn't have the chance before John was heaving it against the wall and he felt the tensity leave his shoulders that he hadn't realized was there. The yearning had been like a physical weight that was lifted now that the temptation was alleviated.
He didn't watch where the vial hit the wall, instead watching John with all his pent-up rage and unsaid concerns finally get an outlet for his anger that wasn't Sherlock (which he more than appreciated). He kept his eyes on him, watching John intently as John observed what he'd just done. He nods once, a slight smirk twitching at his lips at the realization that John and Sherlock's feelings for John were stronger than his addiction could ever hope to be, or else he would have never given up that vial. "Well. I suppose that's that." he said casually, moving back to the couch to settle in with his tea again.
Automatically answering that generic observation, John gave a curt not and a 'yeah' in response, still watching the shards of glass still stuck to the wall, the paint of the smiley face was beginning to run a touch.
John gave a hard sigh and spun around to look at Sherlock retreating back to his couch. Sherlock wasn't off the hook just yet. He had lied to him, but made up for it by producing the vial and giving it up straight off. But right now, John was sure he was running on so little sleep that he was sure if he took to his bed right now, he would pass out the second his head hit the pillow. But a nap was all he could afford. It may be bedtime to John's body, but Sherlock wasn't exactly going to be left alone all night.
"I've got to go lay down ... " John was about to say 'come with me' but the words caught in his throat. "Will you be okay for a couple hours?" he said instead, instilling a touch of trust back into Sherlock that he didn't have ANOTHER vial hiding somewhere. He pulled out his phone and set the alarm to wake him in two hours while he waited for Sherlock to answer.
Sherlock took a long drink of tea, eying John over the cup as he did so. John was exhausted, both physically and emotionally, it seemed, so it was hardly a surprise when he said he needed to get some rest. At the question, Sherlock mulled it over for a moment. He honestly had no idea. He'd done some desperate and crazy things to get his fix the last time, and he didn't want to go through that again. He could tell by the clamminess of his hands around the by now lukewarm tea that the chills and desperation of detoxing wasn't far off, and would likely get bad enough for Sherlock to do something crazy before John woke up. He doesn't answer, instead setting his tea down and standing to consider John.
"You're a light sleeper." he said in a sudden non-sequitur, an idea forming for how to get John to keep an eye on him even while sleeping. "It's likely annoying when you have a partner, being as you would wake every time the other party would move to get up." he continued by way of an explanation, hoping John would catch his meaning. He didn't trust himself that he wouldn't try to leave and get another fix when the withdrawal got too bad, and this was the perfect solution to have John keep tabs on him so that wouldn't happen. He left the room without further preamble, moving to his bedroom to change into an old t-shirt and pajama pants. He moved back to meet John in the sitting room, jerking his head in the direction of John's room in a gesture to say 'hurry up before I change my mind'. "I could lay on top of the covers if that's less invasive, though it would probably be better to make sure you wake if I didn't. Honestly, the best way would probably be if we were touching somehow, as I would be forced to actually move you in order to get up." he mused, more to himself than anything as he set off in the direction of John's room. Social protocol of 'sleeping in your flatmate's bed with them is strange' didn't bother him at all. It was a just a solution to a problem; it didn't mean anything. He was sure John would be the first one to remind him that it didn't mean anything.
The out of the blue question threw John for a loop, wondering how Sherlock figured that out about him. John blinked a few times as he started this random chain of thoughts before it started to dawn on him what he was saying. His brain wasn't quite up to the task of saying anything to stop it.
That was when he realized Sherlock had disappeared and come out of his bedroom in his pajamas. As Sherlock returned right where he left off, John was standing in the same place, staring at the back of Sherlock's curly head for a moment.
Sherlock didn't stop at the steps, and John started for them at a quicker pace to catch up. His lips were trying to form a protest, that this wasn't a good idea, when Sherlock made it to the door of his room and turned to face John, waiting for him to open it and let them both in. "I'm not -- this isn't -- " John began, and Sherlock's lips curled into that knowing smirk. The doctor just gave him a frown, feeling the beginnings of something not all that good.
Flatmate's didn't share beds, even if that was Mrs. Hudson's first reaction. Even if Angelo just assumed a candle was necessary at their dinner table, John was not, nor would he ever be Sherlock's date. At least that is what he kept trying to convince himself, and others around him of that. He wasn't anything special, just a stupid, ordinary man. Sherlock would get bored. He should be bored by now. Perhaps he was just humoring him.
With the grogginess taking full effect, John couldn't give any more signs of protest and just opened his bedroom door and walked in, letting Sherlock follow after him.
Sherlock caught the bemused look on John's face as he rattled off his plan, the way he was ten steps ahead of him never failing to give him a smug sense of satisfaction. He could almost hear John's brain working as it strained to comprehend what he was trying to say. He stood to the side of the door and watched him expectantly, wondering if he was going to protest this at all. He raised his eyebrows as he spoke in a 'yes, go on' expression, finally dissolving into a smirk when he couldn't quite articulate an answer.
"Problem?" he asked coolly in his trademark insufferably self-satisfied way. He grinned when John gave in and opened the door, following him in slowly as he took in the only room in the house that didn't have him all over it. Until now, he supposed. It was oddly exciting to him, finally being allowed into the uncharted territory of John's room. It was simply furnished and completely organized, a far cry from Sherlock's room with experiments on every shelf and stacks of newspapers and books littering the floor. Though, that was what made it was nice, and what made it so very John. His bed looked comfortable, too, and Sherlock really wanted to settle in and maybe even get some rest himself. He couldn't help but wonder if maybe he wouldn't need three blankets on his bed if he had someone to share it with. He walked over to one side of the bed and tilted his head at it before quickly moving to the other side, easily able to tell which side John preferred. He pulled back the covers and got comfortable, blinking owlishly up at John before pulling back the other side of the blanket. "Come on, then. You need to sleep." he urged, absolutely unperturbed by the fact that he was getting cozy in his flatmate's bed and asking said flatmate to join him.
It was the drugs. It was the drugs, and your exhaustion John. The Doctor barely moved past the threshold as he watched Sherlock peer around his room. He suddenly felt a little wary at the way those deductive eyes were passing over his few things. It was as if he was letting Sherlock see him naked, and that didn't really make him feel any better right now.
He swallowed thickly and moved over to his closet to get ready for his nap. This meant just removing his sweater and jeans, rather quickly given the other man in the room was staring at him expectantly from his bed -- he knew he was staring, he could feel it. John very quickly threw on his pj bottoms and switched out his t-shirt for a fresher one. The whole ordeal at the abandoned office building had him feeling less than fresh, understandably so. He disappeared for a moment to the loo, feeling a little self conscious about it before returning quickly to his room a little cleaner and slid into bed.
Tucking the blanket a little modestly between them, John's bed was barely big enough for both of them. It would be next to impossible for Sherlock's lanky limbs to not hang off of it or touch John in some way. He might not get any rest if that was the case, he feared.
Sherlock watched in idle interest as John got dressed, his curiosity piqued a bit when he saw the scar on his shoulder when he removed hi shirt. He had always wanted to see it since he found out it was there, and the little glimpse he got of it wasn't enough. He almost wanted to ask him to leave his shirt off so he could get a proper look at it, but refrained, thinking that would fall under the 'not good' category.
He wriggled with an expectant smile when John got into bed, though he was somewhat disappointed that the blanket was going to separate them. He wasn't sure where that had come from, though he chalked it up to the fact that he couldn't have his experiment of how much heat was added when another body was present in the same bed. That had to be it. He couldn't help but shiver at the cold blankets over him that hadn't been warmed enough by his body yet. He actually hadn't meant to do that, but it may be advantageous if John took pity on him and let him press against him to steal his body heat and actually get to see how much warmer it would get like that.
He curled up on his side, nuzzling into the pillow as he kept his eyes on John. He was getting too comfortable here, despite knowing that this was very much a one-time thing. Still, he wasn't looking forward to going back to his own bed after this was over. He pulled the blanket up to his chin and waited for the tell-tale signs that John was asleep.
It seemed to take a good deal longer to fall asleep than he thought. When John was this exhausted, sleep should come easily. But the eyes at the back of his head seemed to keep him from really drifting off. Eventually, John turns over and looks at Sherlock, the detective just expectantly staring at him. It was more than a little unnerving to see that rather than just think he felt eyes on him.
"What, d'you ... need another blanket?" John shifted a tiny bit more. Sherlock shifted as well, closer even and started to unravel the blanket between them. John gave up on modesty then and noticed the slight shivers. Trying to blink a bit of the sleep from his eyes, he shifted to face him and press the back of his hand to Sherlock's forehead. He was cold to the touch. John finally took pity.
Flinging his blanket up, he invited Sherlock closer to share his warmth. But this was temporary. Very, very temporary. Extremely. One time only.
Sherlock just waited and watched John's back, wondering idly just how long it would take him to drift off. He blinks in vague surprise when he turns to face him, unsure of what was keeping him from his sleep, considering how tired he seemed when he mentioned the need for a nap. He shrugs when asked if he needed a blanket, subtly edging closer when John moved a bit. There's a soft exhale when John touches his forehead, not realizing how cold he was nor how warm John was until that moment. He shivered once again when a chill hit him, somewhat worried by the fact that he didn't have to wonder how much worse the chills would get, considering he'd been through this once already.
He was equal parts pleased and uneasy when John relented and allowed him closer, pausing for a moment as he examined how best to approach this. He very slowly moved over to him, cautiously resting his head on his shoulder and placing a hand gently on his chest as though afraid to be pushed away at any moment. He relaxed instantly against him when he found the perfect spot where he seemed to fit surprisingly well. He sighed complacently and pressed himself flush against his side, actually closing his eyes at how much warmer and more comfortable he was already. Maybe he'd actually get more sleep if he had this to look forward to every night. He tried not to dwell on the fact that this would never be happening again, concentrating on enjoying the moment and counting John's breath and heartbeats to lull him into a state of contentment. He told himself that he would just buy a heating blanket to mimic the effect, but blankets didn't breath, have heartbeats and -the most glaring flaw in his eyes- weren't John Watson.
He blinked a few times and sat up a tad straighter when Sherlock gave him that reply. It sounded very much like a teenager wanting to just make their father shut up and go away, particularly the careless shrug. That didn't seem to do well for the Doctor's foul mood.
That calculating look Sherlock was giving him was something he hadn't seen in a while. Sherlock knew how much John hated it when he could tell what he was thinking. Now, it only seemed like a troublesome trick to answer questions to which he already knows the answer.
He had nothing more to say. And that attitude Sherlock was giving him was sending up all sorts of Fight or Flight responses. For now, John was probably better off not there. He needed a stiff drink, otherwise his tense, bowstring taut body might just snap in half. How could Jim do this? He knew of John's complete dislike for recreational self-medication and poked at it until it was a festering wound in John's side. Of course, he had to drag Sherlock along for the ride. John's hands rose up to his face and covered it completely, leaning forward with elbows braced on his knees, John's nails scraped his scalp and he just hid.
He killed a man. He shot him in the head. Because he was protecting Sherlock. It was only the fourth time John had ever had to fire a gun in his life. He'd seen gunshot victims countless times, their faces blown away and unrecognizable as a human. But this time, John was the one to cause that harm. He felt the blood that was not there running down his arms from his hands, turning his body cold and numb.
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"I said I'm fine if you have somewhere you need to be." he said casually, trying to read the emotion prevalent in his actions even though he couldn't see his face. He was upset, maybe from Sherlock's cavalier attitude, or maybe from the dawning realization that he'd killed someone, again, for Sherlock. He took a thoughtful sip of his tea, waiting for the moment when John would decide to either go on a tirade or storm out. He didn't want him to go, but he could never say that. John had done enough for him already.
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"Sherlock, do you have more?" There, he said it. When he didn't think his intentions came out clearly, John repeated himself, "Did Moriarty give you any more heroin? Or any other drug? Are you hiding something from me?" That last bit wasn't necessary, but it slipped out past his mind filter.
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He stiffened and held John's gaze, giving him a firm "No." in response. He stared unblinkingly at John, wondering if he would take him at his word or dispute him and search his things. He knew that John wouldn't appreciate being part of Sherlock's psychological experiment, but this was extremely important to him. Either John didn't trust him at all, or he did completely and unquestioningly. He couldn't quite decide which would be worse, because either Sherlock would never completely have his trust, or he had just effectively broken it with his answer. It would equally devastate him either way, and he really wasn't sure what he was hoping for. He had to know, though. He just had to.
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He hadn't lived with this man, admired every aspect of him from afar to miss these little bits, to not learn a thing about him. When he had something to hide, his mannerisms changed just enough for John to notice. He didn't like this change, this mistrust that was floating in the air between them. But he wasn't about to be his mother, either. If he had it, now that John spoke of it, he would bring it to him if he wished to do so. It had to be on Sherlock's end to do it, because John was not going to pry that much.
He truly didn't want to become the mother hen, another Mycroft to him. Sherlock would toss him on his arse if he did that. And that was the last thing John would want right now. Sherlock needed him, but this was their first time dealing face to face with an old addiction together. John would help, but Sherlock had to be willing.
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"You don't believe me." he stated simply, without sparing John a glance. Instead, he stared contemplatively into his tea. Maybe the mistrust wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Indeed, maybe it was exactly what was required. Sherlock had given him reason to be suspicious, certainly, and maybe with someone around he couldn't lie to, he would get through this newfound addiction in tact. There needed to be a certain amount of suspicion with anything an addict said, and Sherlock especially. He knew that when the cravings got bad enough, he would do pretty much anything to get another fix. John wouldn't let any lie slip past him, even lies used as a test. This could work, he decided.
He set down his tea and walked purposefully to the coathook, glancing quickly at John on the way. He reached into his pocket and retrieved the vial, closing his fist around it before closing the distance between John and himself, leaving barely a foot separating them. He gave John a long stare before slowly holding up the fist with the vial inside to proffer it to him with one condition.
"You can't leave." he said without inflection. This wasn't him begging him to stay, this was a statement of fact. Either he needed the drugs or he needed John 24/7 until his system was clear to prevent him from getting any chance to relapse into drug-seeking behavior. He knew that that had been the only way he got through this the first time was having Mycroft, someone who cared about him enough to make absolute certain that he couldn't get another dose, including keeping up a certain degree of skepticism at what he would say. People lied, drug addicts doubly so, and Sherlock when addicted exponentially more. He would have time to gain back John's trust after this ordeal was through, and his coming clean about the vial in his hand was the first step.
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He quickly snatched the vial from him and nearly crushed it in his palm right there. He wanted to throw it, step on it, destroy every last bit of the thing. That one little tiny thing, just a small bottle of injectable clear liquid. John held it down against his side and looked Sherlock in the eyes. There was anger, but now he had something tangeable to be angry with.
All at once, John spun away from Sherlock and heaved the tiny little thing at the bullet hole riddled wall. The object exploded in tiny shards of glass and a small splatter of heroin across the cheek of the unfortunate smiley face he'd hit. He hadn't thrown an object like that in a while and managed to twinge his shoulder in the process. He made no outward motion of pain, but John was done. His anger subsided and he could take a big breath now.
Moriarty had planted that in Sherlock's coat when he'd fallen unconscious. He knew Sherlock well enough that he'd have to chose between the two. The bloke was really pushing all of the right buttons for John. He shifted his shoulders a bit and realized he was standing completely stock still, frozen in place as he watched the heroin drip down the wall.
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He didn't watch where the vial hit the wall, instead watching John with all his pent-up rage and unsaid concerns finally get an outlet for his anger that wasn't Sherlock (which he more than appreciated). He kept his eyes on him, watching John intently as John observed what he'd just done. He nods once, a slight smirk twitching at his lips at the realization that John and Sherlock's feelings for John were stronger than his addiction could ever hope to be, or else he would have never given up that vial. "Well. I suppose that's that." he said casually, moving back to the couch to settle in with his tea again.
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John gave a hard sigh and spun around to look at Sherlock retreating back to his couch. Sherlock wasn't off the hook just yet. He had lied to him, but made up for it by producing the vial and giving it up straight off. But right now, John was sure he was running on so little sleep that he was sure if he took to his bed right now, he would pass out the second his head hit the pillow. But a nap was all he could afford. It may be bedtime to John's body, but Sherlock wasn't exactly going to be left alone all night.
"I've got to go lay down ... " John was about to say 'come with me' but the words caught in his throat. "Will you be okay for a couple hours?" he said instead, instilling a touch of trust back into Sherlock that he didn't have ANOTHER vial hiding somewhere. He pulled out his phone and set the alarm to wake him in two hours while he waited for Sherlock to answer.
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"You're a light sleeper." he said in a sudden non-sequitur, an idea forming for how to get John to keep an eye on him even while sleeping. "It's likely annoying when you have a partner, being as you would wake every time the other party would move to get up." he continued by way of an explanation, hoping John would catch his meaning. He didn't trust himself that he wouldn't try to leave and get another fix when the withdrawal got too bad, and this was the perfect solution to have John keep tabs on him so that wouldn't happen. He left the room without further preamble, moving to his bedroom to change into an old t-shirt and pajama pants. He moved back to meet John in the sitting room, jerking his head in the direction of John's room in a gesture to say 'hurry up before I change my mind'. "I could lay on top of the covers if that's less invasive, though it would probably be better to make sure you wake if I didn't. Honestly, the best way would probably be if we were touching somehow, as I would be forced to actually move you in order to get up." he mused, more to himself than anything as he set off in the direction of John's room. Social protocol of 'sleeping in your flatmate's bed with them is strange' didn't bother him at all. It was a just a solution to a problem; it didn't mean anything. He was sure John would be the first one to remind him that it didn't mean anything.
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That was when he realized Sherlock had disappeared and come out of his bedroom in his pajamas. As Sherlock returned right where he left off, John was standing in the same place, staring at the back of Sherlock's curly head for a moment.
Sherlock didn't stop at the steps, and John started for them at a quicker pace to catch up. His lips were trying to form a protest, that this wasn't a good idea, when Sherlock made it to the door of his room and turned to face John, waiting for him to open it and let them both in. "I'm not -- this isn't -- " John began, and Sherlock's lips curled into that knowing smirk. The doctor just gave him a frown, feeling the beginnings of something not all that good.
Flatmate's didn't share beds, even if that was Mrs. Hudson's first reaction. Even if Angelo just assumed a candle was necessary at their dinner table, John was not, nor would he ever be Sherlock's date. At least that is what he kept trying to convince himself, and others around him of that. He wasn't anything special, just a stupid, ordinary man. Sherlock would get bored. He should be bored by now. Perhaps he was just humoring him.
With the grogginess taking full effect, John couldn't give any more signs of protest and just opened his bedroom door and walked in, letting Sherlock follow after him.
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"Problem?" he asked coolly in his trademark insufferably self-satisfied way. He grinned when John gave in and opened the door, following him in slowly as he took in the only room in the house that didn't have him all over it. Until now, he supposed. It was oddly exciting to him, finally being allowed into the uncharted territory of John's room. It was simply furnished and completely organized, a far cry from Sherlock's room with experiments on every shelf and stacks of newspapers and books littering the floor. Though, that was what made it was nice, and what made it so very John. His bed looked comfortable, too, and Sherlock really wanted to settle in and maybe even get some rest himself. He couldn't help but wonder if maybe he wouldn't need three blankets on his bed if he had someone to share it with. He walked over to one side of the bed and tilted his head at it before quickly moving to the other side, easily able to tell which side John preferred. He pulled back the covers and got comfortable, blinking owlishly up at John before pulling back the other side of the blanket. "Come on, then. You need to sleep." he urged, absolutely unperturbed by the fact that he was getting cozy in his flatmate's bed and asking said flatmate to join him.
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He swallowed thickly and moved over to his closet to get ready for his nap. This meant just removing his sweater and jeans, rather quickly given the other man in the room was staring at him expectantly from his bed -- he knew he was staring, he could feel it. John very quickly threw on his pj bottoms and switched out his t-shirt for a fresher one. The whole ordeal at the abandoned office building had him feeling less than fresh, understandably so. He disappeared for a moment to the loo, feeling a little self conscious about it before returning quickly to his room a little cleaner and slid into bed.
Tucking the blanket a little modestly between them, John's bed was barely big enough for both of them. It would be next to impossible for Sherlock's lanky limbs to not hang off of it or touch John in some way. He might not get any rest if that was the case, he feared.
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He wriggled with an expectant smile when John got into bed, though he was somewhat disappointed that the blanket was going to separate them. He wasn't sure where that had come from, though he chalked it up to the fact that he couldn't have his experiment of how much heat was added when another body was present in the same bed. That had to be it. He couldn't help but shiver at the cold blankets over him that hadn't been warmed enough by his body yet. He actually hadn't meant to do that, but it may be advantageous if John took pity on him and let him press against him to steal his body heat and actually get to see how much warmer it would get like that.
He curled up on his side, nuzzling into the pillow as he kept his eyes on John. He was getting too comfortable here, despite knowing that this was very much a one-time thing. Still, he wasn't looking forward to going back to his own bed after this was over. He pulled the blanket up to his chin and waited for the tell-tale signs that John was asleep.
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"What, d'you ... need another blanket?" John shifted a tiny bit more. Sherlock shifted as well, closer even and started to unravel the blanket between them. John gave up on modesty then and noticed the slight shivers. Trying to blink a bit of the sleep from his eyes, he shifted to face him and press the back of his hand to Sherlock's forehead. He was cold to the touch. John finally took pity.
Flinging his blanket up, he invited Sherlock closer to share his warmth. But this was temporary. Very, very temporary. Extremely. One time only.
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He was equal parts pleased and uneasy when John relented and allowed him closer, pausing for a moment as he examined how best to approach this. He very slowly moved over to him, cautiously resting his head on his shoulder and placing a hand gently on his chest as though afraid to be pushed away at any moment. He relaxed instantly against him when he found the perfect spot where he seemed to fit surprisingly well. He sighed complacently and pressed himself flush against his side, actually closing his eyes at how much warmer and more comfortable he was already. Maybe he'd actually get more sleep if he had this to look forward to every night. He tried not to dwell on the fact that this would never be happening again, concentrating on enjoying the moment and counting John's breath and heartbeats to lull him into a state of contentment. He told himself that he would just buy a heating blanket to mimic the effect, but blankets didn't breath, have heartbeats and -the most glaring flaw in his eyes- weren't John Watson.
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