Johnlock oneshots (2009, RDJ version)

Mute

Note: I'm autistic and sometimes shut down and go mute. I headcanon Sherlock as autistic and wanted to write some domestic hurt/comfort.

"Holmes? Are you home?" Watson shouted up the stairs. He'd been seeing patients while Holmes was chasing leads - to little avail - on their latest case. "Holmes?" There was no response. Watson shrugged off his overcoat and stepped out of his shoes. He walked up the steep steps, his bed leg aching. He opened the door to the sitting room, expecting it to be empty, besides the usual mess. However, Holmes was curled up on the floor, looking rather miserable.
"Holmes, are you alright?" Watson couldn't help a hint of worry entering his voice.
Holmes lifted his head to look at him, his tired gaze blank. He shook his head slowly.
"What's wrong?"
The detective opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Tears started to form in the corners of his eyes and his head flopped down.
Watson knelt down next to him, ignoring his protesting leg. He pulled Holmes onto his lap, letting the detective wrap his arms around the doctor's neck. His unshaved chin scratched Watson's neck and his tears wet the skin.
Watson heaved himself up, scooping Holmes up bridal style. He carried him to his bedroom. Easing Holmes onto the bed, Watson drew the duvet over him, sitting next to him while untying his bow tie and removing his braces. He spoke softly as he did this, hoping his words soothed the detective.
"It's alright Holmes, it's alright. I'm here. I'll make you tea, you can stay here. You can sleep if you like."
He got up to make the detective tea, but a firm hand on his arm stopped him. Holmes looked at him and shook his head. His eyes were pleading, still wet and bloodshot.
"Alright, I'll stay." Watson murmured. He got into bed with Holmes, who curved towards him, pulling him into a hug. His head rested on Watson's chest, breathing in his familiar smell. Watson reached his hand up to stroke Holmes' hair, massaging his scalp gently. Soon the detective's breathing changed - he was asleep.
Watson sighed. He didn't know what had happened today, but he wished he'd been there to help sooner. Sometimes Holmes got like this. Something would push him over the edge, it could be a big thing or it could be something tiny and seemingly insignificant. He'd clam up and become unable to speak. For someone like Holmes, whose voice was his weapon, his defence and what he trusted most, this terrified him and he'd break down. When Watson could, he'd make the detective tea, or sometimes soup, and tuck him into bed. He'd be a steady companion to Holmes when he needed it, or leave him alone when he needed that. Holmes would often fall asleep - being stressed made him tired, emotionally and physically - and he'd be alright when he woke. He'd find Watson, whether he was sleeping next to him, worriedly watching him sleep, or reading his paper in the sitting room, and press a soft kiss to his cheek. He'd whisper a thank you, and Watson would shoot him a smile.
Holmes shifted in his sleep, nestling his head into Watson's neck. The doctor hugged him tighter.
"I love you." Watson whispered. He felt Holmes smile against his skin.