The Case of the Meddling Siblings [BBC Sherlock - Johnlock]

2.2

"Yesssss! They're sleeping in one bed!" Harry pumped her fist. "I didn't even have to make them do it!"

Mycroft looked away from the monitors, which he'd switched to showing the feeds from the cameras in Sherlock's coat and bags after his brother and the doctor had left the car -- it was a bumpy and occasionally nauseating view, but one he was well used to at this point, from every time he needed to observe Sherlock outside of the range of CCTV. He rolled his eyes at Harry's excitement. "They have shared a bed before, you know."

"Oh?" she looked intrigued. "When?"

"It used to happen sometimes when they traveled for cases," Mycroft said. "It was all very platonic, and I'm sure it will be again."

"Well, we should probably help them along, then. What exactly are we capable of, here? Can we lower the heat in the guest house? Make them, you know, have to huddle together for warmth tonight?"

Mycroft noted her implicit commandeering of that power via her use of the word we. "That's a great deal of power you think I might have," he observed. "I will remind you that the goal for this trip is stability, not," he frowned, "huddling."

Harry wrinkled her nose. "Fine, I'll find other ways to carry out my plans. And I'll show you it's a good idea, just you wait."

Mycroft was used to having plans for his little brother, but was not used to anyone else, excepting the occasional villain or dominatrix, doing so. He found it rather unnerving. Harry would require careful watching.

* * *

Locked in a room and waiting for a murderer; sharing a flowery, frilly bed with a madman and a gun -- John tried to think which part of this equation was the least likely. Probably that Sherlock Holmes was actually lying in bed instead of pacing about.

The last of John's earlier anger at their unexpected tiff in the car had dissipated since they'd reached the guest house, weakening to the familiar point of fond exasperation. Watching Sherlock work never failed to impress John -- during both the initial assessment of the room they were in, and the subsequent inspection of the rest of the guest house and grounds, John had been smiling and full of admiration. The owners and Anna also trailed along, listening to Sherlock rattle off deductions in awe, though unlike John, they were sometimes offended. And reasonably so -- yet watching Sherlock piss off other people somehow made John feel less annoyed himself. He'd start excusing what was really fairly intolerable behavior, and then soon enough he'd talked himself into believing in Sherlock's underlying goodness too.

Who's madder? Sherlock, or the man who spends all his time with him? Well, two madmen in a bed, then, maybe. John smiled to himself.

As for the fact that Sherlock was actually in the bed -- he had said they must emulate the condition of the victims as much as possible, and so he lay in bed with John, with the lights out. They had advantages over the victims, though -- they were aware of the threat, and beneath John's pillow was his gun.

A gun wouldn't help against a ghost, he thought, and had to stifle a giggle at the thought of the glare he'd get from Sherlock if he voiced this concern. He wasn't truly worried; if ghosts existed, he would have far too many of his own to deal with. The war haunted him, but not in that way.

They hadn't shared a bed since before... before Sherlock had left. John found himself more aware of Sherlock's presence than previously -- it was not something to be taken for granted. Sherlock was lying on his back near his his own edge of the bed -- he'd become less sprawling in the years away, it seemed. John felt a little wistful thinking of the way he'd been before -- in the rare instances when he would actually lie down -- simply because those days had been easier between them.