yes i'm stalking you in traditional sherlock fashion :DshutupimageniusMarch 1 2013, 21:41:47 UTC
As much as the two of them had argued over it earlier, Sherlock did, in fact, need to sleep at some point, his own body betraying him as exhaustion hit him very suddenly. It must have been the dull crime drama John had on telly, Sherlock having easily figured out every twist and turn of the plot within five minutes and left with nothing to do as John insisted on finishing it.
His eyelids got heavier and heavier, finally falling closed as his body slumped sideways to come to rest against John's arm. He sighed gently in sleep, succumbing to his body's inherent need for rest, much to his chagrin.
consider me delighted!crimebloggerMarch 1 2013, 22:02:01 UTC
John's eyes were fixed on the telly, for once being able to entirely enjoy an episode, not knowing what was going to happen forty minutes in advance, when he suddenly felt Sherlock leaning in heavily against his side. Ready to hush him up before he spoiled the ending, John turned his head, and closed his mouth again when he was presented with the - shockingly adorable - sight of one sleeping consulting detective.
Smiling faintly, John carefully reached out a hand for the remote, and turned off the television. Much as he had been enjoying the episode, the choice was easy: he wanted to watch Sherlock sleep, instead. Moments like these were rare, where Sherlock looked so... human. Vulnerable? Not entirely that, but something akin to it, the lines of his sharp features softened.
With his cheek resting on John's shoulder, Sherlock went boneless against him as he fell asleep. He hummed softly in sleep when John turned off the telly, shifting a bit to slip down and end up sprawled over the sofa with his head resting in John's lap.
"It was the brother..." he murmured the logical end of the program tiredly, going quiet after a moment as he fell asleep again.
"Incorrigible git," John muttered ironically yet fondly, as he moved a hand to rest it on top of Sherlock's head. The man's dark curls felt soft against John's palm, and he briefly ran curious fingers through them. Sherlock's body was far too long to rest comfortably on the sofa, and truthfully, he didn't look very comfortable... but his expression seemed serene. There probably wasn't going to be much harm in allowing Sherlock a few moments of sleep before John would have to help him to his bedroom...
Sherlock rubbed his cheek against John's leg when his fingers found his hair, his sleep-addled mind reminded of when his mother used to do that when he was young. It always succeeded in calming him down and getting him to sleep, and this time was no exception.
"Mycroft's the incorrigible git, Mum." he said groggily, sighing again in a long-suffering way as though they were in the middle of a conversation about what a prat his brother could be. Talking in his sleep was something he'd always done, his brain never shutting up even in sleep.
It really shouldn't surprise John that Sherlock talked in his sleep, considering that Sherlock talked to him when he wasn't even in the flat. This was different, though, somehow. More... intimate. For a moment, John considered if he should wake Sherlock. This was not meant for his ears. But he was curious, curious about this man, always curious. He was an enigma, and knew so much about so many people within minutes, sometimes seconds of observation...
John decided to be a little selfish today, and continued petting Sherlock's hair, the back of his hand briefly brushing over the other's cheek. It was soft. He did not cut his hand.
Sherlock made a soft contented sound in sleep when John continued to stroke his hair, tugging his legs up to his chest to curl further into himself, resting a hand on his pillow that was John's thigh.
"John's not, though. You'd like him, Mum." he muttered, leaning into the touch to his cheek and relaxing even further at the contact. "I don't understand why he stays sometimes. Makes no sense." His words were a tired rumble, stilling after that for a long moment in utter comfortable tranquility.
John's hand briefly stilled on Sherlock's cheek at the other's unexpected words. At length, he exhaled, slowly, feeling quite emotional all of a sudden. Trust Sherlock to bring him off his balance even in sleep. No, him staying made no sense. But leaving was not an option, would never be an option. He would not know what to do with himself. It was pathetic, really, how much he leaned on Sherlock's presence in his life; and terrifying to think how quickly that had come to pass
( ... )
Succumbing to sleep finally, Sherlock's mind queited enough to let him get a bit of rest. He stilled for a long while, not stirring until John's breath was at this ear and he gave a sleepy groan of protest when he whispered into his ear.
"Waking me up to tell me to sleep is the most idiotically backwards thing I've ever heard." he groused, cracking an eye open to glare at him in groggy irritability. He distantly realized that he'd made himself at home in John's lap, sighing when he realized the proximity was probably making John uncomfortable. "Just hand me a pillow and leave me here." he offered, knowing John would probably not submit to being his pillow for the few hours sleep he needed, comfortable and warm as he was. He sighed softly and let his eye fall shut again, going still and quiet in John's lap once again.
John considered his situation for a moment. He did not feel very tired himself and was, on some level, enjoying the simplicity and intimacy of the moment. Making a decision, he looked around and reached out to grab the nearest book off the side table (Immunotoxicology and Immunopharmacology, third edition).
Opening it at a random chapter, he began to read, resting a hand in Sherlock's hand again. One hour. Then he'd go to bed.
Sherlock peeked his eye open again when John shifted above him, smirking to himself when he heard him open a book, privately pleased that he'd chosen to stay. He didn't know what exactly it was about this, but he didn't want to let go of it just yet, especially the way John's hand seemed to instinctively stroke his hair like that.
"I apologize if anything I happen to say while I sleep makes you uncomfortable. I've talked in my sleep since i was a child, I can't control it. Most of it is completely nonsensical anyway, and is not often relevant." he said with a small shrug, getting comfortable again and more than pleased to drift off once again.
"What, what you say in sleep, or in general? A lot of what you say seems completely nonsensical to me." Smiling to himself, John turned a page, not really taking in any of the words.
He wondered, however, what on Earth Sherlock could say that would make John awkward, here, in the comfort of their home, with nobody around to hear Sherlock. That, more than anything else, was usually what made John stare up at the ceiling, or his shoes, hoping people would realize what Sherlock said was what Sherlock said. Oddly enough, people always seemed to think he spoke for them both. Which... he sort of did, but perhaps not always in the words John would have chosen, given the chance.
Sherlock opened his eye just to roll it at John's response, huffing a soft sigh as he settled against him.
"You know what I mean. I just don't want you to take offense to anything I might say and try to blame me for it later, that's all. Most of it doesn't mean anything." he clarified, making to fall asleep again, but really just enjoying the warm comfort of using John's lap as a pillow while he was still conscious.
"Right. I see what you mean now with not often relevant. Go to sleep."
Not waiting for a response, John turned his attention to the book once more, wondering if he would get further than half a page before Sherlock would speak up in his sleep again. If he did, John fully intended to listen. Whether it made sense or was relevant did not matter. It was fascinating, and it was Sherlock, and most things Sherlock did drew John in like a moth to flame.
Giving a quiet grumble in response, Sherlock stilled again to try falling asleep again, surprisingly comfortable here in John's lap. He drifted back off fairly easily, his breathing slowing to something deep and even to signify he was asleep again.
"Mmn, John. Your new cologne, it's nice." he muttered, nuzzling happily into John's lap and squeezing his thigh gently. "I stole a bottle from your medicine cabinet. Still like it better on you." He sighed contentedly, enjoying the way he smelled even in whatever strange dream he was having.
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His eyelids got heavier and heavier, finally falling closed as his body slumped sideways to come to rest against John's arm. He sighed gently in sleep, succumbing to his body's inherent need for rest, much to his chagrin.
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Smiling faintly, John carefully reached out a hand for the remote, and turned off the television. Much as he had been enjoying the episode, the choice was easy: he wanted to watch Sherlock sleep, instead. Moments like these were rare, where Sherlock looked so... human. Vulnerable? Not entirely that, but something akin to it, the lines of his sharp features softened.
Now, what other sight could possibly beat that?
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"It was the brother..." he murmured the logical end of the program tiredly, going quiet after a moment as he fell asleep again.
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The program was long forgotten.
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"Mycroft's the incorrigible git, Mum." he said groggily, sighing again in a long-suffering way as though they were in the middle of a conversation about what a prat his brother could be. Talking in his sleep was something he'd always done, his brain never shutting up even in sleep.
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John decided to be a little selfish today, and continued petting Sherlock's hair, the back of his hand briefly brushing over the other's cheek. It was soft. He did not cut his hand.
Reply
"John's not, though. You'd like him, Mum." he muttered, leaning into the touch to his cheek and relaxing even further at the contact. "I don't understand why he stays sometimes. Makes no sense." His words were a tired rumble, stilling after that for a long moment in utter comfortable tranquility.
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"Waking me up to tell me to sleep is the most idiotically backwards thing I've ever heard." he groused, cracking an eye open to glare at him in groggy irritability. He distantly realized that he'd made himself at home in John's lap, sighing when he realized the proximity was probably making John uncomfortable. "Just hand me a pillow and leave me here." he offered, knowing John would probably not submit to being his pillow for the few hours sleep he needed, comfortable and warm as he was. He sighed softly and let his eye fall shut again, going still and quiet in John's lap once again.
Reply
Opening it at a random chapter, he began to read, resting a hand in Sherlock's hand again. One hour. Then he'd go to bed.
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"I apologize if anything I happen to say while I sleep makes you uncomfortable. I've talked in my sleep since i was a child, I can't control it. Most of it is completely nonsensical anyway, and is not often relevant." he said with a small shrug, getting comfortable again and more than pleased to drift off once again.
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He wondered, however, what on Earth Sherlock could say that would make John awkward, here, in the comfort of their home, with nobody around to hear Sherlock. That, more than anything else, was usually what made John stare up at the ceiling, or his shoes, hoping people would realize what Sherlock said was what Sherlock said. Oddly enough, people always seemed to think he spoke for them both. Which... he sort of did, but perhaps not always in the words John would have chosen, given the chance.
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"You know what I mean. I just don't want you to take offense to anything I might say and try to blame me for it later, that's all. Most of it doesn't mean anything." he clarified, making to fall asleep again, but really just enjoying the warm comfort of using John's lap as a pillow while he was still conscious.
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Not waiting for a response, John turned his attention to the book once more, wondering if he would get further than half a page before Sherlock would speak up in his sleep again. If he did, John fully intended to listen. Whether it made sense or was relevant did not matter. It was fascinating, and it was Sherlock, and most things Sherlock did drew John in like a moth to flame.
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"Mmn, John. Your new cologne, it's nice." he muttered, nuzzling happily into John's lap and squeezing his thigh gently. "I stole a bottle from your medicine cabinet. Still like it better on you." He sighed contentedly, enjoying the way he smelled even in whatever strange dream he was having.
Reply
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