Comfort

Sherlock strided silently down the stairs, sobs echoing through the hall, getting louder as the consulting detective made his way to the doctor's room. He had heard this before, examined the sounds of screaming and whimpering from his room, knowing that John was having nightmares of the war again, but thought John would be better off fighting the images off by himself.

This night, however, was different.

Sherlock wanted to watch John, study him- observe his REM cycle, take his heartrate, record how many times John woke up during the night. The detective would think of this as another simple experiment- he got very bored laying in bed pretending to sleep. This would keep him busy, at least for a while.

By the time Sherlock reached the door, the sobbing had ceased, meaning John had laid back down and was attempting to sleep once more. Sherlock slowly opened the door, ensuring no sound awoke John from sleep again. John laid very still now, though not quite peaceful, as small whispers were escaping through his lips.

"No please,"

"Don't kill him,"

"Save him,"

Interesting, thought Sherlock, jotting down a mental note as he crept closer. Never a word spoken about saving himself. The detective stood over John, examining his furrowed brow and wet cheeks. Continuing to cry during sleep, Sherlock kneeled down, letting his eyes roam over John's body- a body which he realized was in nothing but red, plaid boxers- and simply observed, as the world's only consulting detective did best.

Lung movement accelerating at an alarmingly increasing rate, sweat beading rapidly on the skin, eyes moving faster behind eyelids. Sherlock gently placed his fingers on the inside of John's wrist, smooth skin feeling rather odd underneath Sherlock's calloused fingers. Heart rate growing at a pace of-

"What are you doing?" Sherlock glanced up at John, who was staring down at Sherlock with a bit of anger.

"An experiment," Sherlock replied, finishing his pulse check but remaining on his knees. "What're you dreaming about?"

"This is why people don't like you, you know," John mumbled, turning away from his flatmate and covering himself with the blanket.

"I don't know, explain it to me-"

"No matter what someone is going through, you have no sympathy. You never try to comfort anyone- the only thing that matters is your work-"

"Would you like me to comfort you?-"

"That's not what I said," Sherlock couldn't see John's face, but he assumed a crimson glow was occupying 95% of his face.

"I can, if you like-"

"No you can't,"

Sherlock took this as a sort of challenge, removing his robe and crawling under the comforter. John shot up, eyes wide and unbelieving.

"What the hell are you doing, Sherlock?!" he exclaimed, staring down at the taller man in utter embarassment, then glancing around the room as if someone would be watching.

"I'm comforting you. Honestly, make up your mind, John," Sherlock replied impatiently, leaning up on his elbows, staring up at John restlessly.

"You can't just get into my bed half naked-"

"Why is that problematic?" John sputtered for a second, searching for any words to put together to make an excuse to get this man out of his bed.

"People might talk-"

"There's no one here," John let out a breath, slowly laying back down with his back toward the detective.

"Fine, but don't touch me-"

"Shut up," Sherlock interrupted, placing his arm over John without hesitation. John huffed, closing his eyes to sleep for the third time that night.

"What were you dreaming about?" John let out an agitated groan, scowling at the wall.

"If you're going to insist on staying, at least be quiet so I can sleep?"

"I'm comforting you-"

"No, you're annoying me," Another silence in which John settled into rest.

"Talking could be comforting," John lifted his head, trying to show Sherlock his glare.

"I've talked to a therapist for years-"

"But your therapist is a half-wit-"

"She was smart enough to get her degree-"

"I'm also a friend,"

John paused, laying his head back down slowly with the softest sigh.

"I dream about the war," John whispered, and Sherlock slgihtly tightened around the doctor's shaking frame. "All the blood, all the dead bodies... I always think about it, but it's worse during the night when I have nothing to take my mind off of it." Sherlock heard a small sniff, and he instantly knew that his flatmate was crying again. The detective didn't know exactly how to deal with someone who was so upset, so he acted on impulse, pulling himself closer to John, holding tighter. To his surprise, John filled the rest of the gap, warm bodies touching as John sobbed and Sherlock held on for a comfort the doctor nor the detective had ever experienced.

"Don't think about it," Sherlock demanded quietly, feeling something he didn't normally experience; sympathy. John let out a short laugh, shaking his head.

"I'm not sure how easy that is for you, Sherlock, but the rest of us can't just stop thinking about our problems,"

"Just think about something else,"

"Like what?"

"Us," Sherlock let John ponder this, knowing exactly what he would say.

"I'm not gay-"

"Wrong,"

A silence ensued, but not before John quickly interlocked his fingers into Sherlock's. They both closed their eyes. Sherlock didn't need to pretend to sleep, John's body heat gave the detective some comfort of his own. John slept through the night, the nightmares pushed away by Sherlock's arms.