Goodbye, Sherlock

Chapter 19

Goodbye, Sherlock.

Chapter 19.

Talk me down.

Sherlock's POV.

We slept together. Once. John and I.

Not like that.

But we had.

It was a crisp winter's night in London. It was that particular time in late January where there was no longer any frost, but simply bitting cold air.

I wasn't sleeping. I couldn't. But I didn't feel like playing the violin or pacing around the flat, it was too cold for that.

I was fine, I could use the night time to put my mind palace in order. But then I heard him.

A nightmare.

As usual. But this time he wouldn't come. It was too cold, and I wasn't there. He's just stay there, panicking.

I could hear him turning around in his bed.

I stood up and went upstairs as fast as I could.

I stopped one second by the door and listened, to make sure there was no problem if I went inside.

When I opened the door I saw him.

The room was dark, but I could distinguish his figure.

He was laying still, trying to steady his heartbeat without making any noise.

"Sherlock?" He asked.

As an answer I layed next to him and covered myself with the duvet.

"What are you doing here?"

"Couldn't sleep. It was too cold to play the violin."

"Oh." He mumbled.

"Also... too dark to stay in my room."

I saw him smile.

"It's fine, you can stay here."

"Thank you."

After a while he realxed, and so did I.

The bed smelt like John.

It felt good. Being there, knowing that the next morning I would smell a bit like him. Not that any of the idiots that were usually around me would realize the little change, but I would be able to smell it all day.

More time passed.

John fell asleep.

I allowed myself to stare at him for one minute. Only that. I knew he was a light-sleeper, so I couldn't look at him for too long or he would wake up.

John looked so much younger when he was sleeping that it was surprising.

The wrinkles around his eyes disappeared, his mouth hanging a bit open.

I couldn't understand how someone that looked so calmed could have nightmares almost everyday.

I turned around.

I had thought that John wouldn't let me get inside his bed. He knew I wasn't a sociopath, he had never believed that. He knew I had feelings. But he thought that I didn't understand the mundane things. The little things. The movements that for anyone would have been clearly romantic.

He thought that for me, being with him in bed, was in nothing different to sleeping with another pillow.

Maybe that's why he felt secure enough to turn around and put his arms on my hips, to hold me closer.