Sherlock Fanfiction: Night View from the Mind Palace
Title: Night View from the Mind Palace
Author: Saki101
Genre: slash
Rating: R (this section), NC-17 (overall)
Length: ~2500 words
Warning: AU, post The Reichenbach Fall
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC's Sherlock and no money is being made.
Author's notes: This is a continuation of the Other Experiments Series which forms an AU frame for the Experiments Series. Night View from the Mind Palace follows Fading to Sand.
Excerpt: Sherlock’s hand hung over his keyboard. The archivist's office door was closed; John wasn’t headed for it. Sherlock tapped two keys. The camera in the dome swivelled silently, the infra-red lens opening.
Night View from the Mind Palace
The window in the top left-hand corner of the computer screen flickered. Sherlock glanced away from the tide tables and ferry schedules to see John enter the Rare Books Room.
John looked up as the door to the main library clicked shut behind him. He didn’t bother with the lights.
Sherlock’s hand hung over his keyboard. The archivist's office door was closed; John wasn’t headed for it. Sherlock tapped two keys. The camera in the dome swivelled silently, the infra-red lens opening.
****
The information necessary for his next move had not yet been found. Leaning forward, Sherlock minimised several windows and stood, casting his eye over the office. Little was out of place. He smoothed the sofa cushions, gathered the newspapers and picked up his laptop. He watched John exit the first staircase, walk along the lowest balcony. Three taps on the touchpad made the faint squeak of wood as John pushed aside a bookcase sound from the speaker. Sherlock deposited everything on his bed in the room adjoining the office, still watching. John emerged on the next balcony, moving confidently in the dim light, silent on his soft-soled shoes.
Sherlock pressed his lips together, wondering whether there was any chance he could have overlooked a clue because he wanted to spend another night with John. Sentiment. A chemical defect. Nothing solid remained of the chunk of roof sequestered in the room next to the morgue. The liquid had begun to evaporate, lacing the room with wisps of grimy fog. The chemical effect of John’s sentiment.
*****
The moon was limning the edges of the clouds when John emerged from the dark spiral of the library stairs onto the inside balcony below the rotunda windows. Their grey light seemed bright in comparison, comforting in contrast to the fluorescent glare of the Institute's lobby and Bart's echoing corridors. John stopped at the railing and stared down. The lower bookshelves were lost in the gloom, the reading tables suggested by faint rectangles of reflected moonlight, the night view from Sherlock’s mind palace. John shook his head. He would never be able to see what Sherlock would have seen.
****
Sherlock narrowed his eyes when John stopped at the railing. “What are you thinking, John?” Sherlock murmured, fingers tapping keys, re-adjusting the angle of the camera. He saw John look down, lean slightly forward.
“Don’t,” Sherlock whispered, zooming in. The resolution was still too low to show the details that made John think Sherlock could read his mind.
He watched John’s hands curve around the banister, slide out to his sides and back in front of him. John looked up to the windows, a sliver of moonlight catching his profile. Sherlock moved closer to the screen, noting the restless shifting of John’s hands. “You know I’ve stood there.” He sat down next to his laptop. “It could have been long ago, but it wasn’t.” Sherlock’s fingers ran along the edge of the keyboard.
John turned towards the frescos.
“Good,” Sherlock said, pulling the computer onto his lap. John grabbed the brass mouthpiece of Clio’s trumpet, twisted it and eased the door to the alcove open. Sherlock stroked his touchpad. The fans in the heating vents purred softly.
“Go in,” Sherlock urged. “The water in the bottle you left is drugged, but you won’t suspect me now, will you?” The doorway of the alcove brightened. John’s shadow stretched across it. “Drink it quickly, John, so I can join you.”
***
The file John had been perusing last, lay open on the floor, a half-full bottle of water beside it. He checked the file’s binding for the date range of the contents, scanned the shelves and reached for a file nearly ten years older. He’d calculated correctly. The paper on top was the first page of an article by Bertrand, the margins dark with Sherlock’s commentary. John flipped to the next page. Reading the text and the annotations was like listening to a dialogue. He could hear them both. “I could have listened to him talk about you for hours,” John murmured, turning the page. “I didn’t think you noticed my reaction when you said those shoes were where you began.” John’s jaw tensed. “How I resented that he had touched your life that long ago.”
John was half-way through the second article when he licked his lips and reached for the water.
****
Sherlock turned the speaker up. It hissed with the silence, John’s distant murmuring barely audible for it. Sherlock pushed the computer aside and stood in a flurry of dark silk. He couldn’t see or hear what John was doing. He strode to the end of the room, spun around and came back to the bed, glared at the computer screen. He hadn’t put a camera in the alcove, planned to disconnect the one in the dome before he left. Sherlock huffed. The temptation to monitor John from afar would be too great. It offended him to acknowledge it, but it would be stupid to pretend it wasn’t true. A remote link could be too easily compromised. Even the local one would have been a small risk without the layers of encryption. Sherlock tapped at the keyboard until the camera was pointed at the main entrance, its lenses closed, the microphone turned off. He slapped the laptop shut.
*******
John found his concentration drifting towards the end of the second article, but he still checked the bibliography. His eyebrows went up when he saw the paper by A. Bertrand and S. Holmes. John double-checked the date of the off-print. “Thirteen,” he whispered. “Amazing. You were always amazing.” John stretched out his legs, wedged himself in the angle of the bookshelves and let his eyes rove over the neat ranks of leather-bound books and black box files. “If I linger over every line, for how many years can you continue to amaze me, Sherlock?”
*****
Always. Sherlock stood on the other side of the fresco, eyes fixed on the bright rectangle between the hinges of the panel. I miss the wonder in your voice, John. Sherlock squinted as he peered through the crack. I have a tendency towards addiction. We’ve discussed it. Nicotine, cocaine… You wanted me to break their hold on me. Shall I cure myself of you, too?
Sherlock watched John’s eyes close, the hand holding the water bottle slip off his lap. John started, pulled the bottle against his leg and sighed.
Sherlock’s fingers drummed against his thigh. One hundred eighty seconds, John. One hundred seventy-nine…
***
So unsatisfactory. John shifted uneasily. Sherlock loosened his grip on John’s shoulder, stroked down and back up John's sleeve before leaving his hand to dangle, elbow balanced on his raised knee. John quieted, his head heavy against Sherlock’s chest. These weren't their usual terms of engagement. No.
Sherlock let his head fall back against the books, closed his eyes and remembered...
...sometimes he would feel John’s eyes on him from across the room. The awareness would bring an urge to bend his neck to the side so John could see more of it. John liked Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock would know John’s eyes were moving along the muscles as Sherlock stretched, but John wouldn’t say or do anything else. Sherlock liked to study John’s silences, see how long they would last. He might extend a hand to adjust his microscope or turn a page in a book and feel John following the motion of his fingers, the turn of his wrist. John liked Sherlock’s hands, so Sherlock would offer him a graceful gesture or two. And still John wouldn’t approach, wouldn’t interrupt Sherlock’s work. Sometimes, when John was watching from the other room, Sherlock would say John’s name, once, his voice low around the syllable. The vibrations would spread out into John’s silence. Sherlock knew John liked his voice. And still John would not speak, or move. If Sherlock looked up, John would hold his gaze because John knew that Sherlock liked what he saw in John’s eyes, but then John would turn away, because looking directly into Sherlock’s eyes was a bit like looking into the sun for John.
***
Waking up in various parts of the library was becoming a habit, John thought. Maybe I should start leaving bedding up here as well as by the sofa in the office. His shoulder was stiff. He turned his head from side to side. His bunched up jacket and jumper had made a surprisingly adequate pillow. He wanted to go back to sleep. The floor was warm. He reached for the water bottle, knocked it over. It landed with a thump. He caught it before it rolled out of reach, uncapped it. It was nearly full. He scowled at it. Did I go downstairs and refill this? John took a long drink, recapped the bottle and fell back to sleep.
****
The schedules continued flashing through Sherlock’s mind as the boat chugged away from the dock. Flights, trains, ferries. Trails crossing and re-crossing London like variegated threads on a loom - Heathrow, Paddington, Gare du Nord, King’s Cross, Gatwick, Victoria. Every two or three weeks.
There was a corridor in Detroit with soothing music and rainbow lights. It had taken a few seconds longer for people to gather around the huddled form bumping against the end of the moving walkway. The waterfall in Casablanca had washed the blood on the knife away. The stewards found the body on the plane. People had shoved the slumped figure out of the way at JFK. Well.
****
John completed his article. Mike proofread it. John came into Mike’s office as he finished reading. “You breathed life into it,” Mike said, looking up at John, flipping the last page over. His pencil clicked on the desk as he set it aside. “It could have been dry as sawdust.” John smiled. “They’ll ask you to do another.” John glanced down at his hands and the smile faded.
****
Sherlock touched the soft skin under John’s eyes. “I know waiting isn’t easier, John,” he whispered.
***
John noticed the cycle, the dip in energy, the darkening mood, followed by particularly vivid dreams.
Somewhere in the middle he’d go speak to Dr Bertrand, timing his arrival after a lecture, using his research as an excuse. Bertrand’s greeting always included an appraising look, a hand on John’s shoulder or his arm and a willingness to talk about Sherlock. The fondness in Bertrand’s voice coloured everything he said.
If it weren’t raining, they would walk to the park, Bertrand’s voice conjuring a young Sherlock as they sat by the fountains or in the rose garden or near the water. They’d bring rolls from the coffee shop to feed the ducks and the geese and the swans. There was a black one that reminded John of Sherlock. The beating of its wings rippled the water as it landed, powerful movement composing itself into gliding grace. Everyone watching was enthralled.
John often slept in the library after their talks, up in the alcove, papers scattered about him. Ones he liked to re-read.
***
From the ramp, Sherlock cast an eye over the Arrivals Hall, identified the fastest moving line. He took an EU member passport out of his jacket pocket.
“Business or pleasure,” the immigration officer asked, scanning the document, with barely a glance at Sherlock.
“Pleasure, assuredly,” Sherlock replied.
The official’s eyes flicked up from his keyboard for a moment before he handed the passport back.
Sherlock incinerated the passport when he arrived at Bart’s.
****
A spate of allergy sufferers, two cases of food poisoning, a sprained ankle and a couple employment physicals had filled John’s afternoon. He sat, legs splayed on the sofa, too relieved to be home to even make a cup of tea. He stared across the room at the skull, and it stared back. He thought of his introduction to it, pictured Sherlock’s long fingers gliding over its smooth pate.
John’s phone buzzed. He turned his head to consider it. His jacket buzzed again from where it lay draped over the arm of the sofa. John sighed and leaned across the cushions to snag the collar.
Molly found a blood sample, five years old. She’s going home now, but I’ll stay and get it out for you if you want to look at it tonight. Canteen first, in a half hour?
Pub in 45, John texted back.
****
Mike set a paper cup of tea on the lab table next to John, took a long sip from his own.
“Do you know what it was from?” John asked, pulling out a stool and sitting down.
“The code on the label was indexed to an experiment on coagulation rates in different blood types Sherlock was doing,” Mike replied.
“Were there any differences?” John asked.
“There weren’t any more details in the database. The sample wasn’t identified as Sherlock’s blood in the database either; Molly recognised a symbol he used to mark his own samples.” John quirked an eyebrow. “He often tested theories on himself.”
“Yes, right,” John said, reaching for his tea.
Mike drained his cup, dropped it in the bin. “I’ll leave you to it, then,” he said, picking up his coat. John raised his cup to Mike in salute.
****
His head was reeling. Sherlock had pushed hard against the envelope this time.
Pieces were falling one by one, each pulling others into the light as they toppled. Careers were being made. Jean-Pierre, Lestrade’s old friend at Interpol had already been promoted. His instincts had led him to follow the mysterious leads that came to him and time and again he had been right. There were others, Sherlock’s own fine web cast over mountains and oceans. Tips sent from withheld numbers with the kind of detail that always brought a response. Sherlock knew what bait to use and once they nibbled, they followed up the next lead with alacrity. It had been so engrossing and the days had ticked past two weeks, past three.
Sherlock laid his head on John’s bare chest, willed his stomach to settle. Eating seemed particularly boring without John to cajole him into it and sleep, well, sleep brought dreams. Without John to curl around, they were seldom good.
His legs still tucked under him, Sherlock lowered himself further, breathing deeply in and out. Sleep seemed possible now. Sherlock stretched an arm along John’s thigh, curled a hand between his legs, just below the knee. They were on the floor in the lab, but the lights were off and the door was locked. Sherlock had re-programmed the key code. He could risk a little sleep. His weight settled. John’s hand moved, found Sherlock’s hair and stilled, fingers tangled in it.
It's more difficult without you, John.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next part, Haematology, made be read here.
Author: Saki101
Genre: slash
Rating: R (this section), NC-17 (overall)
Length: ~2500 words
Warning: AU, post The Reichenbach Fall
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC's Sherlock and no money is being made.
Author's notes: This is a continuation of the Other Experiments Series which forms an AU frame for the Experiments Series. Night View from the Mind Palace follows Fading to Sand.
Excerpt: Sherlock’s hand hung over his keyboard. The archivist's office door was closed; John wasn’t headed for it. Sherlock tapped two keys. The camera in the dome swivelled silently, the infra-red lens opening.
Night View from the Mind Palace
The window in the top left-hand corner of the computer screen flickered. Sherlock glanced away from the tide tables and ferry schedules to see John enter the Rare Books Room.
John looked up as the door to the main library clicked shut behind him. He didn’t bother with the lights.
Sherlock’s hand hung over his keyboard. The archivist's office door was closed; John wasn’t headed for it. Sherlock tapped two keys. The camera in the dome swivelled silently, the infra-red lens opening.
****
The information necessary for his next move had not yet been found. Leaning forward, Sherlock minimised several windows and stood, casting his eye over the office. Little was out of place. He smoothed the sofa cushions, gathered the newspapers and picked up his laptop. He watched John exit the first staircase, walk along the lowest balcony. Three taps on the touchpad made the faint squeak of wood as John pushed aside a bookcase sound from the speaker. Sherlock deposited everything on his bed in the room adjoining the office, still watching. John emerged on the next balcony, moving confidently in the dim light, silent on his soft-soled shoes.
Sherlock pressed his lips together, wondering whether there was any chance he could have overlooked a clue because he wanted to spend another night with John. Sentiment. A chemical defect. Nothing solid remained of the chunk of roof sequestered in the room next to the morgue. The liquid had begun to evaporate, lacing the room with wisps of grimy fog. The chemical effect of John’s sentiment.
*****
The moon was limning the edges of the clouds when John emerged from the dark spiral of the library stairs onto the inside balcony below the rotunda windows. Their grey light seemed bright in comparison, comforting in contrast to the fluorescent glare of the Institute's lobby and Bart's echoing corridors. John stopped at the railing and stared down. The lower bookshelves were lost in the gloom, the reading tables suggested by faint rectangles of reflected moonlight, the night view from Sherlock’s mind palace. John shook his head. He would never be able to see what Sherlock would have seen.
****
Sherlock narrowed his eyes when John stopped at the railing. “What are you thinking, John?” Sherlock murmured, fingers tapping keys, re-adjusting the angle of the camera. He saw John look down, lean slightly forward.
“Don’t,” Sherlock whispered, zooming in. The resolution was still too low to show the details that made John think Sherlock could read his mind.
He watched John’s hands curve around the banister, slide out to his sides and back in front of him. John looked up to the windows, a sliver of moonlight catching his profile. Sherlock moved closer to the screen, noting the restless shifting of John’s hands. “You know I’ve stood there.” He sat down next to his laptop. “It could have been long ago, but it wasn’t.” Sherlock’s fingers ran along the edge of the keyboard.
John turned towards the frescos.
“Good,” Sherlock said, pulling the computer onto his lap. John grabbed the brass mouthpiece of Clio’s trumpet, twisted it and eased the door to the alcove open. Sherlock stroked his touchpad. The fans in the heating vents purred softly.
“Go in,” Sherlock urged. “The water in the bottle you left is drugged, but you won’t suspect me now, will you?” The doorway of the alcove brightened. John’s shadow stretched across it. “Drink it quickly, John, so I can join you.”
***
The file John had been perusing last, lay open on the floor, a half-full bottle of water beside it. He checked the file’s binding for the date range of the contents, scanned the shelves and reached for a file nearly ten years older. He’d calculated correctly. The paper on top was the first page of an article by Bertrand, the margins dark with Sherlock’s commentary. John flipped to the next page. Reading the text and the annotations was like listening to a dialogue. He could hear them both. “I could have listened to him talk about you for hours,” John murmured, turning the page. “I didn’t think you noticed my reaction when you said those shoes were where you began.” John’s jaw tensed. “How I resented that he had touched your life that long ago.”
John was half-way through the second article when he licked his lips and reached for the water.
****
Sherlock turned the speaker up. It hissed with the silence, John’s distant murmuring barely audible for it. Sherlock pushed the computer aside and stood in a flurry of dark silk. He couldn’t see or hear what John was doing. He strode to the end of the room, spun around and came back to the bed, glared at the computer screen. He hadn’t put a camera in the alcove, planned to disconnect the one in the dome before he left. Sherlock huffed. The temptation to monitor John from afar would be too great. It offended him to acknowledge it, but it would be stupid to pretend it wasn’t true. A remote link could be too easily compromised. Even the local one would have been a small risk without the layers of encryption. Sherlock tapped at the keyboard until the camera was pointed at the main entrance, its lenses closed, the microphone turned off. He slapped the laptop shut.
*******
John found his concentration drifting towards the end of the second article, but he still checked the bibliography. His eyebrows went up when he saw the paper by A. Bertrand and S. Holmes. John double-checked the date of the off-print. “Thirteen,” he whispered. “Amazing. You were always amazing.” John stretched out his legs, wedged himself in the angle of the bookshelves and let his eyes rove over the neat ranks of leather-bound books and black box files. “If I linger over every line, for how many years can you continue to amaze me, Sherlock?”
*****
Always. Sherlock stood on the other side of the fresco, eyes fixed on the bright rectangle between the hinges of the panel. I miss the wonder in your voice, John. Sherlock squinted as he peered through the crack. I have a tendency towards addiction. We’ve discussed it. Nicotine, cocaine… You wanted me to break their hold on me. Shall I cure myself of you, too?
Sherlock watched John’s eyes close, the hand holding the water bottle slip off his lap. John started, pulled the bottle against his leg and sighed.
Sherlock’s fingers drummed against his thigh. One hundred eighty seconds, John. One hundred seventy-nine…
***
So unsatisfactory. John shifted uneasily. Sherlock loosened his grip on John’s shoulder, stroked down and back up John's sleeve before leaving his hand to dangle, elbow balanced on his raised knee. John quieted, his head heavy against Sherlock’s chest. These weren't their usual terms of engagement. No.
Sherlock let his head fall back against the books, closed his eyes and remembered...
...sometimes he would feel John’s eyes on him from across the room. The awareness would bring an urge to bend his neck to the side so John could see more of it. John liked Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock would know John’s eyes were moving along the muscles as Sherlock stretched, but John wouldn’t say or do anything else. Sherlock liked to study John’s silences, see how long they would last. He might extend a hand to adjust his microscope or turn a page in a book and feel John following the motion of his fingers, the turn of his wrist. John liked Sherlock’s hands, so Sherlock would offer him a graceful gesture or two. And still John wouldn’t approach, wouldn’t interrupt Sherlock’s work. Sometimes, when John was watching from the other room, Sherlock would say John’s name, once, his voice low around the syllable. The vibrations would spread out into John’s silence. Sherlock knew John liked his voice. And still John would not speak, or move. If Sherlock looked up, John would hold his gaze because John knew that Sherlock liked what he saw in John’s eyes, but then John would turn away, because looking directly into Sherlock’s eyes was a bit like looking into the sun for John.
***
Waking up in various parts of the library was becoming a habit, John thought. Maybe I should start leaving bedding up here as well as by the sofa in the office. His shoulder was stiff. He turned his head from side to side. His bunched up jacket and jumper had made a surprisingly adequate pillow. He wanted to go back to sleep. The floor was warm. He reached for the water bottle, knocked it over. It landed with a thump. He caught it before it rolled out of reach, uncapped it. It was nearly full. He scowled at it. Did I go downstairs and refill this? John took a long drink, recapped the bottle and fell back to sleep.
****
The schedules continued flashing through Sherlock’s mind as the boat chugged away from the dock. Flights, trains, ferries. Trails crossing and re-crossing London like variegated threads on a loom - Heathrow, Paddington, Gare du Nord, King’s Cross, Gatwick, Victoria. Every two or three weeks.
There was a corridor in Detroit with soothing music and rainbow lights. It had taken a few seconds longer for people to gather around the huddled form bumping against the end of the moving walkway. The waterfall in Casablanca had washed the blood on the knife away. The stewards found the body on the plane. People had shoved the slumped figure out of the way at JFK. Well.
****
John completed his article. Mike proofread it. John came into Mike’s office as he finished reading. “You breathed life into it,” Mike said, looking up at John, flipping the last page over. His pencil clicked on the desk as he set it aside. “It could have been dry as sawdust.” John smiled. “They’ll ask you to do another.” John glanced down at his hands and the smile faded.
****
Sherlock touched the soft skin under John’s eyes. “I know waiting isn’t easier, John,” he whispered.
***
John noticed the cycle, the dip in energy, the darkening mood, followed by particularly vivid dreams.
Somewhere in the middle he’d go speak to Dr Bertrand, timing his arrival after a lecture, using his research as an excuse. Bertrand’s greeting always included an appraising look, a hand on John’s shoulder or his arm and a willingness to talk about Sherlock. The fondness in Bertrand’s voice coloured everything he said.
If it weren’t raining, they would walk to the park, Bertrand’s voice conjuring a young Sherlock as they sat by the fountains or in the rose garden or near the water. They’d bring rolls from the coffee shop to feed the ducks and the geese and the swans. There was a black one that reminded John of Sherlock. The beating of its wings rippled the water as it landed, powerful movement composing itself into gliding grace. Everyone watching was enthralled.
John often slept in the library after their talks, up in the alcove, papers scattered about him. Ones he liked to re-read.
***
From the ramp, Sherlock cast an eye over the Arrivals Hall, identified the fastest moving line. He took an EU member passport out of his jacket pocket.
“Business or pleasure,” the immigration officer asked, scanning the document, with barely a glance at Sherlock.
“Pleasure, assuredly,” Sherlock replied.
The official’s eyes flicked up from his keyboard for a moment before he handed the passport back.
Sherlock incinerated the passport when he arrived at Bart’s.
****
A spate of allergy sufferers, two cases of food poisoning, a sprained ankle and a couple employment physicals had filled John’s afternoon. He sat, legs splayed on the sofa, too relieved to be home to even make a cup of tea. He stared across the room at the skull, and it stared back. He thought of his introduction to it, pictured Sherlock’s long fingers gliding over its smooth pate.
John’s phone buzzed. He turned his head to consider it. His jacket buzzed again from where it lay draped over the arm of the sofa. John sighed and leaned across the cushions to snag the collar.
Molly found a blood sample, five years old. She’s going home now, but I’ll stay and get it out for you if you want to look at it tonight. Canteen first, in a half hour?
Pub in 45, John texted back.
****
Mike set a paper cup of tea on the lab table next to John, took a long sip from his own.
“Do you know what it was from?” John asked, pulling out a stool and sitting down.
“The code on the label was indexed to an experiment on coagulation rates in different blood types Sherlock was doing,” Mike replied.
“Were there any differences?” John asked.
“There weren’t any more details in the database. The sample wasn’t identified as Sherlock’s blood in the database either; Molly recognised a symbol he used to mark his own samples.” John quirked an eyebrow. “He often tested theories on himself.”
“Yes, right,” John said, reaching for his tea.
Mike drained his cup, dropped it in the bin. “I’ll leave you to it, then,” he said, picking up his coat. John raised his cup to Mike in salute.
****
His head was reeling. Sherlock had pushed hard against the envelope this time.
Pieces were falling one by one, each pulling others into the light as they toppled. Careers were being made. Jean-Pierre, Lestrade’s old friend at Interpol had already been promoted. His instincts had led him to follow the mysterious leads that came to him and time and again he had been right. There were others, Sherlock’s own fine web cast over mountains and oceans. Tips sent from withheld numbers with the kind of detail that always brought a response. Sherlock knew what bait to use and once they nibbled, they followed up the next lead with alacrity. It had been so engrossing and the days had ticked past two weeks, past three.
Sherlock laid his head on John’s bare chest, willed his stomach to settle. Eating seemed particularly boring without John to cajole him into it and sleep, well, sleep brought dreams. Without John to curl around, they were seldom good.
His legs still tucked under him, Sherlock lowered himself further, breathing deeply in and out. Sleep seemed possible now. Sherlock stretched an arm along John’s thigh, curled a hand between his legs, just below the knee. They were on the floor in the lab, but the lights were off and the door was locked. Sherlock had re-programmed the key code. He could risk a little sleep. His weight settled. John’s hand moved, found Sherlock’s hair and stilled, fingers tangled in it.
It's more difficult without you, John.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next part, Haematology, made be read here.