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It was just after one in the morning when Sherlock used his key to get into John and Mary’s home. He didn’t know how many times he had told John that the lock on the front door needed to be changed. It was far too easy to pick. The fact that John had given him a key of his own didn’t make up for the fact that it was a poor lock and that it needed to be replaced.
He didn’t turn on the lights, he could navigate just fine with just the light coming in from the street. Sherlock dropped his coat on a chair as he walked to the bedroom. The door was closed. It was completely quiet on the other side, but he still knocked. John had insisted on him always knocking when the bedroom door was closed.
At first he didn’t get a reply, but on the third knock Mary said: “Sherlock, is that you?”
“Yes.”
“Open the door.”
Sherlock did that just as Mary turned on the bedside lamp, making them both blink in the sudden light. The first thing Sherlock noticed was that she was alone. Oh. That was not… oh…. Damn.
“John isn’t here,” he said, stating the painfully obvious.
“No, they called and said he needed to come in,” Mary said, yawning, and forced herself to sit up. “I didn’t listen to why.”
“I should… go.” Sherlock said. “I’m sorry.”
“What do you want?”
“It’s not important. I can talk to John tomorrow.”
“Can’t sleep again?”
Sherlock pressed his lips together. No, he couldn’t sleep. Since he had come back to London, sleep had been even harder to come by than it had been before he left. Not that he had tried to sleep tonight, because he knew the nightmares would come. That wasn’t the reason he was here, though. Not this time. At least he didn’t think so. Now when he thought about it, he actually didn’t know. He just needed John to fix it. Whatever it was.
“Come, sleep with me.” Mary patted next to her on the bed. “We don’t need John, do we?”
Sherlock stared at her in startled shock.
“Oh, God!” Mary put her hands over her eyes when her words caught up with her. “That came out wrong.”
“I would hope so.” Sherlock relaxed slightly.
“I’ve been woken up twice tonight, it’s not my fault,” Mary complained, but then she smiled and patted the bed again. “Sleep here tonight. That’s why you came, right? Or at least stay, don’t go back to Baker Street.”
Sherlock looked at where her hand was, John side of the bed. The only place he knew that actually smelled a bit like John. Everything in this place smelled like Mary; her perfume, her lotions, her washing powder. Nothing had that comforting, distinctive smell of hospital mixed with aftershave and cheap shampoo that was John. Not even John smelled like that anymore. John smelled like… like Mary. It wasn’t anything wrong with that per se; it was a nice smell. It just wasn’t John’s smell, the one Sherlock remembered from before. From Baker Street.
Then, nothing was as it had been before.
“Do you want to borrow one of John’s t-shirts to sleep in?” Mary asked, pulling his attention from the bed to her.
“I’m fine.”
“But you’ll stay, right? John will be back in the morning and then you can figure whatever it is out.”
Sherlock took a deep breath. This had become so much more complicated than he had expected. But he was tired, he hadn’t slept without nightmare of torture for over a week. And when it came down to it, perhaps not being alone was enough.
So finally, he nodded.
“Good,” Mary said, removing the covers for him to get in, as he took off his shoes.
“At least take off the jacket,” she said. “It’s a nice jacket.”
“You sound like John,” he muttered, but hung the suit jacket over a chair in the corner.
“Impossible. John doesn’t know a nice jacket from a ready-to-wear.”
Sherlock smiled briefly; she was right.
He got into bed very slowly, to give her time to change her mind, and lay down as close to the edge as he could. The pillow smelled like a mixture of Mary’s shampoo and John’s sweat. Sherlock closed his eyes and allowed the smell and the warmth to ease the tension in his neck and shoulders. The sound of Mary’s breathing helped, too.
“Is it okay if I read ‘til I fall asleep?” Mary asked.
Sherlock looked back over his shoulder. “What are you reading?”
“The Zahir, Paulo Coelho.” She gave him the book as she put on her glasses.
He frowned and handed it back.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t say it was a Sherlock Holmes type of book either,” she said, finding where she was and putting away the bookmark.
Sherlock hesitated momentarily, but then he turned over on his back, looking up at her.
“Can you read out loud?” he asked. John had done that at times, before, when they had lived at Baker Street, to get him to sleep when his mind hadn’t wanted to shut down. He had no idea if it would work now, and the strange look she gave him made him instantly regretted the request. He was just going to take it back when she smiled and started to read.
“There are two kinds of worlds: the one we dream about and the real one. In my dream world, Mikhail had told the truth….”
Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The story turned out to be dreadful, but her voice was soft and even though it wasn’t as familiar as John’s – how could it be? – it distracted him from the silence. And from the thoughts that came with the silence.
After about half a chapter Sherlock felt a hand in his hair. He opened his eyes, his heart beating fast and the panic rising. He glanced over at her, but she just sat there, reading, running her fingers through his hair. She even changed her voice slightly between the narration and the conversations.
Sherlock closed his eyes again and two and a half chapters later he had fallen asleep.
When John came home it was half past 5, the sun was almost up. He was tired and annoyed, but he still noticed that the door wasn’t locked. He frowned; it wasn’t the first time he had left in the middle of the night and forgot to lock the front door. Sherlock could go on how much he wanted about the lock; it didn’t matter much if you didn’t remember locking it at all.
He went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Mary had to be up in half an hour and he could have breakfast with her before he showered and went to bed. As soon as he stepped into the kitchen he saw Sherlock’s coat over a chair. His heart instantly sank.
Something was wrong.
“Sherlock?” he said quietly and looked around.
“In here.” Mary said just as quietly from the bedroom.
The sight that met John as he opened the door made him smile. Mary was half-lying on a pile of pillows, her reading glasses on and a book in her hand and Sherlock, still in shirt and suit trousers, almost lying on top of her, arms wrapped tightly around her. Mary had her free hand on Sherlock’s back.
“Thank god you’re home. I have to go soon and I don’t want to wake him,” Mary whispered as John walked over to her and kissed her. “He came around one o’clock. I think he fell asleep just after two.”
“And you?” John whispered, removing her glasses and sitting down next to her.
“I was afraid he’d wake up if I moved.” She shrugged. “I finished The Zahir and started on your Clancy.”
“You’re amazing and I love you,” John said and gave her another kiss. “Do you want me to take over so you can get ready for work?”
Mary looked down on Sherlock and brushed a curl from his forehead. “Yeah…. Though, this is much nicer than cursing at the new computer system.”
They carefully freed Mary from Sherlock, trying very hard to not wake him, but when she slipped out of bed Sherlock opened his eyes and looked around, dazed and disoriented.
“It’s all right, Sherlock,” Mary said. “John’s home now.”
Sherlock blinked as John took Mary’s place in the bed. John hushed gently and arranged himself so that he got Sherlock’s head over his heart.
“Go back to sleep,” he said. “I’m here. Mary’s going to work.”
Sherlock closed his eyes again and his arms took a tight grip around John’s torso. John wasn’t sure Sherlock had really noticed the change in hugging-object, but that was just as well.
There was a clicking sound and when John looked up Mary had taken a picture of them with her mobile. She turned the phone around to show him.
“It’s my new screensaver,” she said, leaning in to kiss him. “Sleep tight.”
She stroked Sherlock’s hair one more time and took her clothes with her to the shower.
John buried his nose in Sherlock’s hair. Mixed in with Sherlock’s smell was a faint trance of Mary; it made John’s chest swell. This wasn’t what he had expected to come home to, but he didn’t mind. Everything seemed to be just fine.
Before Mary left for work she peeked into the bedroom and found both men sleeping soundly.
John woke up around noon on the wrong side of the bed and still wearing the clothes from last night. Right, Sherlock had been there when he came home, but where was he now?
“Sherlock?” John said as he rolled out of bed.
“Kitchen.”
John made a half-hearted attempt to make the bed before leaving the bedroom. In the kitchen, he found Sherlock wearing John’s bathrobe while ironing the shirt he had slept in. It looked perfectly ridiculous.
“The kettle’s just boiled,” Sherlock said without looking up – he was doing the sleeves and looked very focused.
“Lovely.” John walked over to the fridge. “Want some breakfast, or, you know, lunch?”
“Toast will be fine.”
John prepared breakfast for them as Sherlock finished the ironing. Before he sat down to eat, Sherlock even changed from the robe to the shirt right there, in the middle of the kitchen. John found that extremely comforting. The scars on Sherlock’s back still made his fingers twitch and his urge to kill someone rise, but the fact that Sherlock didn’t feel the need to hide them from him anymore was progress. Both when it came to their relationship and Sherlock’s healing process – John wasn’t sure what trauma Sherlock needed to heal from, but it was clear to him something was haunting him. Why else would he had started seeking him out in the middle of the night?
“Did you sleep well?” John asked when they sat down at the table.
“Very.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t home,” John said.
“You had to work,” Sherlock said, buttering a toast. “It wasn’t anything important, I could have come back today but Mary didn’t let me leave.”
John smirked. “Terrible woman, that wife of mine.”
“Indeed.” Sherlock said, handing John the butter. “Do you think Paulo Coelho is better in Portuguese? Or in a non-English translation?”
“Huh?”
“Because in English it’s horrendous,” Sherlock continued, frowning. “It was even worse than the one with the tattooed girl, or the one with the antimatter. Seriously, John, the both of you have terrible taste in books.”
“She read to you,” John said with a big smile when he understood what Sherlock was trying to tell him. He completely ignored the insult.
“Yes, she has a very nice reading voice.”
“I can imagine.” John became more serious. “Did you come here because you have trouble sleeping again?”
Sherlock took a bite of his toast, shaking his head. “No.”
“But you do have trouble sleeping.”
“Yes,” he mumbled, avoiding John’s eyes.
John blew on his tea, waiting to see if Sherlock would offer any type of explanation himself. When he didn’t, John asked: “Any particular reason?”
“No.”
“Okay.” John cleared his throat to make Sherlock look up at him. “Care to tell me what’s so important that you broke in in the middle of the night—“
“I didn’t break in, I used the key.”
“—but not important enough for you to stay until I came back?”
“More tea?” Sherlock suggested and got to his feet, taking John’s half-finished mug with him as he did.
“Sherlock,” John said, sighing. “At least say that you don’t want to talk about it.”
Sherlock ignored him, making the tea in silence and with the same meticulousness as he did everything else. John could swear it was just to stall for time, though. He sighed again to show his irritation, or perhaps frustration, but decided to drop it. He understood, better than most probably, if Sherlock didn’t want to talk about the demons that kept him awake, but he also knew it didn’t help to completely ignore it.
They finished the breakfast in silence, John hiding behind yesterday’s newspaper as to not say anything stupid. Then, just as John was about to get up and start clearing the table, Sherlock said:
“It’s too quiet.”
John looked at him. “What?”
“At Baker Street. It’s too quiet and… That’s why I can’t sleep. I think.”
“Okay,” said John, nodding. “Do you want to stay here tonight as well?”
Sherlock blinked; he didn’t seem to know if John was serious or not.
John reached across the table and put his hand on Sherlock’s. “You’re always welcome here, you know. We even keep a bed made up for you, just in case.”
Sherlock smiled. Almost.
Then he nodded.
Sherlock woke up screaming, not knowing where he was. It took a panicked five seconds for him to untangle himself from the sweat soaked sheets, and remember that he was in John and Mary’s spare bedroom. When he’d got that far, he allowed himself to fall back down on the pillow. Moments later, the door opened, flooding the bedroom with light that made his eyes hurt.
“Sherlock,” John said, his voice hoarse from just having woken up. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes,” Sherlock mumbled, pressing the palm of his hands against his eyes. “I’m sorry I woke you.”
“It’s fine.”
John walked into the room, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Sherlock let go of a trembling breath. Everything was still spinning, and his heart was raising. He wanted to tell John to leave, he didn’t want him to see him like this, but at the same time he didn’t want to be alone.
“I’m going to touch you,” John said, quietly, almost as a whisper. He put his hands on Sherlock’s arms and pulled them down.
Sherlock blinked to be able to focus on John’s face. He seemed extremely worried, and a bit pitying.
“How long have the nightmares been this bad?” John asked.
Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling his ears heat. He didn’t understand what was happening, or why. He had been home for months now without any problems at all. It had been idiotic to think that it was the silence at Baker Street that fuelled the nightmares; that it wouldn’t happen here just because John was close.
“I’m going to touch you again,” John said, this time putting his hand on top of Sherlock’s which was resting on his belly. “How long have they been this bad, Sherlock?”
“About three weeks,” Sherlock said with a deep sigh.
“And when you’re awake?”
Sherlock met his eyes, and he shook his head. Judging by John’s rueful smile, he knew he was lying.
“Go and take a shower,” John said, stroking with his thumb over Sherlock’s hand. “It always made me feel better afterwards, washing it all off. I’ll change to fresh sheets in the meantime.”
Sherlock nodded. Still it took him surprisingly long to manage to get out of bed. John patiently sat there, waiting, stroking the back of his hand, never breaking the skin-to-skin contact. When Sherlock came back from the shower, wrapped in John’s bathrobe, John still sat on the edge of the bed. The sheets were changed, the bedside lamp was on, and John had a book in his lap.
“Do you want me to stay?” John asked.
“Yes,” Sherlock said, almost breathing it out. It was embarrassing to admit how scary the darkness and the silence had become, but right now he had no energy left to hide it. He was just happy that the scalding shower he’d taken probably helped hide part of his blush.
John picked the inner side of the bed, the one closest to the wall. Sherlock couldn’t tell if it was deliberate, or if it was just an accident since John got in first – either way, he appreciated not having to be locked in. The new sheets were a blessing, their coolness and stiffness a clear contrast to the bed he had left twenty minutes ago. The mattress shifted when John moved, and Sherlock curled up next to him without a second thought.
John moved some damp hair from Sherlock’s face. “Should I read a bit?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?” John asked, holding up the book he’d brought. “It’s probably just as ‘horrendous’ as Coelho in English.”
“I suppose I have to suffer through it,” Sherlock mumbled, failing to suppress a yawn.
John chuckled. As he started to read, he found one of Sherlock’s hands and picked up stroking it with his thumb as he had before. At first it tickled, but after a while Sherlock started to focus more on the touch than the sound of John’s voice, and he matched his breathing with the slow moment.
Not before too long, he drifted off again, with the knowledge that both he and John were safe.
Sherlock was alone in John and Mary’s sitting room. It was the fifth night he’d spent here, and so far it was just the second night he had woken with nightmares. He stood at the window, looking out into the dark yard. Very little light from the street managed to get into the enclosed space behind the house, and the shadows looked intimidating. Well, perhaps not the shadows themselves, but the notion of what could be hiding there, made the hair at the back of Sherlock’s neck stand. It wasn’t as if he actually thought there was something out there in the darkness, but the uncertainty had made it impossible for him to settle in the bedroom next to John and Mary’s tonight.
“What are you still doing up?”
Sherlock jumped at the sound of Mary’s voice. Even though she was newly awake, her eyes barely opened, and her hair standing out in every possible direction, she still looked, and sounded, worried.
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said, clearing his throat. “Did I wake you?”
“People standing quietly in dark rooms rarely wake me up,” Mary said, fighting a yawn. “I had to pee. But what do you say, bed?”
“You go, I’ll—“
“Yeah, you said that at eleven, and now it’s four and here you are still in your suit.”
Sherlock frowned; was it four already? He hadn’t even noticed. He’d been planning to go to bed tonight, he really had.
“Let’s have some tea first,” Mary said. “I’ll go and put the kettle on.”
She left before Sherlock had the opportunity to decline. He stood there, staring at where Mary had just been. He didn’t want tea, but not being alone in the darkness felt like a good idea. Before he followed Mary to the kitchen he looked out through the window one last time. It was just as still as before. There wasn’t anything out there in the dark looking for him.
Mary had already made the tea when he got to the kitchen. She was sitting at the table, one foot on the chair and both hands around a tea mug. She looked even more tired under the unflattering light, but smiled and nodded in the direction of the tea she’d made him. Sherlock felt the most horrible sting of guilt for keeping her up.
“Thank you,” he mumbled as he sat down, wrapping his fingers around the mug. It had a peculiar smell that he couldn’t place, and he looked curiously at her. “What is it?”
“Valerian root and lavender.”
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t taken you for a herb person.”
“I’m not, really,” Mary said, shrugging. “But it helped my other insomniac when he had trouble sleeping, so…”
Sherlock frowned. “John doesn’t believe in nature remedies.”
“Mm, I know.” Mary smiled. “Fantastically ruined by modern Western medicine, that one. Still, though. I think it helped, once he got past his cynicism.”
Sherlock stared down the mug. John shouldn’t be drinking herbal tea. Not to mention that he shouldn’t have trouble sleeping, Sherlock had fixed all that long before Mary came. It didn’t make sense; though to be honest, few things did right now. Rationally he knew that there wasn’t anything out in the garden, but that hadn’t stopped him from standing guard at the window for what apparently had been hours.
Something touched his hand. He jumped, hitting it away and almost spilling out his tea. His heart was beating hard, and it took him a second to realise that he was standing up and that it was just Mary who had reached over the table. She stared at him, surprised, and perhaps a bit scared, with both her hands pressed tightly against her chest.
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock mumbled, exhaling slowly. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Mary said, hesitantly reaching out again. She rested her hand on the table, palm upwards for him to take.
Sherlock sank back down on the chair. Trembling, he took Mary’s hand. She squeezed, hard, and kept eye contact with him. It helped. It slowed his heartrate and grounded him. It firmly brought him back to the kitchen, with its bad lighting and the herbal tea.
“You’re not the first going through this, Sherlock,” Mary said quietly. “Sadly, you’re not the last either. And you’re not alone. It’s okay, is what I’m trying to say.”
Sherlock didn’t know what to make of that, but it felt good hearing. He squeezed back once, before letting go, and once again wrapping his hands around the tea.
“Thank you,” he mumbled.
Mary smiled. “Drink your tea, and then let’s go to bed.”
They left the mugs on the table when they were done, and Mary took a firm grip of Sherlock’s hand, leading him to her and John’s bedroom. Sherlock followed without a word.
Mary let go when they got inside, instead grabbing John’s foot and shaking it slightly.
John made an incoherent, disagreeing noise at being woken up.
“I found this one in the sitting room,” Mary said, nodding in the direction of Sherlock. “Move over so we all fit.”
John yawned big, but moved to the centre of the bed without argument. He even held up the covers for Sherlock to get in.
“Your jacket, Sherlock,” Mary reminded him as she got into bed.
Sherlock smiled briefly, hanging up his suit jacket before laying down in the spot that John had made for him. It was warm and smelled exactly like John, even more so than the first night.
“Can I put my arm around you?” John asked after having moved around a bit, trying – and clearly failing – to find a comfortable position.
Sherlock nodded, and suddenly he felt the weight of John’s arm over his body, holding him down. It didn’t feel like he was trapped, though.
“It’s going to be all right, Sherlock,” John murmured against his neck. “I promise it’s going to be all right.”
Sherlock closed his eyes, allowing himself to relax into John’s arms. In that moment, he actually believed John.
“Something’s missing,” Mary said when she stepped into the bedroom one night.
John looked up from his book, confused. “What?”
“Let’s see. Here is one,” said Mary, pointing at herself. “And there is two….” She pointed at John. “I have a feeling there should be a third person here somewhere.”
John smiled at her as she climbed into bed. Sherlock had stayed with them for almost four weeks before going back to Baker Street earlier that day. Most nights he had slept on John’s side of the bed (with John between him and Mary), but some nights he and John had slept alone in the other bedroom. The nightmares hadn’t gone away, but they had become less frequent, and he had stopped being on his guard all the time. In the end, John thought it was boredom that had driven Sherlock back to Baker Street, when he once again felt safe in the dark. He was pleased that Sherlock was improving, but as Mary said, it really did feel like something was missing when they suddenly had their bed all to themselves again.
“Thank you, for letting him stay this long,” John said, kissing Mary as she got into bed.
“You don’t have to thank me every time I interact with Sherlock, you know,” she said with a smile. “He’s not just yours anymore.”
“I know,” said John, smiling, giving her another kiss. “I love you.”
“Good,” Mary whispered, also smiling. Then she pulled back a bit, a worried wrinkle between her eyes. “He’ll be okay, right?”
“I think so,” John said, nodding to convince himself he meant it. “I’ve spoken to Mycroft about finding someone he can talk to. I can’t see Sherlock doing well in conventional therapy, but… ”
“I mean tonight. At Baker Street.”
“I hope so.” John breathed out, slowly. “He had to go back at some point.”
“Did he, though? We have lots of space.”
John chuckled. “What exactly are you suggesting, Mrs Watson?”
“Nothing, I don’t know. I just… I don’t like the idea of him alone.”
“Yeah,” John said, sighing. “I don’t either.”
John’s mobile buzzed, startling them. They exchanged an embarrassed look, as John reached for his phone. His heart dropped when he saw that it was from Sherlock, and he was mentally already half-way out the door before he managed to open the message. When he read the text, a wave of relief washed over him and he smiled.
“I think he’s okay,” he said, handing the phone to Mary.
She squinted to read the text message, and smiled as well.
“Fine,” she said, giving the phone back. “But we’re checking in on him tomorrow.”
“Oh, definitely,” John said, typing up You too. as a reply before turning off the bedside lamp and lying down. Things would be okay, they most certainly would. He was almost sure of it, because the text from Sherlock had read:
Stop worrying. Go to sleep.
SH