The Doctor And The Detective (Johnlock)

Two

Sherlock was bored. As usual, except this boredom drove deep into his soul like it never had before. His violin lay discarded on the bed from the hour he had spent trying to take his mind off the pizza. He felt slightly guilty about making such a big fuss - John's face had showed hurt. Sherlock lay next to the violin, his legs hanging off the side of the bed and head pressed against the wall. He stared at the cracks in the ceiling. They spiraled around like spiderwebs, patterns painted onto the dull white of the roof.

There was no sound from outside, besides the low drone of the television. Sherlock presumed John had fallen asleep on the couch. He often did, and it was so late - almost midnight. Try as he might, Sherlock was unable to get to sleep. His mind was like the city at night. No matter how much your perception of time slowed, the city was always bustling. Calmer, but lights still shone and cars still drove on the streets, and people still walked on the concrete sidewalks. It was crowded. If you compared it to daytime, it was nowhere near as crowded, but on its own it seemed like the most crowded place ever.

There was a burst of sound from the TV. Sherlock sighed and turned his head to the side. He'd better turn it off. He rolled off the bed, tiptoeing out to where John was asleep on the couch. Switching off the TV, he sighed at the sudden silence. It was so nice to be able to pause, stop what he was doing and just... listen. Listen to the static silence of the flat, the dull noise of the sleeping city punctuating the air outside. Sherlock looked over to his flatmate.

John looked peaceful, his head lulling back and hands clasped together in his lap. His mouth was slightly open, and his breathing even. How had he fallen asleep so perfectly? Most people who had fallen asleep around Sherlock (which was, admittedly, not many) had slept awfully, loud and snorty, sometimes thrashing around, sometimes making weird sounds you're only capable of making while asleep.

He sat next to the doctor, being careful not to disturb his slumber. Closing his eyes, Sherlock tried to get to his mind palace. To his dismay, too many thoughts cluttered his head, crowded like the city. That had never happened before. Sherlock groaned softly, keeping his eyes closed. Maybe he should get some sleep. He knew John would want him to.

"Ah John, what would I do without you?" Sherlock whispered to the sleeping man beside him on the couch. "I'd be a half dead robot if you weren't here. I almost was. I almost was." A small sigh escaped his lips as he slipped into the cool relief of sleep. 

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John woke to light streaming through the window, splashing into the flat like spilt paint. There was a weight on his shoulder, and when he turned his head Sherlock's black curls brushed against his cheek. John chuckled silently. The detective had fallen asleep on John, or at least slipped to lean against him. He was glad Sherlock was finally getting some sleep. John was surprised the detective's eyes didn't look like they had been punched with all the nights Sherlock stayed up. 

He sat supporting Sherlock for a while. Sherlock slept beautifully, although John felt embarrassed to think that (he didn't know why). Every inhale and exhale was perfectly timed, and the rise and fall of the detective's chest lifted his whole body in a calm rocking movement. John sighed softly and gently eased himself out from under Sherlock, letting the taller man's body fall onto the couch. Sherlock frowned in his sleep, but his brow quickly smoothed out. John smiled to himself, then leaned down and pressed a quiet fatherly kiss to the top of Sherlock's head.

Immediately he stood, flustered. Why had he done that? Maybe it was just fatherly instincts, or even doctor instincts. He ran a had through his hair and tiptoed into the kitchen to make tea. He was glad Sherlock was asleep - the detective probably wouldn't have been happy in John had done that while he was awake ("I am married to my work!"). John turned off the kettle just before it started whistling to let Sherlock sleep in. He dipped the teabag into the hot water, watching the brown tea swirl down in dancing patterns.