Not Afraid

Chapter Twelve - Dadda

Harry insisted on sleeping on the couch, despite both John and Sherlock offering their beds to her. She told them they'd already done so much for her and that they could argue about it in the morning. In truth, John was glad to be in bed. This past week had been a hectic mess of emotions, action and then Harry. Not to mention that Rosie had started crawling! Whenever he recalled it, he couldn't help a silly grin spreading over his face, even sprawled out in his bed. As the night breathed around him, he stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep. He was terribly tired but his mind just wouldn't shut up. He thought about the Moriarty imposter and wondered if Sherlock had come up with anything about him yet. He thought about Harry and how he was determined to help her and finally get her dry. He thought about Rosie, how proud he was and how he'd have to move lots of the things in the morning so she couldn't cause a calamity. And he thought about Sherlock. Gosh, when did he not think about Sherlock? John sighed deeply and realized that his mouth was very dry. He needed a drink of water. So he climbed out of bed and padded downstairs to the kitchen where he quietly filled a glass of water and then drank deeply, shuddering a little as the cold water slid down his throat and settled into his stomach. Dim light played across the kitchen floor and John's gaze wandered into the sitting room where the curtains hadn't been properly drawn. Harry was sprawled out on the small couch, legs hanging off the side and a blanket half falling off her singlet clad torso. The fire was still glowing and John put his glass down on the bench before walking to the hearth and putting another couple of pieces of split wood over the coals. Then he glanced at Harry again. A small, fond smile crawled over his face. He crossed the room and rearranged her blanket so it covered her a bit better. She moaned a little in her sleep, face creasing in the dim light and began to roll over. John backed away, not wanting to wake her. Just as he was about to go back to his room, he heard a muffled groan emanating from Sherlock's room. Frowning, John crept up to Sherlock's closed door and listened. The sound came again, a sound of distress and John made a choice. It wasn't a choice he was 100% comfortable with but it was a choice he wanted desperately to make. He eased the door open and sneaked into Sherlock's irritatingly tidy room. It was a pity he was incapable of keeping the rest of the flat like that, John thought.

"Don't," Sherlock mumbled in his sleep, tossing in his tangle of sheets, thin arms striking out at nothing. John took a moment to appreciate a sleeping Sherlock, dark hair curled over the white pillow and slender limbs twisted among the sheets. "Don't...hurt...him."

Distress was written all over the other man's face and John knelt on the edge of the bed, wondering if he really ought to listen to his inner desires. He wasn't sure what Sherlock would think but he just couldn't help himself. He didn't want to leave Sherlock to fight off his dreams on his own. John sucked in some air and then hoisted his whole body onto Sherlock's bed before sliding into the crisp sheets. Sherlock rolled over and grabbed at the pillow John was about to put his head on. John covered Sherlock's hand with his own and held it. Suddenly, Sherlock relaxed and muttered something about swearing to keep someone safe. Then he became tense again, twisting and turning away from John so that John had a prime view of his back which was thinly muscled and very pale. Sherlock's body thrashed and John instinctively wound his arms around Sherlock, pulling him close so that he just held him, making sure he didn't throw himself around too much, didn't hurt himself somehow. And Sherlock fully relaxed this time, breaths evening out so he sounded deeply asleep. John, satisfied, closed his eyes and rested his head on Sherlock's back. He was passed out in seconds.

"John?"

John blearily opened his eyes, momentarily confused as to where he was. Sunshine was pouring over him and the sheets were different. He rolled onto one side and there was Sherlock, propped up on an elbow and looking at John as if he were some kind of strange creature lying in bed with him. And then John remembered. Creeping into bed. Winding his arms around the other man...Sherlock looked good in bed, John thought before he could stop himself.