More sleepy Johnlock. Requests.
Edited to add: I’m pretty sure I’ve gone mad because I can’t help but hear this song in my head when I think of Johnlock snuggles. I Could Hold You In My Arms.
Reblogging because oh, that song. I am having way too many feelings over this.
It’s been six months since Sherlock returned from the dead, and when John looks at him, he can finally see the man he remembers from those wild early days, but somehow, he still can’t shake the nightmares. Some nights, when he wakes, panting, shirt stuck to his skin in cold sweat, there’s nothing for it but to let the shaking pass, climb out of bed, and pad downstairs. In the small hours of the morning, he just sits, watching Sherlock experimenting or harassing people online or staring off into space. The first time it happened after his return to Baker Street, Sherlock had looked up from his microscope, confusion on his face and a question on his lips, taken in John’s expression, and returned in silence to his slides. It was the only time he ever acknowledged John’s presence in the night, the only time he ever acknowledged John’s nightmares, John’s moments of weakness. The soldier in John is grateful.
Tonight, he sees Moriarty’s grinning face at the pool, which turns into Sherlock’s silhouette on an unreachable rooftop, which turns into his best friend lying broken in a pool of his own blood on the cold and uncaring pavement. John shudders in the near-silence of his darkened room, left hand pressed tight against his nose and mouth, eyes tight shut. When the images start to repeat inside his eyelids, he tries staring at the ceiling. After several long moments, his hand slides down to his chest, and he starts counting the seconds off in his head to even out his breathing. As the sound of his heart slows down, he can hear the soft tones of violin strings being plucked very gently.
When he feels steady enough, he sits up. Once the vertigo passes, he slips out of bed and down the stairs. The light is on in the kitchen, gently illuminating the sitting room as John’s gaze sweeps across it, and stops.
There is Sherlock, just as he has been every time John’s sought him out in the night over the last four months. After the first few weeks, he had been mildly surprised to find Sherlock awake, unfailingly, every time he came downstairs, but he’s since realized that the only time they both sleep well is after a case. Now, the only surprise remaining is that Sherlock is alive at all.
John drops into his chair, quietly, and meticulously takes in Sherlock’s indolent sprawl; bare feet, legs draped over the arm of the chair, torso twisted slightly to leave room for the violin on his chest, dressing gown scrunched up beneath him, head tipped back to let a riot of curls dangle in the air. It doesn’t look particularly comfortable to John, but Sherlock seems unusually relaxed. It’s all very calming. He leans his head back and closes his eyes, rebuilding the way Sherlock looks right now in his mind’s eye.
The soft sounds of the violin halt abruptly, the last note vanishing into startled silence. John opens his eyes to meet a gaze that shouldn’t be nearly so intense in the low lighting. He almost jumps. Sherlock stares.
He watches, startled and uncomprehending, as Sherlock lays his violin aside, rises, and offers his long, delicate right hand. John fixates for a moment on the small place in Sherlock’s wrist where his pulse once failed to beat, tenses and swallows hard. There is a small annoyed huff to warn him before he is bodily tugged up from the chair, spun around and marched through the kitchen by a pair of firm hands on his shoulders.
“Sherlock wha…?” He doesn’t even know what to ask, but Sherlock cuts him off anyway.
“Shut up. I’m no good at this, just shut up.” So John does, without further question, because Sherlock never repeats himself.
He hesitates at the doorway to Sherlock’s bedroom, but the hands on his shoulders push harder, so he lets himself be guided across the room and to the bed. He is unceremoniously spun and dumped into a sitting position on the edge of the mattress, and he realizes dimly that he’s never actually been on Sherlock’s bed before. John opens his mouth to speak, but Sherlock’s eyes narrow and his lips tighten, so he shuts it again.
John is very confused, but it seems to have replaced the terror from earlier, so he’s not complaining. He watches, brow furrowed, lips parted slightly, as Sherlock crosses the room to rifle through the jumbled piles of books, journals, and newspaper articles scattered across his dresser. Sherlock’s continuing search through the top left drawer and the pile of discarded clothes by his closet are no more enlightening.
Eventually, there is a grunt of satisfaction from somewhere inside the closet, and Sherlock emerges holding an old iPod that John’s never seen before, along with what appears to be a pair of speakers. The speakers displace another pile of books and a beaker of something suspicious looking from the bedside table opposite John. He watches in silence as Sherlock fidgets with the iPod for several seconds, connects it to the speakers, sits on the edge of the bed and turns to stare across what suddenly seems like a wide expanse of duvet between them.
Sherlock’s eyes are very wide and very blue in the dim light filtering in from the kitchen, and there’s a look on his face that John would call uncertainty in anyone else. John shifts around on the bed, cautiously pulling his feet up to properly face Sherlock, who clears his throat, looks away, presses one last thing on the iPod and sets it aside.
Something soft and guitar-filled drifts up into the room, and it is so startlingly uncharacteristic to John’s image of the music Sherlock listens to that for a moment he nearly laughs. The glare Sherlock shoots him is actually a bit hesitant and…shy? and the almost-laughter passes quickly. “Sherlock?”
“The words, John. Just…listen.” Sherlock is watching him from under long lashes now, body still mostly turned away, as a soft American voice spills out across the bed.
When you came to me with your bad dreams and your fears
it was easy to see that you’d been crying.
Seems like everywhere you turn catastrophe reigns
but who really profits from the dying?
John’s breath hitches somewhere in his chest, and he swallows hard. He can see the tension in Sherlock’s shoulders.
I could hold you in my arms.
I could hold you forever.
I could hold you in my arms,
I could hold you forever.
John’s lips part slightly on an aborted gasp, and he realizes he’s about to cry. Sherlock is still watching him, tense and absolutely still but for his eyes, which flicker about John’s face rapidly. With a shuddering, mostly quiet sob, John disposes of the space between them, pulling Sherlock around and into his arms.
The warm, hard pressure of Sherlock’s arms around his back is sudden and very much welcome, and John can actually feel the tension disappear from the shoulders beneath his fingertips. Sherlock’s face presses into his neck so hard that it might be uncomfortable for both of them if it weren’t so damn necessary, and John settles his cheek against the dark, soft curls over Sherlock’s ear, breathing in deeply, if somewhat raggedly.
John dutifully listens to the remaining words of the song, grounding himself in feel of Sherlock’s hands on his back, the warmth seeping up through the cotton under his palms, and the way their chests press firmly together with every inhale. When the last notes fade away, neither of them moves for a long time.
When at last Sherlock takes a deep, probably steadying, breath, and pulls away slightly, John lets him. He watches Sherlock pull himself together slightly, clear his throat, start to say something, then stop. He can’t remember the last time he saw Sherlock speechless; years ago, at least, and never quite like this. His eyes are still a bit damp, but he grins, the first real, honest-to-god grin to light his face in many months, thinks to himself ‘what the hell,’ and leans up to press his mouth to Sherlock’s.
He wants to laugh aloud as Sherlock freezes against him, then positively melts, kissing him back and bearing them both down until John is pressed against the bed, legs at an awkward angle, and Sherlock is a glorious weight on top of him. When they part, John presses a soft kiss to Sherlock’s nose, then his cheek, then his jaw, and runs the fingers of his right hand through Sherlock’s hair to cup the back of his head.
When Sherlock starts to speak, John forestalls what he expects would be a whole flood of words with a smile. “I’m really tired, Sherlock.” The name feels different on his tongue now; new and suddenly intimate. “Can we just…sleep? And we’ll talk in the morning?”
With Sherlock’s light smile and nod as consent, John shifts them both to a more acceptable orientation on the bed, presses Sherlock down onto the pillows, and sprawls himself over a firm, comforting chest. He smiles and tucks his head into Sherlock’s shoulder when he feels steady arms come up to embrace him. He can feel Sherlock’s heartbeat under his right arm.
Sleep is fast swimming up to take him, so his voice is quiet and a little slurred when he nudges Sherlock’s jaw with his forehead. “Sherlock, start the song again?” So Sherlock does, shifting under him slightly, then settling, and they both sink down into peace.
Christ. My feels.